"We simply couldn't grasp that the Soviet airmen that caused us the greatest trouble were in fact women. These women feared nothing. They came night after night in their very slow biplanes, and for some periods they wouldn't give us any sleep at all."
- Hauptmann Johannes Steinhoff, Commander of II./JG 52

They were skilled, silent, and had nerves of steel. They were officially the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, later the elite 46th Taman Guards Night Bomber Aviation Regiment, of the Soviet Union during World War II. The attacking Nazi Germans simply called them Nachthexen - Night Witches.

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This RP is based on the historical Night Witches, set in the Soviet Russia of early 1942. Female pilots from all over Russia have completed six months of intense training at Engels, and are being assigned to one of three all-female regiments. (Not strictly all-female, as advanced training prior to combat included male instructors and combat veterans.) The 588th, eventually called "night witches" by the enemy, is a night bomber regiment whose mission is to perform night bombing runs on the advancing Nazi front.

Flying slow Po-2 biplanes, the women carry only two bombs each, and no parachutes. Their only advantage over the German fighters is their maneuverability and extreme slowness; the Nazis' minimum speed is faster than the womens' maximum speed. Due to carrying capacity, the pilots flew multiple missions every night.

Here are some examples of real pilots/support personnel to give ideas for bios:

Nadezhda (Nadya) Vasil’evna Popova
Po-2 pilot, Squadron Commander
Hero of the Soviet Union
Flew 852 combat missions, shot down several times

Anna Ivanovna Kirilina
Armament Mechanic
Maintained and loaded bombs and machine guns

Lilya Litvyak
Pilot, "the White Rose of Stalingrad". ace with 12 kills, fell in love with wingman
Brought down by eight German Mes, August 1943

Katya Ryabova
Pilot, flew 890 sorties
18 missions in one night

There are also instructors, mechanics, and technicians. The point of the RP is not just high-flying action; attention should be given to careful character development, so please give your charrie room to grow! The RP will start at the assignment of the pilots. Target start date is Tuesday. I will have my bio up tomorrow.

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Here are some good links if you want to read further:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night_Witches
http://mysite.pratt.edu/~rsilva/witches.htm
http://www.nzfpm.co.nz/article.asp?id=com_tbfm
http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A5849076

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Name: Elena Rabinova
Hometown: Moskow
Age: 17
Appearance: Dark hair and eyes, feminine facial features. Height: 5'7". Her duty uniform, like all of the other womens', is a man's. She has modified it to fit her as best as she can, but still has to stuff newspaper into the toes of her boots to make them fit. Her worn leather pilot's jacket is her most cherished possession. Image: http://marinshe.deviantart.com/art/Life ... -112313416
Background: Elena is a Russian Jew and the baby of the family. Her father is a merchant; two of her three elder brothers have joined the Soviet military and are stationed on the German front. She is unquestioningly committed to the defense of Mother Russia - she has no other home or country. It's not uncommon for her to be stereotyped as a rich Jewish girl (despite economic hardships throughout the Soviet Union), but she sees it as part of her cultural heritage.
She learned to fly in the semi-military aviation club of Moscow, and volunteered, in patriotic fervor and on recommendation of her local Young Communist League, to enter Major Marina Raskova's all-female air regiments. The six months of training have been grueling, but she is now even more confident in her piloting abilities.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Name: Asya [Anastasia] Antipova
Hometown: Saint Petersburg
Age: 20
Appearance: Short, sturdy and compact with somewhat boyish/pixie features, accented by close-cropped (regulation) brown curls. Blue eyes, freckles and windburnt skin.
Background: Asya's husband, Aleks, and their two-year-old daughter Natalya have moved frequently in the last five years due to Aleks being lame and unable to find work. Asya volunteered for the all-female air regiments in an attempt to support her family and passed the six months of training with flying colors. Before that, her limited flying experience was gleaned from watching her father, also a pilot.

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Ordinarily I would go for the more interesting role of Mechanic or Technician, but I haven't a clue about what that might entail in WWII. So, I'm going to go the path of Ellie and be an instructor. Too. ^_^

Name: Stanislav Królik
Age: 34
Hometown: Stavropol'
Appearance: 184 centimeters, with close-cropped blond hair and green eyes. Pale complexion. Right arm is gone below the elbow.
Background: Stanislav was, for years, a regular soldier in the Red Army, until an accidental discharge cost him most of his right arm. Unable to serve in combat anymore, but unwilling to cease his service to his nation, he became an drill instructor. Now that Germany and Russia are in a state of war, Stanislav is one of many instructors giving crash courses in warfare to give them as much of a chance as possible to survive the coming days against the Third Reicht.

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Lol, Ellie. I can't say I imagine my character as being particularly banner-able. ^_^

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wow, Ellie, we haven't even started

Woot AU old guard! let's have a grand old time. Good to have the Reindeer on board - you're prob the most familar with Eastern Europe among us and Melda, that's a pretty realistic charrie.

I will also be taking the role of Maj. Marina Raskova, who commanded the regiments. Apparently they also did morning drill - although not really helping the piloting/navigating part, it was supposed to be for discipline.

I'll have first post up late tomorrow night, so in about 24 hrs from now.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Okay, we are officially open!

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Major Marina Raskova, Hero of the Soviet Union, bent over the lists of names spread out on her desk. Her tiny office at the Engels airfield was dark, crammed hundreds of files, but her environs could not have mattered less. Raskova worked like she flew: with absolute concentration, determination, and purpose. Three air regiments waited to be filled out with pilots, navigators, and mechanics.

They all wanted to to fly fighters, she knew. High strung, skilled, and fueled by anger or passion, there wasn't a girl who had come into training with any other dream. Yet only thirty would.

Deciding on the fighter pilots was the least worrying of the assignments. A fighter pilot flew solo; the night bomber regiment would fly the old Po-2 trainers, pressed into service as bombers. It would hold a two-man - woman? - crew, a pilot and a navigator. The day bomber regiment would require crews of three. Who had been the most successful in navigation exercises? Who would work best together as a team? Who would make a solid squadron leader?

The lists were to go up tomorrow. Raskova had taken counsel from her instructors and her regiment commanders, but reserved the final decisions for herself. Slowly, she began to write.

***

"What?" Elena Rabinova could not believe she had just heard that order. She wasn't the only one. The women's barracks were literally erupting in consternation.

"Regulations," the female sergeant shrugged. "They say you need to look more like soldiers. You may do it yourselves, or the military barbers will. No more than two and a half inches long." She turned and walked out.

Elena vented her thoughts to the world in general and to anyone within earshot in particular. "We already look like soldiers. Soldiers in oversized uniforms." She plucked at the loose thighs of her flight coveralls. There was only so much her own needle and thread could do, and nothing could be done for her boots. "And now we cut our hair, on top of it? We'll look like twelve-year-old boys!"

"And what are you going to do on a high-g turn in a Yak?" Raisa Surnachevskaya was more practical. "When all your hair comes flying out of your helmet and gets in your eyes and you fly truly blind? You going to try to fly by instruments you can't even see?" A few of the girls laughed.

Still, most of them had never cut their hair. Ever. Long hair was what made a girl a girl; after long days of flying and sweat and anxiety, it was also the prettiest thing they owned.

But Elena Rabinova wanted fly fighters. More than anything else in the world, she wanted her name up on Marina Rascova's list as a Yak-1 pilot. And if cutting her hair would get her there, she'd do it. She'd cry about it tonight, but she'd do it.

Pulling her scissors out of her sewing kit, she turned to the pilot sitting on the bed next to hers. "Asya -" she offered the scissors to her "- I guess I get to look like you."

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Asya laughed as she took the scissors. "You do not think I am pretty, Elena?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow and running fingers through her cropped hair. "If it consoles you, I find Aleks minds hardly at all."

The wooden frame of the bunk creaked when she sat down. Opposite Elena and her, a trio of girls - barely eighteen - who had been tittering moments before were now deep in consternation, heads together. "They look as though the scissors will bite them," Asya murmured to Elena, wry. She combed her fingers through the other girl's hair and the first cut was made with a snick and no ceremony. "When my father learned of the regiments he told me I should have to look like a boy. I told him, 'What does it matter, Papa? Aleks knows I am no boy.'"

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Aleks. Asya's husband whom she'd left behind. "That's all very well for you." Elena's tone was slightly wistful and mostly complaining. "You've got a man. But some of us -" she chuckled softly "-need all the help we can get."

The soft snick of multiple pairs of scissors was filling the room. Glancing down, she saw a mat of her own hair gradually growing on the floor. Her head was strangely light.

When Asya finished, she smoothed her hair as nicely as possible - ugh, she would never get used to this - and rolled into bed. It had been a long day - ten hours in a trainer's cockpit! - and she was sore in almost muscle in her body, especially her neck.

Tomorrow they would do it all over again. Morning drill, flight, airplane identification flashcards, target practice, flight, flight, flight. Training was almost over. The regiment assignment lists would go up tomorrow. And Elena Rabinova would be piloting a Yak-1 fighter.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

The clamor of pots on pans was what Asya woke to. She rolled over and let it grate on her ears, noting the girls rolling over to bury their heads in their thin pillows. By the shade of the grey light around the cracks in the doorframe, there was a little while yet before she need be awake.

Predawn dreams, lanced with paler and paler light, wandered from the cockpit of a Yak-1 to the sound of faint gunfire to a place where the bullets froze into stars in an inky vault. Asya yawned and rolled over; sat up and ran fingers through her tousled hair. There was wakefulness in the barracks now. Two girls were whispering. She caught the name of Major Marina Raskova.

The lists.

Of course. Today. Asya hurried into her uniform and shoved her feet into her boots, no longer fighting the urge to sink into her pillow. She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the bunk, took a deep breath, and went to get breakfast.

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Major Marina Raskova was up early, as usual. Grabbing a thick piece of black bread and filling her tin mug with steaming tea from the base kitchen, she took them back to her office. It was time to get the girls in shape; the regiments looked promising on paper, but they needed to become accustomed to their new aircraft - and none of them had faced enemy fire. It was April, and the Germans were beginning their spring campaign. There was no need to speculate about their goal. Moscow, the heart of the Soviet motherland, was clearly their ultimate target.

She refilled her fountain pen. This was her main weapon these days. It would change when she went to the front with the day bomber regiment and started flying missions, but for now her instrument panel was replaced by a desk. And reports.

A stern call to "Attention!" broke her concentration. She glanced up at the clock on her desk. Six a.m. - morning drill was beginning outside. It had nothing to do with training pilots, but everything to do with training soldiers. And, call them that or not, the girls were soldiers.

But they were also still girls, which meant that as soon as drill and breakfast were over, her office door would open to a steady stream of girls begging her to change their regiment assignments. Marina was not looking forward to it.

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In addition to her neck, which was still sore from yesterday (and all the days before it), Elena's back was now hurting as well. Her ramrod-straight posture might have something to do with it; marching and turning and saluting with extremely precise, measured movements was not her idea of an ideal morning activity. All she could think about were the lists - Raskova had to have posted them last night.

When they were at last dismissed, she wasn't the only woman sprinting for the notice board outside the major's office. Elena had to wait her turn in the press around the board, standing on tiptoes to try and catch a glimpse of her name. The fighter regiment list was in the middle - just thirty pilot's names: Budanova, Ekaterina ... Litvyak, Lilya ... Posidaeva, Zoia; Prokhorova, Evgenya; Seid-Mamedova, Zuleika ...

Her name was not there. Vision blurring with tears of anger or disappointment - she didn't know which - she moved to the night bombers' list: sixty names, denominating pilots and navigators. Popova, Nadezhda ... Putina, Anna; Rabinova, Elena ...

She was a pilot. Of a bomber. No. Of a trainer modified to be a bomber.

Almost blind with tears, Elena pushed her way out of the crowd.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Asya was gone.

She was standing in front of one of the training camp's Po-2 biplanes. The paint was just starting to crack from the lightweight wood. Wind whistled through the metal struts that held the double layer of wings spaced evenly from each other, and combed through her unruly hair. Asya reached up and ran her hand along the edge of the wing, letting her eyes wander to the cockpit.

Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in the front of the flimsy-looking plane, on the darkest moonless night, hunched over the controls and hearing only the whistle of the wind. Her stomach knotted. Then she thought of the sound of ringing gunshots.

"Natalya, at least you'll have a mama," she murmured, turning away. "Perhaps this way I will not kill myself."

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It was easy to tell from the girls' faces whose future held a Yak-1. Asya sat down with her lunch in the mess hall and said aloud, wryly, "Are we all so disappointed to be cheated of a chance at death?"

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