 
Heaven is Too Far Away

Louis Shalako

Copyright 2014 Shalako Publishing and Long Cool One Books

Design J. Thornton

ISBN 978-0-9866871-0-5

This Smashwords Edition is Published by Shalako Publishing

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The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased; or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author's imagination.

Chapter One

S.E.5s over Valenciennes

Major Jenkins and I were climbing, full throttle, at 14,000 feet. We were heading southeast over Valenciennes.

The major waggled his wings. Enemy in sight! The signal, four fingers straight up.

He pointed left and down. We could see them through the patches of white vapour, like minnows swimming in a pool of crystalline mountain spring-water.

I gave him a nod and we kept climbing. Obscured by a thin layer of cloud, they were going west about 2,500 feet below. A couple more seconds now. I concentrated on keeping above and to his right, just close enough. I couldn't drift too far back or I wouldn't be able to see his signals.

'Mad Dog' glanced over. Holding the stick with both hands, ready to check the throttle, I watched him roll into a split-S. He must have been concerned about the inexperienced newcomer behind him. People always underestimate me.

"Don't you worry, I'm right on you," I grunted.

We had the sun at our backs. On to the foes! Four Albatros D-III's, from a rather colourful unit we were all too familiar with. We had a score to settle. This was only my sixteenth patrol in a single-seat fighter.

"Focus, lad, focus!"

The voice of my first instructor rattled in my head and it was well.

A sudden burst of smoke from Mad Dog's plane startled me, but it was his guns. I could smell it. It was reassuring. Flying fifty yards behind as we plummeted, I kept in a good position. I had to follow the major and be able to see the bad guys too. One of the enemy aircraft, the one at the right and rear of the formation, burst into flames. It just dropped away. It folded up and started to burn.

This was the worst part, for some reason. It's like being caught cheating by the income tax people. A real gut-wrenching feeling.

My engine was screaming. The airspeed indicator needle was getting close to the red.

I throttled back a microscopic fraction of an inch.

I crossed behind Mad Dog to fire at the second plane in from the far side. I don't know if I got any hits. I was at extreme range. Altimeter 9,800 feet. Mad Dog was pulling away.

The wild, white-rimmed eyes of a terrified human being pleaded in silent supplication.

"You bastards killed my buddy!" I bellowed, plunging vertically towards him.

I doubt if he was listening. The airframe juddered from the recoil, and I could see tracers smashing into the center of the looming target. There were a lot of struts and wires, but not much to hit. Nothing really significant happened.

I was doing two-fifty-plus. It's pretty exciting, diving at the earth while craning the head around to look for pursuit. The altimeter needle spun. As it went past the numbers, I tried to look and read, to figure out what it meant. It was impossible. Always looking behind.

They're coming down now, but already Mad Dog was pulling out.

Grunting, 'you son of a bitch,' I pulled too.

He was rolling hard to the right. If we went left, the enemy would have the sun behind them.

Airspeed, a hundred-fifty miles per hour, at 11,000 feet and pulling hard in a climbing right turn.

Everyone was firing all at once. They came down, a pair in front and the third one was diving, but hanging back. Mad Dog pulled even harder as the leading pair dove past. He rolled inverted and went after them. I was head-on with the wounded bird. Sure enough, he pulled a boner and broke up and away.

"You poor stupid bastard!"

I could hear myself, barely.

He wouldn't get away. Not this time. Practically hanging on the prop as I gunned him, I looked around in a hurry. If we could use the clouds for ambush so could someone else.

"Damn it!"

And there they were, too. Ruptured duck, riddled with holes, snapped into a spin and a lifeless body, spewing blood and trailing something that looked suspiciously like bloody, shitty entrails, fell into endless space, but I had to get out of there.

Airspeed, ninety. A bad situation.

A hard right rudder turn flipped her and we raced for the ground. Where the hell was Mad Dog? I had six, maybe seven sets of machine guns on my tail, barely five hundred yards back. No sense in weaving until they got closer. That's a last resort. I had a need for speed. Whack! Something hit the strut ahead of me.

Jesus help me now...little thuds from the airframe. Cringing inside of my skin.

There was a cloud due west, about 4,000 feet below, and a mile on my left. Pull, pull, pull.

Airspeed, one-seventy and accelerating, altitude, 7,000, half a mile to go, a little more left.

Zip-zip-zip, clickety-smack, somebody's on me! Another second. God damn you all to hell. I pulled into a hard loop as soon as I got into the cloud. If the enemy was smart, they would dive below the cloud, leaving top cover to watch the edges. I hoped Mad Dog wasn't in here.

Watching the instruments.

Over the top.

Roll out. Do it now.

Out into the open again.

Where is the enemy?

They say there are no atheists in a foxhole. There's not too many around here either. I pray all the time up here. Believe me, boys. No one was there. Point the nose of my plane at the sun and take a hard look. Look around my clenched fist. Nothing. I want to go west. Where is the major?

"Fucking asshole!"

Weave like crazy.

Climbing into the sun in a hard right turn; when suddenly a plane appeared on the right. For some reason I was looking in every direction but that one. There was no one about, and then he just popped up. It gave me quite a shock, but then I saw it was my leader, the well-known Major Frederick 'Mad Dog' Jenkins.

I breathed again, deeply.

He grinned, presumably, for his mask shifted perceptibly, and he shook his head in mock shame. He held up two fingers. Then he tapped his goggles. In pantomine he licked the tip of a finger and marked one up in the air in front of his face. He pointed at me, then gave a thumbs-up and an approving nod.

All this took but seconds. I spent the next twenty minutes scanning the sky all around. All I wanted was to get back to the aerodrome and have a really good shit. Over our own lines, suddenly we were engulfed by snarling puffs of ominous black smoke. Mad Dog sailed serenely on, and I had to resist the impulse to dive, to veer, to climb. Go anywhere but through, 'Archie.' It's as safe as anyplace, actually. What you can see is scary.

It's the ones you can't see that will kill you every time.

It makes your skin crawl.

It ended as quickly as it began. The gunners must have rubbed the sleep from their eyes by now. The watch attached to the instrument panel showed, 'six fifty-two a.m.,'as the wheels touched the soft green paddock of our 'drome.

***

And I lived through another one. One had to admire the way Mad Dog maneuvered his plane, even on the ground. There was no hesitation, no wasted throttle blips or cranking of the rudder back and forth. Eventually, I got my machine parked beside his, which was, oddly enough; more of a reward than a confirmed kill.

He stood beside the fuselage.

"I'll give the report," he said. "Off you go and wash your face, get a hot cup of tea into you."

"Yes, sir," I said tiredly, sweat cooling in the armpits and down my chest where the little rivers ran, even in the bitter cold of the upper air.

"We can fill in the details later," he said, not unkindly.

He gazed at my face for a moment. I was busy taking off my headgear, and wanted to talk to the crew.

"That was a good landing," he added before turning away, his dark and sardonic face clouded by doubts.

I liked the major. He was a nice guy. Too bad he got killed about ten or twelve weeks later, I'm not sure exactly when. He taught me a lot.

My aircraft fitter and engine mechanic came over to the side of the plane to help me out of the cramped and confined cockpit. When you're in it, you can get at everything pretty easily. When you see those big feet coming out of that little hole, knocking a clump of dried mud off going past the control stick, you realize just how small it all really is. Funny, the little things you remember.

"Careful. The safety's on, but you never know," I told my 'boys,' who were probably five and ten years older than I.

Watson was always a little impatient. He was a former businessman; and probably employed guys my age as junior clerks.

"Yes, sir. We know the drill, sir."

He must have hated calling me, 'sir.'

I wanted to slap him on the shoulder, help him to like me in some way. It would just make him more uncomfortable. He could never respect me. Never even bothered to ask why, either. It didn't matter. Not really. He did his job.

I turned to Smitty, a more easy character.

"Well, we got one anyway. Thanks for your help, gentlemen," I said.

That sounded awfully 'cool,' or, 'flip.' Or whatever. The working-class Englishmen had their own set of slang. It was quite distinct from the schoolboys on the squadron. The pilots I mean.

As I walked towards the latrine there was one muttered oath and Smitty's quick rejoinder.

"I'm sure it was kindly meant. And he did say he got one of the buggers."

I ain't exactly a gentleman either. Seated on the wooden bench over a rather frigid, yet still stinking hole in the ground, I pondered my own fate, and that of the other guy.

"Better than the infantry," said the bleary-eyed pilot next to me. "At least we have a roof over our shit house."

His name eluded me.

"How are you going to keep them down on the farm, after they've seen Paree?" I asked, and his laugh had the stench of early-morning alcohol. "You going to be all right?"

He was up for the next patrol.

"Of course. I have a little something in my boot," he replied.

His tone clearly implied, 'mind your own business.'

It takes time to get to know these fellows.

Sometimes the people around you are more difficult to understand than the enemy.

"I'll take your spot. I feel lucky today. I think I'll get me another one."

I didn't mean to offend the guy, ill as he was.

"I'm just a little hung over, old cock," he retorted, in no way mollified.

At least we got to throw a shit together. He was a nice guy. Too bad he got killed on the mission. I wish I could have said something. What, I don't know. Something.

Anything. And you wish you had taken the time to get to know them a little better.

When I got to the office, the adjutant had some papers to sign, and he congratulated me on my 'victory.'

"The poor fucker was already dead," I muttered.

He crossed out, 'Albatros,' and wrote in, 'Fokker.' A 'combat incident report.'

For some reason the words, 'already dead,' repeated in my mind.

"Wouldn't worry about it, old chap," he said wryly. "No one actually reads them anyway!"

Now, I knew that wasn't true, having read a few of them myself, before becoming a flying officer. As an observer, you want to know what's going on. Even if you have no control over the machine, or your fate.

It helps when you go to brief your pilot.

"It was a mistake to leave myself vulnerable, with no airspeed," I allowed.

"Probably," he agreed. "But it's never a mistake to fire your guns at the enemy. Remember what Nelson said before Trafalgar...?"

"Don't give up the ship?" I joked.

"No. I believe he said, 'whoever lays his ship alongside of the enemy, shall be considered to have done his duty.'"

I gave him a goofy grin.

"When in doubt, ram?" I asked.

He chuckled at that one. The bottle came out.

"The Old Man's pleased. That's all that really matters," he reckoned, shoving a small glass of liquor over the desk.

He put his cavalry boots up on the scarred surface and picked up another page.

Over the top of it, he surveyed me through his pince-nez, squinting through the bluish smoke from a thin cheroot. Grey eyes, thick eyebrows. Wrinkled forehead, crow's feet.

"Did you hear the one about the admiral? Oh well, the punch line is, 'I'm sorry sir, I don't think we have enough flags for that one...?'"

I was giddy, for no particular reason.

"No! Tell it in the mess sometime. I promise I won't ruin it," he grimaced as the liquor halted suddenly in his stomach.

I slumped a little more in the chair. The booze burned its way down my throat.

"What the heck is that stuff?" I murmured.

No reply. Apparently he had a lot of paperwork.

"You'll be flying with 'B' Flight tomorrow," he advised. "The Old Man asked me to tell you. He has to take a couple of the new boys up."

That's good, up to a point. The first squadron I was posted to, they never did get around to assigning me to a Flight. Although I did get in a few missions, I was bumped so somebody's brother could fly with them.

That may have been a mistake, but maybe he felt differently about his brother.

I told my brothers to stay home.

"Thanks."

I stood up.

"Have something to eat and have a good nap, this afternoon," he suggested.

"Yes, sir." I said.

"Run along and see Dinwiddie, or if he's not there, Singh is sort of his unofficial deputy," the adjutant said, waving me away.

I was only half listening.

"Singh is the one with the turban," he smiled.

For some reason I didn't laugh.

I remember thinking, 'I'm still alive, and tomorrow is another day.'

Still, the thought of going up with anyone but the major was enough to cause some nervousness. At least the major could fly.

When I got back to the hangar, the plane was already in the process of repair.

"A hundred and thirteen holes in the lower wing," said Smitty. "That's not a problem, but the strut will take a while to fix."

"A hundred and thirteen!" I gaped. "You're shitting me!"

Watson seemed in a better mood now. He beckoned me over, and pointed at the strut, shattered by the impact of a bullet. His inquisitive blue eyes gleamed in mischief.

"That must have missed your ear by a half a fucking inch," he grinned, showing a gap between his upper front teeth.

From the faint aroma on his breath, he had been eating garlic-sausage. Oddly enough, it reminded me of a certain girl I knew, briefly, when I was growing up in Canada. Was it only a year ago? No, a year and a half. Two years? Fuck it.

"I've been posted to 'B' Flight," I announced. "I hear Dinwiddie is a stickler for the book, so I doubt if I'll get to fly this one again."

I didn't give a shit if he liked me. He was a good mechanic, and that's worth putting up with some crap.

"It's not my place to comment, sir," quipped Watson with a funny little gleam in his eye.

"You've worked with him before?" I asked.

"Actually, no!" allowed Watson.

"We've worked for him," noted Smitty with a certain emphasis.

"It's been a pleasure, and I hope my next machine is as well-prepared," I said a trifle awkwardly.

"Thank you sir," they said in unison, then looked at each other.

"The cook has just oodles and oodles of bacon and eggs for you," Smitty said.

They were good lads.

Chapter Two

'B' Flight

Captain Mick Dinwiddie was on patrol with four planes of the flight. Other than the mechanics, sitting bored in the shade of a tree beside the hangar, there was no one to talk to. Singh was flying today as well. There were a few glances in this direction; but lieutenants outrank privates. We don't have to explain our presence.

With no aircraft to look at, and not much to talk about, there was time to observe the men around me. Most of them were older, although several were about the same age as I, and one poor little fellow looked about fourteen years old.

Their lot could be worse. They often worked far into the night repairing aircraft.

Sometimes their sleep was disturbed by the Hun's 'nightly bed check.'

But at least they got to eat at a table and sleep in a bed.

It's better than a trench.

Not that they weren't 'brave,' or 'courageous.' But they looked somehow contented in this brief respite from the noise, the dust. The constant hazard of the whirling props, and all the machines maneuvering on the ground.

I never seriously worried about being killed by a bomb. Not after the trenches. Not after April 22, 1915. I was at the Second Battle of Ypres. That was the first gas attack in history. But it must have been understood by these fellows that some might get killed by machine guns or bombs, artillery, or gas. They had seen it all before, and they would see it again. No doubt. Appalling as the losses in pilots were, it was like nothing compared to the trenches. At some point you just accepted that you probably will be killed by a bomb, a shell, a fragment of flying metal. Then it somehow feels better. The matter has been settled. It was the suspense that was killing you. It was the uncertainty that was eating you up inside.

For now, the men were happy in each other's company, with pipes comfortably held in callused palm, a chipped, enameled-tin mug of hot tea on an empty box. I didn't know any of their names, but I didn't feel like a stranger here. We heard engines in the distance.

"There's only three of them," someone said quietly.

They all stood up and shuffled out to the flight-line. I tagged along because there wasn't much else to do until someone said otherwise. Anyhow, I didn't want to be asleep when the Flight Commander called. Sure enough, one of the aircraft of our flight was missing. Believed shot down. Overhearing snatches of talk, it was said the plane went down in flames. To say the mood was somber was an understatement.

The mood was 'infectious.'

I felt like a stranger, there on the verge of the crowd milling about the planes.

Small groups of aircraftmen began to service and replenish them, while the three surviving pilots went to the office-hut to make their reports and get rid of their heavy clothes. I helped a few of the lads push planes around. They liked to have them just so; easy to refuel and re-arm, easy to dispatch, hard to hit from the air. Dispersed from enemy observation and enemy artillery.

The S.E. 5 was probably the best aeroplane designed by the Royal Aircraft Factory.

Certainly a couple of years of war experience benefited this machine. It was an exceptionally steady gun platform. Agility was good, although some enemy aircraft could out-turn it. It also possessed good performance without sacrificing structural integrity.

The plane could take a few hits without folding up; as I had just proven.

The S.E. 5 began to enter squadron service in April 1917. The early versions had an inline Hispano Suiza 150-h.p. engine. This was joined and replaced in the front line by the Wolseley Viper 200-h.p. S.E. 5a version. 'B' Flight was equipped with early variants of this airplane. This was much superior to the tired old machines I'd been flying.

Is it any wonder that I wanted to get a closer look at my new mount? And hopefully, to at last have a personal aircraft and crew dedicated to me.

Water cooled, very slick.

A fairly effective machine.

With that massive chunk of propeller out front, and the tail sitting down low, the impression it gave was one of speed and power. The plane was capable of surviving a two-hundred-fifty-plus mph terminal-velocity dive, if you believed the stories. It just won't go any faster. That's what 'terminal velocity' means. Too much wind resistance from the front of the propeller disc.

As I stood looking at the plane, watching the chaps working on it, my ears were still ringing from the morning flight. The nearest plane, one with a white '4' on the nose, had the bonnet open and the boys were tweaking the engine.

It sputtered up and roared, then backfired and they shut it off.

Smoke rolled away on the light breeze. One of the boys got his eyebrows singed by the carburetor backfiring. Curses and laughter.

She sure was a beauty. I shuffled off to see if Dinwiddie or Singh were ready to talk yet.

That's when I noticed them. The kid, and another fitter or mechanic. The older one standing there disconsolately by the empty hangar door. And the kid sobbing. Like a kid.

Oh, yeah. One plane missing. Another fellow sitting inside, on a stool by the workbench. His head was hanging.

This may sound awfully self-centred, but I wondered if this was my new crew?

And just exactly how good they were.

I wanted them to be at their best.

Chapter Three

I sensed a little resentment...

Seven has never been my lucky number. My first mission with Mick's flight did nothing to contradict that assumption, and everything to confirm it. It all started off badly enough. Lieutenant Wilson-Pantry was very well liked by his squadron mates and he crashed and burned. I sensed a little resentment on the part of Dinwiddie and crew. Flight leaders are quite ruthless when dealing with members of their own flight.

He'd always been friendly before. But back then I wasn't his responsibility.

There were five of us that morning. Mick managed to beg one replacement aircraft, and borrowed a spare from a luckier flight. Chris McKillen had been up with them before, but he was another new member of the squadron.

I was assigned a plane with a big white '7' painted on the nose. McKillen was flying good old number '13!' He seemed happy enough, though. He was in the class ahead of me, beating me to France by a month.

***

Dinner the night before was a pretty somber affair, as one might well imagine. The latest missing pilot, Jimmy Wilson-Pantry, was about eighteen. While he certainly wasn't a born killer in any sense of the word, Jimmy survived twenty or thirty missions. And Jimmy was a hell of a nice guy. I guess people sort of got used to having him around. Some losses were harder to take than others. If some new guy was lost on his first or second mission, well; that's just too bad.

The squadron lost two pilots today. Jimmy and the other one, the one I saw for the last time in the latrine. And I couldn't even hazard a guess as to his name. It's a sad thing. I often wondered what the major would find to say in a letter to the dead boy's mother.

Any of them, really. Any boy, any letter. Any mother.

Our squadron had twenty planes, at least on paper. We started today with seventeen, and now we're down to fifteen.

Who's next?

The mechanics have a busy night ahead.

At some point the CO was having a quiet puff on his old briar when the putt-putt-putt of a motorcycle sounded in the distance. The rain beat quietly down outside the open window. Your guts begin to tighten up. This was when I learned to eat fast.

You want most of it inside you.

The dispatch rider strutted into the room, a little stiff from the ride, and no doubt quite conscious of the omen of ill tidings he brings. The 'shoot the messenger' school of thought was pretty popular lately.

The CO signed for it, and said, 'Thank you.'

A snappy salute and the rider was gratefully gone. We were all holding our breath.

"Another beer, sir?" murmured the adjutant.

"Yes, thank you," replied the Skipper as the evil envelope lay in state beside him, and it was almost like the candles and oil lamps were conspiring to spotlight it.

Very casually, he opened it and perused the contents.

Looking up, and scanning the room, he muttered, "Ah, yes; who's turn is it?"

Then he went back to the orders from on high.

Singh slurped his tea noisily. He's not a heavy drinker like some of the others. His turban looked a tad incongruous here in the mess, but it looked incongruous anywhere.

Mad Dog spoke.

"'B' flight gets the dawn patrol, a deep offensive patrol between six a.m. and seven thirty," and he muttered and read some more.

"All right. 'A' flight provides top cover to tactical reconnaissance around eight a.m. And other flights are to fly normal battlefield contact patrols throughout the day."

So we're for it then. The proverbial, 'high jump.'

Singh and Dinwiddie were studiedly casual. Singh called for another cup of tea and Mick fiddled with his cigarettes and matches. Dinwiddie looked at me, nodded at a couple of the others.

"Might want to make an early night of it, boys," he grinned. "I want to see you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing."

"I promise not to be too hung over," I promised him – and myself.

"How about a game of pool, Sid?" someone asked.

The room got a little noisier, as three or four of us drifted out the door.

Tommy Watkins grabbed my shoulder.

"Hold up!" he said. "Let's go to the armourer's shack."

"Why?" I asked.

"Have you ever had your guns jam up? Not yet?" he asked.

"No..." I said uncertainly. "I could use a good long sleep. Twelve hours, if I can get it."

"I think Jimmy's guns jammed up. That, and 'Numbnuts' leading us into an ambush."

"Alright, alright," I said. "Well, I'm not going to sleep now. Let's go to the fuckin' armourer's."

Tom was quite short. He came up to about my shoulder as we strode through the gloom. Latched onto me, another lost soul.

"What do you think of the wing-mounted Lewis?" I asked.

"Well, it's light and automatic," he stated. "Never got the hang of it, personally. I just keep one because it's available. And the Huns know it's there. They can see it."

"They're always behind me anyway," he added, giving me a look.

He opened up the door and we went into the armourer's hut.

A fresh blast of foetid air hit us in the face.

"You guys never change your socks?" I griped.

Criticism is a privilege of rank. No reply, just a grim look.

"Righty then. One for you and one for you," said the bald, sweating NCO in charge of the place. "Links, Verey pistols and flares, et cetera and et cetera. What kind of rounds are you using?"

The Vickers, thank God, no longer used the old canvas ammo-belts which would stretch, or fray, 'et cetera.'

"Sign the form," he added, as if we should forget.

Someone owes the government for all this stuff.

"One third of each," said Tom. "What about you?"

"Give me a couple of boxes of everything," I said glumly. "I need to think about this."

We went to a side table and began to lay out our kit. I was checking every round and noted Tom hesitate and begin to do the same. The Lewis gun was gas-operated. The combustion gases of each cartridge forced the bolt back, and cocked a spring which shot it forward to fire the next bullet.

Wonderful stuff, but the thing did occasionally jam. Fine if you're on the ground, in a nice cozy hole in the muck. We checked the bullets for length, size of shell casing, size of bullet diameter. We checked the shoulder where the bullet fit the casing, and we checked the primer area as well. A lot of jam-ups were caused by dud rounds. That's because the slug fits tightly in the chamber. If it doesn't fire, it won't cause gas pressure. It's hard to withdraw. The retractor on the firing pin is meant for an empty casing, not a full cartridge, especially not one that has been whacked with the firing pin...this is a situation which requires manual re-cocking under intense psychological pressure.

It's better if the gun fires properly.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, when it comes to machine guns.

I had a little block of metal, with holes drilled in it. One of the boys made it. The different-sized holes represented different parts of the cartridge. It speeded up the job. We collected a surprising number of funny-looking rounds.

Interesting, very interesting.

Tom and I were sort of awed. We hadn't even started on my belt yet.

"I think we just bought ourselves a few more hours, or minutes, of life expectancy."

He said it quietly and thoughtfully and introspectively.

"This is part of my routine from now on," I agreed. "And you think Jimmy's guns jammed?"

"Welcome to the suicide club," quipped the NCO, from behind a thin wall where we could hear a kettle heating up.

"Yeah," said Tom with a sickly grin.

He looked awfully young right about then.

It takes a while to prepare two or three magazines for the Lewis, as well as a full belt for the Vickers. This was made up of separate aluminum links. We also had our pistols and flare guns. It was time well spent. I cleaned my pistol once daily. Just habit.

"I had a jam-up last week," Tom noted. "Luckily, I opened up at extreme range. The thing misfired immediately. She got off a couple of rounds."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Shit razor blades and ran for it, skimming the mud all the way home!" he said. "Don't try to turn with the fuckers."

"I'll be right behind you all the way," I said.

He laughed at that one.

"That's up to Mick," he said. "But I will ask for you. We fly on the right. We used to, Jimmy and I."

"I liked him," I said. "I'm real sorry to see him go."

"You never get used to it," Tom said, then turned away.

The armoury NCO offered me a cup of tea.

"He'll be fine," he said as Tom stumped noisily out the door with his kit.

"Well, that looks good," I muttered. "Where there is tea, there is hope."

I started off my belt with three bullets, then a tracer, then three bullets, then a tracer; and followed it through for the whole five hundred rounds.

"This spring is weak, get me another magazine," I told the sergeant.

I put about fifty of the Brock and Pomeroy incendiary rounds into the best of my Lewis drums, after starting off the drum with regular bullets; tracer every third round.

Sooner or later it would be my turn to bust a balloon.

Everyone has to take a turn. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not. If forced down in enemy territory, it doesn't pay to have too many explosive-type bullets in your ammunition. It causes bad feelings. Pilots have been hanged, 'et cetera.' Or worse.

It's a kind of gentlemen's agreement.

"Goodnight, sir," said the NCO, as a couple more of the boys came in looking thoughtful.

"Goodnight," I said as I stepped out into the moist cool breeze on the evening air.

And so to bed, perchance to sleep.

Chapter Four

Seventeenth Mission

Sitting in the cockpit, the clock said 4:55 a.m. I was wearing an unbelievable amount of clothing, standard issue by this point. Fur-lined boots, flying suit, gauntlets, goggles, silk underwear, wool underwear, vest, inner shirt, Army shirt, two sweaters. The flying suit was lined with lamb's wool, the gloves with muskrat. You had to have proper gloves, although some guys tried five pairs of various sizes and thickness.

What was truly unbelievable the first few times up, was that the layers of clothing were shockingly inadequate.

Some guys didn't use the face mask.

They said it was too 'restrictive.' Like seatbelts.

"Ready?" the anonymous figure of a burly mechanic bellowed through the gloom.

"Ready," I answered firmly.

The same calls could be heard all up and down our flight dispersal area. My voice sounded muffled and funny. My breath smelled all too close.

"Is the switch off, sir?" he asked more clearly and less loudly now.

"The switch is off."

There was already an itch close in beside my nose.

"Suck in, sir?" he asked.

"Suck in," I agreed.

My heart began to pick up a beat or two. It was already pretty fast. This is it.

He firmly and confidently rotated the propeller around to the accompaniment of a, 'clonkety-clonk, suckity-fuck,' from the engine bay.

An engine with the air intake closed and the petrol supply turned on sucks in a rich mixture. A good mechanic should be able to tell by sound and feel. He nodded to the other fellow, who was standing by for safety. The second mechanic keeps a hand over the intake while the prop is rotated a couple of times.

"Contact!" he barked.

"Contact," I responded, clicking the switch into place.

Strong hands gripped the prop.

One stout flip against the compression and the engine fired up with a clatter and a roar. Check the revs. Slightly reassured to see the gauges appeared to be operating.

We had to wait for the oil and cylinder head temperatures. This engine sounded tired, but maybe some of the ticking would go away when she warmed up. Up went a green flare from about fifty yards away. Bizarre shadows slithered through the apple trees, as the first of our flight taxied up to the end of the row and out onto the end of the field.

There wasn't much wind. I was at the back of the line, which was good. My engine still seemed cold. I reviewed the little we knew about weather for today. The usual headwinds on our return flight.

'How strong, no one can safely predict.'

My own gut instinct, was that they would be strong.

A droning came from the first couple of planes circling overhead, when I made it to the end of the grassy area which could be used for takeoff in any direction. Watkins took off ahead of me. His plane turned instantly grey-black as soon as it got about forty yards down the field.

My plane was a piece of crap. It pulled hard; up and to the right on takeoff, and the throttle friction wasn't set. I had to literally hold it in position. Finally, flying with my knees, I tightened up the nut with as much finger-pressure as I could muster. It took both hands, as I wanted full throttle for climbing. There I was, looking all around. Minor turbulence rocked the wings gently, left and right, and the nose bobbed slightly.

To the west it was still a deep violet blue. There were stars and planets over there. To the east, a couple of purple clouds hung in the greenish yellow haze over the blank landscape. I couldn't see a darned thing. Where was everybody? It's a good thing the simple tools I kept buttoned-down in a side pocket included some pliers. But it mucked up my concentration for a moment. Little emergencies are bad in combat. Where were my squadron mates? They could only be above, that much I knew.

I clawed for a little more sky.

I saw another flare down below, and an aerial one from the south-south-east.

That's where Dinwiddie was. He was flying lower down, checking signal panels laid out on the grass beside the command hut. Some other idiot hit the panic button and fired off a flare when they couldn't find Dinwiddie.

"Shit!"

Sure enough, a balloon has been tacked on to our shopping list. We all know whose turn it is, as I pulled in beside Watkins. He lifted his goggles and grimaced in sympathy.

No one wants to fly with a real fuckin' dummy. It's hazardous to your health.

The general rule of thumb, was that we would circle near the aerodrome and gain as much altitude as possible before the assigned start time of our patrol. Hopefully, one or two reconnaissance planes would show up at the rendezvous, but if not we would go on.

Dinwiddie left us in no doubt about that.

"We'll make visual observations," he told us. "If nothing else; and show the flag over Kaiser Willy's distressed urban proletariat."

"What the fuck have you been reading, Mick?" I asked at the time.

He always had a heavy book somewhere about. 'Das Kapital,' or something. Our Flight Commander was a bit of a 'Bolshie,' but no one cared about his politics or his religion up here.

Achieving 8,000 feet, twenty minutes to six, my engine was still sounding 'tickey-tickey,' and I didn't much like that. But the revs and power seemed normal. We kept up with the other planes no problem. About 8,500 feet, twelve minutes to six. Where were the two-seaters?

A few minutes after six, we were just reaching the 10,000-foot mark, when we saw the two aircraft we were to escort. They were right on time, which is good.

Our flight slid over them and dove in beside, and Mick made a signal similar to a cyclist putting on the brakes. We throttled back.

The problem with escort duties; was that the fastest reconnaissance machines barely flew ninety miles per hour, flat out, empty. When you read in a book, 'Top speed, ninety-eight miles per hour,' that's at sea level.

The engine was all tuned up, the manufacturer had government officials standing by. One very small pilot. The fuel was top grade, and who knows, maybe something with a little extra kick tossed in, when no one was looking. On a mission like this, the photo boys had guns, ammunition, likely two cameras, extra film magazines, maybe even some water in a jug.

Wish I had thought of that myself. They had bombs aboard, and two men. Our old B.E.2c's wouldn't even stagger off the ground, if you loaded them up to what the book said. Sometimes the book is wrong, but men die before anyone notices.

Anyone with enough power to do anything about it.

The R.E. 8's were barely making seventy-five. We had to weave up-sun, slide back in, weave up-sun yet again. They flew straight and level, right through intermittent 'Archie.'

Stacking split us up as a target, at various altitude levels.

A tougher problem for the gunners, who were very well practiced.

We tried to make life hard for them.

With our duration of about two and a half hours, it was better to start on time. The formation turned east at exactly 6:08 a.m. These aircraft, while a great improvement over the old B.E.2c's, could barely manage 7,500 feet with their full war-load. We were stacked up several hundred yards off from them. Hopefully, they would climb a little more as we burned off fuel and the land heated the air with the morning sun. As usual, we're heading downwind, which meant that the ground under us goes by quickly. Short notes on the clipboard, pencil in its place. Stuff flopping around in the cockpit is bad.

The plane itself doesn't understand about wind currents, but into an east wind we could have gotten higher sooner. I flew eighty-four missions in the B.E.2c. Fifty-one as an observer, the rest as pilot. A lot of cavalry officers went in for it. They had the training in reconnaissance.

The powers that be drafted in a batch of machine gunners at the height of the 'Fokker Scourge,' in 1915. It was an awful fuck-up. A panic reaction, but then no one knew anything about aerial combat back then. Their pilots couldn't hit anything, yet the Army gunners were wiping men out a hundred at a time.

Perhaps it was because we could shoot? Maybe someone had trained us how to shoot?

Maybe that was the difference?

Maybe they were just desperate.

Months after Second Ypres, when they went to give me a medal, they found out I was 'grossly underage.' Red faces all around. Solution? Send the boy for air training. Can't have the lad getting killed too soon. Christmas in the trenches, New Year's in London.

Quite a shock to the old psyche. I got into more 'trouble' in London, than I ever did in a trench. But they were dumb enough to grab kids as young as fourteen and a half. They had this thing called, 'apparent age,' and the recruiting officer was in charge of the determination. At my height, they didn't even read my age on the form! The seventeen-hair moustache and those big shoulders might have helped.

Officials officially believed that people were showing up at recruiting offices and had somehow 'forgotten,' their birth certificates.

I learned to fly because I hated being an observer. I had to get control of my fate. I know that sounds odd. But I figured I could do it better, and that sounds pretty self-assured. But I was right; after all. They had some real fucking dummies for pilots back then. They were selected for rank, or the social position of their fathers, or some such nonsense.

'A gentleman can do anything.'

That was the attitude.

Jesus, it was cold up there. As the sun broke the horizon, it became almost impossible to see. Watkins was a vague shape composed of blackness and glaring highlights. There were only the shiniest details to break the outline. The rest of the formation, I took it on faith, was on his left. Think while you fly. Don't daydream. Where will the lonely hunter be this fine morning?

Probably not in the sun – it's too low. Probably not behind us – he hasn't the range.

An observer in a balloon or on the front line would have spotted him.

If I was the lonely wolf, where would I be? We should have heard him, at least before we got going ourselves. An aerodrome is a quiet place before anyone gets fired up. I scanned the sky like a hungry rabbit, all too aware of the eagle.

At times like this, you learn to love and value the people around you in a way no person who hasn't been there can ever imagine. You will throw your life in front of the enemy's guns without a second thought.

If you don't believe that, you don't belong up here.

Go home.

Looking down, this was no place for the confused or the uncommitted.

The front line lay below, a ten to twenty mile wide swath of brown, shit-like earth, pockmarked like the craters of the moon. It had an evil smell even at 10,000 feet. The land boils like lava from the heat of shells exploding within it. Pin pricks of light caught my attention like flash photos. They're not taking wedding photos down there. Two German aircraft well below us, but they were going west. As I did another quick scan of the sky above, and below, all around, presumably they have an escort.

Don't they?

It's not unusual to have a sky full of enemy aircraft and not be able to see even one of them. I wouldn't say I was scared. I didn't want to be made a fool of. That sounds unprofessional. I will not let my buddies down. And I prayed they don't let me down.

You could say that I didn't want to die up there.

We were at 13,000 feet when the lighter patch of a built-up area loomed ahead. While this was a bit low for the strategic type of photography, the shadows of the early morning sun perfectly highlighted the contours of the valleys and hills below.

Vertical photography wasn't feasible much below 2,000 feet.

When the front was covered by cloud, we did oblique photography, which practically goes down to zero feet. We had to 'fly the shot.' We never had much choice about the avenue of approach or escape. The enemy gunners liked that.

Shrouded in morning mist, the river showed up as a silver ribbon, carelessly tossed on a green rug. A hooked rug, one made out of scraps. A fairy-tale castle looked small and faint on a hilltop behind the town. Its roof shone golden in the sunlight. The enemy knows we're here. We flew straight and level up the valley. There was some kind of military-industrial complex ahead.

Mick was edging our way. We obligingly opened out and pulled about ten degrees to the right. Obviously, we missed our mark by a small margin of five or ten miles.

Make a mental note of the cross winds. We must be drifting at several miles an hour.

Five to ten miles an hour. Just a light breeze. The time was 5:46 a.m. A work day.

There they are. I waggled my wings and Watkins, after a half a moment, waggled in acknowledgement. The Huns were cleverly coming in from the southeast, at about our own altitude. He and I pulled even harder to the right and I lined up my gun-sight on one of the frontal silhouettes. It was a very small target. I held my fire. Tom popped off a couple of rounds and they rolled and dove away, but another two were coming at us.

Tom pointed to the right and I pulled a ways off. Divide the opposition and cut off the angles, just like a goalie. The observation planes have machine guns, and can defend themselves, but their mission is to get pictures.

Here comes the next pair. Where are the first two? And I could see a half-dozen more just kind of circling off the starboard bow. Sharks smelling blood in the water.

Every once in a while the flash of sunlight off of a wing caught my eye.

The next attack was poorly timed, and Tom and I both got off shots.

We immediately returned to the formation. I didn't see any effect from my shooting. The enemy planes broke off at about three hundred yards range. I watched our tail as we nipped back into position. The enemy was climbing, and I didn't want to lose track of them while maneuvering. Still, I had to make sure not to run into Tom.

In between attacks, you just kind of sit, naked and exposed, with your heart beating its way up higher and higher in our chest. Sometimes you want to puke, but you swallow hard or even suck it back down out of your mouth and nose. You just don't have time to take off the mask. When it's in your nose you just have to suck it back down and swallow it.

Of course I was scared. Anybody that says otherwise is full of shit.

They came in from left and above next time. I saw them coming and Dinwiddie also anticipated this move. He dropped back a few hundred yards. When two enemy aircraft attempted to dive on him, Singh started turning at exactly the same time and got off a good full-deflection shot on one. It's hard to describe. But Mick came back up to the rear of the formation. Maybe he got tired of using himself as bait.

No damage to the enemy, but they know we're not dummies.

I guessed there was no Archie today because the German authorities knew they have fighters up here. And just then all hell broke loose as far as anti-aircraft artillery went.

As we clawed for altitude, the German fighters were pulling well off to the south. My hands, especially all my finger-tips, were an agony of tingling pins and needles. My feet were stiff but fine. I was moving my toes and feet constantly.

Someday I will invent a heater for an aeroplane.

I have promised myself that much.

Nothing more.

Let life take care of itself, if I get that far.

'Archie' was behind and below as quickly as it started. Where are the enemy fighters?

Hope them pictures turn out.

We were well east of the target now, and it was turning into a milky, hazy day. There was danger in the deceptive emptiness. The R.E.'s turned homewards and began losing altitude at a gentle rate. They were going for all the speed their 140-horsepower engines could muster. Over the railway marshaling yards, they spiraled down to about 3,000 feet and then dropped their two 112-lb bombs. The bombs, just little black dots; almost instantly disappeared into the background.

That should gain the formation about ten miles per hour...fuck.

What a joke.

Smoke and dust erupted from the center of the yard, but there wasn't much down there to hit in the broad light of day. It seemed unlikely that our little attack would disrupt the slow, yet inexorable flow of men and guns to the front. The R.E.'s stayed down there.

They felt safer down low for some reason. We drove on to the west, as Mick took us down to 8,000 feet, always scanning the sky for other planes. They have to be out there somewhere.

The flight leader was now leading from the front of our five-plane formation, and the R.E.'s were about 5,000 feet below, a half a mile ahead on our right, down sun from us. The enemy had to go through us to get them, or give up the advantage of height, or sun, or both.

I could see them now; despite the ring of ice around the edges of my vision. My gut felt very hollow, but that's good. It's better than excruciating pain from gas in the bowels.

It was adrenalin, a heady wine. We went even lower, closer to our pair of sheep.

"Come on down, you lousy bastards," I bellowed upwards.

What do we have here?

Halberstadt and Albatros fighters, a good baker's dozen. Maybe more, milling around, waiting to pounce. That one looks like a Pfalz D-II.

From my hips down to my toes was one big pain. There was no way to stretch or to relieve the constant strain. Literally frozen in alertness. The only thing that moves is the head, swiveling on the neck. To take one hand off the stick and wiggle the fingers was about all you could do. Now the other hand. For some reason I was really pissed off at life, right then.

"Tickey-tickey-tickey," sounded the engine.

Did that noise suddenly get louder or was it just my imagination?

There were planes to the north, planes to the south, planes undoubtedly behind us.

Two Halberstadts flashed past our noses, from high up on the left. They went for the two R.E.'s. Mick made a signal, and Singh followed them down. A few seconds later his wingman Chris dove as well. Three up high, two down low.

Puffs of smoke indicated that the R.E.'s were defending themselves.

They saved the attack for this point. We felt like quarry, now that we were finished with the photo-shoot. We were just praying to go home.

Mick had a crack at another Boche as he flashed past our noses, but we stayed up there. God, I'd love to watch what was going on down there, but my eyes were glued to the great blue bowl of the sky, where there were just far too many black dots for my own personal comfort.

Singh and Chris rejoined the flight. Keep together.

Singh shrugged his shoulders. Apparently he missed. Live to fight another day, I guess. About this time we spotted the front lines in the murk under a rain cloud, which appeared with the ever-increasing headwind.

We were hit by yet another attack.

Once again the enemy, flying D-III's or D-V's, (Albatros,) concentrated upon the poor R.E. 8's. The hindmost began to emit a thin vapour trail, but soldiered on without losing speed or altitude. This time Tom and I zoomed down to unload a few bursts, short ones, as the enemy sped past, in a beam attack from about the same altitude and from the right.

It was getting really dark over there.

We missed, and the front lines were taking on a new aspect in the gusty air and bursts of intermittent, spotty rain. The clouds were down lower upon us. What started off as a bright day, was now showing a moderately heavy north-western squall line.

What's our drift now?

Arguably, to the left.

Follow the leader.

Back in formation.

Suddenly Tom was beckoning for attention, even as I wracked my neck through another sweep of the sky. They were mostly behind us now, as the rain opened up into tunnels and halls through the cloudscape.

A fucking balloon.

I switched magazines in what must have been record time.

Altimeter, 5,500, airspeed, about ninety-five, boost the throttle. Check the compass, check the sky, check the formation. The balloon was already being pulled down. It lay about three miles off, to the right of the nose. Archie's here! Black puffs began to appear around our flight. That balloon was about 3,000 feet up.

Crack! That one was close. It sounds like someone making popcorn. God, I hate the sound of popcorn.

They knew we were coming and they knew why.

I waved to let Tom know I was on the ball and had the situation well in hand. Just a quick salute. I quickly ran out of dramatic last gestures, and then plummeted vertically.

Throttle in hand, down on top of the balloon.

The German handlers had it down to about 800 feet, as a sudden hole in the clouds allowed a brazen shaft of sunlight to penetrate the scene.

I double-checked to see if my little swatch of tape was on the magazine. Yes, that's the correct magazine. The safety-catch is off.

Throttle way back and push the nose down, way under the victim. I loosened the straps as we approached the front. This not only allowed me to stretch and turn a little in my stiffened-up ordeal, but you have to be ready.

Peering above the upper main-planes of the aircraft; the earth below filled all of my vision. The engine was ticking away on idle and the wind was very loud.

Left eye rammed to the tubular and very cold gun-sight, I brought up the nose, holding it with my left hand, as I let a few rounds off with the Vickers. My right hand found the trigger of the Lewis. The plane was perfectly lined up. I pulled the trigger while riding the elevator. As the plane picks up speed in what is a kind of free fall, the lift increases and she tends to 'balloon' a little.

Nothing much happened. I poured the incendiary ammo into it, and finally released the trigger. It took both hands to pull out. Guys warned me about the pullout.

Ram the throttle. The engine was pulling hard, that's good...

I was afraid to grey out or even black out, but managed to grunt and groan my way through a very low-level, left-hand turn as fast as the old S.E. would do it.

It's like trying to throw a shit and hold it in at the same time, but it keeps the blood in your head. You want the power and speed to avoid a high-speed stall.

At this point I wasn't paying much attention to the motor, but for some reason the odd little shudder in the left wing was a big factor in making a quick second pass and getting out of there. Full throttle, ram it to her! There's no sense in any fancy tactics, no sense in switching turns. A full three-sixty has to do.

As I lined up and finished off the Lewis drum, that funny little shudder came again, and this time I distinctly noted that the left wingtips were quivering.

Right about then my engine missed fire once – just once.

"That's good enough for me," I shouted in my cockpit. "I can take a fucking hint."

I'd say every machine gun and rifle within a radius of about a mile was firing at me.

Probably doing as much damage to themselves as I was. I sure hope so.

Climbing up in sweeping S-turns, the anti-aircraft artillery became a concern again, having opened up not just at me, but the whole formation when we came into sight.

The R.E.s and my comrades were circling and ranging around to draw fire. I heard later Tom dove in and took on the machine gunners.

That was jolly nice of him.

Crack!

My ears stung with the concussion as a wave of hot air washed over me.

The cockpit was filled with the tang of explosive.

There wasn't a scratch on me, but the wings had a lot of little holes in them. There was a stinging sensation in my legs. There were holes in the legs of my flying suit.

Some of the fabric of the wing beside me was gone.

Dark stains on my legs.

No time for that now. It was like a bad dream, but it was real.

"FOCUS LADDIE!"

Tom was pointing at me. Are we going around again? Jesus.

The engine pings, listen to the engine. What was he pointing at? The balloon has disappeared from sight. Tom stared blankly at me. What the hell was he trying to say?

I was deep in shock; the pain, unreal.

The stick went around in little circles, as if it had a mind of its own.

Fly it, fly it. Don't give in, boy.

Finally we were over no-man's land. Scan the sky. My plane was sick. I had to lose altitude to keep up the speed. All of a sudden I forgot the sky and began scanning the ground.

"Our Father, who art in heaven..."

My legs hurt. The engine was pulling hard one second, then floundering the next....

At last the land turned green again and we were on our own side, not that danger doesn't lurk there, but it is a nicer place to crash. My bladder was full. Someone once told me, 'don't crash on a full bladder.'

"Deliver us from evil..."

What are you, nuts? Like I got a choice. Because that's about the point where my engine practically fell right off. Two thousand feet up and a mile from our aerodrome.

"...power and the glory...forever and ever...Amen!"

I can't begin to describe the thoughts that went immediately through my mind.

'What a waste,' or whatever.

One or two resentful thoughts about my ground crew.

The nose batted up and smashed me in the chin. Then she flicked over and upside-down in a split second and rolled out of it. It was quiet, just a lot of wind noise, like a winter gale pulling and tugging at the shingles on the roof.

But I was lucky enough to have pretty good control with full down elevator, at least I didn't snap into a spin. I initiated a spin myself, by putting full left rudder into it. She went nose-high a couple of times and I almost lost her. The engine was bucking along beside the left front fuselage, still attached by wires and cables...incomprehensible.

Someone shot off half my prop? Is that what did it?

Suddenly we were there. The elevator had no effect.

An airplane hitting the ground makes a very distinctive sound.

That's the last thing I remember.

A big, loud, 'Smuck!'

I had a moment of surreal, complete awareness.

The last thing I saw, was from the inside of a big splash. Chunks of wet sod flew away in all directions. There was a spattering sound. There was one unbelievable, mind-bending spike of pain. Such pain as cannot be described. I guess that was my back breaking.

I watched in disembodied disbelief as the mud and the muck and the turf subsided.

My legs, my thighs felt warm. Am I bleeding? Am I going to die?

I felt a sense of relief, and detachment. I felt objective about things.

It didn't hurt so much now. It's like I just stung all over. I was perfectly lucid.

"Thank you, Jesus," I said.

Then I blacked out.

Chapter Five

Where are my pants?"

I drifted in and out of consciousness for some time, then came to.

A hazy figure stood beside me. I was flat on my back, looking up.

"What country is this?" I whispered. "Where are my pants?"

When I tried to move, a wave of pain and nausea swept over me and I passed out again. It was a couple of days before I fully comprehended the words people spoke.

I was like a newborn baby. When I shit myself, I didn't even have the sense or wherewithal to feel ashamed. It was beyond my ken. I just shit. That's all.

Finally one day, and I don't remember being in a whole lot of pain, Major Mad Dog and the adjutant were standing beside my bed.

What was that lovely smell? Was that lilac? A moment of dread, then I shook off the possibility that it was the smell of lilies in a funeral arrangement. This is a bed, not a coffin. My heart pounds in my chest. It is unmistakable. Dead people don't have a heartbeat.

I'm alive. But how is this possible? I tried to speak, and I must have made as if to sit up in bed, and that's when I figured out who smelled like that. She gently put her hand on my chest.

Her soft, calm voice murmured reassurance.

"Be still."

She said it once, but it was enough. How could I resist?

Do you believe in love at first sight? I couldn't even see her. The glare of morning sunlight from behind turned her hair into a golden halo. It was like looking at an angel.

That's pretty powerful stuff. I remember thinking that at the time. I was young, and I couldn't say if I even really knew what love was. But I was soon to find out.

Love is something that you hold on to. Even when you have nothing else left, not even your sense of humour.

So I just lay there as weak as a newborn kitten and listened more or less in rapt attention. 'The Major' told me how proud everyone was and how the boys in the squadron were all anxiously awaiting my return to duty. Then he shook my hand and stepped back. He had a nice smile, for an officer. Some of those guys could be pretty miserable little Napoleons, but I remember he was alright. The adjutant had a couple of things to say.

"You got the balloon," for example, then they left me with the nurse.

"What's that smell?" I asked.

"That's the smell of wounded men," she said quietly.

"No, no, I know that," I stuttered in confusion.

You have to remember, I had just woken up from a very deep sleep. A coma, in fact.

"What's that fragrance you're wearing?" I asked in a whisper.

She stood up, and that's when I realized she had a chair by the bed.

"You know, we've all been worried that you might not survive. The doctor will be pleased with your progress," she said demurely.

She busied herself down by my legs, which quite frankly hurt. At the onset of this conversation, I really felt like being very warm, and I don't know; like all wrapped up in soft cotton batting. Like floating in air, all wrapped in fur.

But the pain really dug in and bit, now that I was actually awake.

"Holy Jesus!" I stated through tightly clenched teeth, grinding my jaws as she did something again.

"We have to make sure that this one and this one drain properly," she announced.

"What...what...?" I asked.

"The doctor will explain all about your wounds," she said. "But you seem to have regained consciousness, and that was a major hurdle."

"What's that fragrance you're wearing?" I asked in a stronger voice.

I kept swallowing and swallowing. My mouth was so dry. Like glue in the throat.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she said, looking down with the light behind her head.

"Promise?" I asked.

"I promise," she said. "You go to sleep now."

"That sounds like a good plan," I sighed, and then I finally did get to see her smile.

This was important, as it's kind of nice to know what the love of your life actually looks like.

***

I won't bore readers with the long story of my recovery, which I suppose has been covered by lots of other writers, (or old soldiers,) but it is probably important to say that I suffered three crushed vertebra in my back, a really badly sprained knee; a broken finger, major concussion; (in two different places!) and two Spandau bullets through the upper legs.

One bullet in each leg.

Lots of bruising, some scrapes and minor burns, and one hell of a black eye. Last, and possibly least, my lips were pretty fat. I looked like the loser in a big-money prize-fight, not that I had a pretty face to begin with. Abrasions, contusions. 'Et cetera.'

Out of the fight. I can understand how some might have been grateful.

I felt like a failure. A couple of short, sharp blows to the head will do that to you.

Chapter Six

Smith-Barry

The first proper system of flying instruction in the world was devised by Wing Commander Robert Smith-Barry. Bob learned to fly in 1911 on his own initiative. Commissioned into the Royal Flying Corps in 1912, he was a member of the very first class at the Central Flying School. At the start of WW I, Smith-Barry was flying reconnaissance with No. 5 Squadron in France. He had a few hair-raising scrapes, but that's his story. Bob can write his own book, and probably will.

During the historic retreat from Mons by the British Expeditionary Force, he broke both legs in a crash of his BE 8 and also suffered a smashed kneecap.

We had that much in common...we both crashed. We both lived.

After recovering from his injuries, he began flying again in 1915, and joined No. 60 squadron in France as a Flight Commander in mid-May 1916. In July the unit's CO was killed. Smith-Barry was appointed to lead the squadron and remained in charge until December, 1916. Upon his return to Great Britain, he began to voice his concerns over the appalling lack of pilot ability; and the travesty that was flight training up until that time.

In response to his harsh criticisms of the 'generally poor,' standard of training, he was given the opportunity, as commander of No. 1 Reserve Squadron at Gosport, Hampshire, to do something about it.

He initiated systematic methods of flying instruction, and formulated these in, 'Notes on Teaching Flying,' in May, 1917. His instructors used 'the Gosport System,' which proved to be highly effective and remained the basis for British air training for the next thirty-odd years. Smith-Barry was made a lieutenant-colonel and was given command of the newly-formed, 'School of Special Flying,' at Gosport.

Considering my own training, short and bitter, learning in, (or on,) a Henri Farman 'Shorthorn,' I wondered why this gentleman would send a telegram to me, a wounded junior officer; and one without much future.

The telegram read: "Dear Flight Lieutenant William S.F. Tucker. Please contact me when you feel more fit." – R. Smith-Barry, School of Special Flying, Gosport.

"So what's all this about, then?" I asked the adjutant.

Tears stung my eyes.

I was feeling pretty low right about then.

"So you think I need special re-training?" I asked.

"You're an extremely fortunate young man," he explained. "He's a good friend of the CO, and it's clear you can't return to your duties here for some time, even if we could get the doctors to let you out."

"Fucking bastards!" I said.

"You've flown the S.E. enough. It'll stand you in good stead. We have more powerful ones coming down the pipeline, you know," said 'the Adj.'

"Here comes your nurse. I think that you have a lot to offer Smith-Barry," he added.

"You think about it," he told me as he rose to his feet. "A couple of the boys will be in to see you later. Oh! Tommy Watkins shot down two Boche tri-planes yesterday."

And then he stumped off in his characteristic limp. I heard another man from our squadron was here, and I sure was glad I didn't have the captain's job right about then. Word was the other fellow had crashed and burned.

There but for the Grace of God go I.

At least they didn't send me to Home Defense, or flying seaplanes, or worse.

***

She stood beside the bed, a vision. Tall enough; auburn, almost coppery hair, shoulder length. Her name was Melissa, and the way she stood just grabbed me every time. She stood up straight, with her shoulders not rounded off. She moved with grace, even though her dress came down to the floor, wet and covered with sawdust as it was. Her eyes were blue-grey, but not cold in any way. She had a nice chin, and while she didn't have any baby fat; neither was there a line or mark or wrinkle on her visage to show the strain she must have endured.

She gave me an old-fashioned look.

"Measuring me up for a coffin?" I joked.

"And how are we this morning?" she said, whipping out the thermometer and giving it a rub.

"Horny?" I told her. "You didn't just have that up some guy's butt, did you?"

She rammed it under my tongue with a certain flair.

"That's a good sign. You'll fly again, then?"

She wrote something on her pad. Sunlight streamed in through the door of the tent as people came in. I lost her in the glare, but she was still there. Preparing for my injection. A certain clink of glass on steel. They carry the syringe around in a little metal tub. I laughed and then it hurt, so I stopped. She gently pulled out the syringe.

"That will teach you," she said, and then she went on to the next bed, and the next.

"You flyboys are all the same," said someone from the next bed.

"We keep getting shot down!" called a cheerful voice from the far side of the aisle in the tent, and low chuckles came from other nearby lads.

Good lads; although I never did catch any of their names. God knows, the first day or two, I was in a coma, then for a few more days I slept almost all of the time. Only after a week or ten days did time slow down, catch up, and take on its normal pace. By this time the pain from my wounds was subsiding to a dull ache, but little did I know that the pain I felt at present would be nothing compared to the rehabilitation process.

And the pain of losing her. But that comes later.

My story is rambling enough after all these years.

Chapter Seven

Billy Tells a Joke

"There were these three horses standing in a shady spot in the pasture. One of them says, 'in my racing career I won three-hundred-thousand pounds and six out of every ten races .'"

A ring of officers, many high-ranking, stood gathered around my bed, rapt attention turned to the quiet, yet confident authority of the famous Billy Bishop. Eyes shining, they watched his every move and gesture. With eyes surprising in their warmth and humour, a wispy little moustache, and not overly tall, yet he still had the audience in the palm of his hand, even me.

I felt a little ill, and I'd heard the story before. It was going around, actually. But it was worth hearing it again.

"Now, the second horse, he says, and I quote," (titters and sniggering. I grinned as well.)

"The second horse says, 'in my racing career I won thirty-four races in two and a half years, and every time I go to stud my master gets a hundred pounds for it...'"

Everyone appreciates this part of the joke, but they're quieter now.

He holds them, and with a little sweep of his shoulders, he pulls in the boys out on the wings.

"The third horse says, and I quote – 'in my nine-year racing career, I ran eighty percent wins, and made hundreds of thousands for my master.'"

The room is very quiet while he makes them wait for it.

"Then this dog that was laying in the grass gets up, and he says,...and I quote –'"

The room breaks up in laughter, all the wounded men in the pallets, and the doctors, nurses, orderlies, swabbers, you name it. Me, too. I listened. Intently.

"He says, he says, 'in my racing career I ran a thousand races. I lived at the seaside. (Even Bishop giggles here.) I won half a million pounds for my master!'"

All of us were laughing now.

"'That's amazing!' gasped the first horse.

More laughter.

"'Yeah!" says the second horse. "Imagine that! A dog that can talk!'"

Pandemonium reigns. Jolly old boys, red in the face, slap each other on the shoulder and look into each other's eyes in that 'Did you hear that?' look.

He beams down at me, flat on my back.

"Here you go, lad. God bless."

The sound of pencils scratching away. Brilliant flashes! Whoosh! I was partially blinded. Melissa put the box down on the side table. With glistering eyes, she pinned the fucking thing on my pajamas.

The little ceremony was over. After a quick hand-squeeze, and a murmur I didn't quite catch, thankfully my own CO went along. I had nothing good to say today. With a babble of voices, the gaggle of uniforms tramped off on some other morale-building mission.

"Don't we look like the brave, all-conquering hero, straight from the pages of 'The Boys Own Paper.'"

She said it sweetly enough, but there was something deeper.

"Check the inscription, make sure that one's mine," I griped.

She had this look on her face.

Not sadness, exactly. More like a nice little whiff of anger. And pain.

"A useless, but highly-coveted decoration," I noted. "Should get me a job at the bank, or maybe even as a fireman when I get home. If I can walk."

"You'll be fine," she reassured me. "Here, sit up. Swing your legs over the side."

"Yikes!" a wave of nausea swept over me.

Sweat broke out around my eyes and the room spun.

"Whoa, horsey," I gasped.

"Are you going to be all right?" she asked.

I heard a voice from the other end, and Melissa turned to look.

"You don't have time for that," the voice called. "And he has a back injury!"

"I'm fine now," I lied.

"I'll come and talk with you later, Will," she said. "But only for a little while."

"Thank you," I said.

I didn't have the gumption to give her any sassy talk right then. And for whatever reason, I'll never know why, she bent over and gave me a quick peck on the upper left side of my forehead.

And then she swished away, back to her duties.

"She wants you, Bud," someone whispered hoarsely.

At first I ignored it. Perhaps there were tears in my eyes. I didn't think Melissa was too well trained.

"You okay?" someone on the next cot asked.

"I feel like a million bucks," I told him.

And it was true.

"Well, you look like a piece of shit."

And that was true, too.

That's okay. Poor bugger only had about one arm and one eye left. A big, seeping, red-stained, inanimate lump of flesh and pain all wrapped up in miles of bandages.

He saw me looking. What else was there to look at?

"You should see the other guy," he joked.

There are times when you just want to cry.

What the hell do you say?

"I have to go and find us a smoke," I told him. "Don't go away, I'll be back."

"A smoke would be lovely right about now, Bud," he nodded.

He looked pretty chipper, for a man in his condition. Perhaps in a couple of days he would be evacuated to another hospital, one with better facilities. In some sense he was a winner. He would live. At least he had that much. I wondered about his family, his home, the town he was born in.

Or maybe he would be dead.

It's hard to say.

Standing up wasn't a problem. Walking wasn't so bad. And as luck would have it, I was moseying down the aisle when I found a stick propped up at the end of a bed. Some officer's stout walking stick.

"That's the Colonel's," the lad on the bed said. "Take it. The bugger's done for us."

"Thanks Bud. Anything I can do?"

He shook his head.

The next man was a facial wound. The next man, burned unrecognizably.

Where the hell am I going to find a smoke?

"Where do you think you're going?" a starkly indifferent female voice queried. "Get back in your bed."

"I need a smoke," I told the lady.

"Fine, fine, I'll get you some. Lord, give me patience," she muttered, swinging away with her cart.

My lower back hurt like hell. My legs hurt like hell. Head hurt like hell. Knee, a knife-jab of pain every time I bent it. Had a nice walk. Time to go back to bed. Turning around was the hard part. If you want something, fight for it. Here we go.

No one was going to see me fall down. That would upset the bastards. I hate everyone. I found my bed. I tried to compose my emotions.

"She's going to bring us some from somewhere," I told my neighbour.

I see him and it gives me a perspective. It is just pain. It will not kill me. I can walk. I am young. Shaky all over. Gently, ever so gently, I eased my way onto the bed.

Some men had beds, some had cots, some were on pallets. Some were on mattresses. Some were on the floor by the door. I think it had something to do with rank, or maybe someone took a minute and assessed their chances of living. Thank God I had a bed. It was a lot easier to lower myself into. Had a hell of a time, trying to put enough pillows under my upper parts so I could sit up.

Grit my teeth and wait. Soon it will be time for another injection, then most likely sleep, and then it will be tomorrow, a whole new day-full-of-shit. God, I could use a smoke.

"Got about thirty feet," I told my new friend.

Finally she showed up. When I lit one for my neighbour, the pain was worth it.

Not that I wanted to see the gratitude in his eyes. I definitely didn't want to show pity, sympathy or anything. I just wanted to give this one guy all the respect I ever had in me.

I was the God-damned luckiest guy in that tent. I know that now. I can't describe to anyone, the emotional roller-coaster ride that results from being wounded; from being amongst wounded and dying men, to smell the smell. The smells.

To hear the sounds, the conversations, hushed and quiet. It took me a while. When revelation hits, she hits with a bang.

"Give me the damn thing. Prepare the next one," or, "There's nothing I can do here," or, "Better send this one back outside."

You don't have to overhear too much to know what's going on.

"I'm sorry, nurse, but there's no hope...better if this one doesn't..." and in the back room someone sobbing and crying for his mother.

"No! Don't take it," you heard that once; that was all you ever needed. "Not the leg!"

Not the fucking leg.

When an old man wakes up in the night, and he can't get back to sleep. It's not the trauma. It's not the memory of pain. It's not the terror or the fear, it's not the uncertainty

or insecurity of our lives back then.

It's the sadness, the bereavement, the loss. It's grief.

There were a lot of men, well, boys, really. I sure wish I had been a little nicer to them when they were alive. They were good lads, after all. In any unit, there will be guys you don't get along with. To see some kid, a fucking child...get killed and maybe you didn't like him much?

It's still a tragic waste.

Snuffed out in the prime of their lives. What a fucking waste. I never wore my medals in public until about twenty years had gone by.

Circumstances had changed. It seemed appropriate...but that's a whole different story.

If an old man wants to wake up in the middle of the night and bawl his eyes out, try to listen to his story. He ain't crazy. He's just got a lot of pain still inside of him...and the rest of you can all go to hell. Guilt, too. He's got a lot of guilt inside of him.

***

It was a cheery bright morning, and the man next to me was gone. Just gone.

Melissa never came around as promised. Well. She hadn't actually promised. I wondered who was in the next bed. I wondered how far I could walk today. I wondered when they would let me out of there. I must have been half asleep when Melissa and Dr. Iago Winefahrt, a balding, heavy-set man in his mid-fifties arrived. Like any good doctor on his rounds, he had a professional look on his face.

A proper doctor never says, 'Shit, piss, fuck, or damn.'

"Shit! Oh. There's the lad. Now, where the fuck are we? Oh. Tucker. You're going home. I expect you'll be out of here in about a half an hour or so. Is your piss clear? You're going to have a damn good time, too. I want you to fucking promise, right?"

He checked off a box on his chart, clip board held to catch the light.

"Yes, sir."

I was looking at Melissa, drinking it all in.

She was avoiding this part of the hospital.

"You'll get time to heal. Shit. Some physical re-habilitation. We have the best fucking doctors in all of England. A little time to heal."

So.

"You'll be coming back, son, don't worry," he added dryly.

He had a little twinkle in his eye. He hesitated, and Melissa was busy not looking at me; but fussing and bothering around with my dressings, which were quite fine. She poked and prodded in various ways and I tried to ignore it. But I also savoured every touch of her hands.

"Damn! I'll say goodbye and good luck, then," he said, with a quick slap at my shoulder, and then he went on to the next bed.

"Thanks, Doctor!" I called, but he really didn't look back.

He probably had four or five hundred more patients in that one block. Maybe more.

That was the worst hospital I was ever in. There was no one to blame. A place of pain, fear and despair for so many people. A place with dead limbs sawn off and stacked up outside the back door.

"Will..." she began.

"Melissa," I said in a slightly different tone. "I know what you're trying to tell me."

She was done now. She sat on the edge of the bed like mother when I was sick.

"Tell me a story," I suggested.

She smiled and bit her lip.

"Well, for starters, I have a fiancé," she said, with the hint of a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Ah!"

Now I get it.

"I am so sorry," I began.

She smiled, then chuckled a little.

"Some of the things you say," she agreed. "But Will; we hear all kinds of things in here. You have nothing to be ashamed of at all."

She paused.

"You're quite funny, really!" she added in a burst.

Another awkward pause.

She was the best damn girl I ever saw, and did she love another man?

She was so busy. There was no time to think, to think what to say.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" I asked.

"Oh, Will," she sighed.

There wasn't a whole hell of a lot more to say, was there? Giving my hand a squeeze, she stood up.

"Good luck," she said.

I was hoping for something more.

Maybe a tear in her eye, or a catch in her voice. I was so young.

I prayed a lot in combat, quite a bit in practice flying. Constantly in training.

I never prayed for much before that. Not for any major thing, except my mother and father expected it. I never knew anything about God. Other than a quick, clean death once or twice, I really haven't prayed for much since.

I prayed for a miracle. I loved her something bad. I lay on that bed and watched her walk away. She never even looked back and I don't blame her. I bet she heard a lot of strange things in there. It was an awful lonely feeling.

It was just me and God, laying there all alone, waiting for the wheelchair brigade to move us out; and line us up with the rest of the shipment at the railway siding in the village.

Chapter Eight

Gosport

"O.K., Robert. What are we flying today?" I asked the slender, red-haired lad beside me.

He was about five-eight, and very shy. Surrey farmer's boy. A bookworm, and quiet.

"An Avro 504, sir?" he stammered.

"It seems like such an obvious question, doesn't it?" I asked.

"Well, it's a one-hundred-ten-horsepower Le Rhone," he said. "The mechanics filled up the tank."

"Are you sure it's not the 130-horsepower Clerget? Or the Monosoupape?"

He hesitated, shuddering slightly.

"Which one?" I asked the boy.

This kid was, God, maybe seventeen and a half years old and he seemed intimidated by me. Robert was a bright kid, very intelligent. Keen. Raring to go, and that was the trouble sometimes. They thought aircraft flew on mere dash and courage.

"What's next?" I asked. "Did you check the oil?"

"I'll check the oil, sir," he stammered again, hanging his head a little.

"Yeah, you check everything. Don't ever trust a fucking mechanic."

I noted a couple of sidelong glances from the vicinity of the hangar door.

"They did a good job, sir," protested Robert.

He's got spunk. That's fine, but I just don't care.

"It's your ass up there, boy, not theirs. They'll be sleeping in a bed tonight."

The unspoken question, of course is where will YOU sleep? Six feet under?

Or Will Tucker, your grumpy old instructor. Grumpy old Tucker, a cripple at nineteen years of age. I went through that thought but immediately trashed it; as instructed by a certain doctor in London.

"Just wad it up old boy, and toss it in the rubbish, don't you know. Haw! Haw!"

God, I hate psychiatrists. They have their uses. Who else would rent them big, ugly old houses? You must be nuts.

"Are you absolutely satisfied that this aircraft is whole, and complete, and properly prepared, Robert?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Good. Let's climb aboard."

After flying a couple of real pigs, for example the RE-2; the Avro was quite a delight to fly. I could never understand why some guys just couldn't get the hang of it.

I told Robert everything I was about to do, bellowing at him through the tube as I rolled the plane inverted and we hung in our straps.

"I'm holding a little down-stick on it, Robert, and I'm watching our altitude as best I can," I yelled, and watched his head bobbing in the front cockpit.

"Watch the compass!"

My ears, swathed in the helmet as it were, caught the high-pitched notes of some garbled reply. My right foot shoved forward, the tail crabbed.

Push with my left foot, the tail crabbed the other way.

I rolled the plane back into a straight and level path.

"You have the plane," I called, and felt the controls wiggle in acknowledgement as he took over.

"Bring her around, about fifteen degrees to the right," I instructed.

Turbulence wobbled the wings, and he overcorrected, but they always do the first few times up. He settled on a course of 270 degrees, which was more or less what I intended.

"Oh, Robert, me boy, now it's your turn," I bellowed at the student ahead.

With a sickening lurch, he started into his roll.

"Use the rudder to turn it and the ailerons to hold it level," I yelled.

Out over the sea, towards France...soon enough, soon enough.

"Good, good," I lied. "Now watch your compass and hold this altitude."

Robert practiced inverted flying for a while, turning on occasion.

He was doing better, and thank God for that. Half the problem with some students was that they were afraid of the instructors. So eager to please, hanging on every word, and worried about looking like a coward or a fool. And I really didn't know much about instructing, either. If you're tense with some kind of social fear, you can't relax, feel the plane. They treat it like it's made of glass, or some such nonsense.

"You're doing fine, Robert," and then he carried out the next part of the drill, which after an inverted figure eight, meant rolling back straight and level.

"Course looks good, Robert. Do a loop now please," I called.

Fly, Robert, fly. Fly your fucking brains out. You're going to need all the hours in the air you can get. I know where you're going. As we went over the top everything looked good. He was learning. Painful and slow sometimes, a sudden revelation at others. Some students picked up the theory in an instant. Watch them stagger all over the sky. Theory is good. So is a fine touch and an awareness of the limitations of the machine. Numbers on a page mean nothing. You have to feel it. If you have to think it through, you are not properly trained.

A plane is like a horse. You have to get to know it a little bit.

The more knowledge and experience they had, the better chance they had of survival, and I honestly didn't give a damn if the kid ever shot down an enemy aircraft. Teaching them to shoot was some other silly bugger's job.

"I have the airplane, Robert," I yelled.

Gripping the stick, I gave it a little shake.

"Watch this and analyze what I'm doing," as I pulled her up into a rudder turn, then rotated left over the top and went plummeting downward.

Kick in right rudder and pull back on the stick.

"Entering a spin is easy and getting out is just as easy."

The world came spinning crazily up towards us.

"How is that, young fellow?" I laughed, reversing the spin and going the other way.

"I love it!" he yelled back.

"Oh, really?" I shouted. "Watch this one!"

I bunted her over and we went inverted, spinning back to the left again.

"Check our altitude, Robert."

You have a job to do too, boy. I pulled out and waited.

"Two thousand, sir," and I carefully listened to his voice.

He wasn't afraid, that's fine. The trouble is the young ones tended to be too trusting.

They have too much respect for their elders. Checking the clock and the compass, with control turned over to the student, we set a course for home.

"Take it upside down. I want to check the map," I instructed.

I was always throwing curves at my boys. So did the enemy; and that was the point.

As we hung there, I took a quick glance at the map. We were climbing a bit, but then he eased off and we were at about 2,200 feet.

"Stay inverted. Ease off the throttle," I told him.

The plane shook ever so slightly, and then the altimeter began to creep down.

"Hold her..hold her...that's good. Throttle up," I ordered.

He rolled out suddenly without instruction.

"That's fine, Robert. Not a problem, I'll take her now."

He was tired, and the concentration tends to lag. I only push them so hard and then give them a rest. His hands were probably shaking from all the excitement.

"Just relax and watch me fly," I yelled.

He'll be fine. Another month and he'll be ready for the Front. My new job had its moments of deep satisfaction, and moments of dread. These were not usually for myself, but for somebody else.

I wondered how he might do. Faintly, I could feel his hands and feet following the controls around. He seemed a little more relaxed, and that's good. Now it's time for my fun. As I gently and ever so slowly put the plane into an axial roll, I watched the bubble and it stayed pretty well in the center.

That's the way she's done, boys.

"As I roll to the right, I ease in left rudder. Then you have to pull it out at just the right time. When I'm upside down, it needs a little down-stick," and showing him as the plane smoothly transitioned. "As we come up, we put in right rudder."

"The trick is to do it smoothly and just enough," I added superfluously.

Anybody can just yank the stick over and snap it around. How smooth, how slow can it be done? Can you make it look easy? Make it look pretty?

"Imagine your feet are on bicycle pedals, and you want to make one rotation," I bellowed, exaggerating my foot movements for effect. "Now you try it again."

Was it all a waste of breath? He wasn't any better, he wasn't any worse. And now he had some new way to think about it.

"All it takes is practice. Lots and lots of practice, although it is basically a useless maneuver," I explained.

Trying to explain things at a bellow is both frustrating and very tiring.

I knew what I was looking for.

"Where's that confounded bridge?" I grunted.

I read somewhere that the exploits of the Gosport school were 'legendary.' Flying through hangars, landing on roofs or on roads in front of pubs. Flying under bridges. And I'm talking Westminster Bridge, not just the little streams in the neighbourhood. We were just having fun, a whole bunch of irrepressible personalities. My reserve, my shyness, probably benefited from being around the other instructors and ground personnel. Given responsibility, and a little authority, gave me new confidence in an unexpected way. Maybe, 'Higher Command,' knew what they were doing when they selected instructors. Doubt that though; more likely the luck of the draw.

I was simply available. Someone must have put in a good word for me.

But some young buck destined for the fighter squadrons...they give you their trust and you'd better not abuse it. You're playing with some kid's life. We have to temper it with skill. In order to trust the planes, they had to know what made them tick. In order to trust themselves and each other, they had to be made aware of just what they were capable of as pilots.

"Watch this, me lad," and I did a thousand-foot side-slip and brought her down to the river.

Skimming along, the weeping willows on the left barked back our engine noise, which sounded raspier and closer to us. The river curved to the left. We followed it, then I eased her level, entering a low right turn above a weir. A fisherman puffed furiously on his pipe, ducking and glaring as we flew over, barely twenty-five feet above.

Robert's head was moving around in front as he laughed; peering about at the view. A heron, frozen in time as he attempted to scurry his way into flight, at an open place where the fields came right down to the water. A mill, more trees. One more turn.

There she is, the prettiest little bridge you've ever seen. Robert appeared to be a little tense. His head sank down until it was barely visible. I was grinning from ear to ear.

Life is a joke. Bob was just lowering his head for maximum visibility.

Life is a huge joke. Then you die. I'm determined to enjoy it if I can.

Otherwise, what's the fucking point?

There was a crescendo of noise building up to a 'brapp!' of the air as we went under.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Robert didn't reply. Hope we haven't lost him. I've never had a student just get out and walk away after a flight, but I know someone who has. It happens. Off the record, I blame the instructor, who tried some hare-brained stunt and bit off a little more than he could chew.

Eyes-bigger-than-his-stomach syndrome.

"That was great," he called back a little weakly.

"You're riding with the best," I assured Robert.

Inspire confidence. That's part of the job.

And I have to be confident in myself to do that. At least that's one part of the theory.

"Take us home, Robert."

He could handle the plane at a thousand feet. I wouldn't let him do it otherwise. How does the student feel about it? He seems to be doing fairly well. Let him fly the thing.

"How many other planes did we see today?" I barked suddenly.

"Nine, sir," he yelled back with no hesitation.

Nine?

I must have missed one. That's pretty good.

"Are you sure, boy?" as he steadied up and began to make an approach.

(We always say, 'an' approach, and never, 'the' approach!)

"Yes, sir," he called.

He was a lying little bugger, but I decided to let him get away with one, this time.

You have to convince them they're smarter than someone else.

"You have the plane. Land it," I ordered.

"Yes, sir."

When you switch off, the ringing in your ears stays with you. The wind beating on the back of your neck is exhausting. The buffeting of the slipstream on your head just made the neck ache sometimes. I was suffering from a bit of a headache.

"That's all for today, Bob," I gave him a slap on the back. "Good job. Thanks for the flight."

"Thank you, sir."

He looked tired and strained, but a very happy young man.

My job was not entirely without its perks.

"Off you go then."

Was there someone else, or is this my last flight of the day? There was one figure walking toward the hangars, but there was no one else lined up and ready to go. Time for a nice cup of tea. My knee was a little wobbly, but it was early days yet. That much was clear, I thought as I walked away. Every so often lurching, when my foot came down a little too hard.

My flying was fine. Walking hurt. It just plain hurt.

Chapter Nine

South Coast

For a boy who grew up in the flat farmlands of Lambton County in Ontario, Canada, the southern coast of England had a fascination that transcended its natural beauty.

This was the land of Shakespeare, the land of Chaucer, the source of so much of my own country's culture and literature. So much myth, and legend, fairy tales and nursery rhymes. A land of heroic tales, and fair maidens. A land of mystery, bidden goodbye, but not forgotten, by my ancestors long, long ago. Elves and trolls and fair maidens in towers.

"Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies," and all that.

In my head I can hear the joyful voices of the children singing.

Keeping in mind that I had never lived on a sea coast; it was all new, and refreshing to the soul after northern France. Rolling hills, valleys, coves and harbours, fishing smacks at sea, and small ships coasting along. Cruising a few thousand feet over the water, you could see for miles. We could fly out to the Isle of Wight, or fly up to Southampton and come back by way of St. Alban's Head.

The wheeling gulls, white against the azure water, seen from above. The shadow of an aircraft, speeding across a hammered metal sea, leaping the cliff in an instant. That same shadow bouncing along, up and over the hillside. Sheep scattering in panic. The look of a motorcar from above. A train, looking like a toy as it chugs along the embankment, with cotton-puffs of smoke hanging over it, and the shadows stretched out alongside.

Stick figures, children in a school yard, staring with upturned faces and waving in delight.

Flying is pretty enjoyable when there is no reason to fear. No one to shoot at you. I was totally relaxed in the air, and that came across to the students.

It came as something of a revelation that compared to the boys, and a few of the other instructors; I was smooth.

Dodging in and out of the clouds, waiting for the other training groups to be in just the exact position, then bouncing them. Out of the sun, from above and behind, using speed and surprise.

The fledgling pilots would just ignore us and soldier on, or sometimes they would break in every direction in panic. Sometimes they pounced on us in revenge, and while it was technically against the rules, we all did it.

Among the instructors there was a never-ending, ongoing, all-engaging feud to prove who was the best. All in good spirit, of course. I think it helped, in some way, or the boss would have put his foot down hard.

Sometimes I popped off a couple of flares at training flights led by the more asinine instructors. Once I caught a blast of shit from up the chain of command.

"I want my students to seize the initiative and keep it," was my official reply. "My students have an offensive attitude engendered by a keen competitive spirit and a desire to win. And that's why we won the rugger match we played against your lousy class last Sunday afternoon. So come on down and harass me again some time when you learn how."

Goddamn soreheads. Leave me alone.

I never heard another word about it.

***

Zoom along the country lanes, between the rows of trees. Up and over the telegraph lines. Smell the moist earth. In snatches of conversation try to advance the fledgling's basic skills. Bring her right back down again, heading for the barn at the end, where the road turns to the left.

"Whoopsy-daisy!"

My student was thoroughly frightened.

Or at least he should be. This one's a thoughtless little blighter, and I planned to soften him up just right, then have a little chat...pull up to 1,500 feet.

Snap off the master switch. The engine sputters to a stop.

"All right, laddie! What are you going to do now, Peter?"

Think quick, you little prick. Porridge in my flying boots. I know it was you, and if it wasn't you, then you did something else. Somewhere along the line.

Peter was good, I'll give him that much. Confronted with a maze of small fields, irrigation ditches, hedgerows, laneways and farm yards, he did a quick turn fifteen degrees to the right. He flicked in some down elevator as he did it. We touched to earth as light as a feather. To watch Peter sideslip into that little pasture, wind whistling gently through the wires, was rather enlightening.

I blipped the throttle several times in the descent, to keep the spark-plugs clear of oiling and fouling up. Each time I did, the sudden surge of power was swiftly and expertly controlled.

Nothing seemed to faze this fellow.

Why was he such a problem?

"Out you get," I ordered, clambering over the cockpit side.

I gingerly tramped around in the long grass.

There were green, grassy hummocks and what looked like a fox hole or some kind of ground-dwelling animal burrow. Everything else was a shade of brown or grey, faded in the winter sunshine. My lower back was pretty stiff. All the usual aches. I walked over to a dripping hedgerow and stood there to urinate. He stood beside the machine.

Making my way back, my mind was made up. Very little in my career had prepared or entitled me to exercise authority, or to impose discipline on anyone. Yet I had the right.

Theoretically, I had the right.

"You have some porridge or something on your tie," I said, and he gave a guilty start.

"I heard a funny story the other day. Some Bobbies in the village were pelted with rotten tomatoes and boy, oh boy! Were they livid with rage," I murmured.

"Luckily; that Corporal Hendry, he's a good friend. You could say he's the brother-in-law of one of them," I added. "He was on duty at the gate, when those Bobbies showed up. About the same time you and your mates were coming in through the back fields."

"Yes. Sir."

The cub stood there, stock still. He looked a little pale. But not contrite. Not yet.

"You know, Dilling, if you want to substitute a raw egg for a hard-boiled one, well; frankly I don't see a whole lot of harm done. It's actually pretty funny, especially when you have the sense to pull it on your bone-headed partner. I also appreciate the fact that the CO had the opportunity to witness what was indubitably, a star performance."

The poor little fucker, and I'm a head taller than him, he's beginning to sweat now.

It crosses my mind that he thinks I'm going to beat the shit out of him. He can think what he likes.

"I realize that it may, when required, be difficult in the extreme to un-substitute an egg. How could you know the CO would bring a friend? A lady friend? A very important lady friend?"

He's definitely beginning to sweat now, and it's mid-December.

"Um, um, I'm sorry sir."

"How could you know, that your chum would graciously pass off the offending egg? To the aforementioned lady? A very important lady she was, too. The daughter, and the apple of her daddy's eye, of a very well-known figure in the government."

Eggs were rationed, precious and priceless objects to a hungry flier, or even a lady.

"And what about that fountain pen?" I fumed, strutting back and forth in front of the prankster.

His guts were quaking now.

"Smith-Barry was signing leave chits. Our leave chits," I bellowed and he flinched.

"You lack maturity. That's what it is," I told the fellow. "I don't like it when people waste my time."

Then I walked over and climbed up into the cockpit. I never even looked at him, but he did finally move around to the front of the plane.

"Have you taken a look at this field, boy?" I asked him in a more reasonable tone. "Do you know just exactly how you're going to get us up out of here?"

"Yes, sir."

Peter was very reserved and cool towards me, but you can't really blame him.

Sometimes it's not too pleasant to see ourselves through the eyes of another. I was only a couple of years older, after all.

He did fine on takeoff, which was just as I expected. Nothing seemed to disturb this young man's equilibrium.

The blighter was ready. Not that it gave me any pleasure right now.

I don't like being the hard case, but sometimes it's a requirement. It's all part of the job. Like I said earlier. I prayed a lot even during practice flying. Right now I prayed for his future.

Because while he could fly well enough, he had an arrogant streak that could kill him.

And I certainly didn't want that to happen to any student of mine. Those old boots will wash out. And some of the other pranks were reasonably funny. At least I thought so.

***

The Avro 504 was by no means a crate. Around since the start of hostilities, it was obsolete. Originally used as a fighter, now it was a training ship. The airframe was covered in the finest Irish linen, and it was framed up with spruce spars, hickory and ash, braced with piano wire internally and braided aircraft cable externally. Bad writers say they were 'canvas and baling wire,' but that's bullshit.

First flown in 1913, Avros were involved in the bombing of airship hangars at Friedrichshafen in 1914.

It was a fun plane to fly. I loved it, and wasn't ashamed to say so.

Every once in a while, we had to wreck one. If a machine was 'less than fifty percent damaged,' it would be taken to a depot for repair. Ah; but if it was 'more than fifty percent damaged,' we could put in a claim and get a new one.

This was one of my favourite jobs. A little specialty of mine. Let's face it; I don't want to hurt anyone, least of all my students. The problem was, the rotary engine threw so much oil, and with the open cockpits, enough came inside to thoroughly soak some of the components. The aircraft gradually, over time, might become a little tail heavy, enough so that we couldn't trim it out. Maybe even a little dangerous.

After dropping Peter off in front of our group's buildings, I taxied her out for somepractice at picking up a handkerchief. There were wire rods sticking out from the front of each lower wingtip for just this purpose.

I could see him watching.

I think he hated me right then.

He survived the war, I heard later.

Sooner or later something has to go wrong, but it helps to keep the skills up. It also offered a chance to survey the aerodrome. Late Friday afternoon, on a bitter autumn day. The place was predictably deserted of senior officers; as I took a quick peek from above at areas where they might have a motor-car parked.

Not much going on down there. Now was my chance. Time for some crazy flying.

Whack! Goes the left wing tip, then whack! Goes the right wingtip. This was a little hairy. I had to appear out of control, like the 'drunken man' style of Asiatic fighting. And I grabbed up the old rag on a stick as I went by.

Up with the nose, down with the tail, wings at a 'drunken' thirty-degree angle as I blipped the throttle on and off. I had the nose up way too high. She was in a stall, but at ground level, and the left wing scraping along the pavement was all that kept it from going over. That and a heck of a lot of hard right rudder kicked in frantically as the power came on and off.

The tail hit, crash, smack, whoa! One of my wheels took off and seemed to accelerate off to one side. Speed is relative. And I crunched the plane into a corner of the hangar, where by some strange coincidence a few baulks of timber were leaning up against the wall.

That's because I put them there earlier.

I sat in a cloud of smoke, shakily peeling off my gloves and goggles. From nowhere, a half-dozen men and a couple of vehicles arrived in a flurry of breathless activity.

"Nice work," nudged the man pulling at my straps. "A little more speed or a little more height, and you might have been injured."

"What are you implying? Just pure, dumb luck," I assured him.

Quiet English understatement.

Judging by appearances; this plane was about eighty-nine percent of a write off. No sense in doing it by halves.

"Well, sir. You nailed that hanky just so! Like pig sticking. Now where did it get off to?"

A willing set of hands searched around in the debris and gave it to me.

I promptly blew my nose on it, drawing a laugh from the assembled crowd.

"Are you injured?"

The crew around the plane simmered down in the presence of authority, parting like the Red Sea for Moses.

"No, sir," I told the boss. "Just caught out by a burst of sneezing."

"That's a nasty cold that's going around," Smith-Barry muttered.

He frowned a little, and then asked, "What's all that wood doing here?"

"Some idiot wants to make a rabbit pen," I told him. "I thought we'd better ask for your position."

A little sarcasm, but it went right over his head. He was famous for rabbits. He had 'em in France, on the aerodrome.

"Yes, that's fine," he said, his face once again cleared of doubt.

Smith-Barry had a lot on his mind. We tried not to heap additional problems on him.

That's why I didn't tell him my knee hurt, or that I had really smashed my funny bone.

I didn't have a cold, but I had tears in my eyes. My left hand was totally numb, and I wondered if I would be able to get my boots off. Thank God for a fortnight's leave.

"I can give you a lift, Old Boy," he suggested, and I gratefully accepted with one proviso.

"I need some time to get my things. Can you hold up for ten or twelve minutes?"

His intelligent face lit up with a huge grin.

"Have a shower and a shave! You'll feel a lot more civilized," he suggested. "I have a few calls to make. We'll pick you up in an hour."

Damn. Now I had to fake a cold, for the drive up to London, and then remember not to limp or do what I call an 'accidental curtsy,' when my knee gave out on a set of stairs or getting out of the car.

***

Smith-Barry was right.

A long hot shower, and I did feel better.

A good slug of Navy rum sure didn't hurt my feelings either. He pulled up to the door in his big silver car with flags on the front fenders and red, white and blue roundels on the doors.

"Nice," was all I could say.

"This is Jennifer," he said by way of introduction.

"I meant the car," I said meekly.

That car smelled good inside.

"I know what you meant, old boy," he said affably. "Still, I thought you might like to know. Jennifer, would you meet Will Tucker?"

"Yes, I would," she agreed.

Hmn. This trip might be interesting, as I gazed at her little feet peeking demurely out of her frock. Mmn. Dark as it was outside, the scenery in here was just fine. Even if one couldn't see much of it. Yes, sirree, Bob!

Funny. I went to sleep for an hour, maybe more, and then discovered we had dropped her off somewhere. Perhaps I would get a better look some other time. Still thinking about Melissa. They say memory is a reconstructive process. The way we remember things cannot be exactly as they occurred. Memory is curiously subjective. My own recollection, and I'm not certain how I know this, is that at about 9:30 a.m., September 4, 1917; a door opened up and she walked in. The moment I saw her I just knew she was the one.

The perfection of her skin, her pink little, shell-like ear. Her soft, berry-like lips.

The tiny glint of an earring against her elegant and supple neck.

Ah; yes.

I was pretty well trained in the art of observation.

But Jennifer wasn't bad.

'Men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses?'

Whoever said that never saw Jennifer, glasses perched on her nose; pale-blonde page- boy haircut and blue eyes twinkling. She had a nice chin, too. Full, pink pouty lips, perfect smile.

A man has to wonder where Melissa would be right now. Tending some wounded soldier, coughing his life out on a table? Or was she just going to bed, putting out the light and thinking of...him? Her fiancé. Oh-oh. Bad thought.

The man opposite was speaking and I wondered how long? What had I missed?

"Do you have any recommendations this week?" he asked, plucking a pad and pencil out of a bulging briefcase.

"I would have preferred to stay to see them graduate," I said. "But Peter can go now, if you need him. One or two others, maybe Cochrane, and Gilchrist."

My other classes were a month or so away from graduation.

"Any thoughts?" the boss murmured.

"Peter should go somewhere like maybe fifty-six, or sixty, or eighty-five squadron. Definitely somewhere on fighters," I reckoned.

He scribbled in the dingy light of the car, silently purring over the motorway.

"And why is that?" he asked once caught up.

"Peter needs to be humbled. They'll take care of that in a couple of minutes."

Smith-Barry grinned.

"And he needs to be challenged. Surround him with a star-studded team, and he will shine. Or die quickly."

Bob grimaced at that one.

God knows, the first squadron I was posted to was a very humbling experience.

"Yes, I see," replied the boss. "And the other two?"

"Well, they're competent enough to be sent where the complaints are loudest," I said.

There was always a shortage of good pilots.

"That's usually the way, isn't it?" he admitted. "I looked at that Foster character, he seems to be coming along."

"Yes, you were watching. I saw you. Foster did a couple of good landings that day.

He needs another couple of weeks, in fact all the rest need two or three more weeks."

He nodded. I tried to remember to sniffle from time to time.

"Where did you have this baby stashed? The car, I mean?"

"Hangar number one, old bean," came the absent-minded reply.

The boss's thoughts were already elsewhere. Reports lay on the seat beside him. The boss man had a huge brain, I mean a really brainy guy; and he tended to work on fifteen jobs at once. He handed over a folder, and I clicked on the dome light, noting we were under superior-quality craftsmanship in terms of the cabriolet top.

'Top Secret,' it said.

I left it unopened, being able to guess what was in it.

"There have been some troubling developments," he reported. "Last year's figures showed that pilots had a life expectancy of about two hundred and six hours before they became a casualty, whether from injury, death, capture, or a mental exhaustion case."

I digested that thought.

"And that includes an average of seventy hours in training?"

"Right," he acknowledged. "Although some efforts were made over the last year to improve the situation, we had to draft men out of the system as quickly as we were shoving men into the 'improved,' system. And this year, the life expectancy has dropped to a little over one hundred and eighty hours. The signs are; it will drop further."

"That's bad," I said.

"Very bad," he noted.

"So what's all this?" I asked, proffering the file.

He snorted.

"Those Who Must Be Obeyed," he declaimed. "Rubbish, mostly. They think we don't understand that aircraft cost money. They sacrifice tens of thousands of men in a day. If we lose twenty or thirty pilots in a day, that doesn't sound too bad to their Lordships or to the public when reading about it in the paper."

"In fact, it sounds gallant," I prodded.

"I hate that word!" he groaned. "As we are all too aware, activity on the ground may come to a halt, but in the air it never ends."

"Money, money, money," I grumped. "Do they have any idea how long it takes to train these people? Do they have any idea of the average skill level of our opponents?"

Even in the midst of all the work, Smith-Barry never faltered, but drove himself even harder. It was well known that from time to time he went to France. He kept in touch with developments at the Headquarters of the RFC. He was always conferring with 'Boom' Trenchard. My boss believed deeply in the vital importance of our efforts; not just for England, but for aviators everywhere, even after the war. He was a real live wire.

"They don't understand how fast pilots burn out," I told him. "Flying at twenty thousand feet, means working at a temperature of about minus thirty, minus fifty."

He grabbed his pad and pencil.

"Your hands and feet go first, then the back and the chest, then finally the abdomen and legs," as I watched him write it all down! "I remember one occasion, when I felt the cold through five pairs of gloves. Warming up involves quite a painful process. Everyone agrees with it. But do they understand it? It exhausts a man. Shaking and shivering. It just wears you out."

People who have never been there, they just don't get it.

"We lose pilots due to exhaustion as much as any other cause, " I explained. "Even in training."

Like it or not, Smith-Barry was the man. Everybody wanted him, and it was crucial that he succeed. That's a lot of pressure. And all of his personal knowledge was out of date as well! A kind of revelation.

"Anything I can do to help?" I asked.

He waved an arm at the pile of papers in the car.

"Read on, MacDuff."

It's all part of the job.

"Oh!" I had almost forgotten, just a silly little idea that had been running round in the back of my mind for a few days. "I'm sorry."

"What is it, Will?" he asked with a grin. "Piles acting up again?"

"No! No! It's just an idea, a little hard to put into words," I began rather hesitantly.

This was a good, or at least semi-original idea.

"We need to shoot down some of the enemy aces," I explained. "Knock some of their top scorers out of the sky, thus proving our; or, excuse me, your methods."

"Go on," Smith-Barry murmured in his cultured voice, with his eyes downcast; and I felt somehow shabby, a kind of ruffian.

Taking a deep breath, I went on.

"I know it's not sporting, and of course it would have to remain, 'Top Secret,' but just think about the blow to enemy morale."

"Have you been working on this? Could you put it in writing?" he asked casually.

"I'm not illiterate, sir," I quipped, drawing a quick glance and a grin from Bob.

"What sort of resources you might need, how many pilots? I suppose that's easy. Easy enough to say," he corrected. "I can't promise anything, anything at all..."

"I figure maybe a couple of squadrons," I started off, thoughtfully, but picking up speed as my things clarified. "A license to roam along the front, good intelligence of the whereabouts of various units, et cetera."

"Anything else?" he asked casually. "As if that weren't enough?"

He had a quizzical grin on his face, and I guess I didn't think my idea would go too far. If he even remembered it.

"I need at least a dozen Camels, a dozen SE's, and a dozen two-seaters would be nice."

I outlined my ideas.

"Think about it, Bob! Real two-seaters, doing real missions, escorted by nice, competent pilots with good training," I told him as he stared into my eyes.

Presumably in disbelief.

"And I need to train the SE pilots how to kill Camels; and I want to train Camel jockeys how to kill SE's. And train them all how to kill each other. Only then take to the air over the Western Front," I noted somewhat superfluously.

"Bear in mind that I might not be the man to lead it," I added. "I have a few ideas on the training and tactics."

"And if it was all nice and secret?" Robert asked.

"We could nail the Red Baron, or Kaiser Willy if you want. We could nail Jesus H.

Christ Himself, if He came down with all the angels of heaven."

The boss reddened a mite at that. Let him stew on it a while.

How about a drink, I thought in silent prayer.

"Have a drink, old top," he said carelessly, eyes glazed over with something in his head, and I reached for the little cooler box between the rear seat and the jump seats.

Obviously, the idea intrigued him. Little did I know what a juggernaut had just been set in motion. Grateful to see a cold bottle of wine, as I had been working very hard myself in the previous months. Ever since my crash, rehabilitation and return to duty.

"You do realize that heroes are officially discouraged," he muttered. "When you say 'Top Secret,' I don't think you quite realize what that may imply."

Oh, I think I do.

But I left it unsaid. Some things are better that way. It would require a very special group of people. The kind of men who could live away from the limelight, and stick to it like glue. Professionals.

The lights of yet another wet village swung by as the vehicle slowed over the cobbles. Our chauffeur was silent. Presumably a trusted friend, for the man across from me didn't appear to care if we were overheard.

"If...when this war ends," he began, in an almost dream-like tone. "The world must change. It can't stay the way it is."

I never discuss politics with my employers.

Experience has taught me.

"Yes, sir," I said politely, watching the world of darkness speed by as we made our way through the night.

"Of course, we have to win first," he added with a significant look.

Now, what the fuck does that mean?

Chapter Ten

The Savoy Hotel

The big car dropped me off at the Savoy, but only after Smith-Barry pressed a card into my hand. He gave me a whole pile of papers in file folders as well.

"It's pretty obvious that you need your leave," he apologized. "But. Call me in a couple of days. And try to write that up, if you get the chance. Maybe you could come up to a friend's house for the weekend?"

I quickly forgot about it, as I checked into a room with some gratitude. This town was full up; with officers from a dozen nations. All the government ministries were going full blast. Salesmen, promoters, royalty from all over Europe came and went. Every place you went, even for a cup of coffee or a sandwich, there was a queue. Every race, creed, colour, nationality, language, and uniform in the Empire and a hundred other countries were represented.

My room was very expensive.

It was a nice room, actually a suite. Very nice. Like Caruso's boiler room, I mused.

Or the Kaiser's field latrine. All baroque, or rococo, or something like that.

Resolving to move to a more affordable, commercial hotel as soon as possible, I dropped into the bath. It wasn't so much a matter of money. Rapid promotion gave me a growing bank account. My needs were simple. A bed, a roof, a job, food, and you, my love.

"Oh! Golly," I groaned. "Where is she now?"

Sad, sad Will Tucker. As some of the aches and pains began to ooze away, all except the one in my knee which was on fire; the words rolled over and over in my head.

'Not sporting,' and, 'Top Secret.'

And then I thought, 'why not?'

The idea appealed to something deep within.

Why not just fucking do it? If Smith-Barry was just kidding around, I'd call his bluff!

I started off by writing a few notes, gathering my thoughts.

***

So far, the Germans have tended to rely on defending their own airspace, making us come to them. They know we have to dodge 'Archie,' our own as well as theirs. They know we have to fight that western wind, simply in order to get home again. And the Germans, who are not cowards, have the option of joining combat when the terms are most to their liking.

Richtofen, Von Krumholtz, and others were known to hover far above the battlefield. Some said as much as twenty-five thousand feet. I had my doubts about that. However we couldn't overlook the possibility of a one-off, high-performance machine, or even the use of oxygen. How would one go about enticing someone like Richtofen, who was a scion of the lesser Prussian nobility? How could we get him to come down out of his high perch? His technique was similar to the way my uncle and I hunted deer in the woodlots along the Tenth Line, in Enniskillen Township.

But deer don't try to get the hunter to come down out of the tree.

As a boy, what was he like? Where did he learn? I would need to make up a 'watch list' of names, and get it to someone in military intelligence. I would need complete dossiers on all the major identifiable German aces, with the names and numbers of their 'Jastas,' along with descriptions of their planes.

It all seemed a bit far-fetched.

The British had a unique outlook, the product of a public school education, and the class system. This was geared to outdoor sport and physical fitness as much as the study of the classics. While Greek and Latin literature may have some bearing on life, they're not much preparation for war. Quite frankly much of it is overrated.

Perhaps it was useful in order to awe and to govern underlings, but not to fight against true professionals.

Maybe that's why they needed me.

'High performance aircraft,' that idea would bear some investigation. I know at least one pilot on our side who milled down the cylinder heads on his rotary-engine scout, gaining the ability to climb, 'a couple of thousand feet higher than the rest of the squadron.'

Height is always an advantage.

Formation flying is a definite skill and a useful asset in combat tactics. But, as soon as combat is joined, the formation becomes unwieldy and unmanageable. There is no communication, occasionally, not even identification. Once after returning from a mission in two-seaters; my flight leader gave me proper shit for not joining up at his impatient signal.

"But I was right there beside you all the time!" I spluttered. "On the left with fuckin' Dingbat and Wedge."

"Um, um, um...who in the hell was that out there on the right, then?"

My flight leader was furious at being contradicted—and wrong.

"For all I know, it was Von fucking Klausewitz himself."

I laughed in his face.

My new orders had arrived. Screw him.

The point is, the tactics would have to be simple, well-practiced and relevant. For our purposes, the aircraft would be painted in normal markings and paint jobs. The men themselves might not even know what the mission was. Then, if they were captured, they couldn't give the game away. They didn't need to know. It would be my job to shove them around on the battlefield. Like a big game of chess.

Even if we never did get a shot at the Baron, we could learn a lot about the art of aerial combat. Climbing up and out of the bath, drying myself carefully, I checked my scars. The angry red sockets would never look pretty. Bathing by the seaside would take moral courage, but no more than the courage of, 'the faceless ones,' the thousands of nameless, wounded infantrymen who haunted the street corners in every part of France.

Germany must have her share of 'faceless ones.'

No more courage than they would need, either. The courage to face the peace.

This scheme would give the brass a chance to evaluate Smith-Barry's methods, with a whole wing of pilots trained in a consistent fashion to newer, higher standards. Instinct told me; at the very least, their survival rate would be better. Fewer aircraft would be lost in senseless accidents, and who knows what kind of combat record they might achieve.

That would largely be a matter of opportunities presenting themselves.

And I make my own luck.

There could be a lot riding on the outcome. Maybe the boss wasn't quite so casual as he pretended to be. Bob wasn't exactly stupid. With a sigh, for it was after two a.m., I reached for the stack of files.

***

'It seems strange that Major S. A. Wilcox reported the enemy fighters he fought on 28/09/17 as Albatros D-IV's. According to confidential sources at M.I., (military intelligence,) the D-IV is an experimental variant.'

Powered by a 160-h.p. Mercedes power-plant; equipped with a spur gear allowing a propeller airscrew of larger diameter and therefore greater efficiency, according to the report.

'The rear fuselage and rudder are rounded. The machine was built by OeFFAG; the Oesterreichische Flugzeugfabrik A.G. Otherwise; the aircraft mentioned in the report are probably improved D-III's with modified fuselages...'

A lot of intelligence work is much ado about nothing, but they must glean a kernel out of all the chaff from time to time. Otherwise why do it?. High altitude version, eh? Might be something in that. Why did old Smith-Barry have all this stuff in his briefcase?

I fell asleep at some point, sitting in my armchair, with an ashtray heaped up beside me.

Tomorrow would be another day, and an eventful one at that.

Proposal for Air Fighting Development Flight

Air Ministry; Whitehall.

Flight-Lieutenant William S.F. Tucker R.F.C.

Savoy Hotel, London; October 23, 1917.

We have absorbed valuable lessons from the French experience at Verdun.

Having had time to absorb this data, now it is time to do something about it.

Visual observation and aerial photography are vital in the gathering of fresh military intelligence. It is an absolute necessity to have a unified overall direction and proper co-ordination of fighter units when engaged in offensive operations. We have identified a need for units that are more adaptable to changing situations and capable of performing a variety of missions.

Numerical superiority during any offensive is critical. Fighters have to be employed in formation, on continuous patrols over enemy lines. This is a costly policy, because the Germans wait over their own territory. Two out of every three casualties due to ground fire are Allied pilots. The Huns don't need to cross the lines to shoot down our planes. We go to them, flying both ways through the anti-aircraft belt. In the early years of this conflict, the haphazard application of air power resulted in conditions where a few noted individuals could rack up a big score. The vast bulk of new pilots were shot down within five or ten flight hours of reaching the front.

It is extremely difficult to avoid surprise in the air. Yet no one ever predicted this.

The Brass thought men were being shot down because they were cowards—and so the 'offensive policy.' If you weren't constantly attacking, you were a 'coward.' No one expects a private, without supply and support, to constantly attack the enemy lines.

Might as well be hung for a wolf as a sheep.

The training of our pilots doesn't prepare them to take on professionally-handled enemy machines, and many get themselves killed for no purpose.

Buddha says, 'Don't be stupid,' and, 'Do nothing without purpose.'

Our entire rationale for the offensive stance is to permit freedom of action to our artillery-spotting, reconnaissance and other ground support aircraft, and to deny such freedom to the enemy.

One machine working with a partner has a better chance of a decisive outcome.

Working in pairs, with proper, 'combat separation,' they exemplify mutual support and co-ordination. Simply put, one man in a Pup may be no match for one man in a Fokker. But two men in Pups can take on three or four enemy planes with proper tactics and co-ordination. At the very least they provide a second pair of eyes to scan the vulnerable blind spots behind and underneath your partner's machine. The avoidance of surprise is a distinct combat advantage. It enables the pilots to break away and not engage if the enemy is vastly superior. Four, or five, or even six planes cannot be maneuvered by one flight leader effectively. Individual pilots must have more initiative. They also need to know what their partner is going to do. This requires training.

Incidentally, by doubling up our planes, we force the enemy to do the same; but most of them are already doing it.

Imagine two scouts, British, flying at 10,000 feet. They are directly beside each other, and separated by a hundred yards. You are in the left hand machine. Look over to the right. You can see your number two, and without craning your neck away back, you can see his 'cone of blindness,' behind the tail, and under the rear fuselage.

If you see a threat, don't even signal to your buddy. Just turn into it. There's plenty of room, and he can see instantly what you're doing. You can blast an enemy off his tail before he even has time to know it's there. Pilots shouldn't even have to think about this.

It must become second nature.

Four aircraft flying in pairs are more than a match for any badly-handled group of five or six. Especially if you can see them coming. This is where, 'Boelcke's Dicta,' or our own, 'Notes on Air Fighting,' simply cannot tell the whole story.

The fact is that experience, all alone and of itself; is a huge advantage. What is the problem with our pilots at present? Lack of operational experience when they arrive at the front. Generally, the operational side of training happens at Squadron level or even Flight level. Senior staff at the Front really don't have time for this.

Some don't even have the necessary knowledge, in regards to squadron or flight leaders. The blind are leading the blind when it comes to training pilots. Seventy hours of total air time are not enough.

'Notes on Air Fighting,' helpful as they may be, need to be verified, modified, and taught. Practice makes perfect. You can't learn to fly from a book. You have to strap your ass to a plane. You can't learn air combat from a book either.

You need to practice in a safe environment.

Leadership is always hard to find. In war it is even more difficult. The demand is high, the supply is small. Attrition is high. Training takes too much time to waste it on dead men. We cannot replace all unimaginative CO's; and the new ones we churn out have little aerial combat experience. With all due respect to some brave and well-meaning men, maneuvering a five or six-plane flight in the horizontal plane is no substitute for proper combat tactics.

Our men need to know what to expect when they go into combat, as well as what is expected of them. We must give them the tools to succeed.

Another problem is that the pilots who come out of our new scheme are posted alone, or in very small batches to the squadrons at the front. Once there, they are subject to the CO's assessment of their abilities; not to mention the fact that he may be using old tactical formations. What chance does the 'cherry' have to put his new-found knowledge to work? To show the CO what is actually possible? When like-minded individuals, with a common book of maneuvers and tactical situations, fight as a team?

My preference would be to institute well-trained squadrons as a group, familiar with each other, using a common tactical doctrine, from day one.

Only experiment can discover if the theories are valid. Consider a two-seater, alone, aware of an enemy on his tail. Our two-seater pilots are not trained in dog-fighting. They turn tail and dive for the ground. 'Experience,' has taught them that the enemy can't get below them and out of the defensive fire of the observer's gun. Enemy pilots often break off attacks under these conditions because they refuse to risk ground fire, or to engage with an enemy who hasn't been taken by surprise.

Many of the newer two-seaters have a gun in the nose. The pilots don't know how to maneuver the aircraft to best advantage, using both guns to defend or engage, in spite of a few noted individuals with a good record of success. Some of these individuals learned to attack. This proves it can be done, with the knowledge, training and confidence of an experienced pilot at the controls, and with an observer trained to work with him as a team.

Then they wouldn't have to dive into the ground fire, especially if they were working with another aircraft.

Statistics aren't unavailable; but four out of five combat kills probably never saw their assailant coming. The first thing they knew was that they were already under attack and damaged or injured. To escape a properly-executed surprise attack is something of a miracle.

Aerial combat isn't about 'jousting in the air.' It's about killing enemy aircraft.

If that doesn't strike one as very sportsmanlike, tell that to von Richtofen, who hovers in the sun waiting to strike at the first crippled aircraft to leave a 'dogfight.'

The Junkers class prefers driven game to a real hunt; where the quarry is aware of the situation, and can shoot back. Most pilots know that a Pup or a Camel can out-turn an enemy aircraft of a given type. Many know that at a given altitude, they may lose this advantage. If it were possible to work out tactics using dissimilar aircraft, under both ideal conditions and non-ideal; new chapters in the book of air-fighting may yet be written.

Three squadrons, one of Bristol Fighters, one of Camels and one of SE-5a fighters would be the minimum suitable to carry out the program I propose to work out in conjunction with Air Ministry requirements and other authorities as directed or as the need is identified, or as I deem fit.

The Flight would be based where logistical support can be established, where it does not conflict with existing operations, and contributes to Home Defense. It needs to be where security concerns are minimized, and where noise and nuisance complaints by civil authorities won't become a problem. A remote area far from the city and the supervision of deskbound warriors is desirable. Due to the rather experimental nature of our work, security concerns are addressed by the remoteness and the small size of the working group.

Norfolk, perhaps 'the Broads' area, might be suitable due to the nature of the terrain, and its proximity to Gotha and Zeppelin routes. This presents a credible excuse to train at high altitudes and at night.

With the sparse population, and lots of lakes and swamps for air-to-ground gunnery practice, the Broads would be ideal. Other than a major offensive build-up, there really is no way to entice the enemy forces to fly over our lines, other than occasional strategic reconnaissance, night bombing, or nuisance raids.

On the ground we have no choice but to attack. In the air it is the same.

There is no trench fighting in the air, no tunnels, no submarines.

While legendary battles in the air may have taken thirty minutes, the truth is most last just a few seconds. It is vital to use those seconds wisely.

We've all heard the expression, 'he who hesitates is lost.' My students will be trained in every conceivable combat scenario; and know exactly what to do.

My men will not hesitate. My men will not be lost.

Our men must be trained to, 'see him, kill him, and get the fuck out,' and everything else is just nonsense. But in the light of our decision to take the battle to the enemy, for we surely have no choice if we expect to win, then we have to be able to conduct our forces to minimize our own losses while 'improving' the enemy loss-ratio.

The sad fact is, right now half our casualties are from accidents, many in training. It is a sad fact, but more than half of all fliers lost in combat go down due to being, 'Archied.' This is no excuse for inadequate combat training. The survivors still need it. We need to train our pilots how to fight back, without having to dive into the ground fire.

Personally, I would love to meet Voss, Immelman or Von Krumholtz in person, face to face, man to man. Because when you don't see him coming you're dead. And it's better than being blown to kingdom come by 'Archie.'

It's not all that easy to shoot a man down. The successful ones like Guynemer, Mannock, Bishop, Ball, Boelcke, they made a science, a study of it. They relied on speed, surprise, and a knowledge of the other man's weaknesses. They looked for blind spots.

If we plan to overwhelm the enemy with superior numbers and an offensive policy, it's time to put a little thought into how that overwhelming force may be used to best advantage.

***

With a borrowed typewriter from the hotel, it was all written up when he called on me two days later.

It may have been a bit long-winded, but it was all I had.

"Good work. I thought you might have forgotten," he murmured.

Smith-Barry looked pretty down, and I reflected how sad he was lately. He missed her, I could tell. It would have sounded stupid to say, 'I understand,' for of course no one really does. His recently-departed wife clouded his mood from time to time.

"Nice. Short, sweet and to the point," he said. "Most of us are afraid to criticize our superiors."

"Many men hope to have a post-war career, whereas I'll probably go back to Canada," I concluded.

"Ah, yes," he acknowledged. "That's always a consideration, bureaucracies being what they are."

The boss relaxed in his high-backed wing chair and signaled for another round of drinks.

"I hope you're enjoying your leave," he said.

"It's all right," I said.

The strong, silent type. The man of action.

We sat in the quiet, leather-bound world of his exclusive club, where the split-tailed coats of the waiters were bottle-green. Thick rugs, polished oak paneling, ceiling framed in ornate coves and with rosettes around the chandeliers. Creamy rugs, indigo curtains. Tasteful, subdued. The boss read. I sat very quietly, and counted his page-turns so as to know how far along he was.

"In the early days, we were often sent out without the benefit of any intelligence reports. Authorities did not co-operate in any way. Such reports as did reach us were weeks out of date, and were not intelligently used..." he was quoting me to me.

He looked up.

"Wow. Not pulling any punches, eh, Will?"

He went back to reading silently while I just sat there savouring the whiskey, and taking in the atmosphere of this famous, and very high-class club. A long way from Enniskillen Township, and a hundred-forty acre dirt farm.

"I like the way you have it written. It's non-controversial," his eyes flicked over.

"Trying to keep personalities out if it. I'm not pointing the finger or assigning blame, but if this idea is valid, then the people you present it to must be made aware that the way things were done in the past is simply unacceptable," I explained, in a rather long speech for me.

"Well, they'll remember this. This is good. Hit the buggers, excuse me, right where they live."

He went on.

"Early reconnaissance reports by RFC observers were invariably disbelieved by Military Intelligence staff at Headquarters. It is a historical fact that Von Kluck refused to accept reports from his own aerial observers, who reported that a gap existed between the British and French armies. If he had believed and acted upon this information, then surely he must have crossed the Marne and Paris would have fallen."

"By the way, that other matter may never come up."

He looked up.

"And we shouldn't lose sight of the benefits," I advised.

I had my hands relaxed in my lap. None of this Gallic gesturing in a quiet English club atmosphere. Sometimes you just have to concentrate on being totally relaxed. The end result of all this was still uncertain.

"I mean Manfred," I noted.

There was a pause.

"This will be presented through the proper channels," he began. "But I have some pull in other, shall we say, corridors."

"Hell! It's just an idea," I replied. "You wanted it, you got it. Write someone else's name on it!"

He smirked at that remark.

"I doubt if we'll get three squadrons. Actually, the rest of it shouldn't be too big of a problem."

From a purely technical point of view, Bob had a few squadrons already under his command.

"The military intelligence aspect may be a toughie," I responded, thinking aloud.

"You know what pisses me off?"

I bit back further expletives, but got no stern looks from the other denizens of the place. I had to remember, I was back in the real world.

"No, Will. What pisses you off?" Smith-Barry looked askance. "Is your whiskey too light?"

He reached for the decanter, and I let him. He was looking a trifle jug-eared. Perhaps he wasn't a drinker. I find you have to be attuned to it.

The kind of guy who wouldn't say shit if he had a mouthful, like my Uncle Ed.

Obviously, he was under some form of stress at the time.

"Think of Von Krumholtz, or Crown Prince Friedrich, or some other dickhead, the way they call themselves sportsmen," I told him. "You know the way they hunt?"

"No. Not really," he admitted. "Go on."

"They stand up on a big ledge, on a cliff. Off in the distance they can hear gun shots.

That's the beaters. Then, when they see an aurochs, that's like a big pre-historic ox; when it walks into the clearing below them...they take a high-powered, big-bore weapon with a telescopic sight, and they blow it away. From about thirty yards."

"And you want...?"

"Give me three squadrons," I suggested. "And a couple of hundred thousand pounds, and about three dozen pilots."

Spare engines, mechanics, motor transport, a ship...a train.

"I'll see what I can do," he said, looking all introspective.

The conversation trailed off after that.

Chapter Eleven

The Broads

I got 'The Broads,' off of a map. It looked good, for my purposes; and it wasn't too far away from...but I bet you can guess. Yes, that's right, I found out from my own private, 'military intelligence,' where Melissa was born. Her parents still lived there, and I was figuring on seeing her by accident. If I could arrange one. (It turns out they lived in Norwich, having let out the family home! My mistake.)

Also, by reading the papers, (I always read the papers,) I saw an item in a society column, where they said this certain young lady, known for her charity work, was being promoted back to the Home Front, 'Old Blighty,' in order to, 'better serve the needs of the brave servicemen.'

I loved her so much, her incompetence really didn't enter into the picture.

Simply awesome.

Melissa Foreman. Her dad was some big shot in the Army. She was back in England, possibly even in London at this very moment. Food for thought.

As I took my leave of my friend and employer, who was again looking somber, I reflected that loss is loss. I knew what it was to be alone. My hope, forlorn as it was, was something Robert didn't have anymore. His wife was dead. She was going to stay dead.

And Melissa was engaged, presumably in love, with another man. I felt pretty somber myself for some reason. Is there any hope? Or am I just going through the motions, to shut out the void, the emptiness?

When she is in my thoughts, I am not alone.

Why do we think the thoughts we do?

As an instructor, my leave didn't coincide with any great gathering of men such as often happens when a class graduates, or a unit embarks; or returns from a theatre of war. Brilliant statement. I learned that part of my job standing on the pavement in front of the club. It was eleven a.m. in London. I didn't know a God-damned soul in this town.

"This is going to be great..."

I could go to the War Office. Who knows, there would probably be someone there I know. I could just drop in to say, 'hello.'

Not much joy there. Awkward silence, then the over-friendly, 'Will! Long time, no see!'

A hurried effort to clear the desk and put something together for the long-lost old acquaintance. Dinner, a drink or a show. Or worse. Depending on whoever I might run into; a major pub crawl, or a night in Southwark. Only to wake up bruised and robbed in some alleyway. With a disease, some nameless discharge from the genitals.

"No thanks," I muttered, quickly ruling that one out.

"Any suggestions?" I said to a taxi driver who was sitting there watching.

"Hop in, mate, we'll talk about it."

He got out to hold the door for me. Just walking by was a young beauty, and I admired her for a moment.

"How about the library?" I asked. "I just thought of something I might want to look up."

"Gee!" he grinned. "My son's in the infantry, in Flanders. He's in the Observer Corps."

"Brave lads, the Observer Corps," I assured him.

"Right-oh, sir," he grinned. "As good a place as any, even though it is a sunny day for a change."

"What is?" I asked in confusion.

"The library, sir!" he retorted.

"Right-oh! Any port in a storm," I agreed.

Chapter Twelve

They Call Me Willy Tucker

They call me, 'Willy Tucker,' not, 'Silly Fucker,' and I had a good reason to go to the library. They had all the papers going back for years, and it might be a good time to do some research. There were two major areas I needed to know more about; one of which was engines.

I also remembered hearing the name, 'Foreman,' before, and wanted to re-read the story.

That was one big library. I stood momentarily, looking up at the majestic building. I've been shot at by Huns, bombarded by cannon fire. I should be able to chat someone up and get a few things. No reason to be nervous, but I wasn't quite used to being back in civilization. First the hospital, then rehabilitation, and then down in Gosport. I was healthy again. It was a long time coming.

I sat in one of the reading areas and searched out certain items.

The first story was in a back number of 'The Times,' entitled, 'About My Stories.'

It turns out General Charles Foreman was a writer of adventure for boys of a certain age. In the article it listed a few of his stories: 'The Mystery of Lone Jim,' and 'The Lost Citadel,' and, unbelievably, 'The Wizard Prince.'

Holy smokes, was that him?

I remembered that story. That was a good story. I read it on Salisbury plain, in a tent, with an oil lamp, in the rain. God, did it fucking rain!

The man's own words tell all.

'It was in the garden of my cottage, where the editor of the Boy's Own Paper and I came up with the idea of, 'Treasure of the Lost Temple,' for that is the title of give our new serial. I shall be really disappointed if you don't like the story.'

He went on.

'You see, the work and responsibilities I have take up a good deal of my energies and time. As the Commandant of a Detention Barrack, I have had something like 20,000 men through my hands. These are military offenders of all kinds who were tried by courts-martial, some of the real criminal class, the low-down house-breaking type, but the majority of them the best chaps in the world, who basically just made fools of themselves by overstaying their leave or blacking the eyes of certain objectionable corporals. And it was my business to train these good fellows to be better soldiers and to get them drafted overseas.'

(Yikes! This is Melissa's dad!)

'But, at the same time, I need to keep in touch with my own work, or I should find myself up in the air when the war comes to an end. My first books for boys found a public. Earlier in the war, to keep the pot boiling you might say, were stories like 'U-293' and, 'The Mystery of Lone Jim.''

'My strenuous days must soon come to an end. I have but one wish in life. A cottage by the sea and a garden of my own, within sight of my boyhood home, Great Yarmouth.'

Foreman had a few other things to say, including details of a trip in the south seas.

'We came close to shipwreck. I was on board a small coasting vessel, inside the Great Barrier Reef, off the Cape York Peninsula. We ran into a three-day hurricane.'

Melissa's father had a personality, and the knowledge might be of some use. If I should happen to run into old Foreman, I will be sure my shoes are shined; my hair cut nice, and that in behind my ears is clean, and my uniform in good condition.

'Watch my mouth,' sort of thing.

Defer to the old bugger, and listen to his Kiplingesque notions of what was right. The man used two words, 'criminal class,' which told me all I needed to know about his attitudes and his upbringing.

The man would despise me on sight, if I wasn't careful.

This might be a good time to get out the old medals and polish them up, pin them on my tunic. First impressions can be lasting ones.

Essentially he was talking in a kind of code. What he meant was, 'working class.'

"All our boats were swept overboard. The chief engineer was hurled against his engines, his head split open by an ungrateful piston..."

He had a colourful way of speaking.

Foreman would be an interesting man to meet, even if his daughter wouldn't have anything to do with me.

That might seem like a strange attitude, but she was, after all, engaged to be married.

Betty, a library assistant, was right there at my elbow. She gave the distinct impression she would like to make a sandwich out of me. She was a nice enough person, don't get me wrong, but her huffing and puffing, sweaty sincerity put me off more than the fact that she was a big girl and always would be.

She was in fact, very nice, and all I wanted was information.

Have you ever put yourself in the mind of a person like that and wondered just how they see you? Does she think you're 'dreamy?' Does she want to be asked out?

What would happen if I did? I may be the one for her; in the same way that Melissa is 'The One' for me. That thought made me uncomfortable. A feeling of embarrassment, for some reason. Maybe I should try to be a little nicer, without actually encouraging her.

Was that how Melissa felt about me? Embarrassment? Pleasant thought.

"Just a couple more things, Betty."

I tried to smile, in spite of these depressing notions.

"Anything," she murmured, shiny eyes locked on mine.

Yeah, that's what scares me, lady. I don't want to just use you and throw you away like some other man probably would. Even though I was the loneliest man in the whole wide world right now.

Maybe the whores of Southwark wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

"I need to know about motors and engines, and while it's probably a big subject...is there one book that may be more helpful than others?" I asked.

"Come with me," she said, and I had little choice but to follow.

No puns intended, of course. What would old Foreman think of that one, eh?

Chapter Thirteen

High Performance Aircraft

Betty loaded me up with a dozen books on engines. She was sensible enough to ask a few relevant questions, no doubt in order to serve me better.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "What are you working on?"

"Um, er, high-performance aircraft," I admitted sheepishly.

This was supposed to be a top-secret operation, and here I was in the library.

"Maybe you should talk to someone who races aeroplanes, or automobiles, or even motorcycles," she suggested. "What's in the books may be only what someone is willing to tell you."

She thought for a moment.

"Speedboats?" she wondered.

Good girl. Smart girl. High-performance engines would be strategic information.

The auto builders were all in competition with each other. So were aircraft builders. This was one aspect of the problem I hadn't seriously thought through. This was probably one good reason for the existence of the Royal Aircraft Factory. It was a government establishment. Sharing information for the benefit of all. Should have put that in my little presentation. I've noticed that. One always thinks of one more thing, something truly brilliant; to add on just a little too late.

"Where would be a good place to go to talk to someone?" I asked her. "Brooklands?"

"Why don't we look in the telephone directory?" she suggested. "We could look up motor sales, engineers, mechanics, motor-cycle shops. It's just a matter of some creative thinking."

"Huh!"

"We'll soon knock up a list of names for you," she added.

She was right. There they were. All over the greater London metropolitan area.

"Here we go. Mr. Throckmorton. He has a little three-wheeler which did a very good test a few years ago. He holds an eighty-something mile per hour record at Brooklands," she reported. "I think it was a seven-hundred-fifty-cc engine."

"It's too bad they don't let women into the Corps," I said to the girl. "I have rarely met a man as sensible as you are."

"I know," she sighed. "I know," and then we were both laughing into each other's eyes.

***

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

When I said Betty was a 'big' girl, I don't mean to give the impression that she was a big, fat, sloppy thing. She was three sizes bigger than the classic, yet modernistic idea of what a woman should be, and she had strong-looking shoulders to boot.

Her face was maybe a little rounder, her hair a little shorter, her lips a little too full, her eyes a little too small. She had thick, wavy brown hair with a lot of curl to it. Nice pointy breasts, and nice legs. She wore a black dress, ending just above the ankle, and a white blouse, done up to the neck with a black ribbon tie.

She looked like a librarian, oddly enough.

When she asked me to go with her to the park for lunch, I did raise one objection. I hadn't brought anything to eat. She told me not to worry. She would show me where to get a sandwich, 'quite quickly,' as she kind of read my mind. I sometimes skipped a meal in London, rather than get in a lineup early and stand there for hours waiting for a seat. As a single man, alone, I was always sitting tucked onto the end of someone else's booth.

I threw the books into the case and went with her.

She led me to a sunny little spot. We sat and ate sandwiches and drank our coffees.

Then she had her way with me.

I can't honestly say how I let that happen. I was telling her about France, and mentioned someone's name. She knew the name. She'd met him. He was a friend of someone she knew, and when she told me their name, I knew of them. In fact, Jerry spoke of them often. It was a very small world, we concluded. She was laughing at the conclusion of my story. And upon throwing her head back, I couldn't help but notice she had very fine skin, very smooth looking, at her throat and under her chin, and it was just the way she looked at me.

It made me realize that while not the love of my life, whom I probably couldn't have anyway, Betty was a very attractive woman.

Just then she said, "Whatever happened to old Jerry?"

She waited, very still, intent on my face.

Jerry was the guy who figured so humorously in the tale.

"Oh, he got killed," I had to tell her. "He got shot down at Bapaume. The plane caught fire..."

The memory of that plane; Jerry and Albert; his observer, falling in flames into the cloud-tops just made me kind of lock up real tight inside.

It was the look on her face that did it. I wished I hadn't said that. She had a weird look on her face, with the shock of it. She must have missed the notice in, 'The Times,' but they never went into details either. She looked down and away. I had hurt her.

Something funny happened. A dam burst. Water began flowing from my eyes and it wouldn't stop. I couldn't speak. I couldn't see. All the sounds of the city around us just dropped away. I realized that I was making a scene, yet nothing mattered except the pain, and the grief. There was a pounding in my ears, and snot poured from my nose.

All my fallen comrades, all those young innocents. All those victims.

I fell forward, and if she hadn't been more alert and right on top of things, I probably would have smacked face-first into the dirt.

I beat myself about the head, gnashed my teeth, and growled like a bear. I howled in pain and anguish.

She held me tight.

"There, there," she said. "Shush, shush."

She stroked my hair, and my head, rocking me back and forth on the grass beside the bench. Incoherent words. My story, Jerry's story, gushed out of me like a torrent of guilt and shame and agony. She held me in her arms and I told her all about it.

"It's going to be all right," she said in a small voice. "It's all right."

She held me for twenty minutes or so; until I simmered down, and then she took me home. It took a while to get a grip on myself, after that one. She led me into her flat. She closed and locked the door. She told me to take off my shoes and I did. She made me sit on the couch. I sat there, numb. She was in the kitchen. A drawer opened, a door slammed. She brought me water. I blew my nose on my red bandana, something I habitually carried. She kicked off her shoes and took off her coat.

"I am so sorry," I said sheepishly. "I really don't know what came over me. I'm just tired out from all the stress and strain."

Body's all aching, wracked, and wracked with pain.

She began to undo her dress. She stood there, staring into my eyes with the strangest look. Her skirt fell to the ground. Then she stepped out of it, and I gaped. It suddenly started to sink in.

She shrugged out of her blouse.

She smelled like a woman, and she stepped forward.

"Let's get you undressed and into the bath," she instructed, and I didn't resist.

I was putty in her hands, at that point. She obviously realized it, for she turned away and went down a corridor, and soon there was water running in the distance.

Now was my chance, if I wanted to leave.

There, it has been said.

I did not leave.

She returned, and dropping to her knees in front of me, she removed my socks just as a mother would remove the socks of a child. No sexy lasciviousness, no eye-ball flirting, just a gentle, almost businesslike touch. A no-nonsense touch. She tossed them aside, stood up and told me to remove my jacket. I stood up to do so. Clumsily, I tried to grab onto her and hug her and kiss her on the lips.

She was so demure, yet totally in control of what happened next. Cleverly anticipating what was a pretty likely tactic, she pushed me back down on the couch. She was avoiding my eyes...ignoring eye contact in the most frustrating way.

I was agape at all this. She was in no mood for explanation.

"Belt," she ordered.

I undid it, pulled it out and handed it to her.

"Up," she said brightly, like a nurse to a patient.

I lifted my bum up and she pulled my pants off. Turning away, she expertly folded them and placed them neatly over the back of a convenient chair. She bent to pick up my socks. The view from where I was sitting was enough to take my breath away. It was more frightening than the first day I ever went up in the air. I had at least read a few books on aircraft and flying, but there are no really good books on women...at least I don't think so.

She wore black, lacy stockings and a garter belt, and panties with little flowers and an elasticized band. The fit wasn't too tight, but just right. She shrugged out of her bra, and reaching out, put it on my head like a double dunce hat. She wore little pearl earrings, and a bracelet, and perfume, and she was unbuttoning my shirt, so I quickly shrugged out of it. Her bra fell aside on the floor.

"You need to forget," she told me gently, in a low and slightly husky voice.

I stared at her tummy, her hips, her legs, her breasts, the whole package. I was no virgin, but up till now, my sexual maneuverings weren't...so explicit...so visible.

I was afraid to even touch her, if the reader can believe it.

Sneaking a peek at Mary-Ann Smedlowzitz through the gap in their bathroom curtains while she stood nude in front of the mirror, was nothing as compared to this. Any other sexual knowledge I might have had was about the same level of sophistication. Groping around with Sally, that one time in the back of the barn, on a hot summer's day, when I got her top off, things like that. And the first time, at a house in Exeter, where there was, 'a nice lady, very clean, and it only costs a pound....'

"Make sure you wear your prophylactic, and be back on base by ten...Anyone gets the dose, that man will be put on report! K.P duty for a week...Good luck, soldier!"

"Hey Stan, I'll go if you will..."

That kind of thing. Speaking purely objectively, I was about sixteen, and it was a fleeting sort of experience. More like a quick twenty push-ups and then off you go to the shower, lads.

"You need to rest, and have a bath, and let me take care of things," she crooned, then tenderly bending down, she kissed the socket-like, puckered-up scars on my legs.

She pulled my undershirt off over my head, and taking my hand, led me in to the bathroom.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," I thought.

Quickly and shyly pulling off my shorts, I stepped right smartly into the frothy water, which was quite hot, by the way. I sat down slowly and gently, feeling the heat seep into my lower back. My knee ached as usual. She picked up a sponge and began soaking me down. She washed me thoroughly all over, soaping in between my toes, behind my ears, doing my neck, and all.

Finally I dunked down into the water and held my breath; listening to the tinkling and gurgly watery sounds. I tried to think it all out while underwater, but wasn't having much luck. Sitting up again; she toweled my eyes and then washed my hair. The wall-paper had cheerful yellow roses on a sky-blue background. The memory is quite clear after all these years.

"There we go," she said. "All done."

She motioned to get up and I stepped out onto the little rug so she could dry me off. I was 'fully erect,' but we just ignored it as I stood there in anticipation. Then she gently pushed me out of the room.

"Haven't we got, um; a dressing gown or something?" I asked in trepidation.

Luckily the sun was beating in through the windows, but I still felt a little shiver of something.

She grabbed my hands, mischievously.

"Oh, no! No, no, no! No! No, no."

"I want to see everything," she added, and led me into the bedroom.

She put me on the bed, and I lay on top of the bedspread. Stark naked, with my thing standing up for all the world to see. She slowly took out the pins from her hair. Creeping onto the monstrous bed, on her hands and knees, I could not believe what she did next.

Something I had heard about, but never experienced.

She was performing what they call 'fellatio,' in Latin.

"Whoa! Stop!" I gasped.

I never believed this would happen to me, never.

Not in my wildest dreams.

"Slow down! What are you doing?" I said, holding onto her hair, her head, trying to push her back, but she just kept plunging up and down.

And I was about to get out of control.

Finally she came up for air, sensing that I was squirming around quite a bit.

"What's wrong with that?" she gasped with a glint of something wild and desperate in her eyes.

"Nothing!" I replied. "At least let me return the favour. There's something I've been meaning to try!"

She readily agreed; was soon happily ensconced on my face. Finally, after some time, she turned about. Gazing deeply into my eyes, she slowly impaled herself on me, as I stared; pretty wild-eyed by now I should think.

Stroking her breasts, milky white and oh, so soft, sucking her nipples, holding onto her bum as she slid up and down.

"See; that's all we need, a little tender loving care."

You need to forget.

"Love me, love me," she suddenly squealed, and then she was out of control, the sight of which drove me into the same near-frenzied state.

Finally she subsided, moaning; and I thrashed around a little more, then collapsed back on the bed. We lay in a pool of warm sweat, and clung to each other.

"Holy smokes," I said, and shuddered several more times.

Is that what sex is really like? All of the time?

If only I had known. No wonder people talk about it so much.

Chapter Fourteen

Winnie as a Virgin

Winston Churchill, former First Sea Lord of the Admiralty, once wrote, 'There is nothing more exhilarating than being shot at and missed.'

He was in the Boer War. He was a correspondent for the popular press.

"That must have been while he was still a virgin," according to Mick Dinwiddie, who I missed like hell sometimes.

We weren't exactly friends, but he was like a surrogate dad to so many guys on the squadron. You could ask him any question. Go to him with any problem. You could share your little triumphs and tragedies with him. Mick was sympathetic, hard on you, and sensible with the suggestions. Churchill's support of the disastrous Gallipoli campaign forced his resignation from the Admiralty. His service as a battalion commander had somewhat rehabilitated him in some eyes. But then, in 1917 he joined Lloyd George's coalition government. He held cabinet positions, being either Minister of Munitions, or Secretary for War. He was born into an aristocratic Victorian family, and in his lifetime witnessed Britain's transformation from Empire to welfare state. So I guess he did have it tough in some ways.

Mick was an absolutely fabulous guy on the ground. It was only when leading men in the air that he came up a little short. At the time, this was no uncommon failing.

I would have liked to talk to Mick right about then, about a lot of things. Mr. Churchill was wrong on several counts.

1.) Nothing beats a good piece of ass.

2.) Having been shot at, and missed; and having been shot at, and hit; I can tell you the latter is more exhilarating than the former. Mr. Churchill, when you were shot at, he wasn't a very good marksman. You missed out on all the fun.

3.) There is nothing more exhilarating than getting them in your sights and letting them live. They deserve all the suffering they can get in life. Death is too easy for some.

More about that later.

I thought I was a virtuous person, I thought I knew what that meant. I thought I'd been 'tempted,' more than once, but what are the lusty imaginings of a fourteen year-old boy?

He doesn't even know what he wants.

Now I knew that I was weak.

She left a note.

'I have to go to work this morning. Don't worry, I will give a plausible excuse for being absent yesterday afternoon! Back at six. Hugs and kisses, and by the way, if you go out, please leave an address; or a number, with the maid...sleep all day if you want to, lover.' — Betty

Well; I am on leave. It kind of scares me, but I was also desperate for any kind of a friend. I laid my head back on the pillow, uncertain as to what to do next. The clock was ticking on the bureau, in an otherwise very silent room. Then came a knock.

The maid brought some tea. I drank it down pretty quick, scalding hot as it was, and jumped out of bed. Time for a quickie bath and off to work. Whatever that means, when you're not on any real duty. That Betty, she's a really good woman, and I wouldn't want her to think I'm a no-good lazy bum.

I was going to seek out an old friend from early days. If anyone knew about motors, he should. He took me to the family home for a weekend leave once at Christmas. These things slip one's mind, in the intervening years.

The maid showed me to a room where the white telephone was kept. Nice touch.

I looked around idly as she pulled the directory out of a drawer.

This was an unbelievably nice, big, ornate apartment for a single girl who works at the library. This was intriguing, but I didn't have time. Maybe the flat belonged to a friend.

But who?

Briefly considered asking the maid. As if sensing this; she wouldn't make eye contact.

The maid excused herself politely in a neutral tone, and disappeared into a back hallway. The room was set up as a rather ornate office or den, and the phone sat there on a bloody huge walnut desk. That cost a thousand pounds; if I am not mistaken.

"Uh, oh...I think I'm in deep trouble. Deep trouble."

It made getting out of there so much more attractive, though.

Leafing through the book, I found a number. In my experience it really doesn't matter if you get the right one on the first try. People are naturally helpful. They don't like to admit that there is something they don't know. Challenge them, but nicely. Act a little stupid on the phone. I find this helps, sometimes. Stupid but nice, this is the key to success on the phone. I speak very slowly, and let them finish my sentences, especially when I don't actually know the end of the sentence.

"I'm looking for a person, in the Naval Department...uh..."

And the impatient person on the end of the line says, "Bill Jones?"

And I say, "No, no, it's someone in maps, and surveys...ah..."

"Scabby Solomon? Jerry Jackman? Dick Peckerhead? Et cetera, and so forth?"

I got a whole list of contacts by this method, and I could now call back and ask for them by name and department. Just like an 'old buddy.'

Because I like people.

If they can't answer your question, always ask if they can suggest someone else.

You would be surprised how often this gets results. Happy to pass the buck.

'That's not my department,' never take that for an answer; (it is in fact the answer you want.)

Get them to tell you whose department it is...

Especially when calling Whitehall. Big building, but it's a small community. Even if they hate each other; they know who's who and who's busy doing what. They're all empire builders of one sort or another, and therefore must know each other's business, in order to poach-and-sabotage successfully.

You could say they gossip. I would have to be careful.

It didn't take long to get through to my buddy.

Lenny 'Crash' Zavitz was an old friend, a former auto mechanic—and a clerk at Whitehall. We would meet for lunch. And so I left the apartment to fill up an otherwise empty day. It was hours until she would be back.

What an interesting thought.

At least now I know what temptation really is. And some other funny feelings as well.

***

I forgot all about the mime incident. It happened so long ago. We were on leave in Paris, and we got drunk while touring a few of the seedier dives. Finally we'd had enough of roaring sing-songs, drunken faces and noise, noise, noise. Our legs were so wobbly that we kept falling down and knocking people over. At some point we realized, rather remorsefully, that it was a bad idea.

We stood on a cold and rainy street corner, Jimmy Slade and I, Lenny and Whitey. All of a sudden a cab arrived near us, about fifty feet away on the other side of the street.

"A mime, a bloody great poufter of a mime," in Zavitz's words, gets out.

We looked at him, he looked at us. And all of a sudden he goes into this little act, and he was bad. I mean, he was really bad. It wasn't that late, maybe nine-thirty. We just stood there looking at him. No one even laughed, and he got a little pouty.

You know the kind of stuff. Climbing a ladder, walking into the wind, being inside of a glass box. No one even cracked a smile. He made a rude gesture and began to turn.

I didn't like that little cocksucker's attitude.

I pulled out Whitey's pistol, a big, black .45 calibre Colt. I took it away earlier, when he was very drunk and I was still mature and responsible, i.e. only slightly inebriated. It was a problem throughout the evening, and I was starting to resent the damned thing, heavy and cold, rubbing me raw at the waistband. If I got caught with it against orders, I would have been in a whole heap of trouble.

That was why I took it away from Whitey in the first place. It literally fell out of his coat onto the floor of a bootlegger's house. The man's elderly mom and pop didn't say a thing, not a thing, and I felt rather badly for them. It was Sunday, after all.

Not their fault if their son's a stinker! So I scooped it up and kept it.

They had a look of appreciation when they saw that. At least that's my interpretation.

Anyway, they were glad to see us go. There were bullets in it and everything. The fool paid ten dollars in some dive for a 'souvenir.' The seller probably needed drinking money.

Like an idiot, I drew the gun and popped off a couple of rounds at the street sign directly above the little bastard's head. (The mime, not Whitey.) The sign came down, narrowly missing the mime's noggin. Brick-chips flew out of the wall, and I popped off a couple more before Dick Whitehead and Lenny pulled my arm down and wrestled the gun from me. I was yelling like a stuck pig.

"Gonna kill him! Wanna kill him! Gimme my whiskey!"

This was a pet phrase we had at the time, peculiar to our own small group of lads.

Not that relevant, but it shows the kind of evening we were having.

Lenny dropped it, all fumble-fingered; and I grabbed it again.

"Tee! Hee! Hee!" I giggled, lining up the sights on the mime's buttocks as he ran.

The two of them were literally hanging off my arm, which ached considerably the next day. Finally Whitey got it away. The mime scampered off, up the stairs into this big building, where windows were opening, curtains were being pulled back, and all of a sudden the gun went off again.

The bullet went spanking off into space as it ricocheted from the pavement. I got the gun again and fired the last round at the building the mime went into. Even drunk as a skunk, ever the professional. Always counting my shots.

"Whitey! What the fuck you doing?" I asked reproachfully.

Finally the guys were dragging me away. We could hear whistles in the distance, a lot of them. I don't know what curiously-silent kind of conversation they might have had, and of course the French are known for their facility in gesturing, but right about then, all the mimes in the world came boiling out the door in one mad pack and came racing after us. I guess mimes can count gunshots too! So they're not deaf or anything. All hell was about to break loose when somebody we knew pulled up in a fire truck, 'borrowed,' from some Royal Army types somewhere.

"...'op in, you crazy blighters," a voice called from the door.

We were lucky not to get lynched. We were lucky to get away with that little episode.

The gendarmes never close the book on a case like that. I'm still wanted somewhere for that little incident.

"I'll never forget the look on his face when you opened up on him," laughed Zavitz.

"I just wanted to see if he could talk, or if he really was a deaf mute," he laughed again. "That's what you said."

I smiled in fond memory. This is why I prefer not to look up old acquaintances. Thank God for them; but sometimes the conversation runs a little thin.

I'm not too good at making small talk.

Ordering yet another round of stiff drinks, he apologized for, 'only having a couple.'

"You see, I'm on the wagon now. I'm only drinking to cele-, celebrate an old friend's g-good luck," he told me.

Fuck. The bugger's turned into a real lush, and he's just used me as an excuse to go off the wagon. Melanie, that's his wife, is going to hate me. He probably won't stop now, not until he's run out of cash and credit.

Fuck. Is it any wonder I felt like such a jerk sometimes? But he seemed so glad to see me. Maybe he doesn't have any friends left. I gently tried to steer him back to the main topic, but he insisted on telling me about his dreams.

He dreams all the time, and he can never get a good night's sleep. He sees dead friends, face down in the mud. He can't see their faces; but he knows they're friends. They're drowning, but he has no arms and can't help them. There is always a cloud of gas in his dream, rolling forever towards him and the wounded. Now there are hundreds of them.

Wounded men everywhere.

Lenny and I were together, that day.

He remembers it that way. It is curiously blank, for me, although I believe he was. He was in my platoon. It was blank back then and pretty much now as well.

Only the major facts stand out with any clarity.

All the little details are gone.

He wants to die, but can't.

That is the cowardly way out.

"Have 'nuther drink?" he mumbled in sadness.

"I have to get on my way. I want to buy a motor, some sporty little rig just to get me around. Something that doesn't cost too much to run," I explained fairly clearly.

"Got you some names and numbers," he replied in a fuzzy tone.

"Not too many for sale," he added more lucidly.

There's a war on. I know.

I helped him to a cab, told him to go home.

"Have Melanie call the office and say you're sick," I told him firmly, and when he asked for a number where he could reach me, I had to lie.

"It's all up in the air for me right now," I explained.

"Keep in touch, once in a while, Will," he said in sadness as I wrung his hand for the final time.

Then the cabbie took him away. Poor Zavitz. One of the walking wounded; and there seemed to be many of them.

Zavitz. His sacrifice was made. He would pay a price. No one would ever understand.

Not even me. But I could sympathize. I guess I had my own private little hell brewing inside.

Chapter Fifteen

Man is Gregarious

When you're young, you have the ability to make and break new bonds quickly.

These can be surprisingly strong, for while man is gregarious, he is also monogamous. As we age, the ability to form new bonds diminishes. While a stork is also monogamous, and if it should lose its mate it may never have another, in human beings there is also the power of reason. The ability to think about things, and work them out in your head.

I had a couple of things to confront. Is it possible to love one woman and have sex with another? Yes, of course. But I disapproved of adultery, and fornication. You name it, I disapproved of it. To be honest, I thought I was better than some other people.

But I'm not, am I? I was just never tempted before, was I? I never had the opportunity.

What happens now? Does this mean I am a womanizer?

Hardly. Yesterday morning I was practically a virgin. And pretty damned innocent.

Even ignorant, in the sense that I knew nothing.

Was Betty a bad person? I don't think so. I think she was a very kind person, and what happened was some kind of an accident. And I don't believe in accidents. She must have been a lonely person. Or maybe God wanted this. Blame God for everything if you must.

Things are 'caused' to happen, and I don't care to put every little problem in life at God's door. We do have free will. Otherwise, what is the point? Tin soldiers don't need salvation. They have no will, no reason. No choice but to be lined up where the intellect chooses to place them. If a boy, in a prankish mood, angry at being forced to eat his Brussels sprouts, should take one of his sister's dollies, take its clothes off, and put it with a boy doll, just back from years of combat? And if that boy doll should be in a state...of need...but wait a minute...these are dolls we're discussing.

Back to the question of choice. And I guess I chose to have sex with Betty.

I wanted to fuck Betty. I wanted to real bad. May as well be honest about it. She was a stunning, gorgeous, lovely, sweetheart of a gal. The truth was, I probably didn't deserve her.

Oh, maybe she was a little 'heavy.'

Who am I to judge someone based upon their personal appearance?

Who's kidding who, now? In personal photos, I always look like some damned foreigner. I am a stranger to myself. There were better men than me in the world, that's for sure. I can show you their graves, a thousand of them, ten thousand of them. Why should they die and I live? Why should I get her, and they're all dead?

I am nothing special. Just a tin soldier that didn't get knocked down.

When I think of Betty it makes me happy. A sense of anticipation, a feeling that I don't have to be alone. What would a relationship with Betty bring?

If Melissa married her man, was I supposed to go through life alone?

Why do I even think of Melissa? Am I some kind of perverted sex maniac?

Betty and I started out kind of bass-ackwards, in that we sort of got the cart in front of the horse. Oh, God, what have I done?

What have I done now? I pulled out a picture from my wallet, and looked at it as I sat on a bench in a little park, waiting to go back to Betty's place. It was a picture of my team.

Not a ball team. My horses. Tess and Tinkerbell, and two finer ladies you never met.

They'd pull the legs off of any three other horses any day of the week, let me tell you.

Those ladies were strong, and patient, and nothing put them off when they were being treated right. They could work me under the grass, if I let them. Truth was, I put them to pasture early some nights.

No stump was too deep or too strongly embedded, no field too large, no load too big.

No creek was too deep to ford or swim. No sled, no log, no drag line that they, or we couldn't handle. If all it took was hard work; no man could stop us or stand up to my team. The trouble was, I was out of my league with all these women. This big city, this different land. I was a long way from home, with nowhere to turn.

Life was so simple before things went bad and I left home. I wanted to be a ship's captain! Hah! That seems so long ago. A very brief career as a deck-hand. It made a weird kind of sense. Farm boys get tired of dirt. Why not try water? Lots and lots of water...

There were times when I missed those horses more than anything in the world. I could talk to them, and the answers I got always made sense. I don't believe in the devil.

The devil is a symbol, for something that is inside of each and every man. The power to be bad, if we choose. That's what the devil is. The symbol of a bad soul. Think of it that way. Hell is unnecessary. We create our own anyway.

And yet the world is a beautiful place, as I watched a maid or servant walking through the park with a double perambulator. The fog is lit from above. It glows like a kind of halo in the tree tops. Birds flit, darting about in the shrubbery. The grass is still green, but then grass is tough, isn't it? Voices walk behind me, the faces of the people never seen.

They sound like happy people.

Tradesmen went about their work, going about the deliveries and daily commerce.

The shop windows were filled with the things people need or must have, or simply desire. A man swept the sidewalk in front of his little establishment. Mr. Ebenezer, of Ebenezer Tailors, because who else could it be? The place is too small to have an employee.

Of course it's his establishment.

In this neighbourhood, who else would care enough to sweep the pavement?

I looked at my watch. Betty would be home in two and a half hours. Better make up my mind as to what to do next. I wonder if she's thinking about me right now. Being at work she may not have time.

But I'm just kidding myself. She must have thought about me at least once. I've had her on my mind all day. It takes your thoughts off of a lot of other things. There was also the matter of having a rather persistent and troublesome erection, which did not appear to want to go away. Due to the novelty of the experience; a mental picture of Betty, naked except for her garters, et cetera, kept appearing in my head. If and when Betty thinks of me, does she think of me sexually?

Now there's a thought. Doesn't help with the immediate problem, but it sure was interesting. I was very young.

Chapter Sixteen

A Simple Plan

It took a while, but I formulated a simple plan. Play it by ear, wait for developments, and try to relax and enjoy myself.

I hailed a cab and had the driver take me to Barclay's Bank, where I picked up a wad of cash. While I didn't have any hard and fast plans, I had a funny feeling things were going to change. Then I had him take me on to the Savoy, so that I could get my things together. No matter where I stayed tonight, it wouldn't be here. Not that it wasn't nice.

As I paid off my bill, the concierge told me he had a message, and handed over an envelope. It was addressed to a certain, 'Captain Tucker.'

"That's not for me," I said hurriedly.

But he had spoken to the man who took it in over the counter.

I wanted to get out of there. Impatient. Still, he insisted.

"It is for you, sir. They definitely said your room number."

The hotel man brought his assistant over.

"What did this gentleman look like?" I asked.

He described Smith-Barry's driver to a 'T.' At that point I whipped out the old buck knife and slit it open. Sure enough, it was a promotion.

"Congratulations," grinned the two hotel employees.

Dear Will,

Congratulations on your long-overdue promotion. Looking forward to seeing you this weekend at Holly Brook House, directions given below, bring a guest, etc. Bernie is expecting to meet you, so be a good chap and put on your party face.

Signed, Smith-Barry.

There was a hand-drawn map enclosed; and a phone number. A copy of my captain's papers!

Thanks.

"Just what I needed," I muttered as the bell man arrived to remove my luggage, small enough that I could have taken the bags in one hand.

The group stood around beaming like they were my best friends.

I tipped them all pretty heavy.

The cab driver took me back to Betty's place, and since I was flush with cash, I stopped and picked up a couple of bottles of a nice white wine of good reputation. The driver accepted his money and a tip; thanked me and politely withdrew towards his vehicle. The maid opened the door, and I carried on into the foyer, and tried rather unobtrusively to just sort of drop my bags behind a marble boot-bench, festooned as it was with acanthus, grape vines, cherubs; et al.

Catching sight of myself in the mirror, there was the air of the faintly ridiculous about me. Ever the sophisticate. Try to remember not to pick my nose.

"Is Betty home?" I asked, with just the hint of a quaver in my voice.

The maid pretended to not hear my nervousness.

"She's usually along about now. I'll put the wine in the kitchen," she said.

Putting my coat on the rack, I resisted the impulse to simply drop it over my luggage.

The figure in the mirror looked like a little lost boy, and not the newest, most dashing,

handsomest, and most fearless captain in the RFC. Maybe it would grow on me. Like a wart. The newest wart in the whole Royal Flying Corps. If this was coincidence, why was Smith-Barry the one informing me of the promotion?

I had a real bad feeling about this one. The maid came back with a scotch for me, although I'm not much of a scotch drinker. They simply didn't have good Canadian rye whiskey. It did rip the dust from the throat.

The maid had a small glass of sherry while we waited; then came a bustle in the front hall. The maid left the room, and then Betty walked in.

"Will! I'm so glad you stayed!" she said in a school-girly, happy voice.

I was half breathless; and when we got close she almost leapt into my arms. Lifting up as we hugged, suddenly her feet were dangling in the air!

She was squealing and giggling, as I kissed her over and over again. I looked into her shiny brown eyes. Things might not be so bad after all.

After a time; I let her take her shoes and scarf off.

"Have you eaten? I'm hungry," she said.

I told her in unconscious humour, "I've been saving it up until you came home."

We kissed again, long and deep.

"So have I," she murmured throatily. "But let's get some dinner first, shall we? My instinct tells me we're going to need our energy."

"You have the most beautiful mind," I grinned, as she showed off some things she brought home for our dinner.

What a lucky young man I was.

The maid, who pretty much laid all the preparations; and got none of the credit, took off for the day. Apparently she lived nearby or somewhere in the building. Maybe she had instructions and an understanding mind. What maid wouldn't mind the odd evening off? The important thing was that she was gone. Betty and I chaffed each other like two old friends as she sliced up some cheese and I grappled with a wine-cork.

We got out some green onions, and lettuce, and a couple of other items and laid them out on the wooden island in the kitchen. It was like a casual little dance, as we moved around the room, getting things ready. Plates clinked, as I put down the bottle on a cheerful, maple-topped table.

"My father often had breakfast here," she said. "But that was long ago."

"You look beautiful," I told her.

She was one of them girls where you had to look. It didn't hit you in the face, not at first. My first impression was that she was big and tall for a girl, not beautiful, or petite, or, 'vivacious,' or any of the other words that you see in magazines or those mail-order catalogues retailers use to educate people as to their needs.

Delicious smells filled the room. The last rays of sun were reflected faint and rose-coloured on the low-lying clouds to the west. Through the trees in her back garden, other homes could be seen, distant through the branches, the twinkle of lights coming on here, and there. Standing close behind, I wrapped my arms around her. We stood like two spoons, swaying a little as she stirred a pot of something warm and good.

Humming a little tune, I kissed her head, her hair, her eyes, her nose, her chin, her ears, thoroughly, one by one.

"Uh, oh," she giggled. "There's trouble sneaking up on me."

Taking a little nip at the nape of her neck; she shivered in my arms.

"Just getting hungry," I whispered in her ear. "Like a big hungry tiger."

"Gives me goose pimples, just thinking about it. Are tigers anything like the big, bad wolves I've been hearing so much about?" she asked dryly.

Gently turning her head, I swept down for a kiss on the lips.

Still standing close behind her, I cupped her breasts firmly, and my crotch was held up tight against the small of her back.

I ever so gently chewed on the back of her neck.

"Worse," I vowed.

Be that as it may, we had our dinner, a couple of roasted lamb chops, salad, potatoes, green beans, some kind of cheese sauce; the wine, all washed down with a vision of Betty.

Finally; I got around to telling her about the promotion.

"That's great! Will! I'm so happy for you," she exclaimed, but I tried to explain my misgivings.

"I have to tell you, I just don't know," I said. "It's awful sudden, and then there was this crazy little idea I had!"

"Someone somewhere must have thought it was a good one," she pointed out.

"Yeah. But I'm not the man to be put in charge of it! I've never led men at all. I've never even been considered for so much as flight leader, or even a corporal when I was in the infantry."

"You'll be fine, Will," she told me. "Your students did well, didn't they? You are a lieutenant already, aren't you?"

"Who's your old man?" I asked, off on a tangent.

Didn't really want to burden her with my job, my personal problems. Time enough for that later, if later ever comes.

She mentioned a name, but it didn't click in at first.

After all, they do say tomorrow never comes. Stick to the romantic stuff. God knows I needed it. I needed to love someone. I didn't feel so afraid anymore. With Melissa, there was an ache, almost an acknowledgement deep inside that it was hopeless.

I can't say it any better.

"He's dead," she began.

"I'm sorry," I told her.

"Oh, it was a while ago, three and a half years now," she explained. "My mother lives in Sutton in our country house, although she stays at a friend's in the season. She may turn up here sooner or later. It's a good thing I thought of that. You might be frightened half to death if you woke up with mother standing next to the bed."

"Gulp! Yes, I might."

She laughed at the look on my face.

"It's not as bad as that, really, but it is an interesting picture," she said and we both chuckled a little .

Her real name was Elizabeth, which I loved. But for some reason, when she was a young girl, the name Betty stuck to her and she just learned to live with it.

"Um; so you're basically a rich person, then?" I asked like an idiot.

This was no fancy apartment building, converted and divided up into flats, like many an oversized Victorian mansion in any large city. This was her house. The whole bloody house was hers.

"This is your house?" I gaped.

"Whose did you think it was?" she asked in seriousness, catching onto my sudden turn of mood.

"It's okay, Will. No need to panic," she added quietly.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I, I, I grew up on a little dirt farm. I joined up for various reasons, but one of the main reasons was a small but regular pay-cheque at the end of each and every month. Something quite novel for a farmer, at least at the time."

The lure of the lake ships was money, the Army paid money...hard cash money.

"I hear it's gotten a little better, in the last letter from home," I added, and then the conversation sort of trailed off.

We just sat and looked at each other.

What would your mom think? I wondered, but could also supply my own answer.

"I understand," she said in a soft voice. "It could be intimidating. I wonder what your family would think if they met me? Would they think I'm some toffee-nosed snob? I'd be nervous."

"Betty...this sex thing..." I began, and oh, God; it was hard to start this conversation.

She just waited, putting down her fork and taking a drink.

"If we're going to do this again..."

"Try and stop me," she murmured, staring deeply into my eyes.

I wish she wouldn't do that right now. Makes it awful hard...to think.

"At the very least we might want to think about some protection," and holy shit!

Did I blush beet red! But I barely knew this girl, intimate though obviously we were, and so warmly we felt for each other. And I was curious...I mean really curious about the relationship. She was something to write home about. That was not in dispute.

It's like we fit, somehow. Of course I wasn't used to talking about sex. No one was in those days. Sure, soldiers in trenches, (and schoolboys in the RFC,) talk about their coarser experiences in life, (and some not so coarse,) and some of my pals and friends were married. Quite frankly; a lot of the talk was bullshit, and we all knew it.

This was real, and it mattered a lot to both of us.

I had never, ever discussed sexual matters with a girl, or a woman, or a very fine lady, such as this person before me now.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Will," she said. "I guess I threw myself at you, in some ways."

"Betty, I want to kiss you all over. I want to make mad, passionate love to you. But I think you should...maybe we should...think about things." I trailed off, waiting for some response.

"I brought a packet of condoms home from the chemist," she said pertly. "I wasn't embarrassed to buy them at all."

I was stunned at that one. She was truly amazing. I guess she had a pretty good idea of the way to a man's heart. I bit my lip. She had a lot more courage than I did! Brains, too.

I hadn't even gotten to the thinking stage yet.

"Well. I'm not married. Just thought you might like to know," I said. "And since I am falling madly, head over heels in love with you, I just thought it might be a good idea to sort of like; er, ask you what you think, once in a while."

"I brought a packet of condoms home from the chemist," she repeated.

"Fine. Be that way," I vowed. "Well, if anyone asks, you are mine, all mine: and I don't take kindly to poachers.'

"If anyone asks!" she howled. "If anyone asks?"

Apparently I had struck a sore spot.

I started laughing.

"I bet you do get a lot of suggestions, you poor, sweet, innocent thing."

"Let's finish our dinner," she suggested.

***

That was my first experience with conjugal bliss.

I won't bore the reader with our sexual discoveries. If the reader is married, and has enjoyed sexual relations, then you don't need me to draw you a picture, and if the reader is young and pure of spirit, I do not wish to despoil your innocence. Nor do I wish to overly engage the prurient interest of misguided youths.

Suffice it to say that we fell very deeply in love, very quickly. The intimacy grew by leaps and bounds and hour by hour. One of the things that impressed me; and amazed and delighted me, was her mind. Betty had a damned good brain.

I know some men will tell you otherwise, but a mind is a beautiful thing when a woman has one. When I talk about intimacy, first there was the physical intimacy of our love. Then there was a period of getting to know each other, who we were and where we came from. This can be surprisingly important in a relationship. I doubt it could have worked if she was an Aleut or Patagonian, no matter how intelligent or beautiful—and the days flew by.

In the mornings, I had a decent but rather small breakfast, with Betty and the maid, then Betty would go off to the library where she volunteered. She took it seriously enough and could have drawn a wage in any business I ever heard of.

The maid puttered about, supervising things generally. Other people came in to clean, and garden, pick up and deliver laundry, et cetera. I went out to a couple of motor dealers and in my own clumsy but methodical fashion began to pick the brains of the staff. After a visit here, and a visit there, I found the car I wanted was in great demand. Certainly there were motors for sale. Mostly big, heavy, luxurious machines that an eastern despot might envy.

Fuel was rationed. Tires were hard to get, and the little cars were the ones people wanted. Finally, I got fed up. On a whim I went to see a man someone mentioned.

He was just going along to lunch. A paper sign hung in the window. He was locking the door. I introduced myself and offered to go along to the pub with him.

"I'll buy," I said, and that clinched the deal, not that he needed a free lunch.

He impressed me as a man who knew what he was talking about. His hand had a dry, pleasant roughness when we shook. He had a strong grip too, but was sensible about showing it off. The man who tries to crush your hand when you meet has some kind of underlying problem.

Bill Petersen was a tall, well-built, barrel-chested, tow-headed Dane of a man. One could easily imagine him wielding the berserker hammer in a mad rage if he got going. His piercing blue eyes, perfect teeth and broad shoulders no doubt stood him in good stead with the ladies.

"So, you race motorcycles," I mentioned as we both sampled our stout, with its fine, creamy head lapping up and over the edge of the glass.

The beer was not warm as some, particularly the Yanks, have complained, yet neither was it cold, the way a Canuck may have ordered it. It was wet. It was deep, and it had one hell of a personality. It had a good, fruity nose about it. It was the perfect stout, and I said so. Glad to have that settled, he reached for a smoking pouch and I began to take out the makings.

"What can I do for you?" he asked as we waited for food.

"I need transportation. I was hoping to find a small car, a two-seater, or maybe even one of those three-wheelers I keep hearing about. But maybe a motorbike is the way to go," I added. "Do you have anything for sale right now?"

I thought about that.

'Carte blanche,' wasn't the way to go with a salesman.

"Are you single or married?" Bill asked. "Where are you stationed?"

He had other questions.

"What are your plans? Racing, touring, putt-putting to Sunday School?" and things like that.

Pretty good questions, and it took a moment to figure out just exactly what my goals were for this vehicle.

"Well, it's got to have a good turn of speed and it has to be easy for RFC types to work on. It's got to carry me and possibly my girl. I haven't actually asked her if she'll get on one yet! But I hope so."

And on and on, as he asked the questions.

"You mentioned a three-wheeler. That might be fine. I don't know how that would work out, but you might consider a sidecar."

"That might work," I agreed. "They are removable, right?"

"Yes, and I even have a design for a removable roof, in case your lady friend is the kind that likes hats with lots of fruit salad on top."

I grinned.

"I don't think she's that sort, but every once in a while it does rain around here."

Bill's eyebrows crept up.

"Huh! On that note, I think it's my turn to buy. Hello! Here's our grub," he intoned majestically.

Bill enjoyed his brew. He enjoyed everything intensely.

He had good old English fish and chips, and I had steak and kidney pudding.

"I've often wondered how they cook these things," I murmured. "Tastes good, though."

"Boil the piss out of 'em," he said with a shrug.

Jesus H. Christ, I never would have thought of that!

The guilty realization came that I was enjoying his company. Not only did I miss the mates on my old squadron, but I also missed a few friends at Gosport, which suddenly seemed very far away and remote in time. To make a long story short, it became clear I liked and trusted him enough. Inviting myself to his shop to look at the machines was no problem.

***

"Lots of power. There's no substitute for cubic inches," I told Bill.

We walked in the dim light of a London 'pea-souper,' but it wasn't far and I had a big long coat.

"You and I are going to get along just fine," he grinned. "Now come and have a look, and tell me if you're not impressed."

I was impressed, all right.

He didn't have any front displays other than the fly-specked pages in the big bay windows, bulging out into the very street, but in the back room he had twenty or thirty machines. All in various stages. Still, the frames looked good. The engines looked good. My eye fell on the tool racks, some good lights, and a clean bench. No smell of urine. The alleyway outside the big back door was relatively clean, for the neighborhood.

"Now, this one here, the seat is being re-upholstered, and the rims are going to get some brand-new tires. I have a line on some good ones now," he began.

"How big is the engine?" I asked.

"Two hundred-fifty-cc's" he said.

"Too small," I said, and Bill agreed.

"What have you been flying?" he asked.

"Well, I've flown RE-8's, Camels briefly, SE-5's, a few other aircraft," I replied.

"This bike here and this one here have five hundred-cc engines," he pointed out.

They seemed more or less complete.

"I'm not in a hurry," I assured Bill. "I'm an old horse trader from way back."

Peterson blinked a little when he heard that.

"Bill," I argued, "What about this one here?" pointing to one that was big and black; with a huge motor, and stacks coming out of the carburetors.

It had a megaphone exhaust-pipe, handlebars pointing down and out, and it looked fast.

"You know, I've had to turn a few people away. I figured they didn't know what they were getting into," he sighed. "That one's mine!"

Do I have to whip out the photograph of my team? Doesn't he sense an easy sale?

"C'mon, Bill," I chided him, bristling with confidence.

"Look," he sighed. "I'll build you an eight-fifty. We'll save the sidecar for later. We'll save the full-race treatment for later. If you don't mind."

"Yeah. All right," I agreed.

We got to work on a price, and delivery, and accessories. It was a fun sort of afternoon for a little old farm boy.

A little cash in the pocket feels pretty good, but then I spent my whole life broke and poverty-stricken. And I do know the value of a dollar.

I left a hundred pounds for a deposit and continued on my way.

Chapter Seventeen

Weekend at Bernie's

On Friday we packed up and went to a nice place in the Chiltern Hills, west of the City. A good, long ways west, although the big, opulent vehicle that Betty's part-time driver chugged out of the old three-bay coach house was comfortable enough.

As the sun rose to its winter peak, I chatted with the driver. Toby was a black with the most cultured Oxford accent. Extremely well-educated, he answered my questions ably enough.

"It's a six-cylinder engine, with overhead camshafts and three valves per cylinder," he explained. "She can hit seventy-five on a long smooth stretch, although I've been politely instructed not to do it."

In response to more questions, he explained the various permutations of side-valves, overhead valves, camshaft located in the block or in the head, 'et cetera.'

"Here's a long, straight stretch coming up now," I noted, taking a sidelong glance at Betty.

"Would that be one intake valve or two?" I asked, just to divert attention.

"Two intake, one exhaust," he said. "Due to the location of the intakes, exhausts, and where the cams are located, there's no room for dual exhaust valves, which in my opinion would be more logical."

He thought for a moment.

"That and the dual sparking-plugs," he added. "That helps with the power as well."

Sounds pretty busy under that bonnet.

"Un-burnt fuel is bad news," Toby offered. "It's inefficient."

Toby was almost imperceptibly increasing the throttle setting. Perhaps he was unconscious of it. He was peeking at Betty in the mirror, and caught my eye for a second.

The speed crept up.

"Simply put, it pushes a lot more air-fuel mixture through the combustion chambers, and the engine breathes better, revs up higher, and produces more power," he lectured.

Lots of people understand it. Few can explain it so clearly.

"Toby was studying for an engineering degree when the war came," Betty noted.

"The best-laid plans of mice and men aft gang agley," said the honourable gentleman.

The speed crept up.

"What happened?" I had to know.

This man was so intelligent, so cultured. Surely he had a story to tell.

"Gas," was all he said.

The speedometer now read seventy-five miles per hour, as I studied it over the seat's top.

"Ah, yes," no further comment was needed.

Toby would never run up the steps of the school, never play cricket, never work at an active or even busy job. I never saw Toby smoke, but I did notice a funny little cough now and again, and in fact it was whenever I lit up.

"Toby?" she said.

The speed began to creep down. He was still smiling, and that made me feel better. He seemed like a hell of a good man, and it was nice to know Betty wasn't totally without friends and help if anything should keep me away.

"Is it ever getting dark out," advised Betty.

"If those clouds come down any lower, it'll be blacker than my bum," noted Toby as I choked on a sip of brandy.

It took a moment to undo the damage. I caught my breath finally.

"I appreciate you driving us," I grinned. "If it's okay with you, I'd like to use that line on someone else sometime."

"Pardon me?" Betty and Toby asked at the same instant.

"Oh, you know. It's the sort of thing writers do. Save up a few good lines and use them when we can," I went on.

It was just a silly conversation and we were all enjoying the trip due to just this sort of nonsense.

"The night was sultry," quoth Toby.

"And blacker than Toby's bum?" gasped Betty.

"We'll have to work on it," I said sadly as the two of them laughed uproariously.

My windpipe was still stinging from the inhalation of booze.

"The drive in the country does me good," he told us firmly. "I sit and read the papers too much. Mrs. Worthington tells me I have to get out and about more."

"This is as good a time as any to announce, that I'm buying a motorcycle," I told Betty, and incidentally, Toby.

"Oh, really?" asked Betty. "That sounds like fun. When do I get a ride?"

Thank God she wasn't the kind that couldn't bear the idea of riding on a bike.

"Oh, soon enough," I said, with a gleam in my eye.

Boy, was she in for a surprise.

"What kind are you getting?" asked Toby.

Innocent enough question, but I found myself blushing furiously. I didn't even know!

"Um, um, I bought it from Peterson, down in the..."

"Oh, he's good, one of the best," Toby acknowledged.

"What kind is it?" he went on. "Some marques have a better reputation."

"It's big," I told them, and they laughed at that.

"Really, really big, and loud, and fast," I told Betty, giving her a special look.

I put my hand on her knee, and gave it a little squeeze.

"You'll get your ride, young lady," I murmured, staring obliquely out of the corner of my eye to see if she blushed.

She did, a little, but it was all quite amusing.

"It just pulsates and throbs with power," I stated in a neutral tone.

Toby's ears perked up.

"Never mind that. Just tell us about the bike," Betty said.

"Oh, you'll see soon enough," I said mysteriously, and bent over and kissed her on the neck, just in behind her ear.

It kind of reminded me of that one time Melissa kissed my forehead. It seemed that I wasn't a hundred percent Betty's. Would Melissa always haunt me? That thought was just something I had to live with. This too shall pass; hopefully.

The basic plan was to have Toby drive us to Holly Brook, spend the weekend at Bernie's, Toby takes the car home and Smith-Barry was having someone fly a plane up for me. I thought of telegraphing, to make sure it was an Avro or something with two seats; but reasoning that he did tell me to bring a guest, hopefully he would anticipate that.

If I felt a little shy, a little out of my depth upon waking up and discovering Betty was a young lady of independent means, and owned her own big town house in London, and didn't really have to work due to a massive inheritance; I was totally intimidated when we turned up the drive and saw Holly Brook House.

My guts flipped over and over inside for a moment.

I was cleaning up my language, and was fairly successful at purging out cuss words, if not all slang and derogatory statements entirely.

But I think I said, "Fuck."

I'm pretty sure that I did.

Betty understood, a little. Toby gave a startled glance in the mirror.

"Well, I saw the holly, I've seen the brook, and oh, my, God! Now I've seen the fuckin' house," I breathed in desperation.

What the hell was Smith-Barry getting me into?

"I've met them, as I said, and they are quite nice, actually," my lady reminded, but this place was something unbelievable.

It must have been an eighth of a mile...no, maybe not that big, across the front. It was sitting in the middle of a field. If you can call something so green, so verdant, so well- manicured a field. It was about six or seven hundred acres of the prettiest rolling pasture-land I had seen in quite some time.

A valley in the hills, all to itself.

"We've been so lucky, no snow," said Toby. "And the grass is still in good shape."

There were about fifty acres of relatively flat land. There were a number of aircraft sitting at the east side of the house, and I could see barns and outbuildings on the other side of the giant clearing in the woods. The last radiant light of the sun broke out of the clouds and a bomb-burst of rays shot up across the lowering, stained, grey and white billowing cloudscape. Patches of darkening blue sky could be made out at regular intervals in between serried rows.

"Flock of sheep clouds," I told Betty, as we stepped out.

We waited for Toby to open up the boot so I could get at our bits and pieces of kit.

Me, I travel light. You know women.

"Very pretty," she murmured, tipping her head back.

It was the signal for another kiss.

The weekend might not be too unbearable, I thought. But that's harsh. I had no idea of what to expect. And I was suffering from a little case of the nerves. I thanked Toby for the ride. Having thought it out ahead of time; I made no hint of tipping. No confusion, no arguments, no wasted nonsense. You don't tip a friend.

"It's too bad you have to return so soon," I told him. "I'd be glad to take you up some time."

"I'd love to take a look at that motorbike of yours when you get the chance," he responded diplomatically.

Betty winked at me from behind his shoulder. Shaking hands, we left him closing up the car. We were welcomed into the house by a good old English butler, who was the tallest man I would meet all weekend, so I studied him a bit.

This man had social skills. I could learn a thing or two from him. He took our coats, called someone to dispose of our luggage, and told us where the main party was at. All of this; and found us a very nice room on the first floor, which is actually one up in England.

***

It was a real high-class dinner.

After settling into our room, unpacking, and freshening up, we dressed, 'for evening.'

The moment was a little awkward. Several folks turned in their chairs and watched us navigate the big double stairway, with its rosewood banisters sweeping like wings, coming down from above. Elizabeth was at my arm. She smelled oh, so sweet, and she looked radiant. That was no cause for worry. I looked good, too. While I wasn't fastidious as a dresser, I took my time about it tonight. The big question was, who in the hell was I supposed to be making an impression on? And where the hell were they?

I'm not a big fan of guessing-games. We had a stroke of luck. Elizabeth recognized someone. Just for the weekend, she was to be, 'Elizabeth,' and not, 'Betty.' I didn't want to make a big issue of it, but she recognized that coincidental to our burgeoning romance, my life was at a bit of a crossroads. Naturally, she wanted me to make the best of the opportunity. I never had any thoughts of a so-called career before, but was doing some hard thinking lately. Married men have responsibilities, and while admittedly not married, you never know, do you?

I had no plans of being a kept man.

It's fair to say that I was head over heels in love with the lass; and on my best behaviour. Which I have found challenging in the past, and if you don't believe me, ask Constable Ralph McKyber of the village police, or a couple of others back home.

All bets are off in a war zone, where we are given license to sin by society; the church, and our families. As long as we sin against the enemy. All her friends kept coming up and saying things like, 'Hi Betty! How are you? How is your Mom?'

My plan of calling her Elizabeth went right out the window. But as she introduced me to various friends and acquaintances, it was pleasant enough, (I guess.)

Soon our hostess appeared. She didn't seem to know who I was; and it was a little awkward. My neck reddened and I started getting kind of hot under the collar.

Luckily Bernie appeared. He seemed to know who he was looking for, and came up with outstretched hand.

"Ah, you must be Too-kair," he vowed in some abominable and almost indecipherable foreign accent, "My name is, 'Hair-Cue,' but you must call me Bernie if it ah-keeps you from laughing out-a loud-a at a poor-a foreign-a gentle-a-man."

He beamed at me. Thank God. There was no way I could pronounce that name.

I found out later that was his Wop impression. He didn't always sound like that.

"Oh, ar, um," I murmured. "Jolly good! Right-oh."

I responded with a dark and morose inner glee. This just kept getting better and better all the time. They say he's a Belgian or something, most of the time.

'All-a da time-a,' I corrected silently.

Where the hell was my boss? Someone to make sense out of all this mess.

And I was about ready to begin growling at people, which I didn't wish to do in front of my lady friend. Perhaps sensing my confusion, Bernie turned away to beckon for a drink. Betty came to the rescue.

"Take me out and show me the planes."

"We-a talk-a later-a," Bernie, or 'Hair-Cue,' acknowledged.

"They say he's something big in Belgian Intelligence," Betty began, huffing and puffing a little as we walked down the hallway in the direction of the east wing.

"Who is?" I murmured, intent on her lovely neck, her pink little ear.

I gave it a quick peck as we walked slowly along.

"Bernie...les Monsieur, 'Hair-Cue,'" she enunciated carefully for my benefit.

I couldn't even spell it. I didn't find out until later.

She wasn't too used to walking in those high heels, either.

"Who?" I muttered, taking in the frieze of voluptuously-painted ceilings, plasterwork, heavy wood wainscoting, and you name it, it was expensive-looking.

"Bernie," she repeated.

"I wondered," I answered idly. "Anyway, if he didn't do it, somebody else would."

She slapped me for that one.

I thoroughly considered grabbing her and dragging her into one of the little side rooms, which must lurk behind every door. I had a condom in my wallet.

"Hah! I hear he is that, too," she said in sheer mischief.

"He's what?" I gaped. "What the heck are you talking about?"

We strolled arm in arm down the apparently endless corridor. My jaw was kind of hanging open in sheer awe at the decor. Finally an exit led out onto a promenade which extended along the side of the place, visible in the lights strung along the balusters.

"We'd better lay a trail of bread crumbs if we leave the room tonight," I was unable to stifle an immature giggle.

I couldn't help it. What an awe-inspiring pile of bricks.

Turning around and craning my neck, I could see the dormered windows of the servant's quarters, high up over the crenellated fake battlements. The blackness of the roofline was accented by twinkling lights inside, silhouetted against a violent sky.

It was cold and dark out there. After a quick walk around an Avro 504, one I remembered from Gosport, we hurriedly nipped back inside. Standing in an alcove, I wrapped my arms around her figure as we warmed each other up.

She looked up with mysterious eyes.

My lady had a little smirk on her lips, as sweet and red as raspberry wine.

"So that's the competition," she kidded gently. "The other great love interest that I shall have to contend with."

"A man has to have a job," I told her, no bullshit there.

I couldn't really conceive of the idea of capital, and being able to live off of the income or interest. People did it of course; but I didn't think it would ever happen to me.

(And I was right.)

"I know," she said. "Otherwise you would have to go off and be a coal-miner, or a pirate, or a mountain climber, or some other dangerous profession."

"I suppose you're right, old girl," I said equably.

A sudden thought crossed my mind.

"I remember this one time, we were inside the Great Barrier Reef, off the Cape York Peninsula..." I began in an earnest tone, and she seemed to believe it at first. "I stood on the burning deck, my feet were all in blisters..."

"Ah, baloney," she said with a tinkling laugh. "But go on."

"Later."

We needed to get back to the party. We were proceeding down the hall again when a door popped open and Smith-Barry was right there.

"Ah! Will! Excuse me, young lady," and drawing me aside, he asked, "Can you meet me back here in about five minutes?"

"It's as good a time as any to perform my antics," I joshed, but he didn't appear to be in the mood to joke around too much.

I left Betty in the main hall with the others gathering for dinner. Duty called. It always makes me grumpy to be held up for a hot meal.

They were waiting in a small, eighty-foot den off to one side of the entrance hallway. Stepping in and closing the door behind, I advanced into the room. Smith-Barry wasn't there. Before I had time to contemplate this, one of the gentlemen spoke.

I stood as the Astrakhan rug stroked my ankles.

"Come in, sit down, my boy," came the thick, gravelly, lisping voice of the Right Honourable Mr. Winston Spencer Fucking Churchill.

Aw, damn! Is that twit involved? There was a chair in front, facing a row of oaken desks. Another man sat looking at some notes which had been prepared for the group. Each had a thick docket in front of him. A third, and a fourth, and another came in, and sat down. They hemmed and hawed, whispering among themselves. Cough, cough. Silence as they all read again. Squirm, fidget, a sudden urge to scratch my balls; which of course took it into their independent minds to develop a real doozie of an itch. Lord have mercy!

Naturally; I understand that they are responsible to the taxpayers, and shouldn't be so dumb as to buy 'a pig in a poke,' as my dear old granddad would say.

Some of these men could use a good hiding. Winnie in particular. Too bad the Boers missed the old fart. The big one that got away.

Well, now what? I sat as they read it all again. I thought of what the Boers said in their wanted poster. God almighty, would I ever love a copy of that one.

'Skinny Englishman, five-foot eight, red hair, blue eyes, walks with a limp, cannot pronounce the letter 's'...'

All true enough, but they left out the pompous ass bit.

His escape? He ran away—big deal.

Finally one cleared his throat, and they all looked up and around and at each other.

"That seems clear then," a little bird-like man offered, and puffed contemplatively on a battered old briar pipe.

Tiny, glistening beads of sweat appeared like tinsel on his head. I sat fascinated.

"Any questions?" the unidentified bald-headed chairman inquired.

There were no questions.

"Any objections?"

There were no objections, although they didn't actually ask me.

"Any questions, young man?" asked Winnie.

His grizzled face, yes; it was kind of grizzled-looking even then, stared over his half-glasses, and his stinking cigar stank up the room just like it always did.

They all sat and looked quizzically at me.

"Nope. I'll start a week from Monday," I stated with brevity.

That was easy. Now I could eat.

"Congratulations," someone said, and the interview was over.

An aide handed me a couple of sealed envelopes. One for me and one copy for my boss, or former boss would be more accurate. His copy would release me. My papers authorized a program. Simple as that. I never knew I had that much power before.

As I left the room, Smith-Barry was lunging for me, and I noticed another nervous-looking young fellow awaiting his turn at the hot-seat in their secret little committee room.

"Good luck, buddy. They're in a fire-eating mood," I joked, and the guy blanched somewhat.

You have to have a laugh, especially when it's Navy pukes.

"This is awesome," I told Smith-Barry, babbling like an immature idiot. "You got me three destroyers and a dirigible? What's that for?"

"Give me that!" he barked uncharacteristically, snatching the orders from my hand.

All of a sudden Bernie appeared from a curtained alcove further up the hall.

That didn't surprise me at all, for some reason.

Even though he hurried by without eye contact, and pretended to be zipping up his fly.

"Yeah, that and a regiment of cavalry! Just what we needed," I babbled, steering Smith-Barry out into the reception area, where a cluster of personages were still backed up at the entrance of the dining hall.

Betty was looking around for me.

"I got to go to the can, man," I told Robert.

He impatiently read my papers, and then had a quick glance at his.

"Fine," he said. "We'll chat later. She's a stunner, by the way. Congratulations."

We parted on that note, Smith-Barry heading to the dining hall and I took a quick side trip, confirming that there was indeed a bathroom behind the curtain. But that didn't really prove anything, did it? Some of those old English houses were simply riddled with secret passages and stuff. I read that somewhere.

I was so hungry. I think it affects my judgment at times. Please don't think that I'm.totally without social graces. Seeing Winston always ticked me off, because a cousin was there. Okay; he was admittedly on the Turkish side, but he lost a leg, and he was kin.

That was at Gallipoli.

Chapter Eighteen

A Social Program

When I caught up with Betty I was in a very odd mood. I can't place it exactly; but for some reason I squeezed her bum through the silk of her dress.

"Oh!" she said brightly.

We rubbed up close as the din from inside the next room overwhelmed any and all conversation. I had to ram my mouth up to her ear to tell her anything, and to listen carefully when she did the same. The hubbub died down to a dull roar, as most of us were seated. Servants scuttled to and fro; laden with shiny-domed plates, full of this, that and the other.

"You look lovely, Elizabeth," I said, toying with my grub, because the nearby guests were making forays as a good guest should, attempting to engage in conversation with their neighbours.

I hate trying to answer a question with my mouth full, and I suppose an exaggerated fear of social gaffes affected my behaviour.

"Thank you, Will," she replied demurely.

But she really did look lovely.

"I got the job," I told my love, the lady of the lake.

I don't know if I have really described her carefully before. I'll give it the old college try, even though I dropped out of school in grade nine.

"Where are you going to be stationed?" she asked in some concern, and that made me both happy and a little worried.

She really was sincere. I knew that. And I was happy too, so what the hell?

I was, 'hoisted with my own petard.' I got transferred just when life was taking on new meaning. Our neighbours were busy eating their meals and minding their own business, and there was some noise in the room. There was a certain shyness about discussing our plans in front of an audience.

"We can talk about it later," she suggested.

I ate slowly, suspicious that I couldn't just eat and bolt. I watched her movements, filled with a kind of feminine grace that I wasn't used to being around.

Let's see here. She stood about five-foot eleven, with a kind of honey-coloured, golden brown hair. She has brown eyes, and her hair was puffed up, and combed out, not overly formal, or tied up in knots or a bun or anything like that.

She looked really good in her form-fitting, navy-blue silk kimono-type thing with a plunging back line but a more normal, V-type neck line in front. Her shoulders were bare. The cleavage, or, 'décolletage,' as my fag French buddy would say, was very nice in the candlelight. She wore rings in her ears, which supported long sapphire-coloured pendants glistening and sparkling against the dark background of the oak-paneled walls. Her necklace of blue stones set off her alabaster skin. Her foot touched mine under the table. I was tempted to drop my napkin or something and just go for it.

As if sensing my thoughts, her eyes gleamed impishly over the table.

The relationship was easy from my perspective because she had a great sense of fun. I could joke and kid around with her, and never felt like I had to treat her like she was made of crystal. She wasn't up on some pedestal, like a statue of the Nike Aphrodisiac. Ultimately I came to worship the ground she walked on; and never regretted it for a moment. That was later, it grew over time.

A beautiful woman with a good mind can be very flattering to the ego. By that I mean...well, I mean...let's face it: she's going out with me. And it is not like she's really stupid, or blind.

She's obviously not desperate. She's a smart and beautiful woman, and what a boost to a man's perception of himself. Sounds selfish? Self-centred? But use your little grey cells. She was the stuff that dreams are made of.

So the old morale has been boosted, that's fine, and I seemed to have fallen in love with the woman who sat across the fresh, crisp, linen tablecloth. And that's fine too, I realized.

I was about ready to love somebody besides myself.

Have I explained it clearly enough? When a gorgeous, beautiful girl, with a strong mind, and a good heart, with her faculties intact, and her wits about her, and her own free will, chooses, in the clear light of day, without being drunk; and with no expectation of reward, chooses to kindly fuck the hell out of me, then that is the greatest feeling in the world.

Because I'm worth it.

I don't wish the reader to think it was just the sex, which opened up whole new untold vistas, or the fact that she caught me at exactly the right moment. She was a very nice person, and not all beautiful people are. As I would shortly discover.

My medals adorned my chest as we sat and enjoyed the dinner, each other's company, and chit-chat. Those around us were a veritable fund of gossip and tidbits of information.

It pays to keep one's ears open. The fact that I was a good listener could be attributed to the fact that I really didn't have much to say.

Betty sewed on my captain's badge, and dusted off the medals, of which I had two or three, and put them on my tunic. She brushed it and took a stain out of it. Years later, that thought would sometimes bring a tear to my eye.

Big deal, right? Women do that for their men all the time, right? Wrong. She was a rich girl. She had servants to help her on with her stockings when she was a child. She didn't even know how to sew. Who helped her? The maid? Mrs. Worthington, who came and went sometimes? She loves me. That's fine. It's also a heck of a responsibility.

Now would be a good time to grow up. No one was going to tell me what to do, or how to handle myself. It was all up to me now.

And time was not on our side.

***

After the meal, there was to be dancing, but we all withdrew to various rooms.

A sitting room for the women, smoking and billiards room for the men. When I was growing up, my pop warned me about playing pool; and snooker and gambling, so I just naturally gravitated down to the place in the village. I got pretty good at it, too. But not needing to make money, I really had no wish to play. All I wanted to do was make an early night of it. But I had to hang around in case Smith-Barry popped his head out from wherever he got off to.

And that fucking Winnie's coming around...damn!

"We were very impressed with your proposal, young man," he grunted. "You know, after the war, the world is going to need bright young men like you. Have you ever thought about going to a good university?"

He wants me. The incongruous thought went through my head.

"I'll be going back to Canada," I said shortly.

Demagogues piss me off. They always have, even if, later on, they turn out to be great men. But I knew him when he was just a squid, and that helps. Later of course, he was Britain.

"Canada, eh? Pity," then mercifully he moved off to seek a more receptive audience.

But not before adding; "I hope your intentions are honourable towards young Miss Fontainebleu-Higgins, because her father was a very good friend of mine."

Nice.

Old Winston was lucky he didn't get a punch in the head for that one. But I do have some sense. For example, I didn't drink as much, or as fast as some of the other people, who seemed to lap up champagne like it was going out of style. Maybe they needed to get fueled up for dancing all night. A bit of a chore, in my present mood.

She changed all that, as she peeked in the door and then waved me out.

I gave her a quick hug. We stood close.

"The orchestra is setting up, honey," she reported. "How are you doing?"

"Oh gosh, what a bore," I replied, not too loud, but there was old Bernie again.

Just how good is his hearing? Is he really involved with Belgian Intelligence?

Why not? Somebody has to work there.

We danced quite a bit, though, and for once I wasn't out of my element. Dancing is easy, once you get the hang of it, and then of course I'd had a chance to observe it first.

Back home we danced. In the tightly-knit, but sparsely populated farming community where everyone is all spread out, any excuse for a dance, a social, a picnic will do.

Anyhow, I was quick on my feet, didn't come from around here, no one knew me and Betty seemed like a quick study. It didn't much matter what little jig or ditty the orchestra got up to. I could adapt, improvise and overcome. I never saw the likes of that crowd, but what the heck. People are people, right?

Have you ever roller skated? In time to the organ music, coloured lanterns and ribbons festooning the blackened beams overhead? Anyone can dance, you just have to have the physical courage to get up there. It's easy, once you accept the fact that no one else knows how to dance either. Maybe they took lessons, or learned from their French nanny up in the nursery.

Me, I'm a natural-born dancer. That ain't bragging, it's just a fact.

Betty was pretty pleased with my progress, and of course the slow, close dancing was our favourite; romantic as women think a quadrangle or menstruet might be. No, that's just fancy square-dancing. I prefer waltzes, where you get to hold on tight and sort of communicate non-verbally. You get the hang of it after a while, as a one-eyed paper-hangar once told my dad.

We cut out of there Sunday morning, after a weekend of hunting, shooting, riding, dancing, feasting, billiards, and romantic walks in the hallways, where I received a few lessons in art history. My keen eye for observation was to stand me in good stead when dealing with the intelligentsia. We got to meet a few people.

We had a few interesting conversations, sitting around in the salon with Mr. and Mrs.Churchill, Mr. and Mrs. Ebbw Vale, who I think normally didn't socialize to any great extent with the Churchills; and others, including a Russian; some distant cousin of the Czar. There were a couple of British Secret Service guys; easily identified by the bulge of the weapons in their pants; a Polish count, two French hens, Bernie, Smith-Barry, and about thirty-five other folks who came and went at various times. Oh, yeah, a junior deputy assistant under-minister in the Italian Foreign Office. He was the only guy that could dance anywhere near as well as me.

That John Maynard Keynes guy was there. He kept asking me not to mention it to his wife!

'Okay, no problem,' I told the man.

Why was this idiot talking to me? I amused myself by making a few observations on economics. It looked like he had about three girlfriends. Holy! No wonder you're always short of money. Print some more, why don't you? Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Eden, they were there, a couple of other famous ones.

As Betty watched, I carefully stowed stuff in the plane. I wished she hadn't brought the little trunk. The butler must have heard us up and about. We were his responsibility.

"Perhaps we could send it on, sir," he suggested.

There's a man with a brain. How hard was that?

"Anything in there you need, Betty?"

She was very meek and quiet this morning, but then we were up half the night with the other guests puttering about at various games, charades, billiards, you name it.

(Screwing like minks.)

It was awfully early in the morning.

"No!" she said.

The butler handed the case over to another servant. Apparently he was an enthusiast.

His assistant scurried for the door, being coatless.

"Are you comfortable in that suit?" I asked, helping her into the front seat.

"Yes!" she said.

"Just relax. Don't put your feet here, and here. It's going to be fine. Honey, I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen," I tried to soothe her fears a little. "I fly better than I dance, really."

It didn't seem to help. Frightened people have no sense of humour.

I kissed her. She looked so cute and cuddly, all bundled up in the suit, fur boots, fur- lined hood, everything.

"I'm fine," she said cheerfully and brightly.

She lied, but I let it pass.

"If you have to pee or something, put your hand over and bang on the side. I'll find us a nice, warm pub," I promised.

"Yes, sir," she said.

I carefully checked her straps, giving an extra good tug, hooking up the pipe for the Gosport tube to her headset. No intercom in those days. I climbed in and thoroughly checked things out, including my own straps. The butler, who seemed to know the procedure, swung the prop. He stepped smartly back and saluted. I waved, and Betty waved, so she couldn't have been too sick.

The plane rumbled and lurched forward, and just for the sheer hell of it I went around full-circle and taxied back. The butler stepped forward and came up to the cockpit. He seemed like a good sort.

"Which room is Winnie in?" I asked.

His face broke out into a sudden smile, and he pointed wordlessly. Far end, north side.

One floor up. I could see the exact window from here.

Blipping up the throttle, I did a crosswind takeoff, timing my pull-up to the exact moment, and the raspberry of the exhaust note must have given the Churchills something to talk about. We went past the window and up over the eaves about eleven feet away.

"Honourable intentions, Mr. Churchill," I bellowed at the top of my lungs, but I doubt if the silly bugger heard it over the engine noise.

Then I plugged in my own voice tube. I'm a silly bugger too, sometimes.

We climbed out and headed east towards the city. As luck would have it, 'twas one of those perfect winter mornings. The lightest dusting of snow stippled the hills and dales, and frosted the cakes that were people's houses. Creeks and rivers showed up black against the snowy, bush-covered banks. Smoke curled from every chimney.

"It's beautiful," she called.

There was nothing to say. Was she warm enough? I loved flying, and could probably stand the cold to a certain extent.

"How are you doing, Honey?" I called through the tube.

"I'm flying above the clouds with the man I love," she shouted. "Other than that, it's scary, exhilarating, and I think I WILL have to pee soon!"

"What did you call me?" I yelled.

"What? Oh, drat this stinking tube! I called you the man I love," she bellowed.

Just for that, I thought, and put the plane inverted real quick. She screamed, then it turned into a nervous, high-pitched giggle in my ear.

"You bastard!" she called. "I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU! Is that what you want to hear?"

"Yes," I yelled back, and then I flew normal for a while.

That's what a man wants to hear. After years of combat, when no one even knew for sure what all the fighting was about, it was nice to know something. No one really knows if he will live, or die, and that is the moment.

A man with no reason to live, his life expectancy is worse.

She made me want to live.

The landing was good. My girl was not frozen up, and we stood in silence, as she looked at that plane like it was something new and important.

Patting the plane on the bonnet, which gobbed a lot of castor oil onto my glove, I told the Avro, "This is the new love interest you are going to have to contend with."

"Betty, meet Avro; Avro, meet Betty."

And that was it. We went into a man-door on the front of a hangar and an airman pointed the way to the stores. We peeled off in a smelly old locker room and turned out all our stuff onto the bench so the man could check it off the list.

"Sign here, sir" he said, noting my brand-new captain's insignia.

I promptly ordered a convenient airman to cart all our luggage out for us. The man looked bored, what can I say?

"What did you think?" I asked as a taxi took us home.

"I can see the attraction," she admitted. "But I think I'll keep my job at the library, at least for a while."

"What did you think about going upside down?" I asked her excitedly. "Was that scary? Or did you like it?"

"I meant what I said," she said, as we rubbed noses.

"So did I," I assured her.

So that's what bonding was like, at least when I was younger. We made up our minds pretty quick. No messing around or beating about the bush. And the scariest thing you can do sometimes, is to tell somebody that you love them.

Chapter Nineteen

Chronicles of the Damned

They say fate rides on the shoulders of untested kids. Shit, they got that right.

I stood looking out over the room. I had, counting heads amongst the hubbub and babble of conversation...

"I hope you gentlemen are ready to fly today," I greeted them.

Eleven pilots, and I asked for three squadrons. One fellow in particular didn't hear me, although the others all shut up. The group stood there with an air of hushed expectancy.

"Luckily we have enough planes to go around," I began. "We're here to develop formation tactics, both offensive and defensive, in order to create a higher level of training and to increase the life expectancy of our people..."

The bugger kept chatting and so did I. Annoyed looks from the other students failed to get through to him.

"I requested three instructors at a minimum. Instead all of you have soloed, and you all have a few hours in the air. Several of you will become my instructors," and there was a collective gasp.

"We will also learn single tactics, escort tactics, and aircraft recognition..."

Except for that one fellow, with his back turned, patiently explaining something to another fellow, who was aware of the situation, but chose not to interrupt. The chap who was still reluctantly listening, both to me and the idiot, had a funny look on his face as he caught my stare. The old, 'not my fault, skipper,' look.

Looking the bugger straight in the eye, I remarked, "I would appreciate it if you would pay attention. This is for your benefit."

The talkative one spun around, face flushed with colour, hopping on one foot.

He was quiet now. His erstwhile listener kicked him in the shins, and none too gently.

My little speech went something like this.

"I'm not a stern disciplinarian, I'm not here to bust anyone's balls," I lectured. "I'm here to learn alongside of you men, and then we'll be going into action. We'll have an edge that no other group has ever had. We have the opportunity to train together, as a team, and to develop tactics that work in life-or-death, combat situations."

"Andrew is a one and Biggs, you're a two. You fly together until death do you part; or until I say otherwise," I was reading from a page.

"Cowings and Dexter, ones and twos, where's my shoes," and within about three minutes I had them assigned a number and a position in our first twelve-plane squadron.

This was drawn on the blackboard, in coloured chalk.

"Write your name in the assigned position. You. Grab a piece of chalk and get up here. Yes you, I'm telling you to do it. You're number seven right here. You, who're you? You're right here, number five. Odds are ones, gentleman, twos are even. Your positions in the squadron were determined alphabetically. Sorry, but I have to have a system. "

I paused briefly.

"Write his name up there. Do it now, son, do it now. If you're, 'odd,' you're a one, if you're 'even,' you're a two. We have a twelve-plane squadron."

Mr. Chalkboy needed to hear the other chap's name again. He wasn't listening too well. Not yet. Too busy grinning like a fool.

"A-flight is Red, B-flight is Green, C-flight is Blue. I wouldn't have a yellow flight."

The men chuckled a little at that one.

"We have three flights of four aircraft. Number one is the killing partner. Number two is the wingman. He covers number one's ass and never, ever leaves him. In the event of interception and combat, which doesn't always happen, for the enemy doesn't always engage with us; you end up with a flight of four aircraft. A flight has two elements of two aircraft."

I had their full attention now. But I really didn't have much to go on without seeing them fly.

"O.K. everyone, into the flight gear; and you have fifteen minutes to shit, piss, get changed and be on the flight line. I'll show you what I mean, but the lectures are important as well." I concluded. "You will learn. You will be taught."

My one sergeant, just one, stood by the door.

"Right this way, chaps," called Sergeant Jaeckl and they all bucketed for the door.

The dummies didn't look around. They had no clue as to where all the equipment, other than their own personal flight suits, which everyone bought in those days, was kept.

The smart ones would show up on the flight line half dressed, the others late, but it was day one. The talkative one stayed behind for a moment.

"I'm sorry about that, sir," he began.

"Which one are you," I asked. "Edgar Powell?"

He nodded glumly.

"No harm done. I wanted to talk to you anyway. You're my first instructor," I told him. "Now get out there and instruct them buggers exactly how to pre-flight a plane, and check out mine real good, because you may be flying with me."

"Sir!"

He clicked his heels and went nipping out the door right smartly. I didn't take it too personal. That'll teach the little bastard. His one saving grace was that he had more hours in the air than any of the others, and only two crashes. He had eighty-seven hours in total!

Edgar did okay on the written tests as well.

For the first couple of days, until I got more men, and mechanics, and pilots, and a few other things, I was pretty much making it up as I went along. No question that these men needed all the hours they could get. The problem was that we had a deadline.

***

"Ladies, if you haven't seen one before, this is the Bristol fighter," I began withoutfanfare.

It took a while for them to catch onto that little gimmick. These gentlemen must learn to watch me like a hawk, and listen as if their lives depended on it. Which was nothing more than the truth, naked and unadorned.

"Today all I care is that you use the buddy system. Number one, you're the lead hand. Number two, you stick like glue."

"We'll be using these aircraft here. Ones and twos. Red flight is first, and Blue can go up second," I explained. "You boys just sit and watch. We can learn a lot by watching other people fly. You can learn a lot about a man by watching his takeoffs and landings."

A small circle of faces eyed me warily. No training plan was ever operated like this. They probably expected six weeks of bookwork and then a few flights, and then some kind of fancy cap-badge.

"Anyone here nervous about flying in pairs, in close proximity with a partner?"

A thin, dark man raised his hand. He seemed a little older and possibly more mature than the rest.

"Yes?"

"I've never seen a Bristol Fighter before in my life," he said in no uncertain terms.

"What's your name?" I asked. "Michael Black, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Congratulations, Mr. Black. You're new instructor number two. Any suggestions?"

"Well, you could bloody well let us read the manual, at least," he fumed, embarrassed at being centred-out.

And no doubt aware that he was totally unqualified to be an instructor; or possibly even take off in a Brisfit. That made him smarter than most, if not all of the others.

Really, they all should have protested. He had seventy-nine hours in total.

"I can't be an instructor," he spluttered.

Black was unusually tall, almost as tall as me.

"Don't sell yourself short," I said sweetly.

The rest of the men broke up in laughter.

"People look up to you," I added.

More laughs. Black stood there looking nonplussed.

"All right, lads. See if you can scare up a manual around here. Maybe ask the sergeant, here," I instructed.

Just by coincidence, Sergeant Jaeckl was standing there with a dozen manuals. It shouldn't be a problem to keep up with my students. The Biff is a sweet-handling aircraft for its size. I took one up the day before, just to try it out. I know they can fly it. Do they know they can fly it?

That's the vital question. Confidence is everything.

"Listen up, gentlemen," I called in stentorian tones.

"The Bristol F.2 is undoubtedly the finest machine that was ever provided for your combat pleasure. This aircraft is a fighter. However, it was originally designed as a reconnaissance machine. The prototype first flew before September 1916. The performance was so good, that it was re-designated and ordered into mass production."

"I heard these are deathtraps," someone muttered.

"That's not true," I avowed firmly. "What happened, was that four out of six of these machines were shot down on their first combat patrol. That is true."

"Well, then; what happened?" asked Black.

I like Black. He has to have the courage to ask a question, to admit that he knows nothing. To understand that the instructor is not the enemy. The Germans now, they are the enemy.

"They had the great misfortune to run into von Richtofen and his gang on their very first patrol," I explained. "Courage and honour mean nothing, when confronted by superior tactics and greater experience."

"The gentleman leading the patrol didn't understand two-seater tactics, even though a finer and braver officer never lived," I explained firmly. "These are not sailing ships at Trafalgar. How to maneuver, how to use the field of fire of the observer's gun, and how to use the gun in the nose; is what I propose to teach you. If you are interested."

"The simple fact is, they were taken by surprise by a superior formation," I added.

(How the hell would I know? But it sounded good.)

"You will be taught how to avoid being taken by surprise, and what to do if you are taken by surprise," I went on. "But even more importantly, you will learn to take them by surprise instead."

They were all silent, eyes locked on my face.

"In the air this equates with a high rate of attrition, i.e. dead pilots," I explained. "Let's make sure they're German pilots."

"Look; if you guys are willing to work with me, we can shoot down large numbers of the enemy, save our own lily soft and our mate's big hairy white asses, and maybe we all get to live through this."

They all smiled. They seemed to be listening now.

The answer was a pretty positive affirmative, albeit with reservations. Can't say as I blamed them for that. Who knows, maybe the Old Man's a queer?

"Alright. What is the maximum take-off weight of this aircraft?" I asked.

The sergeant called out, "About twenty-eight hundred pounds," as everyone hemmed and hawed.

There was another little burst of laughter.

Still, I had their attention and they were a good bunch of lads.

"All you men. Listen up. Black, Powell and I, will check the others out on a takeoff and a landing. You, you and you, stand by the nearest three planes. The rest of you wait. And I don't like horseplay. Horseplay leads to accidents."

"Oh, yeah, and why not read those manuals while we're up," grimaced Mr. Black.

He had some leadership skills, thank God. It was so hard to tell from written reports.

One or two of them were opening the books. Good for them. Maybe some of them weren't hopeless after all. One or two of them got closer to the nearest plane, gazing down into the cockpits. One even had the brains to open up the bonnet and begin drinking it all in. That guy had some potential.

My two instructors each grabbed a student pretty expeditiously. They took a quick glance at a relevant page or two in their books. Powell's aircraft sputtered up after some chit-chat with the ground crew, of which I had exactly five men.

"Andrew?"

"Yes, sir?"

"What are we looking at here?"

I had my eye on this kid. This one was a 'sleeper.' Thank God; at least one person on that committee must have liked me.

This kid was my Forlorn Hope. My Billy the Kid, Pat Garret, Jim Lacey, Doc Holliday. The Dead Shot Kid. Someone told me about this one, and I was happy for the warning. But you never can trust a rumour, no matter how reliable the source.

"Rolls-Royce Falcon III, liquid-cooled, inline engine," he began. "Maximum speedone-hundred-twenty-five at sea level, service ceiling..."

Andrew Jay hadn't looked at the book.

"All right, that's enough. Now take us up and shoot down Red One," I ordered, leaping up into the rear cockpit, and with shaking, trembling fingers rushed at the job of strapping myself in.

I'm a pretty good actor, I thought inconsequentially, as I worked the theatrical mode of presentation.

"I'm Blood and Guts Tucker, and I'm rarin' to go! Yee, hah!"

The kid moseyed over to the wing like he didn't give a damn what anyone in the whole wide world thought. But, we were prepared, like Boy Scouts. That's why the corporal began throwing firecrackers out of the shadows inside the hangar door.

"What the...?" the kid twittered, jumping in dismay as one nearly hit his foot.

Bang! Bang!

All of a sudden I blew off a couple of blank rounds from the Lewis.

"Come on, you asshole!" I bellowed in mock rage. "They're fucking getting away!"

He climbed in then, the little shit.

"Come on!" I bellowed.

Bang! Bang! More firecrackers. The mechanics raced up and they're all yelling at him, he's yelling at them, the motor goes sput, sput, barap! Barap!

Off we went down the greasy little field. He lifted off after waiting a good long time, but he had the speed now, the little bastard. He pulled hard back on the stick, zooming up over the trees and the barns. He looked pissed off.

We went tearing off in search of Red One. Hey! Not bad. Looks like we got us a ringer.

"Jesus loves me, this I know...for the Bible tells me so..."

I was singing like a meadowlark.

No one could hear it in the racket we were making anyway.

Back on the field I could see one other plane, lining up to take off.

A whole bunch of men standing around with their jaws open. We'll see about them later. In the meantime, Andrew had control of the machine, and I told him to take us home.

"We'll burn the Hun bastard next time!" I bellowed.

"You're goddamned right we will, sir!" the kid called in excitement.

He'll do, for starters. This one can coach some of the others in the basic stick and rudder skills. At least he can fly. I've heard he can shoot, as well. Thank God for small mercies. First thing that has to go is the idea that I'm a normal person, easy to please and that he can just go on doing well enough to be better than all the other boys.

What he doesn't get is that his buddies are just plain bad. And they're not the ones he's supposed to be shooting down. Some of those boys are really, really fucking good.

Andrew's not going up against professional killers anytime soon. Not if I can help it.

"Congratulations, Andrew, you're instructor number three," I yelled over the prop noise as we swished over the boundary fence.

He made a nice, squeaky little landing as both tires hit at once and the tail skid came right down like nothing. We taxied smoothly back.

"Was there ever any doubt?" he joked.

Cheeky bastard.

Sometimes silence is golden.

I wondered where she was now and what she was doing.

And if she was thinking of me.

***

In less than a week, I found a suitable field in the Norfolk area, scouting it with the help of Toby, and Betty's faithful auto. As long as, 'The Crown,' was buying the petrol, he didn't mind driving it. I talked to the landlord, and the fellow didn't cause any problems as far as occupying the land.

As far as noise, or low-flying aircraft, the man laughed.

"We're pretty remote, me mum's deaf and I could use the rent. We'll make do," he said.

I had the impression the old gomer was retired, an 'Indian Colonel,' but I just made the arrangements. We got out of there, to make some telegrams and rustle up tents, tools, trucks, an unbelievable amount of kit.

I was as busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest, and I was tired when I got home at night. But I was also a young man. Now was my chance to win Betty and hold her, so we went out a few times. We went out to dinner, dancing, music hall shows, the theatre.

One Friday night, a week or so before Christmas, I took off a little early after handing out a fistful of weekend passes. I sent all my boys home or to the city for some rest and recreation. I was up to twenty-two pilots by now and about thirty ground crew; so my mind was busy, busy, busy. Not that I was neglecting the domestic front, where I was very happy. Unbelievably so. But to put the facts plainly, there was a bit of a shortage of tents and beds! So I sent the boys off, the lot of them.

We were, 'roughing it in the bush.'

Very labour-intensive; and it gets tiring.

It was quite dark, about five-thirty or so, when I put the bike in the coach house. Closing and locking the place, for the motorcycle was a prime target for thieves, I went up to the back door.

Just as I was about to stomp my feet to shake the crud off; I saw her sitting there. Just the way the light came down from above, like a halo. Just the way she worked so intently, then looking up, and flicking her hair back, she checked the clock that hung on the kitchen wall. The Lady Fontainebleu-Higgins was darning the toe of a pair of skunky old socks. On the bloody kitchen table, was a book. This beautiful woman brought home a book on sewing so that she could darn my socks!

I stood there watching.

It was like watching my future life.

And what I saw was good.

"Why not open up the door and go in, lad?" a calm voice queried from behind.

"Who's that?" I asked, turning to peer into the gloom.

It was a Bobby.

"I'm just enjoying the view. Come up quietly and have a look," I offered.

"What's all this then?" he asked suspiciously, probably thinking me the dumbest Peeping Tom in all of human history.

"She's fixing the holes in my socks," I noted.

"Uh-huh," he said.

We watched for a moment.

"Looks like you have two choices," he mused. "Open up the door and go in. Or turn around, walk away and never look back."

He studied me in the light by the door as we stood quietly. I didn't need this, actually, but he was a Bobby.

"Thank you," I replied. "I feel a lot safer, with you on the beat."

"You're not drunk, and that's my main concern," he observed acidly.

Stumping off down the steps, he turned again.

"You've got your wits about you! I suggest you use them."

"See here," I began like a pompous ass. "I..."

I never got to finish it. The flatfoot spun around, and looked me square in the eye.

"I've walked this neighbourhood for twenty-six years, laddie, and it's about time a man of your parts learned to get in out of the rain."

Then he was gone, clomping off through the gloom.

He was right, damn it. Opening up the door; I got in out of the rain.

Chapter Twenty

Hints and Kinks

In addition to writing up the course notes at night, always staying a step or two ahead of the class, now I had to find time to shop for Christmas. I had a certain very special gift in mind, one that would likely require much shopping. My skin crawled.

There are lots of things I don't do well, in spite of statements that may lead the reader to think otherwise. Shopping is one of them. The idea of shopping for any kind of gift for a girl like Betty; or any woman for that matter, was frightening.

It evoked a sense of dread.

My mom once remarked, 'Poor Will! He's all hard edges and sharp corners.'

Often wondered what she meant by that. I'm not insensitive. I just can't shop.

Betty deserved something really special.

Resolving to go out early Saturday morning, I concentrated on my notes. Early on, once I had a little manpower, I had our 'special' mechanic make a series of models. Some of the models were enemy aircraft, reconstructed from photographs and drawings of captured enemy machines. Some of them were simple models of our own machines.

Those were all coloured blue, or red, or green, with a number on the side in white.

That mechanic couldn't be trusted with real aircraft. But he made very good models.

I put him to work on special projects where no one would get killed.

Everyone appreciated this move.

We also had smaller models that clamped together in groups of flight size; and the bases clipped together, which made it possible to maneuver the squadron on a table, or to hold it in the hand, and 'fly' it around a room full of students.

When it rained, or if it was too windy for flying, snowing, whatever; we wouldn't fly.

One big hangar tent was reserved for this purpose. We threw straw on the floor and covered it with tarps. We had a floodlight set up on a long pole. It had a heavy base with an extension chord. A man could go up a short stepladder and slide the light up and down the pole, then clamp it tight. This simulated different times of day. It was warm enough in there, as well.

Gill pissed me off one day. I had him stand on the ladder holding a little red tri-plane, all fucking day, and I mean it. He did fine, too. He didn't fall off the ladder, and all day long he held that plane out on the end of a stick.

The other men took it kind of strange. Imagine four grown men holding their little models, walking along with them held up in front, about four feet above the ground. Gill up on the ladder, holding the Hun in the Sun. Me and a couple of others walking up with our models, and then patiently talking them through every type of engagement that I could think of. And all the time poor Gill was holding the Freiherr, Manfred von Richtofen, over their heads.

They got the message, and Gill didn't lip off again.

Theory is a good thing. Having them act it out was a new approach. If I could get them to imagine the engagement inside their own heads, thinking in three dimensions, and then back it up with the kind of flying that builds confidence, I would have made a pretty good start with these men. I heard of a guy who 'envisaged,' a successful javelin toss, and that helped him to make 'the perfect throw.'

He practiced it in his head. I heard of another guy, who spent a few years in jail, much of it in solitary confinement. He played three games of golf inside of his head, every day. He was a pretty good golfer when he got out. I kid you not. I wrung my head inside out for every idea I ever had regarding aerial combat. And I think it helped; in that I had gentled a few horses over the years.

(My horses didn't do 'tricks.' They did their jobs, and I had to train them. But then,horses are smart, aren't they?)

One of the most satisfying things was when one of the boys made a suggestion, and we adopted it straight away. And I remember teaching them the weave one day. That's where two fighters flying about a hundred to two hundred yards apart break into one another, and shoot the bad guys off of each other's tail. Then they reverse turns and take on two more planes.

To see the recognition dawn on their faces.

"Yes, that's you and your wingman I'm talking about," I instructed. "The same tactic will protect you from the enemy wingers, and you could probably shoot them down as well."

"Simply reverse your turn, and try not to shoot each other down," I added with a smile. "Remember who's who; and you can deal with six or seven on your tails."

That was satisfying. Also good for my peace of mind was to take them up, with Blue Section trying to shoot down Red Section, and to see that the boys in Blue Section did exactly what I told them to do. They had no trouble at all. Once back on the ground, the boys in Red Section were all clamouring for their turn.

It was good to see them laugh, and slap each other on the backs and say things like, "I got you, Snotty! Hah! Hah!"

It was still just a game to these fellows.

But they were learning.

***

It takes more than we have some days just to get the job done. We had a lot of trouble early in the war. We had more men than the enemy. They had more soldiers. This is an important distinction.

Flying hurts. You dive ten thousand feet in five or ten seconds, see how your ears feel. Eat the wrong little thing. Get up before dawn. Fly up to 18,000 feet. See how your guts feel. It's not just the expanding gas in your bowels, ingested at 14.7 pounds per square inch. It's the tension. (God, I used to love bangers and mash, but the sausages are full of bread and air, and the spuds whipped up to a froth. Tastes good, but it hurts like hell at high altitude.)

Until you let a ripping fart go in your cockpit, and wonder briefly as you search thesky, was it wet? Was it dry? Hope I didn't shit myself. God, that feels good. And then the smell comes out around your neck when you land and open up the flight suit.

"Oh, yeah! I remember that one," said Snotty once.

"I won't forget it in a hurry either, Snotty," I griped. "Open a window in this place!"

At the time, many aspects of aviation were still a mystery, and many students found it difficult to understand control movements. I know it sounds too simple; right foot, right rudder, right turn, but it is the truth. Men were not birds, born to fly, but had to be trained, by someone who knew what they were doing. Smith-Barry was producing results, and my students were from that training system. They probably were vastly improved, even above and beyond where I was at that stage. But I was supplied with mostly rejects.

Think of Black, an older, intelligent man. He had no aggression, and no curiousity. Yet when I told him to do something, he tried this best to do it, and eventually he got better. Or Snotty, a scruffy little lad who always looked dirty, unshaven. Hair always uncombed, his feet always stank.

"Snotty!" I might ask. "How do you turn when you're upside down?"

"Very carefully?" he would say.

"Look both ways?" and on, and on.

Was Snotty playing some kind of a game? I never did figure it out.

Maybe that's why he got shoved onto me.

"Use the rudder, Snotty, use the rudder."

It wasn't a trick question.

And what about Andrew? Did he have an attitude problem, not the first one I ever ran across? The little bugger could fly like he was hatched from an egg, yet at times his smirk made me want to hit him. Sonny boy, there is nothing that you know that I don't know.

Powell was fine. With him I couldn't figure out why he was shoved off onto me.

Wrong religion, maybe.

Maybe somebody saw something that they didn't care to put on his record. That does happen, oddly enough. He was a likeable guy, and he tried hard. But none of these men were what I would have chosen to work with. And maybe that was the point. Maybe that was the point. In any case, my job was to get them interested in their own training. To be their bloody father if necessary.

Not exactly hero material, most of us.

Smith-Barry's school was the elite. Bob's standards were very high. He expected the rest of us to live up to them. People who didn't measure up were posted away. Maybe that was what happened to me! Not the smartest career choice, but to make the best of it was the only option. It was sink or swim time.

The pressure built up as we went along. I had other problems as well, including maintenance of our aircraft, a shortage of fitters, riggers, metal-smiths, senior NCO's, no non-flying officer to help with the paperwork. It all took too much time to organize. In the meantime, we concentrated on individual flying skills. We practiced spot landings.

Over and over, we practiced landings.

We practiced formation flying. We practiced with pairs of aircraft in combat with a single, 'enemy,' aircraft, (me,) and the truth was; the Germans were going to fly circles around some of these lads. I had no illusions about that, and I told them so. We began to fly at dusk and dawn, working towards night flying. We began with simple aerobatics, then strung them together in a little routine, like a dance. I set up a grading system and instituted Friday afternoon aerobatics competitions.

I brought in VIP's, including our local Member of Parliament; the Vicar of the nearby village, a couple of lady singers from London night clubs, anything I could think of to motivate them. I seriously considered having a review put on for their parents, but these weren't supposed to be schoolboys.

Here's an example of rules for aerobatics:

'A loop must have a constant radius. It must be flown in the vertical plane throughout. It starts and ends with a well-defined line. For a complete loop, this line is considered to be horizontal.'

A pilot isn't proficient if he can't read.

I divided up our little aerodrome into areas, with, 'no-fly zones,' and a 'flight-line;' which was parallel to and above the main runway. Before you can toss your plane all over the sky like a mad demon; you have to learn to control it with ease and precision. When you make it look easy, then your instructor thinks you might become competent someday.

When they came close to achieving my standards, I raised the bar just a little higher. I was the best-son-of-a-bitching instructor anyone ever had in that war.

The boys worked it all out in their heads. They had to take their little models and work it out in front of each other and with each other's help. No one taught me how to teach.

Simple act: when you do a loop in a cross wind, in order to stay over the flight line, use the rudder to correct for the crosswind. It sounds easy. People 'agree' with what you say. But do they do it? A man isn't competent, until he can follow a simple instruction like that. My fliers were sloppy in some areas. It takes time. Under pressure, it couldn't be a review of memory. It must become second nature. To always be aware of what you were doing. To instinctively know what the plane was doing at all times, and why, and to know what it was going to do next.

I honestly don't give a shit if the student agrees or not. Does he understand? Does he really get it? Can he, or will he, follow a simple instruction? Does he listen, or is he a dangerous fool?

Another rule: 'The entire flight must be flown within the aerobatic zone to avoid being penalized.'

You might be surprised by just how often people get lost doing aerobatics.

They get all intent upon their routine and then they just sort of drift off over the horizon. Imagine how an instructor feels when that happens.

'Argh,' doesn't quite express it properly.

The rules were nice and easy to apply for our impromptu judges. The fact that we were so open about what we were doing, helped with security concerns. Any leaks would not come from here. I was the only one who knew our true mission, and it was a tenuous one at best. We had nothing in writing about being 'out to get von Richtofen.'

That way the historians of the future cannot sit in judgment upon us.

If I fire a fourteen-inch shell and kill fifty men ten miles away, that's a nice, anonymous little massacre, and the fact that so many die; regardless of skill or merit, that is horror.

If I 'joust' with a man like Lowenhardt, or Goering, or Voss, like some, 'knights of the air,' and if we see each other at the same time, and choose to engage, that's a fair fight? Right? It's, 'gallant,' and, 'courageous.'

But if we send out three squadrons to shoot down the Red Baron, people will be shocked. Because it's 'un-fucking-sportsmanlike.'

Such is the insanity of war. Was it fair when von Richtofen shot down my friends?

Billy, with eleven hours on Pups? Jerry, with his observer, falling in flames over Bapaume? That was their first mission. Was that fair? I say kill the fucking bastard and have done with it.

Don't have the stomach? Let me help. I'll kill him. Let me do it. I don't care if I rot in hell. He deserves it. I deserve it. We both deserve it.

Richtofen, von Krumholtz, a couple of others taught me the meaning of fear. And hatred. Too many good men were killed by their guns; for me to have any mercy on their souls.

I was prepared to play God. Especially with the Germans. As for my own boys, that was the price of leadership. Nothing can prepare you for that.

***

Our days were full.

After a long and exhausting search, with much burning of the candle at both ends and in the middle; I finally found what I was looking for. Zavitz, my good friend, tipped me off when I stopped into the old shop in London.

He was looking better, actually. Maybe our short little talks were a kind of catharsis.

Somewhere in the world was a person who understood him. Maybe he just functioned better as a drunk.

After a brief visit, I walked out with a few names, one of which was a Captain Wheatley of the Military Aeronautics Directorate. This was an independent branch of the War Department. Another guy over at the Society of British Aircraft Constructors, but I've forgotten his name now. One of the contacts was of a more personal nature.

It was two days or so until Christmas. I sent all the team home, leaving our little aerodrome under the watchful eye of the twenty-odd soldiers provided for the purpose.

I wouldn't be gone for long. The other men only had a few days off, just long enough for the train ride home. They got two days at home, then back again. Half of their leave was spent on a train!

All I wanted for Christmas was someone to do the paperwork. On the way to London, the cold just seemed to soak into my bones. I was on my motorbike. A stupid move. Be that as it may, my mind was racing all the time. You have to get away from people sometimes. Just to think, to work things out without distractions. The boys were nothing if not a distraction. After all those missions, freezing my ass off as an observer, then as a scout pilot, maybe I just thought better when I was half-frozen.

I was going to ask Betty to marry me. That was one hell of a step, for one such as I.

There are times when I must be the stupidest man in the world. I didn't have a clue. I never saw it coming. It was like a machine gun bullet to the head. When I got home, she was in the parlour. He who hesitates is lost, and I didn't hesitate. After taking off my coat, we kissed, and as she sat down, maybe something was different in retrospect, but I didn't notice it at the time.

"How was your day, Will?" she asked.

There was hot food in the kitchen. It smelled good, but then so did she.

"Fine. Listen, there's something I want to ask you..." I began. "Um, how was your day? (See. I'm not insensitive.) Honey, I was wondering, um..."

"I had a bad day, Will," she murmured with downcast eyes.

"Is there something wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing is wrong, Will," she sighed.

Everything was wrong, I could tell that much.

"What the hell is wrong?" I asked.

She sighed, very deeply, but did not speak. She was avoiding my eyes.

Pulling the little blue velvet box out of my pocket, going down on one knee, the whole rigmarole. And I meant it, too. Maybe this would cheer her up.

"Betty, will you marry me?" I asked, which only proves just how slow I can be on the uptake sometimes.

I opened the box and took out the ring.

She said, "Oh, Will," again.

It was not a good one, not a good, "Oh, Will..."

Right about then her mom walked in from another room.

And another one bites the dust.

Chapter Twenty-One

Yet Another Hotel Room

I won't say it didn't hurt like hell; and I won't bore you with the details. It's enough to say that I found a hotel, and another place for the motorbike, and laid about on the couch like a miserable piece of shit for a couple of days. I drank heavily. I got sick.

I thought I was going to die. I wanted to die. I prayed for God to kill me. I cried a lot, and I had no one there this time.

It was all very sad.

I couldn't just drink it away. I had to get back to the job. No matter how much it hurt. People were depending on me. Not so much the students, but my buddy Bob, and others. Even some people; completely unknown to me. The students could have been sent to a squadron, or they could have been absorbed back into the system, if worst came to worst.

I flew back to Norfolk in a bloody snowstorm. Talk about dedication. But those students were all I had to hold onto at the time. That and my so-called dignity.

The bike was in storage, my heart was on ice. My mind was focused, laddie!

Fuck the world. And for the first time in a few months at least, I wondered what it would be like to go home. What would it be like to sit on the porch and look out over the fields and watch my corn growing? To listen to my cows lowing?

Heaven was too far away.

It was just a hazy dream.

***

I threw myself into the work. With a couple of days in hand before the class returned from Christmas, I put some ideas on little cards, and re-wrote them endlessly. I worked on a handbook to be bound and issued to pilots. The book was tentatively entitled; 'Hints and Kinks of Aerial Fighting.'

By the time fighting instruction resumed, I was ready for them and all set to go. They looked fit and refreshed, eager to get on with their learning.

"All righty then, are we all here?"

They responded, 'Two here, Three here, Four here,' et cetera.

"Today we'll be flying in spite of the weather. We don't have much daylight this time of year, so I'll get right to the point. Number Five, what if you were eastbound, five miles behind the lines, just you and your wingman?"

I started off by drawing on the blackboard. I quickly sketched in the Western Front, a broad squiggle which occasionally moved back and forth; often quoted at about two hundred and fifty miles. But there were so many twists and turns, salients and pockets, from the North Sea and Belgium, to Switzerland. Who really cared about the exact length? This part of the drawing was permanently painted by my pet mechanic, on one large panel in particular. The map was painted. The front line was chalked, but it didn't move much.

I drew a simplified drawing on another panel.

"Okay; here's the front, here are you two, and you're confronted by three enemy machines. You have half a tank of fuel, and are also aware of an enemy formation (dot-dot-dot) two miles behind to the west."

"What's our altitude?" asked Number Five, Powell.

He leads the second flight of this class.

"Sixteen thousand," I told him.

"And what about the enemy?" he asked.

"They're at about fifteen thousand, climbing, half a mile away, a little to the right."

They're coming towards you, Powell...think man, think.

"What time is it?" he asked.

I looked at my watch and the class broke up in laughs, which is good, for it proves they're watching. I watched Powell. Quickly catching on, he looked up at the big pole-light, grabs his model. His wingman moved out with him onto the tarpaulin floor.

"Yeah, yeah. I would engage, " he said after a minute.

Two mechanics, then a third, were holding their models and they want to shoot down the flyboys. Their big, happy grins left no doubt about that. Which is exactly the attitude they should have. I'd focus that in on the enemy flyboys later, when we get some tools and spare parts for our thirty-one aircraft of various types and conditions. We also have a few wrecks which we hope to rebuild as circumstances and time permit. My boys were thinking.

"Why?" I queried.

"This is the perfect chance to try out the high-low split," Powell told his wingman, almost ignoring my presence. "You stay low, I zoom-climb up to about another thousand real quick, and they can't match my climb rate because they're heavy, we're light and already above them."

Powell was thinking it out. Slowly, but he's thinking.

"Show him the hand signal," I instructed.

Powell put his hand straight out, in a widely stretched V-sign, palm perpendicular to the mat.

"They'll go after you," he observed; "Thinking we've panicked," and then Powell would dive onto an enemy machine's tail.

Blast it out of the sky.

After a head-on pass at the enemy formation, his wingman would turn into the sun and climb, spiraling back sunwards, pulling hard to re-form with Powell...Powell looked confused.

"What happens next?" he asked.

"You have a moral edge," I said, then hesitated.

This was hard to put into the proper words.

"Confidence, and aggression, is what wins in the air; and I suppose in real life, too."

How could he disagree?

"If you have a kill, go for the others because they likely won't engage if you've already shot one of them down and have speed on. You want them to run. Then you're behind the sons of bitches and you control the situation."

His wingman got it better than Powell did, but that was fine with me. It was Powell. I was trying to teach him to lead; because I thought he should have, I don't know, the drive, the ambition.

He just seemed slow. Don't look around for a nod of approval in combat. Just do it.

"By the time they break, scatter, and re-form, you can climb up and do it again."

Come on, Powell.

"This is slow work sometimes, men. I'm pleased with your progress," I added. "You were right to engage, but there is no telling what the enemy would have done after your attack."

"Yes, sir," they both smiled, and went back to their places.

If nothing else, I could work on their confidence. That alone might save their lives.

"Never hesitate! Just take the shot and worry about the CO's approval rating later," I told the assembled crew.

Hopefully they appreciated what I was trying to say.

Progress was being made. Would it ever be enough? I would have liked to have seen more initiative on their part. They should think things out and try them. But then, these men lacked that hatred; that fucking defiance that sets the survivors apart from the mere mortals.

"O.K. Where's Jimmy?"

Jim was a new guy. Having checked him out; I knew he could fly, and he had in fact been wounded in combat on his third mission flying Camels.

He was a 'Camel Merchant,' not a very imaginative label, but that happens in war.

"Okay. Bring your plane, I'll show you a special trick, Jim," and he came out to 'engage' the little green tri-plane which I used sometimes.

I always played the bad guy; and I knew all the tricks.

"Jim, let's say you're coming up fast from behind and I don't see you, and then I start to turn away by coincidence. You're going real fast. What are you going to do?"

"Don't really know," Jim said. "Follow you, I guess?"

"You can't turn that tight, Jim."

He stands there thinking...too long. In action, there's no telling what he might have come up with. But he needs to be able to see it in his head.

"If you blow past me, and I see you off to one side, I will simply reverse my turn and get on your tail. Then I'm going to shoot you down," I went.

I waited.

"I'll show you. Lets say I turn left, give me your plane," and he handed it to me.

"What you're going to do is a barrel roll attack. You have to climb, rolling almost inverted to watch him go away. In other words, he's turned left and you've pulled up. This bleeds off enough speed, and altitude means that you can dive down onto his tail again. It wastes a couple of seconds; and you're in a good place. Where he still can't see you..."

"So, I do a kind of fucked-up rudder turn; and then I dive onto his tail?" he asked.

"No, do a climbing, rolling, barrel-roll kind of a turn. A rudder turn is too slow," I said. "You'll bleed off all your energy. Keep your speed up and watch out for a trap! Then you do your dive, up under his tail, and ka-boom! Down he goes. And you don't have to take your eyes off him for a second."

"How do I know he doesn't see me?" Jim asked.

"Good man, excellent question."

I waited, then went on.

"Well, you don't. Look for a trap. But if he saw you coming up from behind real quick, wouldn't he break more suddenly? To throw off your aim?" I asked. "He can out-climb you. He should have pulled up, if he knew you were there."

"Yes, sir," he said. "Why do I have to go upside down?"

"So you can see him, Jim."

A little light went off in his head.

"Ah!" he murmured.

"And anyhow, maybe it's not exactly a hundred and eighty degrees of roll, maybe more like a hundred-twenty? Maybe a little more?"

"O.K." he nodded, with a quick grin. "Now I get it."

I had high hopes for Jim.

I thought of another angle, since he seemed brighter than some, and had experience.

Why not keep going? Going over to the side table, selecting a Biff model and a yellow Pfalz to represent the enemy, I tried Jim on another problem.

"Let's say you're flying along in your Biff, heading east at five thousand feet. You look over to the right, and there is this fellow, going west at the same altitude. He's about three hundred yards away. You both see each other at the same time. Neither has the element of surprise. What do you do?" I queried.

"Well, I can't turn with him and catch him. He'll come up from behind and get me," he mused. "The normal thing to do is turn in the opposite direction and dive to outrun him."

"But we're not going to do the normal thing, are we, Jim?"

"No-o-oh?" he said.

"What if you keep going straight? What if you pull back on the stick, and do a stall turn? By turning into the threat, you spoil his turn, and what if you meet him head on?" I asked Jim. "And as you go by your observer gets a crack at him with the rear gun."

"Well, he should have been firing at him all along," he said.

"That's very true, Jim. You have guns front and rear. He only has guns in front."

He listened in focused attention.

"You and your plane are more than a match for any piss-ant Pfalz, if properly flown. What do you think? Did you know that your plane has more power and speed than a Pfalz fighter? Their engines are all obsolete."

"I suppose you're right, sir," he agreed.

Well, good. But does he understand? I hope so.

"Imagine if you had a wingman, backing you up. He could circle in the opposite direction, or even just stick right with you. Right, Jim?"

He nodded; and shuffled back into the group.

Who do I get to shoot down next? I could go on all day like this. How much can they pick up in one little lesson? They needed to practice flying. They needed to be fed in little bits. Sometimes the instructor wonders if he is just babbling to hear himself talk. Maybe he needs a rest.

"Come on skipper, give us one more," someone called.

I like your line of thinking, whoever the hell that was.

"All right, Snotty, get out here," I called.

He and his wingman Geoff came out.

Geoff didn't have to ask, 'Duh! Do you want me to go with him?'

Geoff knew his job by now, and it helped my peace of mind to match up men very carefully. Geoff would look after Snotty. I had no doubts. That's what friends are for.

"You men are flying at medium altitude, with two other planes," and I waved out twomechanics.

Sometimes I did this to illustrate that you might have to fly with new people or even strangers. And if the mechanics can get it, so can the flyboys, was the unspoken message.

A lot of mechanics go on to fly, it's in the blood.

More mechanics simulate enemy machines, six in number. The paths converged on the hangar floor. The men shuffled around as I explained the bracket.

"Left element of blue section breaks left, right element separates right. The enemy formation holds tightly together for mutual protection."

All eyes followed as we went along.

"The entire bad-guy formation makes a head-on attack on the right-hand element of blue section. The left-hand element of blue section makes a blind side attack, and shoots down two enemy machines. The commander of the enemy formation didn't know what to do, or how to direct his aircraft. He should have had several sections, to say the least. If nothing else, he should have been able to break into two groups."

I stood there a moment, hands on hips, exuding confidence.

"It's simple, gentlemen, utterly simple. There is no mystery to fighting in the air," I concluded.

"One more thing. This may sound like bragging, but it is no more than the simple truth. But I am always the first one into a fight, and I'm always the last one to leave. This isn't motivated by bravery, I can assure you, gentlemen. It is not motivated by a desire to kill, or hatred. I don't give a shit about decorations and awards. I am motivated by a strong desire to live. I'm here today to tell you that my methods work very well indeed."

There was a long silence after that one.

"Out to the flight-line in fifteen minutes," I added, almost as an afterthought.

The next fifteen minutes would be hell, because now I had time to think of her.

Which I did a lot of, when I had the time. An officer by day, narcissistic youth by night.

By now we were up to twenty-three pilots, and were starting to get a flow of other personnel. Howard-Smythe, he became our adjutant, so deaf he couldn't hear a briefing, but that allowed him to concentrate on the paperwork. We had the sergeant pretend to be him and make all the phone calls. The sergeant had a wicked cockney accent, and calling himself 'oward-Smoife on the phone; it just broke the place up every time.

I guess you had to be there. Anyway, Captain Howard-Smythe was deaf, so he didn't mind. He saw us all happy, he was happy too. We had a dead-beat corporal, we had some good people.

We had one half-decent mechanic and a boy for each aircraft; but only one rigger for every two airplanes! That's not good. It takes a lot of time to rig a plane after uncrating.

Some of our planes, like my own hack Avro 504-C, were flown into our site, but we got three brand spanking new Camels one day. They had to be unloaded from the nearest rail siding, at a mill in the nearby village. Then each one was brought over on a hay wain! We had our little canvas-topped lorries and a couple of antiquated fuel trucks. Our farmer friend let me drive the team.

I enjoyed that day more than I should have, but we were all excited by the new machines. It was good to work with horses again. When I saw the stables, and the neat condition they were in, it was obvious he was a respectable man.

Each plane was uncrated, assembled, the motor put on, all the controls, the fuel system all hooked up. Everything was checked over, signed off on the ground, and then the fully-completed aircraft had to be flown on air-test.

Putting on the wings, hooking up the flying, landing and control wires, making sure the wings and tail were straight and true, set at the proper angle of incidence, it all took up too much time. Landing wires support the wings on landing, so they don't snap at the fuselage and fall off. Flying wires help to support the weight of the craft in flight. It can be confusing, and of course it takes knowledge and experience. One time a mechanic hooked up the ailerons wrong when connecting the control cables to the joystick.

Simple mistake, but it could have killed someone. Lucky we caught it.

It took a lot of time. We had nine Bristol fighters, F2 B's; three badly-worn old Camels, three new ones, a half a dozen Avros, and six crated SE-5a's which I was saving.

The rest were all old SE's that needed a lot of work, even complete overhauls.

Not enough other parts for any serious maintenance or repairs. Three squadrons could be up to sixty pilots and six hundred other personnel! To keep it small had its advantages.

That's why we flew Brisfits and Avros a lot at first.

There were small blessings, like when Smith-Barry 'discovered' some new engines in the back of a storage shed; for what he called the 'obsolescent' 504-C's. When they arrived, they turned out to be miss-labeled. Brand new Clerget 130-hp engines, which could theoretically fit on the Avro, with some minor but time-consuming adaptations.

Actually, they were much better suited to the Camels. Robert was a nice guy.

I never asked where he stole them.

We had three squadrons, but only on paper. Maybe we would get more men, maybe we wouldn't. However, it justified throwing my weight around to get the materiel needed to build up our strength, in terms of ground personnel, tools, transport, machinery, and my latest obsession, some spare motors. A few Rolls-Royce Falcon engines for the Bristols would have been nice. If I could ever get some. Certain things, I felt justified in saying, or even doing. I was prepared to steal those engines. If I could locate some, I intended to do just that. It could be frustrating, at times.

And I could be a cold bastard, when necessary.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Long Day

All I knew about Captain Wheatley was that he worked for the Military Aeronautics Directorate, which was an independent branch, and that he could walk into some place like A.V. Roe and order a hundred planes. The order would be met, and 'the cheque didn't bounce...'

Never underestimate an old 'piss tank' like Zavitz. He would drink with other like-minded individuals, in similar places, all within lunch-time walking distance of Whitehall. Drinkers have looser tongues than those who don't, and they'll always have, 'just one more.' Zavitz was primed with a little cash and the promise of additional funding as required.

It took some doing, but with a little help from friends who shall remain nameless, I finally tracked down Wheatley. I flew out to Farnborough. He was in meeting after meeting. Wheatley was a busy man. He was one step ahead of me all day. I finally caught up with him.

"I'm just going out to dinner," he mentioned, with a hint of crankiness.

He looked tired, but then so was I. He was nice enough to invite me along. There were two or three other chaps. One slipped away and the others were quiet types, obviously as shagged-out as he was. It was Folland who slipped off, which was a bad break.

I wanted to meet him. He was on the list for sure.

"What's your idea?" the captain asked after ordering.

"I need machinists, tools, and parts. I plan on building more powerful engines, and making certain modifications to my aircraft," I told them. "I can make ten, fifteen percent more power without a significant increase in engine failures or maintenance costs."

"How do you plan to achieve that?" he murmured, sipping a cocktail.

He and his pals eyeballed me skeptically.

"First the engines. We'll balance and blueprint those engines to the tightest tolerances. This includes making sure the pistons, the rods and pins, all weigh the same."

"Go on," he said.

I explained about shot-peening all the surfaces of the rods, the balancing of the crankshaft, roller tappets, bigger inlet and exhaust valves. They listened intently, with the odd quiet question thrown in.

"Chrome nitriding. That's expensive," one guy said that. "Highly experimental, even Top Secret."

"I want to make all the combustion chambers equal in size; to the tenth or even one- hundredth of a cubic centimetre. I want to plane or mill the heads, to increase the compression ratio. I'll port and polish the heads, modify the intakes and exhaust, put on a bigger carburetor, modify the air intake; and I suppose do a few other little things."

Bigger valves, heavier springs, new high-lift camshaft, new lifters, a better oiling system, more juice to the sparking plugs. Some of these items were of the 'wish list' category, but most were practical. No one had ever applied them systematically, and all at once, to an actual production variant. At least not on our side.

"None of this is unheard of," he began.

"True. In the manufacturing process, they go for the numbers and completion date. They go for contracts, payments and volume. Cost per unit is the bottom line. I plan to go for performance. They get penalized if they're late on delivery. It costs them money."

Wheatley sat there with an odd look on his face.

"We'll be filtering our fuel, and testing alcohol. I think we could go ten percent alcohol without major carburetor modifications," I kept going doggedly. "It will run cooler."

"But you're running hotter plugs?" one of his friends asked.

"Yep," I said. "We're running a little more spark advance as well. We open up the tappet-clearances, but only slightly..."

The way I trailed off was tantalizing.

"What about the airframes?" Wheatley asked.

"Take a look at this sketch."

I placed it before them.

"This is the trailing edge of the elevator. On our planes it's rounded off, quite simply.

I would prefer this. It takes exactly the same volume of wood; but it sweeps up more on the bottom than it sweeps down from the top, and there is a little flat break at the actual trailing edge. The wings and ailerons, although not the rudder; get the same treatment. The rudder trailing edge is a more straightforward streamlining."

"What does that do?" Wheatley asked.

"It reduces drag in high-pressure zones," I explained confidently.

"What do you need from us?" he asked.

His eyes took in my sketches. He lifted a brow.

"Engines, parts, machinists, machine time, a truck; a big one, tires, tubes, wheels, linen and dope, the list is endless," I sighed. "Machine guns, ammunition, riggers. Hell; you name it, I fuckin' need it."

I took a deep breath.

"I need a lot of good people, in various specializations. Don't take me for an expert. I had help with some of these ideas," I added. "But I understand the theories and the terminology. I may not be as...competent as it sounds at first glance."

Chuckles from Wheatley and the others. What's that about?

"For example, I know that in porting and polishing a head, when doing the intakes and exhaust ports, you have to keep a uniform thickness. You have to make sure that there are no thin spots, which causes uneven cylinder-head heating and consequent cracking."

They looked at each other, quick glances around the table, furtive like. Hmn! Wonder what crisis they've been working on?

"I want to experiment with high-altitude engine tuning," I concluded. "Simple drag and weight reductions; with a little extra power and torque. With increased engine power, we can use a bigger, more efficient propeller. I want to be able to change the reduction gears more quickly, try bigger props. Experiment in general."

"Give me your name," he requested.

I wrote it down for him, plus another name where he could ask about my credentials.

His eyebrows rose.

"Him?" he asked.

"Yep," I replied.

"Jolly good," he said with a smile. "How's your steak? Would you like another?"

"Best thing I've had in weeks," I admitted. "But I doubt if I could jam it in."

"Maybe you should put that on your list, too," he suggested.

"I'm afraid to ask for too much," I explained sheepishly.

Wheatley and his pals grinned.

"Oh, you have it all wrong. In this business you learn to ask for three times what you actually need," joked Wheatley.

"In that case, triple everything, including cooks," I said. "And some steaks, and some scotch. A few dozen cases would do for a start."

They all grinned at that one. Well, I guess the man knows his way around. I began to feel better about things, once I got a meal into me. It was a very long day.

***

Phantoms of the night haunted my dreams.

I woke up in a real mess. The last dream was a doozie.

Bathed in sweat, the covers showed that I must have been thrashing around a lot. The dream was a bad one. Nothing but machine guns, and burning, spinning aircraft. A big dogfight, where I was the only one. The sheer darkness of the dream was disturbing.

It was like the engagement happened at night.

There must have been hundreds, thousands of enemy machines. Faceless monsters, not men in planes, but creatures, phantoms of darkness, with gnashing jaws and fiery eyes.

Turning, pulling, kicking at the rudder pedals, left, right, up, down. Pull, kick, pull.

There was always someone on my tail. My neck hurt from bending it against the pillows. I must have shot down thirty of them, but they kept coming. They never stopped harrying me. The blankets were soaking wet, like after a fever breaks. I couldn't get back to sleep in them.

Picking out one blanket in particular that seemed a little drier than the rest; I got out of the bedroom, the scene of so much insanity. I sat in a chair, and looked at the walls. I listened to the noises outside my window. In came the sounds of a major city at night. Whistles, faint voices, horses slowly clop-clopped through the alleys and byways. The very air in the room was clammy. Fog crept in through the window, but I just sat there. The fog explained the stains on the white and pink floral wallpaper, though.

God, where the hell do I stand? My personal life is trash. I feared that my abilities, fine for what I was doing before, would fail me at some crucial moment. I needed to focus on what's important. My mouth tasted like crap.

All I could do was to sit and think it out.

***

War's frenetic pace forced aviation through a growth pattern like a hothouse tomato. The speed of this change in an industrial world has never been matched. Virtually every possibility in the development of air power had been, or would be tried.

Every crazy fucking idea would be tried. I knew that. Everyone should know that, but too many didn't seem to get it. And they had all the power!

In the beginning, no one knew a damned thing. I mean it. We had to learn the hard way. Men died every fucking day, because they didn't know how to do their job.

In the early stages of the war a mission assigned, sort of meant a new need identified.

Trenchard was into the strategic bombing thing. Smith-Barry was trying to codify a training scheme. The late Oswald Boelcke had his alleged, 'dicta,' (there were a couple of jokes that went around about him.) Billy Bishop taught fighter tactics at Narborough; my buddy Hallam at Felixstowe was working on his legendary 'spider web' patrol systems, and those big experimental flying boats with that Commander Porte guy.

I was trying to shoot down the Red Baron. What an ambitious little fucker.

You ever met Hallam? Nice guy. No one even had the slightest clue, of how to patrol the North Sea in 1914. That's because fleet maneuvers don't last very long and rarely take into account secret enemy weapons, or surprise tactics and strategies. The submarine was an unknown quantity before the war. The Navy didn't know what to do with either submarines or airplanes.

Hallam had an idea. Someone listened to him. Then he was given a job to do.

Aerial warfare was so revolutionary, that it threw out all the old ideas of so-called, 'gentlemen,' conducting warfare with so-called, 'rules.'

This change in attitude didn't happen overnight. Once all the lessons began to sink in, the more aware began to experiment. There will always be leaders in the world of ideas, just as in politics and other human endeavors.

War is a crucible for ideas.

It was time to try out my idea.

The famous No. 56 squadron was actually set up to shoot down the Red Baron.

The best fighter pilots were collected into one squadron in frank imitation of the so-called, 'circuses,' the Germans had roving the front. But then our higher command didn't use them properly. It didn't make sense sometimes. Anyone could see that.

The Germans were always faced with a numerical inferiority. This forced them to adapt quickly to new tactical situations. And they had an excellent forward observation system.

Their circuses were used defensively.

They had balloons, aircraft, spies, ground observers, linked by wire to headquarters.

They didn't have to do the 'barrage patrol.' They could just sit and wait for the phone to ring. Their spies had ways to communicate. Maybe carrier pigeons, or probably, in my own opinion anyway, it might be possible to have a concealed telegraphic cable right through the middle of no-mans land. Or under a river or something. This would be in addition to the usual well-known diplomatic sources of data which the enemy would employ. If I knew I was going to start a war, the first thing I would do is to set up a proper information-gathering network in enemy territory. I mean, seriously.

Both sides dug tunnels and planted bombs beneath enemy lines. Why not keep going, and run a telegraph cable? The Brass were probably idiots on both sides, but the Germans just seemed very competent sometimes.

You could say I didn't trust them.

In the air, they adopted a defensive strategy. We had to go to them. The Germans learned a lot about us by doing this. We had our rigid offensive policy, and it didn't take too long for them to figure that out.

If they knew where we were, they could save gas. Their men could fly fewer hours.

They didn't even have to build as many planes as us.

Interestingly enough, when they did catch up to us, they had learned some very effective means to deal with us. My thought was, they had obviously studied us. So why not study them? Let's take them apart and see what makes them tick.

Wouldn't it be interesting to talk to some Fritzie officer? If he would talk?

See if we can arrange that! We must have one in prison somewhere.

That's when sleep came again, and the dreams. Have you ever woken up at six in the morning with a gut-wrenching jab of adrenalin? There was a story about a young girl who got up out of bed, ran screaming down the hallway, fell out a window, and when she hit the ground they say she was still asleep, and still running.

Grumbling, that's my stomach. When was the last time I ate? I needed coffee, and cigarettes, and lots of hot water. Lots of aches and pains this morning. One occasionally wonders if morphine, cocaine, heroin, opium, hashish, laudanum, or whatever would help. Oh, yeah, lots of guys use various drugs or combinations of drugs to combat the pain of their wounds. The trouble is, it comes at a very high price. When you fly you need to be in good physical health. Psychological health, too. A lot of men took to the booze, but when the stress diminished, most of us cleaned ourselves up. But not all of us.

The price for living is death. Most people don't know that. They look in the mirror and ask themselves, 'Why did God give me such a funny-looking nose?'

'So you could smell things with it, you twit.'

Imagine God's big voice coming down from above.

You have to learn to focus on what's vital. I had a job to do and men depending on me.

And I take pains to ensure that my boys get their fair share of fun by sending them off from time to time for recreation. I've never ordered myself to go on leave. Never thought of it before. I think I have the power. I never thought to ask.

I watched myself as I shaved and did a quick assessment. Is this man cracking up?

It's hard to say. As his commanding officer, perhaps it would be wise to monitor the situation for a while. I could still look myself in the eye, though.

That's always a good sign.

***

Buttonholing Winston was my next priority.

Being holed up in a hotel isn't too good if you're used to fresh air and sunshine. For a couple of days I laid a long time in bed, took nice afternoon naps, and had someone to feed me good grub.

Oddly enough, I didn't even really want to go out. I wanted to think.

I had pencils, paper, a rental typewriter, meals sent in, and once again I had to thrash out a bunch of ideas. Ideas that would be needed Monday morning. My goal was to use what precious little time I had left to teach my men to shoot. The training program taught them to fly. I would teach them how to fight as a team. Would Billy Bishop take a few of my boys on for several days and help me out?

It would take a big load off.

We were learning to specialize. In some ways my specialty was in learning—or teaching.

I made some notes and got dressed, read the paper, drinking coffee and smoking. I decided to make a visit to someone, which I had been putting off for some time. I made two or three quick calls, but only got one answer. It was the most vitally important one, though.

The desk man waved genially as I left the hotel. The doorman called a cab, the driver proffered a friendly greeting. Strangers and their attitude can be very important to a lonely man.

I once told a girl serving in a coffee shop, "It's nice to see a friendly face once in a while."

A perfect stranger; she knew what I meant.

"Take me to the Houses of Parliament," I told the driver. "I'm going to make some sauce."

He took a quick look in the mirror and shut up.

I planned on bagging Winnie as he walked down the front steps. It was more effective than making an appointment and waiting for hours in an office, only to have it cancelled at the last minute because he was, 'running late.'

Guys like that always run late.

Guys like that don't know the value of time.

I never could handle that kind of frustration.

Someone once said, "You are the most assertive bastard in the whole wide world."

"What do you mean?" I asked, perfectly conscious that I have at the very least, a fairly normal set of fears and phobias.

"Because you keep tweaking old Winnie's nose, and I don't fathom how you keep on getting away with it."

Time to tweak Winston's nose again. You get away with it by doing it, incidentally.

Winnie was right where my confidential source said he would be. I pounced on him from out of the sun.

"Tucker!" he grumbled. "Jolly good to see you again."

Like hell it was.

"Mister Churchill, I have a bone to pick with you," I began in no uncertain terms.

He looked askance. Gulping a little, he waited.

"Can we talk somewhere?" I asked him real quick, and kept on going up the steps.

Winnie came huffing and puffing back up the steps again, with that little fruit Thomas prancing along. He was Winnie's 'fag.' Not in the sense of 'a musical gentleman,' but Winnie didn't have time to be running out for cigars. We grabbed an anteroom. They have them scattered up and down the halls. Thomas stood guard to make sure we weren't overheard. There were definitely press types about, but they had sense enough to know when they were 'on,' and 'not on.'

I was the one with no manners.

"It's good to see you! How are you coming along?" he chaffed, putting his hand on my arm and giving it a good squeeze. "How's that girl of yours, or are you on to the next one yet?"

"Sure, Winnie. I bet you wish you were young again."

His face began to glow a little pink.

"Not putting on any pounds are we?" he expostulated, just like he always talked.

"I need a few things," I said.

"Anything! Always glad to help! Let me know what I can do for you, my boy," he vowed.

His eyes glittered in sardonic humour. It would be wise not to mis-underestimate this man.

"I made a list," I told him.

"Give it here, Tucker. Don't be shy," he grunted, and Thomas grinned.

"I need the name of every military intelligence officer on the western front and his phone number. I need enough authority to commandeer trains, trucks, fuel stocks, pilots,aircraft. I need to push Bishop around a little. I need more guns and ammo. I need a biography on every major German officer of any note. That means the fliers, mostly."

"What do you need from Bishop?" he asked.

"I want him to train a couple of my guys to shoot and fly at the same time."

He smiled.

"Done," said Churchill, who to be honest was in his early to mid-thirties.

You could look it up if you thought it was important.

Winston could be a fuddy-duddy sometimes. He still tended to think of the good of the Empire, when we really needed to win the war first. And as a Canadian, who really gives a shit? I got a perspective too, you know.

All that 'King and Empire' stuff was just pure bullshit and he knew it.

Just mindless propaganda, in my view. Propaganda has no integrity, nor any internal logic to violate.

"I want to interrogate a German 'flieger,' a high-ranking one," I added.

I handed him my paper presentation.

"Maybe we could make you a lieutenant-colonel," he mused.

"I don't give a rat's ass how you do it," I blurted. "What I need is to dog my targets all over the Front, to move as fast as them, to have information available when I need it; and the ability to move my units around very quickly in a changing tactical environment. Oh, yeah; and no fucking bullshit from you."

"That's a pretty long speech for you, William," he joked. "You should take up politics."

I smiled in spite of myself. This man always put me in a foul mood, but demagogues always do.

"I'll spare you that pain," I quipped tersely, and even Thomas giggled involuntarily.

"You should come out to the house once in a blue moon," Winnie invited. "Maybe we could find you another girl."

"That is exactly the kind of network I want, Winnie," I went on, ignoring the blatant abuse of despotic power. "If you expect me to get anything done, you'll give me the resources. Money talks and bullshit walks. For example, I need to interrogate a couple of fucking high-ranking German fliers, if you have any fucking laying around."

That's the second time I had to ask.

"Done!" he quickly agreed, tipping a nod to Thomas.

"Without timely help, resources, men and machines, this fucking mission isn't worth a pinch of fucking coon-shit," I told him with some heat, which wasn't too difficult to fake with Winnie.

"Do you mind if I use that in a speech someday?" he blinked.

"Not at all, my friend," I replied with a sweet smile.

Time to be on my way.

"You obviously need all the help you can get," said he.

I could see thoughts go through his head.

"So do you, sir," I said.

"You never quit," he agreed with a small sigh. "You'll get the best I can do, and as you know I have friends in high places."

"Know thyself," I quipped, and then decided it would be a good time to take my leave of the gentleman.

"You and I are like two peas in a pod, Tucker," he called after me.

Winnie wasn't exactly stupid, you know.

He once said, 'If you're going through hell, keep going.'

That's halfway intelligent. I spun on my heel.

"You are a self-made man who worships his own creator, and I am very, very fucking busy," I noted, turning to go finally.

'You're my fuckin' best buddy,' I remember thinking. I could hear him talking to Thomas as I strode away.

"Damn that man!"

Thomas's reply was muffled; then Winnie spoke.

"I'll never forget the sound of that plane, ripping past my bedroom at five God-awful a.m."

"Unbelievable," Thomas said a little wistfully.

Maybe Thomas would like to join up and learn to fly. I wouldn't run errands for the Pope.

And I guess this is a kind of errand.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dinner On The Town

That evening, I shaved up real good and put on my best uniform. I have been told that I'm a handsome man. Frankly, I just don't get it. But there's no accounting for taste, is there? Someone once described me as 'pleasantly ugly.' Now that, I can accept. I never chased women. I don't know why; I just never learned how. Funny thing is, in the end, I figure I did all right.

I went out to dinner. As usual I waited for a table, but my luck was in and they found a small one by the kitchen doors. That doesn't sound like a good seat? I may be a nobody, but a couple of medals hanging on the right uniform will work wonders in this town.

The Royal Flying Corps was 'in.' The Navy wouldn't get a seat that quickly. The thought made me smile. Hopefully it would rain all night. There was a big crowd of the buggers still on the sidewalk outside the building. If I looked, I could see their forms outside the rain-blotted windows that lined the east side of the sooty old edifice.

From my own first impression, the five-star rating was over-rated.

***

"Tucker?" asked a sweet voice at my elbow.

Startled out of my reverie, the delicious aromas emanating from the cookery beside us were now muted due to a full belly, yet a new fragrance, the fragrance of...

"Jennifer?"

I stood quickly, dropping the napkin beside the plates and stuff.

Thankfully, she didn't catch me chewing down a big chunk of meat. My chin was free of gravy and crumbs.

"It is you!" she smiled. "How could anyone forget the immortal Will Tucker?"

"Do you have time to sit down?" I said. "You look amazing. Who's the lucky, er, stiff?"

I was about to say, 'Who's the lucky son of a bitch?'

"Smiling gentleman; blonde moustache, over on the left, behind the palms," she indicated.

A very composed young lady. Nevertheless, I caught a faint hint of boredom or perhaps even disappointment.

I knew him. A nice enough guy. Jimmy worked over at the Admiralty in cartography.

"How is old Jim?" I asked politely, not having much to say to Jennifer.

We met only briefly, and I was dumb enough to fall asleep.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep last time," I apologized.

"Don't worry about that," she chuckled in quite a low, husky voice for a girl.

That caused a small shiver in my guts.

"The last time my brother Richard came home; he slept for a week," she ventured. "Really, he got up at nine or ten. He slept on a deck chair on the veranda in the afternoon. He took little naps after dinner, then went to bed fairly early, eleven-thirty or midnight."

"Heh, heh," I murmured. "I know the feeling. I work my ass off, excuse me, and now have exactly two days to put myself back together again."

The waiter cleared the table as I sat and looked her over. She was well put together.

God had done a real good job.

I smiled ruefully.

"You ever had a nervous breakdown? Well, I've earned it; and I'm determined to enjoy it."

We relaxed in silence. Jennifer was about five-eight. She had blonde hair, and blue eyes. She had on a tan, fuzzy cashmere sweater with a string of white pearls. Dark brown skirt. Very subdued, very tasteful. Nice breasts.

She coolly surveyed the room. She must have left the glasses at home. How much could she actually see, I wondered?

"I'm bored," she said, turning to gaze deeply into my own eyes.

There's some kind of message here. I was furiously thinking. She sees well enough, I was thinking. The waiter brought a glass and I poured her some wine.

At that point her date came over, and while he strode up confidently enough, I think he was a little taken aback by the sight of all the medals. Jennifer had a strange little smirk on her face as she watched.

"Jim! I've been meaning to look you up," I said, lurching painfully up out of my seat again.

I pulled out a convenient chair for Jim at Jennifer's elbow.

"What are all you folks up to this evening?"

Jim's boyish, freckled face flushed with pleasure, although we only had a passing acquaintance. We'd shot each other a line or two over a glass of beer one time at a conference. A lunch-time break, just he and I and a few others.

"I hear you're doing well," he replied. "I was just wondering if you would care to join us, but first..."

He took a deep breath, and hesitated.

"Um, Jennifer, I know I said...well, I mean, if you don't mind," he stuttered.

"Oh, it's nothing to worry about, Jimmy," she reassured him.

I watched closely, and she obviously had Jim right where she wanted him. A nice young fellow, he was perhaps a little overconfident and misunderstood his standing with her.

"I mean, it's just that the boys are only in town for, ah; tonight, and it would be shame to miss it, you know," he went on.

"Of course Jim. I wouldn't want you to miss it," she patted him on the arm as they sat side by side.

I sat watching Jim making a very serious tactical and strategic error with what was obviously a very high quality woman. A very beautiful one.

"I would be honoured to escort your date, Jim. There's nothing to worry about on that score," I told him. "I don't mind. I'm just in town overnight myself; with a few hours to kill."

"Of course, I may not be the best company," I warned Jennifer.

"Aw, that's awfully decent of you, old chap," said Jim.

He tossed his drink off and it was apparent Jim had a plan, one which involved a lot of drinking, already outlined in his head.

"Is it okay if I give you a call, later this week?" I asked him. "There's a small project that could really use some professional help, and you popped into mind. It's a very small world, and a lucky break to run into you."

"Really?" he seemed surprised. "What do you need? I would kick in the admiral's door, if you wanted."

"You would?" I briefly considered. "That's awfully nice of you to offer, and we may have to take you up on that someday."

"You name it, Will," he said. "I may be hidden in a back hallway, but I do have some surprising powers."

"Maps." I said. "I need a lot of good maps, and a couple of other little things."

"Cor! Anything you want," he told me. "I heard something funny about you this morning."

"What? No, I don't like boys," I cracked, and the two of them guffawed in unison.

"I heard you were funny," giggled Jennifer.

"Who told you that?" I asked sternly, staring at her with an angry, fake frown.

She giggled again, then composed her features in mock seriousness.

"You're mean," she said impishly, batting her eyelashes in mock flirtation.

"If you don't stop that you'll go blind," I told her.

She chokked-chokked as a little of her drink went down the wrong way.

"Oops! Sorry," I apologized wryly.

"Bastard!" although she said it with a smile.

Jimmy looked over at the other table; where a group of folks were engaged in a serious but noisy discussion of the finer points of horse racing.

"Getting a bit out of hand. Better get them the hell out of here. I heard you were getting a big promotion," he nodded. "Of course, you would be the last to know."

"It isn't the most important thing on my mind right now," I admitted. "But it doesn't seem very likely."

Why would they be talking about me at the Admiralty?

"Just dying to get back into the fray?" he grinned over the tablecloth.

"Hell, no," I assured them to more grins.

Poor old Jim's eyes kept straying back to those damned medals ranked up there on my tunic. Fuck.

Jimmy had a good smile, and a nice face. It is nice to be liked by people sometimes. England was like that to strangers in wartime. It was a good feeling. It's better than being shot at.

***

A lady like Jennifer didn't have to go home early. She didn't have to sit there waiting

to be asked out dancing, or to the theatre. For whatever reason, she latched onto me and seemed determined to stick.

She knew something I didn't.

She did say she was bored.

Maybe she liked to go slumming once in a while.

"Are you into motorcycles?" I asked as we walked.

It was a surprisingly warm night, all of a sudden.

"I've never been on one," she admitted. "Will it be cold?"

I hadn't invited her yet.

"We'll bundle you up nice and cozy."

She had on a dress and stockings, and by golly, the little mink coat didn't look any too warm, not at any kind of speed.

"I like the sound of that," she whispered, mouth up close to my ear.

She was glued to my side. Suddenly the rows and rows of goose bumps stood up.

"As I recall, you have beautiful feet. I wouldn't like to see those pretty toes all chewed up with frostbite," I ventured uneasily.

"Beautiful feet?" she tittered.

"I'm sorry, Miss Jennifer. I didn't mean to get too personal. It's just that I used to draw when I was younger."

I tried to explain without further embarrassment.

I'm a mature man, I should be able to say what I mean without hemming and hawing.

"Figure drawing is extremely challenging," I rambled on. "I doubt if I could capture your feet. Or anything else about you, for that matter. Not with any real justice."

That doesn't sound very confident.

"Have you drawn a lot of women's feet?" she giggled.

"That's about all I ever got to draw! Hands and faces, landscapes, animals. I used to try and draw my horses all the time."

"You never know until you try," she murmured seductively, giving a good strong squeeze on my suddenly sweating palm.

I stopped suddenly.

"I'm not looking for any...trouble," I said.

She stood there, gazing up in the light of a lamppost.

"I won't be any...trouble," she said quietly; after we had a good long gaze at each other.

Oh, my God. What have I gotten myself into this time?

"Women! Can't live with 'em; can't live without 'em."

She laughed at that one, and we moseyed on. In any case, we were friends and whatever happened, happened. There was no rush. She was telling me to relax and let nature take its course. Now that's something an old farmer can understand.

"Que sera," I told her. "Whatever will be, will be."

"I'm a very patient girl," she whispered. "But I usually get what I want."

Okey-dokey.

***

I had a key.

We found some old clothes hanging in Petersen's shop. He was out for the evening, although I didn't prowl through the building to confirm it. She didn't want to put them on over her dress, so she used the lavatory to change. When she came out, she had her hair tied up tight and was wearing two pairs of trousers under a set of mechanic's coveralls. What they call a boiler suit, not like the bib overalls that I usually wore around the farmstead.

The shirts and sweaters were humongously too big.

"Very fetching," I chuckled.

She did look cute. With a face like that, not too many motorcycles would get repaired if the boys were in the shop. She was gazing around the room in curiousity.

"What a mess," she said.

The place was pretty small, and jam-packed with parts, pieces and equipment.

"This one's mine," I noted.

"It would have to be the biggest and most powerful one," she nodded impishly.

I took a quick glance around the room, and the low-ceilinged area on the side.

"Petersen's bike is really fast," I wanted to show her. "But he seems to be gone for the time being."

"Yours will be big enough, I'm thinking," she said, and I flushed in embarrassment.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I muttered.

"I meant the bike," she said, smirking in an elfin way.

This woman was going to eat me for breakfast. My hands trembled as I reached out and took a firm grip on the handlebars, and dragged, pushed and pulled the bulky thing out of its slot. Quickly donning an old flight suit, I opened up the door. The chill entered with a flourish of grey, threadbare fog.

Brick walls and yellowing lights seemed warm in comparison.

I kicked the machine into life and let it idle to warm up. It would settle down in a minute; but if I tried to leave too soon it would stall or the carb would ice up. All kinds of problems. You want the oil to heat up a little as well. The chassis was used, but the motor was new and it was still in the running-in process.

It sat for a moment, chugging away.

"Still want to go?" I asked.

She nodded seriously.

"Not scared are you?"

She nodded seriously.

"Really?"

She nodded again. And then I just sort of grabbed her, pulling her in close.

Wrapping my long arms around her, in a big bear hug, I gazed down into her sea-green eyes. Good thing I took a closer look.

"I promise I won't let anything bad happen to you."

"Yes, sir!" she chattered.

"I'll tell you what," I suggested. "Why don't we just go around the area for a quick tour, and then I'll take you home, someplace warm, or anywhere you want to go."

"I'm all ears," she said.

"No, I'm the one with the big ears," an apt observation. "You're all woman. That's plain enough. Even when you're all bundled up like that."

"Jesus, are you back again?" a big voice in the hall called out.

"Hey, Petersen! We're just going out for a ride. And I'm not Jesus, although the mistake is a natural one."

This evoked chuckles all around.

"And who is the young lady?" he asked in a curious manner.

Of course, he knew all about Melissa and Betty. He knew the facts of the case.

Bill was trying real hard not to raise his eyebrows. I could see the little twitch.

"This is Jennifer," I introduced them. "Jennifer, meet Bill Petersen."

I still couldn't recall her last name. Presumably she would tell me when ready.

"How do you do?" she said. "Will and Bill!"

***

The fog deadened the motor and the sounds of the city. The tires went swish-swish through small puddles of moisture and slick spots from a day of drizzle; although it wasn't raining at the time. She clung on tightly, with her head buried in the back of my shoulder. I kept the speed low, and made each gear change carefully, letting out the clutch nice and smooth.

"Are you warm enough?" I called.

She gave me a squeeze, then...uh, oh, her little glove slid and crept carefully down to my crotch. She gently rubbed the area, while I tried to drive, shift gears, and not fall off the saddle in shock.

"Naughty girl!" I said.

She kept doing it. There was only one way to stop her, so I turned around and headed back to the shop. Finally she just quit and hung on tight. Petersen had locked up, and we shivered as I worked to get the door open. My fumbling, shaking fingers managed to get the key in the padlock. I drew back the big sliding door, and pushed my machine back into place. She went into the bathroom to get out of her costume. As I wiped some of the moisture off of the bike, my mind raced ahead furiously.

"I'm still in love with Betty, aren't I?" I whispered to the walls.

Faint noises from the bathroom indicated that she would be a while. I had a little more time to think. What the hell do I do now? She's the daughter of a cabinet minister. Some distant relation to Smith-Barry.

Whipping off my own suit, I tossed it at a peg on the wall by the door. I hurriedly checked my uniform for neatness, and waited. The door opened and the light went out.

"Ready to go?" I asked. "You look ravishing, Jennifer. Any damage done to the airframe?"

"That was scary," she vowed in no uncertain terms. "How do you boys do it?"

"You get used to it, although I did hit a patch of gravel and banged up my knee a bit last week, or maybe I guess it was the week before..."

But she interrupted me.

"NO, dummy! How do you deal with the fear?" she asked seriously, examining my face intently.

"What? What do you mean?"

"Not that. You know what I mean," she said, and tears sprung up in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Jennifer. I shouldn't have taken you for a ride," and I felt like a heel, a cad and a boor.

"No, no. That was a good, useful life experience," she sort of cried. "I just don't know how you boys deal with the fear."

She seemed to be hanging back, not getting too close.

I wanted to comfort the girl. Drawing closer, she still seemed shy.

"I'm so sorry, Jennifer. Did you get sick?" I asked.

There was the faint aroma of vomit from her vicinity, but she was just looking at me in silent wonder.

"I'll take you home," I offered. "I could call a cab."

"Let's talk," she said.

Not my favourite thing, but she was a nice lady and everything. I felt somehow morally responsible for her confusion. She was very vulnerable.

"We'll go back to my place and get a nice, hot, cup of tea."

"Tea! You sound like my grandmother," she said bitterly. "Grandma always said, 'there's nothing like a good cup of tea to settle your nerves.'"

"Your grandmother is a very sensible woman. I reckon she knew what she was talking about."

I let us out the front and we walked arm in arm.

As we passed a chemist's, that's like a drugstore in England; inspiration hit.

"I'll just be half a moment," I told her.

She waited patiently by the sales counter as I purchased a couple of small things, toothbrushes, paste, and several other items. I didn't buy any condoms; if that's what the reader was thinking. The man behind the counter let me pay for it wordlessly, and with a nod of thanks, we went out into the night.

"You're staying with me tonight. I'll be a perfect gentleman, but I'm not taking no for an answer."

Firm. Anyhow, she made no objection.

So that's how it started with Jennifer. We went to my room, ordered some tea and light food and it seemed there was no rush to get going. We sat on the sofa together, she with her legs drawn up, with me sort of sitting on one hip facing her. It's always better on my left hip.

"No one knows how to deal with the fear," I began. "Some men don't seem to have any fear at all, or maybe they just hide it better. Maybe they have better composure."

She sipped her tea and listened without any interruptions, which is unusual. Most people are willing to listen, but then they want their say as well.

"Some men have no guts at all. They don't last long. They turn to drink, or drugs, or they run away, and there are ways to get out if necessary," I explained. "What is strange, or better yet unexplainable, is where one man gets it and another man doesn't."

She regarded me. So, I kept going.

"I wouldn't fly with a man who didn't have the ability to cope with the fear. They're dangerous to themselves and to their friends."

We couldn't take our eyes off of each other.

"It's not a question of cowardice. Courage is like a kind of...I don't know, a kind of moral capital. It's not unlimited. If you spend it too quickly, you run out. At some point the analogy runs dry, but I think if you spend the courage at about the same rate that the interest builds up, I think you'll be okay," I figured aloud. "We don't have the option, in war. Men will drive themselves into battle, time and time again, and for what reason?"

She had no answer.

"Stubborn, miserable pride..."

She just listened as I sought the proper words to express my feelings and beliefs.

The matter of so-called courage.

"Women have courage, you know. I never would have walked up to you in that restaurant," I admitted.

"Why not?" she asked quietly.

"Because I would be afraid," I said. "Afraid to make a fool of myself."

Afraid of rejection. Afraid of being hurt. Afraid of falling in love again.

"You, afraid?"

She didn't smile. That helped at that moment, believe me.

"I'm as scared as the next man. Some men throw themselves into the work, some men learn...to love their brothers in arms...no matter which side they're on. Because it's all so senseless..."

I had to stop there for a moment.

We listened to the sounds of a late winter evening in London. My body quaked inside.

Finally she asked, "What drives you into battle, Will?"

"No one who shows up there the first day understands anything about life, but after a time, you learn to fear, and with the fear comes the hate."

She listened very carefully.

"With the fear comes a kind of defiance. That doesn't sound very attractive. The hate will eat you up inside. It destroys a lot of men. Eventually you learn to accept your fate. somehow that makes it easier. I don't know why. Can't hardly explain it."

The room was deathly silent, with just the window-sounds to interrupt the stillness.

"In some sense, I'm good at what I do. When I go on a mission, I am never bitter for having been chosen. Actually, I usually volunteered. Most of them other guys were just so damned incompetent. I could see their fate written all over them."

The words just wouldn't come out.

I took a deep breath.

"Because there, but for the grace of God, would go a better man than I, and I am sick to death of seeing good men die."

I choked up for a time. Get a grip, Tucker, get a grip.

Yes, Jennifer. I'm a born killer. The hell is that I know it. I'm fucking good at it.

"When I take on an enemy aircraft, I am perfectly aware that there is a human being inside. I don't speculate as to their motives. I don't care where they came from, and I don't care if they have a wife and kids somewhere."

"So what drives you into battle?" she asked again.

"The most sinful thing of all," I patiently tried to explain. "Pride."

"Pride! In killing?" she gasped.

"Pride in my...work...my boys...my country if you will," it was so hard to explain this to anyone. "My land, my home, my self..."

A secret kind of self-love, and we all have it.

"No one wants to be labeled a coward. That stubborn pride has killed a lot of innocent people."

I went on after a moment of thought.

"No man will let his buddy down, if he can help it, and most men suffer the guilt of survival, long after the battle is over."

"Is that pride?" she asked, in a very subdued and quiet voice.

"It is a kind of unwarranted, stubborn self-love that a man would find hard to give up. Some men strike a kind of bargain with death. If they die, that's the way it is, and there is nothing you can do about it. Nothing matters anymore when you're dead," I patiently went on, for she seemed to be half-understanding what I said. "No one wants to be the first to run away; to back down. To admit that one is wrong. It's very difficult even for 'enlightened' kings and nations. No one wants to lose face."

You only die once, but no one wants to lose.

No one wants the liability.

"To be labeled a coward?" I raised my eyebrows. "And to live among your fellow men, might be very hard to endure."

I tried to explain. I don't know if I succeeded.

"When will the human race ever learn?" she asked.

"Possibly we will some day," I said hopefully.

The well of profundity was dry.

"When we have evolved?" she asked.

"We have already evolved," I said.

"Are you so sure? What makes you say that?"

"When you go to bed at night, do you turn around a couple of times?" I asked.

Her laugh tinkled out.

"So we're not animals anymore?" she asked seriously.

"Hopefully not," I grinned slightly.

"And that proves we've evolved?" she asked in confusion, but of course she didn't get it, she wasn't of my world.

She hadn't had some of my experiences.

"It's better than sleeping with our noses tucked up our asses, isn't it?"

She smiled sadly. Usually that joke would draw a big laugh in any crowd.

"It's likely that a mere woman will never understand," she said, sipping at her tea again.

Putting down the cup, she impulsively reached over to stroke the scars on my face. It felt very nice. Was she petting me like a cat? A puppy? What an irrational thought.

"Don't ever underestimate the power of a woman," I said.

"Will...would you hold me please?"

Tears sprung to my eyes.

"Of course, Jennifer," and she snuggled up and held on tight.

"Will? How did you get so smart?"

She didn't look at me, but seemed to scrunch up even closer.

Jennifer had the fear. That much was obvious. The fear was not for herself, but for me.

I put that thought aside for later consideration.

"Jennifer, if we're not careful, Big, Bad, Mean Will Tucker may fall in love with you," I said, kissing the top of her head tenderly.

"Don't be afraid to try, Will Tucker," she said quietly.

"You're the one with all the guts around here," I said. "Um, why did you grab my crotch, anyway? I almost fell off the bike."

"I thought it would take my mind off the terror! But it didn't work. I had better warn you. I already have fallen in love with you, Will," she told me in a very small voice, but she still didn't look up.

"The love of a woman is the greatest gift a man could ever have," I thought out loud.

"And it takes real courage to give that gift."

I was manfully blinking back tears, but it didn't seem inappropriate. It didn't seem inappropriate at all. A long, quivering breath.

"I think you need a good, long rest, Will Tucker," she said, finally looking deep into my eyes for some kind of long, unspoken communication.

Guts all shaky inside.

Water ran down my face and I ignored it. Shivering, like with cold.

"Uh, uh, please don't hurt me...Jennifer."

I ground it out as best as I could.

"I'll look after you," she said as she stood up.

She grabbed my hands and without further discussion, led me to the bedroom, with me bawling my eyes out the whole way. There was one or two things I didn't tell Jennifer. She didn't need to know them. One of which is that fear, real fear, turns a man's guts to liquid.

But with her, I wasn't afraid. Not any more.

Chapter Twenty-Four

'Winnie'

My feelings towards Mr. Winston Churchill, the First Sea Lord, may seem a trifle irrational. However, I had my reasons. Winston was not a particularly brilliant thinker. What he was good at was rhetoric.

In the period immediately preceding the Great War, and in the early stages of the war, the Admiralty monopolized the best aircraft builders in Great Britain. The Admiralty, and to a lesser extent, the Army, attempted to stifle the Royal Flying Corps, to prevent its birth, and to limit its development. The Naval Wing had all the best planes, the best engines, and the best equipment.

The Army never put a thought into aircraft other than for cavalry-like reconnaissance.

Yet even the cavalry are armed.

The idea that aircraft, like cavalry, might be able to turn a flank, never occurred to them. Handwritten notes taken by riders, or carrier pigeons, was their way of thinking. The Navy got wireless in 1907. The Navy had no horses, essentially. The Army had a lot of horses. They quite liked horses, and had a huge investment in them.

Aircraft don't graze while waiting a reply and further directions. This counted against them. Occasionally cavalry is used in the charge. The shock of a charge is considerable.

Aircraft could also be used for shock. Military minds, once made up, couldn't easily reconsider a question already settled. Genghis Khan's army was all cavalry.

Geoffrey De Havilland was one of the designers in the early days at Farnborough, and his aircraft helped to stem the German tide. Still, his planes weren't that agile, powerful, or even particularly well thought-out. Even his most effective planes were underpowered, like the DH-9 types.

Some of our early aircraft, like the B.E. 2 (Bleriot, Experimental) were outright rip-offs of French designs. It took him a while to learn how to design a plane.

In the meantime, his factory had orders to crank out planes as fast as they could.

This is how wars are always run, essentially.

It is an old axiom of war, 'Never use cavalry against an unbroken infantry square.'

Air power alone could not win a war. That mistaken idea came later. Essentially, wars are won by, 'short, wiry men carrying huge loads over awful trails,' as some pundit put it.

Wars are not won by axioms. Wars are won by planning, which requires thinking.

The military mind is what limited aircraft in the first place. They thought aircraft were useless. It was their own minds that were useless. Especially the Army.

The Admiralty, with a tradition of independent-minded officers; often faced with spot decisions far removed from 'Authority,' could handle the boys at Eastchurch when they experimented with bomb dropping. The Admiralty initially thought of aircraft as good for sea-borne artillery-spotting for the Fleet. Other experimental work was looked upon as an eccentricity, and tolerated as such.

The idea of a plane attacking a ship was seen as ludicrous—the product of 'a diseased mind.' For an airplane to attack a submarine was 'fantasy.'

They were pretty dull-witted. When they developed the H.M.S Dreadnought, about the turn of the century, it was hailed as a 'harbinger,' the shape of things to come, the 'all big-gun Navee.'

It was clearly superior to anything the French, the Germans, or the U.S. had in service at the time. The press, always tame and wanting more crackers, parroted it as a major coup, literally crowing it from the rooftops in some cases. The Germans saw it as a dagger pointed at the heart of their Imperial ambitions in Africa, Asia and the South Seas.

There was only one problem. 'John Bull' types were too slow on the uptake to see it, but cooler heads prevailed in Berlin. Admiral of the Fleet Von Tirpitz noticed something funny going on.

The British had just made their own entire fleet obsolete. And they only had one 'dreadnought.'

Now the first major arms race of the industrial age could begin. He had a quiet word in the ear of the Kaiser, and the German shipbuilding program began with alacrity. You might even say with relish.

The British could be breathtakingly stupid at times. The Canadians slavishly imitated them, mealy-mouthing all the time, 'Thank God we're not Americans.' Fucking idiots. The same mentality that would send three companies of redcoats to subdue twenty thousand screaming Zulus. The son of a ship's captain told me that. His dad died a violent and predictable death at sea.

'It was a classic case of British arrogance.'

When Beatty beat the Germans at the Battle of Jutland, it seemed to vindicate all the theorists, guys like Admiral Jackie Fisher, and even Tirpitz to a certain extent. The fact that they had a naval battle at all with the British, justified the German High Seas Fleet's very existence. And the existence of the admirals. They claimed Jutland as a victory for the Germans too!

Jutland was hailed as a victory by the British, due to the notion that the German Navy was now bottled up in harbour. But so was the British fleet. It was nothing more than a huge expense; good for nothing and hard on food. Trench warfare...with ships. The Germans figured their fleet was a threat to the convoys which were the only thing that could sustain the British war effort, and the idiots never gave a thought to their own lines of supply.

Threats don't destroy convoys, either. That takes 'guns on target.'

The plain truth was the German convoys simply didn't exist. They could say anything they wanted. They relied on that myth of modern war, 'a quick victory.'

Propaganda could say anything. The facts spoke for themselves.

The British battleships in harbour turned out to be useless for convoy duty. They simply burned too much fuel to accompany a convoy any distance, except in home waters. At the slow speed of a convoy, battleships were very vulnerable to submarines.

Battleships were meant to be used in 'battle-lines.' Not as single units.

Winston symbolized hidebound thinking. Although he wasn't the worst of a bad lot, he presided over them, and that was enough.

A lot had changed in three years of combat. 'Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose,' or, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

***

We were doing a lot of work on the engines.

That involved a spot of high-altitude test flying. This was excellent air-time for my boys. Quite frankly, if you want to climb the highest mountain in the world, you need to acclimatize for it. The air gets thin up there. It hits you. You feel weak, woozy, and the plane feels the same way. It needs to breathe, just like a person. Anoxia leads to lethargy, loss of attention and coordination, loss of intellectual capacity. It's like being drunk.

It's oxygen starvation, and the brain runs on oxygen.

The wings need to push on the air, to deflect it, or it cannot hold the plane up. To turn is to lose altitude. I had to teach the pilots to turn with the rudder and keep the plane level with the ailerons. You couldn't just, 'bank it and yank it.' With more powerful engines, tuned to run at high altitude, we would go faster, generate more lift, and have more positive control.

This would be a real edge in combat, against an enemy who was our superior up until now. Some engines, and some planes were better than others. The boys learned to compare them. We invented a whole new language just so we could talk to each other.

'Nibbling at the edge of a stall,' or, 'energy state,' or, 'angle of attack versus angle of incidence.' (The wings are bolted on at an angle of incidence. Pull back on the stick, and you change your angle of attack in relation to airflow.)

It's nice to know these things, to make them instinctive.

We were becoming a profession. When the war ended, the Army and the Navy would do everything in their power to demolish the RFC. But that wasn't my problem. Neither was it Winston's. Maybe my dislike of Winnie wasn't very rational. He was born in Blenheim castle. I was born in a two-room cabin with a dirt floor. Our differences were too great, no matter how many classic books I tried to jam into my head. We would always have a different perspective. Winnie was always thinking of the good of the, 'bourgeoisie.' Our family was always suffering the result of those mercantilist policies...but I digress. (It was a social difference.)

Boiled down to its essence, it was a mercantilist war.

The man had no rational perspective on living in the real world, something many of the ruling class suffer from. When he needed a job, he went to a bank and they made him a director! That kind of little shit. Out of work? Go to the Sorbonne, and become a doctor of philosophy, or run off and be a fucking glamourous foreign correspondent.

***

Winston did get us clearance to interrogate a number of relatively high-ranking

German officers. My German is not good, but it was learned, as may be imagined, while interrogating prisoners.

An intelligence officer escorted me on a little side trip. He would interpret, and I took it that the Army guys were up to their old tricks again. He would dash off a thorough report to someone important just as soon as we got back to London. That knowledge could be useful. Howard-Smythe didn't arouse such suspicions. Mind you, he had formally transferred into the RFC.

"Dave, I don't know much about the German warrior caste," I told Captain D. Dawley "What are they like?"

Our footsteps echoed down the highly-polished corridor. God, I hated these places. I was in jail for three days once, awaiting a bail hearing. The charge was later dropped.

"The Prussians? What do you call 'em? Junkers?" I prompted my companion in an affable tone.

Hollow echoes rebounded through the building, reflecting back seconds later from some unseen cul-de-sac, from around several corners away. He was obviously well-known here. Otherwise we would be trailing guards by the half-dozen. Dawley was well-dressed. His uniform was impeccably tailored, he was perfectly groomed, and yet he managed to be totally nondescript.

"You'll see," he quipped, with a gleam in his eye.

But then he relented.

"Some of them are quite charming. But not this one," he reported. "This one has got to be one of the most arrogant sons of bitches in the whole wide world."

"Have you been hanging around with Americans?" I asked.

He grinned.

"It's just an expression," he said. "Anyway, you'll see."

One of the things that annoyed me; was going before the Inter-Services Board and getting approval for the mission. What was the point of the mission being vetted by the Navy? The Foreign Office? Winston didn't have the same priorities, but it's obvious that the RFC should be independent of the other services, and I suppose some of us told them that once or twice. With all due respect to Mr. Churchill, he wasn't exactly known as a tactical and strategic genius, in spite of his carefully-dramatic word-play in the House. He wasn't even very good at naval strategy.

We should have the resources to mount our own operations, and we should have proper authority to do just that. Hopefully, the formation of the Royal Air Force, which went into effect only days previously, wouldn't be a total fuck-up from the onset.

I got the chance to ask the General-Oberst Heinzer a few things.

Through my interpreter, I asked him a great many questions. Now, these guys don't want to betray their country, but this one's arrogance could be used against him.

You can't blame a fellow soldier for trying to do his duty, and I made Dawley tell him that.

Oh, he knew the game all right. He knew his duty was to escape, and being an intelligent man, I got the impression that he was watching and reading us just as surely as he was being watched and read by myself, and quite frankly by Dawley. Why not throw him a bone or two? Dawley was primed with some ideas of what I wanted to do.

Without giving him too much to chew on. We're all on the same side, but security is an issue even with Military Intelligence. (Often noted as a contradiction in terms.)

Dawley was professional enough to want to watch another man's interrogation.

Poor old Herr General was starving for intelligent conversation.

Held in close custody for many weeks. Constantly surrounded by his inferiors. He was just dying to talk to somebody. No one listened to him anymore. They told him what to do and when to do it. He had to eat, drink, sleep, shit, shower, shave and exercise according to someone else's schedule.

"I'm awfully glad to meet you at last," I told Herr General through Dawley.

Dawley's deferential tone was soothing. I silently approved. I reached into my big coat and pulled out a bottle of the very best Napoleon brandy. Dawley grunted and produced a trio of small glasses from his pocket, all wrapped up in paper.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner, but as you understand, things are very busy around here lately," and his ears perked up at that.

"To be honest, this whole Russian business has thrown us into a flap," and I saw Dawley's shoulders twitch in shock.

So did the German. This guy has been isolated for a long time, yet he thinks he's smarter than everyone else. Normally, you don't tell a prisoner a damned thing. Don't even let him have a newspaper. A Bible, maybe, but not a newspaper. But there was an even more subtle message.

'You ain't going nowhere, Bud.'

I knew the date of his capture. He'd been stupid enough to ride in a Gotha bomber under his command, lucky enough to survive being shot down, fortunate enough not to be lynched by the villagers of Spittlegate or wherever the hell he landed. He knew the Russians had collapsed, but he could only speculate as to the effects on the war. He didn't know the outcome. Why not let him think the enemy was winning?

People can't resist the urge to brag.

By knowing myself, it was a reasonable deduction.

I opened by asking him where he was born. Did he have any children? All of these questions had been asked before. Dawley and I sipped, and sooner or later, as I went along, the German took a little gulp of the liquor. I poked Dawley in the ribs with my elbow.

The General was going to unbend a little.

"Sorry!" he said, and picked up an envelope.

He opened it and gave the contents to the General. A photograph in a silver locket, some other photos. A nice gold ring. A big, fat, pocket watch. I took a minute to pick it up and admire it. It looked like an anniversary gift, for it was inscribed, near as I could make out, 'Love, Gretchen.'

It was curiously moving. This guy had a wife and kids somewhere. He must have missed those photos. It looked like good old Dawley felt bad for the old fart. The stuff was taken upon capture. It was pretty unusual to return stolen property like that, but this was a high-ranking officer. Someone was using a little foresight. Dawley? Might be a useful man. (I had a report to write later, as well. I had someplace important to send mine, too.)

"My humble apologies, and the men responsible have been punished," said Dawley.

Herr General's hands lovingly caressed the locket. He picked up the photos, small wallet-sized ones, and examined them one by one. He was pretty quiet.

"Das ist cute kinders," I ventured in barbaric German.

Dawley and the Fritzie smiled at my attempted linguistic foray. The enemy prisoner pointed at the youngest child and pronounced a name.

"Anna."

The baby of the family. He must miss her. She was a very beautiful child. I nodded and smiled, all innocuous-like.

I whipped out my smokes, and Dawley got out another package. Special German ones for the General. Nice Turkish-blend smokes, with the Imperial excise label on them. The General's eyebrows rose. They were fresh smokes too. I could smell them from where I sat, searching for a match in my voluminous pockets.

Whether they were real or not, I couldn't say. But they sure fooled the general.

For some reason I was wearing a big leather trench-coat, but then one never knew whether it would be warm or cold in the English winter. Winter, what the English thought was cold; sometimes turned out not to be so cold at all; and in summer, what they thought was warm, wasn't all that warm, either. Dawley translated, amusing the general with my remarks. Dave appeared to be amused himself, with the irony of being in the middle of all that.

"General, my experience in the infantry shows that while our own propaganda says the German soldier is a mindless automaton, in reality..." (I could see his neck getting darker.)

Dawley jabbered away for a moment...

"...in reality the German soldier seems to be able to recover quickly and engage in local counterattacks. Small unit tactics are far better than our own...yet these men for the most part don't have the benefit of a military academy education..."

Dawley painstakingly translated.

"The junior NCO's have more leadership qualities, and show far more initiative when senior leadership breaks down under battlefield conditions."

How did he account for it? Well, he didn't. He didn't say much at all. But then, he really didn't have to. And I could see him thinking about the Russian remark.

He made a brief comment, "...something-something-soldaten—" which I couldn't quite catch.

"They are better soldiers!" according to Dawley's translation.

Simple and true. A good beginning.

Did he have any political connections?

'Some, but not many,' he replied with a gleam in his eye?

Poor bastard. I could read him like a book.

The room became very warm and I removed the big coat, allowing him to see the medals ranked up there on my chest. He seemed to appreciate the fact that a genuine, decorated war hero had been sent to talk to him. He mellowed out considerably as the booze began to take its inevitable effect. The guy hadn't had a drink in three or four months.

"Now, the General, very correctly, does not wish to talk about his own forces," Dawley translated. "But perhaps he would be good enough to discuss ours?"

Short, tight grins all round the table.

The General chewed on that thought for a while, as he and we sipped our drinks and smoked our cigarettes.

He didn't say, 'Nein.'

Why not try him?

"What's his impression of our staff organization?" I asked.

The general hesitated. Was Tucker plotting a military coup? The poor guy's mind was jumping all over the place. Isolation, a kind of paranoia.

'Very rigid,' he finally answered.

I nodded. That was my impression exactly. And it also told me that in comparison, the German staff organization, at least in this gentleman's opinion wasn't, or perhaps it was merely less rigid.

'The General Staff runs the civilian government,' in my own rather snarky opinion. 'Here we have the opposite problem...haw!'

Flattery will get you everywhere with the Junkers. This was the little crack that we needed. We soon had him comparing our great aces with their great aces, which was exactly what we were hoping for.

Dawley kept prodding him back to 'the subject,' ostensibly staff organizations.

Yet, we always managed to interject some little comment or question about their great fliers, and filled in when appropriate with anecdotes about some of our boys.

Oh, yeah, we had a merry little kaffee-klatsch. I was creating the impression in the German's mind that I was some lucky bastard, to be given a staff job that frankly bored me. He thought our superiors felt that I was too valuable a 'hero' to risk any more combat exposure. The losses on both sides; guys like Guynemer and Ball, just flying off into the sunset, for some reason upset the news-hungry rabble.

I had a big mouth and I liked to talk...Dave was embarrassed for me, and even to be seen with me.

'The unwashed proletariat, who paid the taxes to pay for the weapons to use in the war that was killing their husbands and fathers. Their sons, brothers, uncles and nephews.'

Convinced I was a fool; all of a sudden the General was talking about Richtofen, and like any good listener I hitched my chair a little closer to him, and leaned forward, hanging on every word. It seems little Manfred was a child of the lesser nobility. He grew up on his father's estate. From an early age young Manfred was fascinated by firearms, hunting and riding. By all accounts he was very good at it. He liked trophies. I swear to God, I was biting my nails as I listened, enraptured.

That bit about hunting, stuck in my mind. I refilled the General's glass and kept going.

"But what is he like as a man?" I kept prodding, but only in the most gentle way, the implied reproof in my questions a spur to the General to justify his hero; and to maybe mythologize to a certain extent.

After composing his thoughts, the General went on.

A man's mythology is important to him. It helps to define him.

"The Baron von Richtofen doesn't care if you live or die. It is nothing personal," we were told. "He's like nature itself, indifferent."

What mattered most to the Baron was his personal loyalty to the Kaiser. He was chivalrous towards women, (albeit mostly to women of his own rank,) and absolutely ruthless towards the enemy. There were no known sexual dalliances in the Baron's past, and while the General would never discuss such a thing with an outsider, his reaction to the question told me there was nothing in it.

The Baron doesn't care if you live or die. He wants your head as a trophy.

"So; he is discreet," Dawley grinned.

"He could hardly be without some passion or other," I pointed out.

The General drank, assuming Dawley's comment to be part of the translation.

"Why doesn't he come down and challenge us, face to face?" I asked.

Apparently he did, from time to time, but he felt it beneath him to 'feud,' like some 'McCoys und Hatfields,' in some 'Appalachian hill-farming area.'

He just waited till someone made a mistake. Then he took the shot. We were like stags, or wild boars to the Baron. While this wasn't exactly news, it did tend to confirm my theory. The Baron could be manipulated, if we could 'safely' predict his reaction to our 'stimulus,' to use a word that was popular before the war.

The General also confirmed my impression that the Baron wasn't known as a dog-fighter. It was unlikely we would be able to spark him to anger, but perhaps some other way? The idea of 'driven game,' stuck in my head for a while. Why not use his own tactics against him?

The Baron was a good shot...but not necessarily a dog-fighter.

My mind racing, I had a mental picture of a moose, caught on the frozen expanse of some nameless northern lake. Harried by wolves until it could run no longer...run him in shifts...now there's an idea.

We gossiped along for a while, enjoying ourselves, and got another interesting tid-bit.

A couple of years before the war, D.H. Lawrence, whose novels were suppressed due to their frank treatment of sexual matters, bloody well eloped with the Baron's sister!

Simply scandalous.

Worse, she was married at the time, to D.H.'s former professor! They married two years later. Their stormy and tempestuous relationship provided material for some of his books. Lawrence was not popular in England, due to his outspoken opposition to the war.

In his books, 'The Rainbow,' and 'Women In Love,' he explored with candour the sexual and psychological relationships between men and women. (Actually written later. – ed.)

Anyhow, we've all heard of 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.' He wrote it. I doubted if Mrs.

Lawrence would speak to us. They'd been harassed by authorities in England since the war began. Too bad, really. It might have been an interesting conversation...did Manfred wet the bed? That sort of thing.

Did they dress him up like a girl? Any pictures?

It didn't seem to have caused the Baron to unnecessarily hate the British. We were just targets to him. It was nothing personal. Manfred wasn't a bloodthirsty maniac. He was just good at his job.

Dawley gently steered us back to the main topic, staff organizations. But, for whatever reason, the General lost his co-operative mood.

Three brandies, and the self-doubts creeping in.

He decided he shouldn't be talking to us after all. That was fine. I had more Fritzies to interview when this one was over. The information, unfiltered, might not mean much at the time, but an ancient rule of war is, 'respect for the enemy.' You cannot assume he is a mindless, slavering, rabid dog. Our side was lucky to keep the General's capture out of the papers. Presumably, his own side thought he was dead. A lonely position to be in. Get to know him. He has a weakness. He is a human being, after all. As we closed the door and walked down the hall to the prison guard's canteen, Dawley asked a question or two.

"What he said about Goering being a transvestite; do you believe it?"

"In vinas veritas," I began. "In wine there is truth. However, I'm more interested in Bruno Loerzer and him being close friends."

Expanding further, I told Dave, "I'm more interested in Von Krumholtz being a drinker, more interested in Aristides, this Renegade Greek, and his motivations. More interested in Lowenhardt's mother-in-law's hemorrhoids."

He raised an eyebrow at that one.

"I'm more interested in German staff organizations than you or he would give me credit for," I added. "Our own too, actually."

Dawley remarked on my kid-glove handling of the Fritzie officer.

"Where did you learn that trick?" he asked.

"Peter the Great," I replied. "Once; on some kind of impulse, Peter showed kindness to a man he was torturing. Suddenly the man broke down and told him everything. Yet the streltsy endured agonies of torture, out of a sense of honour."

"What did he do? What happened, really?" asked Dawley.

"Peter smothered the man's wounds in kisses. He hugged him, and apologized for torturing him. He offered to look after the man's family, and give him a merciful death.

He wept over him, bemoaning his duty as a sovereign, and the personal hell of having to deal with threats to the state."

"Nice fellow," was all Dawley could say, face screwed up in concentration.

"Any man kisses my wounds," I muttered and Dawley burst out laughing.

"Better confess before it gets out of hand," he joked. "Yeesh!"

We both grinned stupidly. Nuts. We had been at war too long. We had lost all sense of proportion by then, I should think.

"I'll bet a hundred pounds, if you visit the General once a week, and listen to his woes, the silly old bugger will tell you anything you want to know," I mentioned. "How often does he get a visitor?"

Routine questioning, perhaps trying to build a biography of some figure under study. You could only get so much out of that sort of thing. A different uncaring flunky every time.

"Once every two, three weeks," admitted Dawley.

We went on to have our coffee, and several more interviews, where we managed to pick up a few more juicy tidbits. In between cells, the conversation continued along these lines.

"Once he begins to look forward to your visits, he'll actually begin to think of stuff that he safely can tell you, without violating his code of personal conduct. It's a kind of professional oath," I observed.

"You have enough prisoners. You can afford to experiment a little," I suggested, which sounded pretty bloody-minded, but he laughed just the same.

At the end of the day, Dawley dropped me off at my hotel.

"You need anything else, we're always glad to help out," he admonished.

I said, "Thanks," and went on in.

Chapter Twenty-Five

'Camel Jockeys'

It was time to get the teams sorted out.

Start with the basics. Every pilot should be checked out on the Camel, but there would have to be a group of pilots who flew them daily. Let's see here. Black not aggressive enough, put Andrew in charge of the Camel squadron. Call it, 'Number 193.' At least for now. Powell was already lined up for the strike element, equipped with Bristol fighters. The strategy was to use fictitious numbers most of the time, then pretend to be an existing squadron when appropriate. This would confuse the hell out of the enemy. We would pop up here and there, 'as inappropriately as possible.'

Number 192 for the SE's and 193 for the Camels. 'Biffs,' 194. Make a notation, it's so new I hadn't yet memorized who's who.

Cowings, Dexter, Wallace and Webster. A few more boys, to start.

No sense in teaching a class to anything less than half a dozen. Lawrence, Mootry,

Nelson and Perry. They're all ones and twos, all used to working with each other.

So I had them all in a room, and I was teaching.

"I want to read you this telegram," I began.

"Congratulations on the success of the program thus far. Enclosed are your newly-assigned squadron numbers. Wear them with pride." (I skipped the next part, dealing with additional numbers as needed.)

"Your men will make us proud and justify the confidence we have shown in selecting them for the pilot program, no pun intended; which you have developed. Integrated tactics are the way of the future. Your formation is on the cutting edge of airframe and engine development. We are depending on you and have full confidence in your efforts."

"Let us know how we can further assist you in the next phase."

"Signed; Sir John Salmond."

One more thing to take care of. I waved the second note at the class.

"Oh, yeah, now I'm a Lieutenant-Colonel."

How do you like that? The boys looked impressed. It's better to work for a colonel than a captain. Some of the credibility rubs off.

"Jim, you're checked out on Camels," I nodded at Nelson. "Andrew is the squadron leader until further notice. You guys are number one-ninety-three squadron."

"Reading from the manuals, of which we have several copies, Sopwith Camel type F.1 mounts a 130-horsepower Clerget rotary engine. It is described as a single seat, two-gun fighter. It is equipped with two Vickers guns of .303 calibre. It has Hyland cocking levers. Some models have a Kauper mechanical interrupter gear, but our planes have the more familiar Constantinesco hydraulically-operated synchronization mechanism."

"Your interrupter gear is important. Don't be afraid to set up your guns and check that equipment once in a while," I added. "Now, your instruments are important as well, and you have good ones available."

The men often seemed to stare fascinated by my performance as a lecturer. Sometimes I wonder if they are far, far away.

"Wake up Mr. Lang," wait...here he is.

Back with us.

"Also located in the cockpit is a Rotax hand-pump to raise initial air pressure in the main fuel tank. This, as you know, begins feeding fuel to the engine for start-up purposes, and can also be used in the air. We may be using it at high altitude, on an experimental basis. The real challenge is engine tuning for the thin air. Just pushing more fuel into the carb may not be that effective. I mean at extremely high altitudes of course. Still, this would act as a choke, and maybe prevent stalling of the engine."

"In the final analysis, try to keep the engine running, and if you are having engine problems at extremely high altitude, dive steeply to ram as much air into the intake as possible," I went on. "Don't worry guys, we'll have all this figured out before we go into action."

Ah, let's see here.

"We have a Pyrene fire extinguisher, clipped to the floorboards, and we have the very latest in shoulder straps, which our mechanics have fitted for us from kits provided by the maker."

"And that's better than the old single strap, boys," called out Jim from the back.

"Jim, what can you tell us about flying the Camel?"

Nelson came up to the board and I sat down gratefully to one side. All the boys knew the teaching routine by now. He picked up chalk and made notes on the blackboard.

"The Camel has massive gyroscopic effect, which must be mastered on takeoff."

He gave some tips, reminding us of firm rudder handling.

"And as soon as the wheel lifts, be prepared to put in a surprising amount of aileron," he noted. "Honestly, it feels like a big giant hand grabs the ruddy wing and tries to throw the plane upside down..."

"While the plane has an excellent rate of climb, you want to keep it straight and level until you have good speed and enough rudder authority. The plane accelerates well. The first time I took off in a Biff, it seemed to take an agonizingly long time to get going. In a Camel the tail skid lifts very quickly, and if you're going into a ground loop, or have the stick pulled back for taxiing, it's all too easy to lift off and then snap-spin into the ground. When taxiing, hold hard back-stick to avoid nosing over, and you have to blip the throttle on and off because the thing has so few settings. Not like the V-type engines in the Biffs and the SE's."

He explained the simple carburetion and ignition system of the rotary engine.

Again, he noted the burst of torque when full throttle was applied for takeoff.

Nelson had confidence, and we listened to his calm advice.

"The same thing applies to the first turn at low level after takeoff. Make your first turn a very gentle one. Try the plane out at higher altitudes. People have tried to turn hard on takeoff and spun in from low level due to the high torque, also the fact that the craft is very nimble. You fight the plane one way; but it helps you going the other, if you use it wisely."

"The plane climbs like a bandit, and doesn't blow off in a turn. It turns and climbs better than any plane, even the DR-1..." (a little muttering greeted that.)

"When you want to do that, roll in, pull back, and then start pushing high side rudder.

It's like climbing up a corkscrew. Very handy to get out of trouble sometimes. No one behind or below can catch you, but you still have to watch for people diving from above."

Good advice.

"The service ceiling is twenty-four thousand feet. It takes a long time to get up there, and the aircraft is seriously underpowered at that altitude," he noted. "If you get one good dive on the enemy, make it count, because you don't have enough fuel or time to climb that high more than once, early in the flight..."

Jim went on and the boys made notes. That's good. It seems to me we're almost ready to go.

"After some time in the Camel, you'll notice one leg begins to get bigger than the other," and we all laughed. "That's because you literally have to hold the rudder in level flight. You also have to hold down elevator, at full power or even a fast cruise."

Pilots had been complaining about the Camel's trim since day one.

"What about landings, Jim?" I asked, writing as busily as the rest of the class.

"You have to be careful. Generally, I like to blip up to a quarter throttle, then off," he said. "Keep the nose down and a fairly high airspeed, say about sixty or seventy, and that way you really shouldn't have to ram full power to it. This is a bad idea in a Camel at low level and in a low energy state. Never relax in a Camel, it requires constant attention...you can sideslip this plane, and that's a better way to manage the energy state.

When you have the nose down, you can speed up by pushing, slow down by pulling. Patience is a virtue in a Camel. There's no sense driving it up to the edge of the runway at full throttle. Trust me, it will come down. Get above the landing zone and all you have to do is shut the motor off. Put a little down into her, she'll land."

The Camel wasn't really meant as a gliding machine.

I grabbed my notebooks.

"So Jim; if you put the plane in the correct position, then switch off, she almost lands herself?" Andrew asked.

It was one of his rare moments of apparent humility.

"Check the windsock!" I blurted.

I just couldn't help it.

"If you're not too crazy on the control movements, yes," agreed Jim. "Just before the wheels touch, hit quarter-throttle for a second, and then shut it off again. This gives you good control authority. And then you're down."

The chord of the bottom wing was quite narrow, and it took a while for 'flare-effect' to kick in, Jim concluded. He was talking about high-pressure air trapped between the lower main-planes and the ground. Ninety percent of pilots knew nothing of such notions, which made Jim a lucky find. Two people on that committee must have liked me.

"Andrew, brief your men for a high-altitude training session. Just use the planes you have. A couple of your boys will have to sit this one out."

And then I was gone, heading for another class, another bunch of projects and necessary jobs. The last thing I heard was somebody complaining about 'cloud landing practice again.'

***

Over at the Biff squadron shack, the boys were all sitting at the long tables around the perimeter of their main classroom, writing reports on their flights.

"Okay, boys, from now on you'll be putting squadron number one-ninety-four on your reports," and then I read them the same telegrams from Sir John. "Incidentally, the SE boys are one-ninety-two, and the Camel Jockeys are one-ninety-three."

They gave a ragged, if slightly sarcastic cheer. Impromptu and spontaneous as it was, it degenerated into a long, drawn-out, masculine-bonding kind of chuckle. Powell settled them down diplomatically. He was a good commander for this crew.

"The mechanics are painting numbers first thing tomorrow," I added.

One of them asked about a squadron motto.

"Illegitimi non carborundum est," quoted Biggsy when prompted.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Don't let the bastards grind you down," he replied with a mischievous grin.

You had to have met Biggsy. He was about five-ten, two hundred pounds, flaming, long, red frizzy hair, shaggy beard, moustache, twinkling blue eyes and a wheezy laugh. He wore little granny glasses, tinted sometimes, but often the clear ones. I wondered how he managed to get into his leather helmet and goggles with all the hair and whiskers.

At that weight, I wondered how he got into the cockpit at all, but he did.

He was a card. That guy knew everyone, and could wheel and deal with the best. We had a couple of good scroungers there. Whoever he didn't know, his wingman did. I started Biggsy off with Andrew, but now he flew with Dempsey.

"How high did we get today?" I asked Powell.

"Eighteen thousand, eight hundred," he reported. "Maybe we could improve the rate of climb with more back stick, but we get to a point of rapidly-diminishing returns."

"Obviously the aircraft begins to wallow, and it's no longer the best rate of climb when the aerodynamic inefficiencies get too great," I muttered, thinking.

He waited.

"That's a good point," I said. "How long did it take to get up there?"

"According to the book, we should get to ten thousand feet in about eleven minutes, fifteen seconds. We got there in ten minutes and fifteen seconds. We took a full minute off the book time. Now the service ceiling is quoted at twenty thousand. I have no idea how they came up with that figure. Not with a full war-load, at any rate."

Powell hesitated.

"What was your load?" I asked. "When we get more power, we'll go up faster."

"Other than burning off fuel, we had the two bombs and full ammo belts. We took up every little thing of comfort, or value or utility we could think of, even flashlights. It took almost half an hour to get up to fifteen thousand, and just under forty-five minutes before I signaled the end of the mission due to clouds looming up."

"Do you think you could get them up higher?" I asked.

"Yes. However, I think I'll give the men some low-level map work this afternoon, and we'll go up high tomorrow," he suggested.

The dummy was looking for approval again, something that always grated on me. In that sense, I wasn't the best command-type material.

"Yeah. Okay," I said.

"At that altitude our indicated airspeed was about one-hundred-ten," he added without hesitation.

It was an expression of confidence. To be quite honest, he initially doubted the notion of experimenting with our planes and motors. He even doubted things like filtering the fuel, at first. Until we did it and then examined the cloth we used as a filter. Then his doubts were removed.

He was very helpful when it came time to put fuel-filter elements in the systems of our aircraft, bearing in mind our ever-present shortage of skilled mechanics. Tomorrow they would try with no bombs, start off with exactly the same equipment in each plane. One camera per plane, no extra film, only one extra magazine for the observer, and a reduced number of rounds in the front belt. It kept them busy flying.

"Tell everyone to bring a quart of water, a sandwich, and try to keep exactly to the program. Try retarding and advancing the spark. And the mixture. See if you can save fuel, especially after you achieve maximum altitude. Watch the temperature gauges. If one guy's carburetor freezes up, everyone else's probably will too," I lectured.

He was keeping copious notes on the findings of the test flights.

"Also, a leaking radiator can freeze up and then your engine will overheat. We're trying to adapt the gun-breech type heaters to the carburetor assembly," I told all the men. "That might prevent carb icing. But we don't have a lot of geniuses on hand."

There weren't enough hours in the day. The real problem was that batteries and electricity were a bit of a mystery. Building from a drawing was fine. Creating something from scratch, was much more challenging. It required certain fundamental knowledge to visualize. You have to know the words in order to ask for something. It also required an extra battery in each plane. A factor to consider, what with the additional weight, plus the need to re-charge after each mission.

He was already putting a lot of thought and effort into his crew.

I slapped him on the back and told him, "Good job."

"Thanks, skipper."

"That's fine," I said. "But be aware that we will be pulling out as soon as next week."

The men were learning. There is a direct co-relation between war-load and aircraft performance. Something the Air Ministry didn't seem to realize. For example, they always thought an airframe delivered was an airframe ready to meet the enemy, and didn't seem to take into account the in situ work of assembly and test.

"Yes sir," he said.

I was halfway out the door when I suddenly remembered something and spun around.

"Any idea where all them army types went?"

Black shrugged.

"They might have gotten called up or something."

"Very funny. Well, I'd better keep looking."

By not over-supervising, I showed confidence in him. That stuff is important, when motivating people. Finding men to guard the place was my responsibility.

***

Captain Howard-Smythe was reading the papers.

'The Adj,' was already on to the problem. Apparently the infantry sections assigned to guard our cozy little aerodrome nestled in the Broads were 'reassigned.'

"Nice," was all I could say.

"The Hun is going all out," he explained. "With the collapse of the Russians, and the signing of the armistice on the Eastern Front, they realize that this opportunity may not come their way again."

A million German soldiers, loading up onto trains and headed our way.

And on the home front, morale was at an all-time low. There were even stirrings of anti-war sentiment. People grumbled about rationing, long line-ups, and about Zeppelin and Gotha raids.

"They're trying to beat the Yanks to the punch," he concluded.

I wholeheartedly agreed with his assessment. He was a line commander, before a very large mine buried under the lines by enemy sappers killed most of his troops and ruined his hearing. After that, Howard-Smythe did something in Intelligence.

"Cor Blimey! I 'ears the bloody Yanks is coming, sir!"

That would be the corporal. I sighed. Now that guy was all ears

"Yeah! I can't wait," I called back with a wink at Howard-Smythe.

He learned to deal with Corporal Whittington and I.

'The Times' was on the desk in front of him, and he was reading up on the new Royal Air Force, which came into being only recently. I thought it was crazy to bring up the issue now. He thought if we waited until after the war, it would never happen.

Ultimately, it turns out he was correct in this assessment.

When I first met him, I took him for a desk-bound paper pusher, but he had surprising skills, once you got to know him. Howard-Smythe was a man who could get a lot out of the news. Howard-Smythe went for politics, the war news, travel, puzzles, employment and sales ads, he read all that long before he got to the sports section. He could read a tidbit from the foreign news page and tell you what it all meant. He had an eye on the big picture.

"For the time being, a platoon of replacements is in transit by train. Unfortunately, it is a local and will make all the stops."

He grinned wryly, studying my face. It took some time and effort to learn to speak clearly, to enunciate my words, for he lip-read well. I knew a few basic signs, which shortened up the conversations to that which was essential. A wave will do for 'good morning.'

"We'll all have to take a turn on guard duty," I decided.

"Already taken care of. Here's the schedule," he motioned.

There was mail, some telegrams, some papers to sign.

"There are some completed motors for us at the Farnborough aerodrome. They're under lock and key. We ask for Sergeant-Major Rosenberg," he reported. "I understand you're headed up there again?"

Rosenberg. I made a note.

"Yup," I nodded, reading three things at once, as he showed me where he wanted my signature on a train requisition.

"It will be here Monday by noon, Tuesday morning at the latest."

"Huh!" I muttered. "We're getting three new trucks?"

"That's what it says," he agreed.

But we both had our doubts.

"Who's this?" I queried.

A letter, smelling quite nice.

"I've never heard of her," he allowed. "I'll see if I can find out."

"It sounds Russian," I murmured.

An invitation to a 'soiree.' I had no idea what that meant, so I wasn't too interested.

I set that one aside, with a couple of personal letters from home, easily identified by my old mom's atrocious spelling.

And this?

"Wants to do a quick inspection," he advised.

"We don't have time for that shit," I said in no uncertain terms.

"I'll try to break it to him gently," sighed Howard-Smythe.

Ever the diplomat.

There was always too much to do.

I sat back in my swivel chair with the casters, and put my feet up on my desk. A relic of the Crimean War. From the scrap pile at Woolwich Arsenal. It would be wise to load it up and take it to France.

"A general's first study should be the road atlas," I began.

Howard-Smythe beat me to the punch.

"What's her name and address?" he avowed firmly. "I'll look it up right quick so Corporal Whittington and I can get back to our important duties and functions."

He had some surprising skills.

***

Melissa was preying on my mind quite a bit. It was time to scratch that itch.

No matter what the outcome. But I had to know if that gut reaction was real. Puppy love can be pretty intense. There are women who have that ethereal something. Like Helen of Troy, a face that could launch, (or sink,) a thousand ships. Maturity was catching up, and so with Jennifer, I made sure to do nothing a gentleman shouldn't.

One thing a gentleman should not do is to take advantage of a lady in distress. Yet I had, hadn't I? This much seemed certain, Jennifer was very vulnerable.

She said she loved me?

You had to take that with a grain of salt. It's like a doctor, 'first, do no harm.'

The Hypocritical Oath. It was unfair to Jennifer to go any further than just talking. No matter how hard she tried to provoke me into going a little farther than I might have intended. And I liked her a lot.

From a technical point of view, Jennifer was probably just as physically beautiful as Melissa. Perhaps even more so. None of us in 'wartime' had even the slightest chance of a normal relationship, a normal courting process. Where I grew up, a 'first date' was likely spent sitting on a Sunday afternoon in the parlour, with your lady love and her parents, sisters and brothers. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Grandma and grandpa and great aunt Minnie. You didn't even try to hold hands with that bunch around.

It sounds a little old-fashioned, but now I knew the cost of being impetuous.

There was a good excuse. It came to our attention through informal channels that there were some people who might be useful, but they were incarcerated for minor infractions.

It was time to go and chat up old Foreman, and see if I could bail these boys out and take them to France. Captain Howard-Smythe, 'The Adj,' applied all of his powers of persuasion in writing a letter to Foreman. Foreman was gracious enough to make an appointment; with no real indication from us as to what sort of matters would be discussed. That's kind of unusual, in someone of his military rank. The kind of personality that runs a prison, or 'detention barracks,' is not often noted for artistic creativity. It might not be too out of character for the writer of, 'The Wizard Prince,' to take an appointment from a stranger on short notice, without some idea of what it was all about. All I could do was to play it by ear and see what kind of a person he turned out to be. I bet a nice, crisp five-pound note with Howard-Smythe that Foreman would invite me home to dinner, if I played him right.

Flying up to a little village just north of Birmingham, I timed it so that my wheels touched down at the aerodrome after lunch on a cold, rainy, miserable Friday afternoon.

It was barely possible that he would be a little eager to get out of the office early on a Friday, make for home and the weekend.

Foreman would enjoy the little domestic pleasures. Most generals do.

Linking up with a vehicle and driver, I found my way to the military prison.

Working my way through several steel doors, gates, barred access points, guard houses, gates, doors, and locks; it was almost three-thirty before I sat down in his office anteroom; took a load off, and loosened my collar. But only a little.

Then I had to wait for another half-hour. Old Foreman had lots and lots of people coming and going. I dreaded the office part of my job. There were far too many people, wanting far too many things for my liking.

The door opened, and I overheard, "...put some cream on that and let the cat lick it off..." and a young guard came out, avoiding my smile.

All of eighteen years old, by my estimation. He had a wispy little seventeen-hair moustache, and very, very red-faced he was, too. Was old Foreman something of a tyrant? Finally his secretary admitted me to his presence.

"Thanks, Danny, you can go now if you like," said Foreman to the other man as we shook hands. "Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He indicated a chair, and I sat down. I made sure to sit up straight, and not slouch.

Opening up the briefcase, and whipping out a few sheets, so that I had a copy and he had a copy, my presentation could actually wait a moment.

"You're taller than I expected," I admitted with a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry, I'm a little nervous."

"What can I do for you?" he asked kindly, as he studied the cover letter.

"I read about you in the paper," he said, looking up. "Second Ypres, correct?"

"Yes, sir, " I acknowledged.

"Humble, are you?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." I acknowledged.

"You earned those decorations, I reckon?" he murmured drily.

"Presumably," I murmured back, unable to control the impulse.

"Well. Presumably you're here to see if I will release someone?" he queried.

"I have to find a few people, actually. I need machinists, mechanics, aircraft riggers, drivers. I suppose a couple of corporals, quartermaster clerks, almost anyone I can get," I began. "A doctor, now; that would be priceless."

"It's a little irregular, but not exactly unheard-of," he replied, a little suspiciously.

He explained further.

"If they have a unit to go to, and that if unit will have them back, and if they have a required skill, and if it's approved by my superiors."

"Well, I can't ask you to break any rules. But I have a unit they can go to. And I'm a stern disciplinarian, let me assure you, sir!"

Breaking a few rules was exactly my intention.

"I can get you paper transfers. Then you can, 'give them back to me,'" I offered. "But I need some names to put on the papers."

Foreman sat back. He surveyed me. As I knew he would.

"So, um; you've traveled from the South Seas to Zanzibar," I told him. "I read 'The Wizard Prince,' when I first got to England. It was in basic, Salisbury. It rained for weeks, and I was grateful for your story."

"Well, that's always nice to hear," he began.

"I do a little writing," I said diffidently.

"Huh!" he chuckled. "Well, I hope you're prepared for a lot of rejection. By Jove, I remember...I remember the first time I sold a story."

He had a big smile on his face, somewhat unusual for a person of his rank and stature in the military establishment.

"My old man used to say things like, 'well, I wish you luck,' in a certain tone," I told Foreman, as he regarded me with almost colourless eyes.

He nodded in sympathy, no doubt familiar with doubting attitudes.

"Be that as it may, and I also liked that character," as my mind blanked momentarily. "You know, that one you sort of turned into a fat Chinese Sherlock Holmes, who spoke English with a Boston accent."

"It's a lot of fun writing for boys," he admitted. "I actually get a lot out of it myself.

On the one hand, you really shouldn't waste too much time worrying about the reader, but on the other; you should write to serve, not to impress. Give the reader some credit.

If they really didn't want to be there, they wouldn't have made it past the first page."

And one more thing.

"...don't try to be something you're not..."

"My, my, my," I scribbled it all down. "See, I knew I wasn't wasting my time."

Foreman was thoughtful.

"I'll tell you what. Give me time to consider this, and I'll see what I can do," he said.

"This Crouch character of yours, he was like a mixture of a missionary in South Africa and the captain of a Chinese river steamer, sort of like Mr. Cutliffe Hyne's, 'Captain Kettle.'"

"Yes, yes. I can see you've been doing your homework," he chuckled. "Look. I admire your persistence, and if you like, maybe we can get together some other time."

Damn.

"I really don't know any publishers who are looking for bright young writers at the present time."

He thought for a moment.

"Lots of demand, but it's being fulfilled by established authors. Your decorations will stand you in good stead. If you're any good at all, and keep at it."

Shit.

Foreman stood, came from around the desk with hand outstretched.

"Good luck to you," he offered.

Fuck.

"Well look," I said. "I've been thrown out of better places than this, but would you mind signing my copy of the 'Boy's Own Paper?' I mean, if you don't mind?"

Now that one got to him. I could see it.

"Why, certainly," he said. "Did you save this for the last two and a half years?"

"Um, um; yes, sir," I stammered.

God, I'm a good actor. One of the finest Lesbians who never trod a stage. We swiped it out of their own morgue, but I can't tell him that.

It pays to have men under your command.

Lucky shot, but I seem to have found my way to the miserable old bastard's heart.

He sighed, just a little. A very polite and self-possessed man, yet I caught it.

"Well, would you like to meet the wife?" he offered.

"Oh, no! I couldn't, really, impose on your hospitality," I proffered in confused embarrassment.

"You must come and have a cup of tea with the old girl," he said. "You've had a long trip, after all."

He asked me to wait outside. He locked up and had a quick chat with someone. Then we went out through all the gates, doors, checkpoints, 'et cetera.'

My driver followed him over to his place, a stone manor house. It wasn't overly imposing. It was just a nice big place. The drive in was through a clump of huge oaks, but out back it was all fields and hills, with a little creek meandering away in the far distance.

In the dim half-light of overcast skies, it looked like a nice little set-up.

He showed me to the drawing room, and then went to find his wife, who turned out to be a slender blonde woman. Her gracious manner implied good breeding. She had social skills far above mine, but no doubt like piloting skills, that sort of thing comes with practice and experience. She made him a good partner. A very political wife, it seemed.

"The weather has socked in," he informed Mrs. Foreman.

"That's too bad," she nodded, eyeballing me.

"It will clear up later," I assured them.

An old woman in a maid's uniform served us tea, crumpets, scones and butter.

"So you're a writer, Will?" she began.

"It's always good to have another string to your bow," I said. "No telling what work will be available after the war is over, and it sure beats hammering rivets or putting nuts on bolts in some smelly old factory."

She repaid this sally with a smile, which transformed her pallid features. I could see the ghost of a much younger woman. A young man came in, dressed in casual civilian clothes.

"Ah, Jack! There's someone I want you to meet," as Foreman stood. "Come and meet Will Tucker."

I had to stand there while Foreman listed all of my decorations, and Jack stared at me with that weird kind of awed reverence. I never knew how to handle that. I still don't.

Basically; it was a list of gross errors in the decision-making process. No one ever seemed to get that.

Jack was a nice-looking fellow, with straw-coloured straight hair, blue eyes, and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a Harris tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, light grey trousers, and black Oxford type loafers, but he had a good handshake.

"Jack and our daughter Melissa's are engaged," Mrs. Foreman explained proudly.

"What brings you up this way, Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker?" asked Jack. "Bit cold for flying, in my opinion, but I don't know very much about it."

Jack was just getting back from a stroll, down to the village pub and back.

"The usual press-gang type of mission," I replied. "We're very hard up for skilled trades in my outfit."

"Oh, my! You flew in this weather?" gasped Mrs. Foreman. "Where did you come from? I hope it wasn't far?"

She was a little stunned when she learned that I flew in from Norwich.

We had our tea, ate our vittles; and passed the time pleasantly enough. It wasn't long before I was drawing out Jack. Langdon was his last name. He was in the Navy. Jack was first officer on a monitor, and seemed like a bright chap.

"Oh, yeah? I was studying for my ticket when war broke out," I said, wondering when and if Melissa would be strolling in. "My steamship ticket."

"That's too bad, old fellow," said Foreman, who obviously loved the sea.

There were a few hints, scattered amongst the nautical bric-a-brac. The walls were covered by pictures of ships and the sea.

"Bit of a stroke of luck, actually," I said. "We did three trips on the upper Great Lakes. Then the ship was rather hurriedly pressed into service for the Atlantic run. 'Twas a wee bit of a shock even after Superior or Huron, let me tell you!"

"The Atlantic crossing put you off?" Jack chuckled.

"Something about seventy-foot rollers, hundred-knot winds and high, following seas," I explained with some feeling. "Sea sickness was a secondary consideration, although I didn't have it near as bad as the captain!"

Jack grinned. I guess he'd seen a few seasick men.

"But the real problem was the days and weeks of sheer, unremitting terror," I added firmly. "Those lakers are like three hundred feet long, with a beam of about twenty-two feet!"

One trip was enough to convince me. Nothing would ever get me on a ship again without a damned good reason. I had an aversion to it.

"So; that's how I ended up in the British army as opposed to the Canadian army," which seemed to settle an unasked question, and Mrs. Foreman smiled at her knitting.

"Then I was transferred back to the Canadian Army."

It was a little confusing. Basically a long story.

"Then stuck in the RFC...a stroke of luck. Really, I just wanted to learn how to cook."

Mrs. Foreman raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

"Nothing quite like conning a ship in heavy seas while standing in a puddle of vomit," Jack noted. "You just need to lash yourself to the wheel."

I grinned in appreciation.

"But enough of my troubles. Just what exactly is a monitor and what does it do?"

Nice safe subject. Keep them talking about themselves. People love that sort of thing.

There aren't enough good listeners in the world.

"A monitor is special! We're not built for speed, or transport, and we're definitely not built for comfort," he stated.

"It seems to me an unsung and thankless kind of a job," I told Jack, and the others. "I mean you read about it, some such statement in the paper: 'our monitors bombarded the Belgian coast for four hours last night,' or yesterday, or the day before, and did 'great damage' to Ostend and Zeebrugge."

"Unlike the great ships of the Fleet, the names of officers are never mentioned," pointed out Foreman. "Very unglamorous work."

"The entire design of the ship is predicated upon carrying two really big guns," Jack explained. "We do carry other weapons. We're don't do long voyages. We aren't much good on the open sea or in a fleet action."

The monitor was 'flatter, far wider, stumpier,' and had less extraneous equipment than other ships. It was, 'completely specialized.'

"We're designed for short-range shore bombardment," he concluded.

"You mean like a bomb ketch of the seventeenth century?" I asked.

"Those were far more seaworthy vessels," he replied. "And we have the constant threat of submarines. An attack is inevitable, sooner or later."

"What do you do about that?" I asked.

"Well, we have a very shallow draft. Unlike a cruiser or battleship, we're an extremely difficult target for a torpedo. And subs don't like shallow water," he explained further.

"I remember when the gallant General Plumer was attacking the Germans near Roulers," I said. "On the right, the British were threatening Menin, and on the center we were advancing on Roulers. Somebody offshore was sending some big shells over."

Okay, it was mostly bullshit. But it was good bullshit.

"We were there!" he said stoutly. "We could see both places in flames. We co-operate with the artillery. A rain of projectiles on the enemy's rear positions. We swept his lines of communications, paralyzed the movements of reserves and inflicted heavy losses on troops marching to the front."

"Well, somebody out there saved our asses," I said, then blushed furiously as Mrs. Foreman looked up with a little gleam in her eye.

"Er; in any case; thank you," I muttered rather feebly.

"They must have been mighty big fires," said Foreman. "But I guess you could see them twenty or thirty miles away. It must have been quite a spectacle."

A friggin' spectacle!

"That's enough talk of war," said Mrs. Foreman. "I hear someone in the front hall."

My heart flipped over at that.

The man of the house was skimming through the paper and taking little part in the conversation.

Damn that Jack. He was a hell of a nice guy. I really liked him, and that was not what I was hoping for. Actually, I wasn't too sure what I was hoping for.

"This is our youngest," said Mrs. Foreman. "Gillian, meet Will Tucker."

Holy! Gillian was a vision of loveliness. But, she was obviously too young for me.

And I had a lot of unresolved issues elsewhere.

After tea, Mrs. Foreman, (Gillian senior,) and Gillian Jr. went off to, 'see about dinner,' yet the servants hardly needed supervision. Us men withdrew into Foreman's study, where old Jack was doing a spot of writing himself.

"I met Melissa, my fiancé, right here, in this study," began Jack. "I came from Rosyth, on my way to Southampton. My first posting."

Again my guts flipped on hearing her name.

"What are you working on?" I asked. "An adventure story?"

"No, we're collaborating on a translation of Sappho," Jack replied. "But we're going to publish it under a pseudonym."

"Well, you wouldn't want to spoil the Brigadier's image," I murmured, receiving a quick smile in return.

"He is a bit daunting, at first," Jack admitted.

The other man was out of the room for a moment. It seemed a good time.

"I've been writing my brains out," I said, and whipped out a few sheets torn from an elementary-school 'scribbler.'

"Can I read you something, Jack?"

He was flattered, no doubt about it.

"Of course, old boy! Love to hear it, but wait for the Old Man, will you? His ear is excellent," and so, while waiting, Jack mixed cocktails.

"And the Brigadier gets annoyed if you go a little too heavy on the soda," he talked to himself, as he shook the drinks in a shiny metal-lidded device.

"There you go; get that into you. It'll ward off the chill of a dank and dreary night,"

he instructed.

"So anyway, I'm working on various manuals for my students," I said. "You know, when I started, I thought I understood English. But it is a lot harder than it looks."

"It's not until you actually try to do it, then you find out how hard it is," I added ruefully.

"Where did you go to school?" he asked.

About this time Foreman came back into the room and stood by the bar, sipping his drink appreciatively.

"Aye, aye, aye," he said with a wince.

"Dry, isn't it," I quipped. "Ma vie en mains...taking your life in your hands."

"I went to school in Petrolia," the story went. "I got all the way to grade nine, which means that William Sebastien Francis Tucker is the best educated Tucker so far."

The school systems in Canada and England didn't exactly correspond, but Jack and Foreman seemed a little stunned.

"What about the technical side?" asked Foreman. "Student pilots have to knock a lot of books into their heads, don't they?"

He gave Jack a significant look. There was a strange glint in his eye. Jack choked a little on his drink. These guys were patronizing me. I don't even know how to pronounce that properly, but fuck them anyway. They say it different over here.

I'm not even really sure what it means.

"Well, I am literate, thank God. My mom taught me how to read, you know, like the alphabet and stuff."

One might as well lay it on thick.

"Let's hear you read what you brought," that's what I liked about Jack, no stiff formality about him.

"All righty then. I've been trying to develop a style. Here goes: in the case of inclement weather, one of the greatest difficulties confronting the pilot is that of finding his way."

I always had a good voice, perhaps that helped. The room was otherwise silent.

Breathing slow and shallow, they listened, eyes far away.

"Like a mariner upon the sea, the airman relies upon his compass, but the instrument has one failing. It's only useful as long as he knows his position on the map. As soon as he loses his bearings, the compass isn't much good anymore."

To read aloud properly requires pacing and good breathing skills.

"When flying, one encounters various air currents and cross-winds. These will carry man and machine off course. The flier has no way of knowing how far. At high altitudes, the wind may be from a different direction than the wind at lower levels or at ground level. Clouds at different levels are often going in different directions. When speeding along at ninety or a hundred miles per hour, a pilot has little time for astronomical observation, even when weather conditions are favourable."

"Why not just say, 'good'," suggested Foreman. "There's no need to unnecessarily decorate it, if you know what I mean?"

"I suppose you're right," I acknowledged. "On the one hand, it's a manual for my fliers, and after the war, it could maybe be adapted for training civilian students. Weather is an art, unfortunately, not a science, like astrology."

Foreman and Jack laughed.

"On the other hand, maybe I could get a different kind of a book out of it, after the war. A book on flying for general interest readers," I petered out. "Sort of."

"You could write your memoirs," noted Foreman.

"Not much to talk about, at this point," I assured him and they both grinned.

It was time I got going. It looked like Melissa wasn't going to show up.

Jack pressed another quick one on me. I swallowed it at a gulp, feeling the fire down below.

"I've had my differences with the Navy in the past," I admitted. "But you fellows certainly do know how to build one. Whew."

"All I can say, is to believe in yourself, and never quit," said Jack with a nod at Foreman.

And it helps if someone else believes in you, but I didn't have that luxury.

"Well, I'd better get moving along," I noted. "Thanks for everything."

As I said my goodbyes to the women of the household, back in the drawing room, Foreman came out of the study again.

"I'll make a couple of calls," he said. "I'll see if I can get you some people."

"Thank you, sir," I said, and made my exit.

There were three squadrons of men and machines, and a train due to be loaded in about three days. Pleasant as the interlude was, my work was cut out for me, and there was little time to waste.

"Be careful," Foreman said as he and Jack stood on the front porch. "And Jack's right. You'll be fine."

That was all I got out of him.

What he didn't know was that flying was not the problem, not even at night. Living, living in the world, that could be a problem. In some small way; my feelings about Melissa were resolved. A little. There are some things in life that you just can't have. It doesn't seem fair, does it? I'm just glad I liked Jack. It made it all so much simpler. No further action required, nor would it have been appropriate.

The truth about why I didn't join the Canadian Army? I'm just glad the question wasn't asked. When I decided not to go back on the ship, it did cross my mind to join up with them. I probably could have signed up with a unit from my own county and everything. According to conventional thinking, that would have made the most sense.

That's what decided me against it.

Because I knew who would be Colonel.

Who would be the captain, who would be lieutenants, who would be the sergeants, corporals, and privates. No doubt I would be a private in any army in the world. But only in the Canadian Army could you find officers like that. I knew my local judge, my local postmaster, my local school principal, my local firemen, my local butcher and barber. I knew my local labouring hands, drunks, retards and perverts. I transferred in later, and I actually got into a pretty good little unit, with a pretty good little field commander and a pretty good little platoon; with a pretty little good sergeant. But by this time, I knew what I was doing, when I applied for a transfer.

It was about the best one could hope for.

A man can be a private in any army. It's up to him what idiots he may wish to serve with. And I know idiots. I've met enough of 'em.

***

When arriving at the Birmingham aerodrome, I made sure my plane was stashed in a convenient hangar. I didn't know if I was staying. There was the pub, but what the hell. Not much point in hanging around. I borrowed a convenient bike, leaning there against the hut wall. There was no one around to ask proper permission.

After a meal, I returned to the aerodrome, and got into my flying clothes. Then I got someone working late to flip the prop, and took off into the night. My Avro 504-C was equipped for night-fighting, so I had a primitive electrical lighting system on the instrument cluster, and two small torches in my pockets. These were chosen for the fact that they had big switches. They were easy to turn on with gloves. Special spring clips, similar to bicycle clips; held them in place.

It was a snug little office.

Snug as in tight, not snug as in warm.

The front cockpit was obstructed by an angled machine gun. The pilot flew from the instructor's seat. This one still had the big fuel tank up front. Check the trim, with these babies. There was a full moon, almost no wind. No clouds, just a starry sky blazing with little pinpricks of light. You could almost read a book, once achieving an altitude of about 3,000 feet.

Visibility was unbelievably good. With the map folded out to show just the section required, it was possible to follow train tracks and watch the villages and towns speed past below. It was way too cold for proper fog to form, but tiny wisps of vapour were forming on ponds and rivers. There was the occasional yellow gleam from a window improperly blacked-out.

The light of the moon's pale orb gleamed off the tracks. They were an outstanding feature of the landscape, being plainly visible. Some of the towns had names painted in big white letters on the roofs of the railway stations. While most were blotted out, it was still possible to deduce from adjacent rivers and the relative size of towns; that one might be Stratford-on-Avon, the next one Banbury. The big thing was the rivers and lakes. If you can pick them out, follow them downstream. All the tributaries converge instead of spreading out, in branches which can be confusing.

That had to be the upper Thames. Damn, I'm good.

Cruising over Oxford, how could one mistake it? I was maybe a tad lonely, knowing that everyone down there was snug in a pub, or better yet, at home in warm bed.

Damn! It was cold.

The cold was a constant companion, winter, summer, spring and fall. I was dressed to survive, and comfort is a relative thing. My hands had been cold before. All you can do is keep wiggling your fingers, and moving your feet. Scrunch up the toes in the boots.

Relax them again...scrunch them, relax. The toes were fine.

Wiggle the butt in the seat, lean forward, shift around. It will end.

'Grin and bear it.'

You can't allow racing thoughts to distract from the business of flying. I have been lonely before, and survived. I've been cold before, and lived.

Where the hell was Farnborough? It had to be around here someplace.

What is love?

I had no problem flying at night, and I had no problem finding Farnborough. My only hope was that some right-thinking, reasonable-minded person would come out and light up a few smudge pots, or flares, or line up some vehicles along the runway. Run the motors, put the headlights on and let me know just exactly where the sky ends and the ground begins. For some reason, as you approach the earth, everything gets a whole lot darker. The ground should be found as gently as possible. I try to sneak up on it.

Love is difficult to define, isn't it?

People say, 'I just want what's best for you, because I love you.'

Sometimes they have a hard time taking, 'no,' for an answer.

Well, I wasn't sure I could just let go of Melissa. The idea; of love. The childish need, the fantasy of it. The love to end all loves. I thought, or at least it felt like I had invented it and no one would ever understand. I needed to grow up. No one knew that better than me. Melissa had mothered me. And I was one poor, crazy, mixed up kid in those days. Just a big kid, with way too much responsibility for my age. Shot to pieces.

All you can do is to file it away for future reference, and hope to make sense of it all later, when you have more time.

I brought the plane down to 1,000 feet and buzzed the place again. Then back up to 2,000 feet. At times like this, a very small bomb would come in handy. Next time I'll bring a hand-grenade.

Finally; somebody put a light on. A pair of headlights swung out along a runway, and soon more blobs and pools of light blossomed in the Stygian darkness below. Whatever the heck 'Stygian,' means. It's just something out of a cheap, dime-store novel.

The wheels startled me with a little 'cheep,' as we hit the main strip.

A couple of men rattled up in a chugging three-wheeled lorry.

"Jesus H. Christ, do you never sleep, sir?" someone asked glumly.

"No. I'm a vampire," I grunted.

"It takes all kinds, to make a world," his partner chided. "Welcome, good sir. We'll be glad to find you a room and a cup of fresh blood, if you like."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Meeting the Folks

I haven't said much about Jennifer. Maybe that's for the best.

We did continue to see each other. It was good to have someone else to think about.

My officers and men were busily engaged in landing practice, firing practice, high-altitude practice, and aerobatic practice. Even now, we had just received three new pilots, more technical trades; and more soldiers to provide additional security were expected shortly.

Having a spare moment to think of Jennifer, our last conversation ran again through my already stressed-out mind, a jumble of facts, figures and potential problems. All were momentarily pushed aside by thoughts of her. And I couldn't quite figure out if I loved her or not. That just seemed so unfair. Let me tell you, I was happy enough in not having sex with her. It was kind of sweet; in a way I personally didn't know much about.

Back on the farm, a few of my buddies had sweethearts. My best friend was married. He and his wife had a little boy. He couldn't even be drafted because he was the head of the household of a family farm, which I told him was excellent. He had the candour to agree, but asked me not to put it around too much.

He loved his wife and little boy something fierce, and he had this look in his eye, a little too much white around the edges.

"Best thing is to live with it, under the circumstances," I said at the time.

People used to worry about being called a coward, after some young girls gave out white feathers on the streets of Toronto, or Montreal. It's all so long ago.

I stand by that, actually. Just because those of us who went were condemned men, and we understood that after a while; there wasn't much sense in dragging a bunch of other innocent bastards into it. There were some guys who felt differently, in fact a lot of men felt different. They were just griping, mostly. These were the guys who were later credited with, 'cheerfully,' sacrificing their lives for the upper-class establishment.

I can assure you of one thing. They were not fucking, 'cheerful.'

Voices could be heard outside of the command building as men began to unload truckloads of engines. Because we needed the trucks, we moved crate after crate to the rail siding and our guarded lockup. This was built from 'hastily-requisitioned' (stolen) wire and timbers. Guarded twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We were all getting tired of that shit! Oh, well. It's lonely at the top. We were so short-handed, sometimes I was the only one who could be spared.

***

Jennifer's parents lived in the fashionable west end of London. I went around to meet her parents. It turns out her dad wasn't a cabinet minister, but some government bigwig nevertheless. Her mom and dad were very nice.

Apparently, she told them all about us going for a ride on the bike, and explained why she hadn't been home at all that night. Members of the capitalist, or leisure class, they could probably live on the interest or income from their properties and ventures. And yet they couldn't just walk away from power either, could they? Money and power go hand in hand. Members of a social class; her folks were used to their daughter arriving home at dawn after some gay ball, but when she didn't come home at all, they were a little worried.

They wanted a look at me.

Dinner was a semi-formal, yet fun affair, complete with liveried servants, glittering silver-domed plates, and the usual mucking about with thirteen different knives, forks and spoons. Her family wasn't stiff. The conversation was a scintillating blend of weather, politics, gossip, invective at a particularly offending, 'Member' of the Opposition; whom I wasn't familiar with; and puckish jokes from Jennifer and her sisters three. Her old man Ralph had an earthy sense of humour, punctuated by colourful, slightly risqué, but still suitable-for-family-company stories.

He told them pretty well, always with one eye on his wife and one on myself, 'The only other ally he had.'

The butler grinned. Apparently he was a friend of the family and belonged to generations of O'Ryellys or some such. Family retainers, is my interpretation. Badly wounded, he seemed pretty grateful to have a job.

Lucky to survive, by the looks of him. My host began another tale.

"Ralph," his wife Mary chided, and he changed anecdotes in mid-stride. I couldn't help but grin anyway, because with my own quick wits I could see where the story was going.

My eyes traveled over the wealth of family history displayed upon the walls.

"He fell on his bum," chimed in Zoe, the youngest, a bright-eyed child of maybe three and a half years.

We all laughed. She had kept us all going since walking in the door. Perhaps she was on display as well, if you can imagine their pride. I was on display. That much was clear, and the house was aquiver with the romance of it all. This strange, tall figure was their eldest sibling's, 'beau,' with all that the word implies. Thank God; I just wore a plain old dress uniform, no over-decorating. Having made it through dinner all right; the adults and the oldest sister withdrew into another room while the table was cleared. The small ones stayed behind to pester the servants with their cheerful banter.

I followed Mr. and Mrs. Bolteman in, with Jennifer at my arm.

By now her kid sisters worshiped me. I could just imagine them sitting on the bed late at night and discussing me in fine detail. Lord save us from women, eh?

It's like they had it all planned out.

"So tell me about this, 'Member,'" I prompted.

"Oh, he's not so bad," mother replied for him. "He gets his point across, and of course that annoys Ralph and his cronies, noisy old bunch of hens that they are!"

I could see that old Ralph might have a hard time of it, but he seemed to have thick skin where the sweet wife was concerned.

His 'better half,' or some such ilk.

"She's right of course," winked Mr. Bolteman. "We have a drink together from time to time, and we get along just fine. It's just that some of his tactics are simply juvenile."

My Jennifer sat there on the sofa, and it really sucked when the old fellow cleared his throat and asked the old, "So where do you plan to go in life, young man?"

A surprise attack, and pretty nice work by the way!

"What are your credentials for dating my daughter?" he continued.

And for whatever reason, it kind of floored me. But then I had no idea of why it was a good idea. None whatsoever, unromantic as that may be.

The most aggressive pilot wins.

"Daddy!" implored Jennifer, while her sister Deanna giggled, and stared unabashedly.

"I don't know! I guess I'm gainfully employed, free, white, and twenty-one, as the saying goes," I began diffidently enough, although the age part was a lie. "I have no criminal record. No visible infirmities. I've never declared bankruptcy, and I'm in a pretty good state of mental health, with no communicable diseases. I have a good employer, although my future prospects may be limited by the duration of the war, which I am assured will be over by Christmas."

Oh yeah, I could go on and on.

Old Man Bolteman and his wife roared with laughter, and gave each other a knowing look. He leaned over from his chair and slapped me on the knee.

"That's a good one!" he chortled.

Jesus H. Christ! Jennifer's parents were, like a lot of the bourgeoisie, 'crazy like shit house rats.' All one can do sometimes, is to sit there red-faced, and take it like a man.

"Well, my daughter assures us you're a gentleman," said the old man.

"And you're always welcome in our home," Mrs. Bolteman told me kindly. "Don't let old Ralphie get your goat! He just forgets that not everyone is a political animal."

She trailed off with a smile. She seemed like a pretty genuine old lady.

"With your skills in diplomacy, you might take the Civil Service Exam, and apply to the Foreign Office," suggested old Ralph.

She winked at me from behind her teacup.

At some point the younger daughter began to practice on the piano. While she was pretty bad, I enjoyed the homey atmosphere of it. Jennifer and I sat quietly as her mother Mary picked up an embroidery bag. She began to sort through it in an absent fashion.

Plink-plink-plink...plunk! Ah! Beethoven's Third. I can name that tune in four notes, and one of them is wrong.

I heard of a guy, his lady's dad asked him, 'What are your intentions towards my daughter?'

The guy said, 'Buddy, I intend to fuck the ass off your daughter.'

He got chased down the stairs and out into the street with a red-hot poker, as I recall.

I see diplomacy as an extension of war by other means. And I really don't give a shit what her old man thinks. Nice as the folks are.

"Where's my spectacles?" murmured Mister Bolteman, having picked up a paper and tried to read it.

He should have learned by now.

"Here they are, daddy," said Jennifer.

She brought them over; and as she was beside him, she tipped me the wink and an impish grin. Then she came and sat near. This was a hard conversation to begin. Idly my mind wanders back to the point. But there won't be another chance and it's late already. A long drive in the dark to the aerodrome. Hours of driving ahead of me—and I'm the CO.

"I don't know when I'll be able to visit again," I began, and it kind of choked me up, feeling all wooden as I was at that point.

All I could do was to ignore her folks and soldier on.

Maybe I was tired, I don't know. She was holding my hand, her chair angled up close to mine. She looked down quickly.

Cough, cough. Something tickled my throat and burned at my eyes.

It's hard to know how to begin. Something really needed to be said here.

"Don't worry, I'll be coming back," I managed. "I don't plan on getting killed or anything like that."

She looked up suddenly, that's for sure.

"I mean I'll be coming back to you," I tried to explain; but it just wouldn't come out right.

Oh, yeah, I guess I knew by then. The fact that we were in love. Maybe it was obvious to everyone else, but we males are always the last to know. And I knew it would be all right. I don't know if you've ever had that feeling? I just knew it would be all right. The room was very quiet. I just sat there and stared at the carpet between my feet, as if to memorize the pattern for future reference. Her folks must have packed up and left in a hurry, and I didn't even hear 'em go. How they managed the sister, I'll never know.

She came and sat on my lap and said, "I love you, Will."

And it was good. There must have been some other conversation then and along the way, but it's not important. My heart thudded deep in my chest, and a strange rush of adrenal juices shot through me. We were both taking ragged breaths, and there were tears on the verge of gushing out.

"I love you too, Jennifer," I said.

There was some kissing, on the lips, face, nose, eyes, chin, forehead, ears, and at some point she put my hand on her breast. My heart pounded. That was the first time I ever touched her that way. She put my hand over her heart. That's what I meant to say. She put my hand over her heart.

I could see glistening tears in her eyes.

"Please come back to me," she begged.

"I promise," I told her as I kissed her again, a little more thoroughly.

I meant it, too. And I gave her breast, er; I mean her heart, a little squeeze.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Train Came On Time

Bloody hell, the train came on time. Some of the boys sang softly as we worked in the pouring rain to get exposed packing crates into the boxcars. Lanterns swung from hooks and nails in the soft breezes. The rain came in everywhere, as the wind backed and filled, being variable in direction as well as intensity.

"I saw her snatch...the suitcase from the closet,"

"I held her but(t)...a moment in the rain,"

"I kissed her as(s), the train pulled into the station,"

"And we saw her Uncle Jack off on the train..."

Voices called in the darkness.

"Put the rollers under," an anonymous voice called, as willing hands groped in the murk.

It was stupid not to have more lights, but then we had been working all day. Just now getting started at clearing out our little wire-mesh compound. The crate began to move, with a trio of the lads pulling and tugging and gently cursing.

"Go grab a couple more lanterns, Jake," I told someone who appeared momentarily idle.

The ground was slippery; with flattened, wet grass and mud from our big boots. The rain made a hissing sound as it came down through the trees overhead. No one singing. The song remains the same. Time to write a new verse. Reluctantly, I remembered it was my turn. Oh, an oldie from my pop. I caught him singing it one day in the barn, before he left for good.

My deep voice bellowed out in stentorian tones, penetrating the fog and dreary gloom of the embattled night.

"I wish I could fart like a warthog,"

"I wish I could quack like a duck,"

"Wish I could spin webs like a spider,"

"And whistle a tune as I...swim..."

A couple of the guys laughed so hard they fell down.

They were already soaked to the skin anyway. Working in this muck was atrocious, but the rain came at a bad time. Howls, hoots and catcalls, and we're on our way to the hit parade.

"Cooey! That's bluidy guid, sirrah!" one of the new guys, Taffy, joshed from the darkness by the far rear corner.

More men with mover's dollies. Here come our lanterns now. There are still guys out there repeating the song, but they're all out of synchronization, and it sounds like a gaggle of voices.

Tee-hee, giggle, giggle.

"Come on boys, attitude is like altitude," I called. "The higher you get, the better off you are."

"Yes, sir!" a couple of the nearest ones called back.

"Hickory dickory dock," called Snotty.

"A mouse ran up my foot!" stated the sergeant firmly.

The boys broke up again. Another four or five hours, and we would be ready to go. Work's not so bad when you're with a good bunch of people.

"Knock them off just as soon as we're done, okay, sergeant? This lot will be cleared out in ten minutes or so," I instructed Jaeckl.

"Yes, sir. Should we take the wire down?" he asked.

"Leave it. There's plenty more where that came from," and he grimaced in agreement.

"Indeed there is, sir," he noted.

We needed the space. There were still a couple of hangars full of stuff to put on the flatcars. When I look back on those times, every stinking moment of every stinking day was somehow precious. And we didn't waste a single stinking second of it.

We had one crate left, and three boxcars jammed to the rafters.

"Now that's bluidy stupid," said a puzzled voice, already familiar after half a day's acquaintance.

"Stick it in the next one and lock up," the sergeant told Taffy. "You boys can use it to play cards on, while we ride in comfort up front."

Taffy grinned in return.

"Right-oh," he said.

Sergeant Jaeckl posted guards around the train.

"Get the men back to base and cleaned up," and I let him go then.

"How's the leg?" Howard-Smythe came up beside me. "What about your back?"

"Oh, it's all right," I grouched, but he insisted on driving me.

The RFC boys and the new people were being assembled into a ragged line, and a cheerful, noisy, boisterous lot they were, too. I was damned grateful for that Sergeant Jaeckl. Men like him very seldom got noticed for promotion. Too useful where they were. That was the suspicion in the Corps. The men were cleared of their billets. The bills in all the pubs were paid. The girls were all kissed goodbye, and we were sleeping in the empty hangar tents. We ought to be ready to go by noon tomorrow, Howard-Smythe and I agreed, although it was already the middle of the night.

"You have to look after yourself better," he advised. "What were you doing out in the rain? You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet, as they say."

"A leader should share some of the hardships," I responded ruefully.

Man, that knee hurt, now that there was time to think about it. My back too, and left elbow.

"By all means lead from in front, but lead from the top, as well," he quoted.

"Who said that?" I queried, being pretty familiar with the sayings of various historians and military pundits and pedants.

"I did," he said simply.

He pulled up in front of my tent.

"I believe someone was heating up some water," he hinted politely as I got out of his vehicle.

He was going to drop it off at home and would be back shortly, as agreed earlier.

The message seemed clear.

'You're tired, Tucker.'

"Thanks," I said, and he motored off in a big half-circle to go out the gate again.

As I stripped out of my sodden old battledress, complete with dog-collar jacket and a rather unofficial pair of trousers, men from the cookhouse called at the door.

A whole gaggle of them.

"Come on in," I yelled.

They arrived with a big tin tub, huge really; and they began pouring metal cans of steaming hot water into it. Howard-Smythe was a genius.

"You got something like this for the rest of the lads?" I asked Corporal Whittington.

"Yes, sir! And it is quite an impressive rig we built for heating the water, if I do say so, sir," he averred, with his toothy grin that was so perfect it looked artificial.

"Good work," I agreed in sheer exhaustion.

"Thank you, sir," he said, supervising the boys who kept burbling water all over the place.

Sitting on the cot in my shorts, I had a jolt of Navy Rum while waiting for them to leave.

Christ. What a long day.

***

Up at dawn. Forcing myself to eat. I wouldn't get a chance until noon, and I would be the last in line when grub became available. Some of my boys had done enough 'kitchen party' duties to last a lifetime. Food would be coming down the pipeline at some point.

Two hundred and fifty fucking guys running around, and I'm the lucky bastard that gets to tell them all what to do. Everything hurt all over, and I had to try and keep a balanced temper, so as not to unnecessarily crap all over some poor bugger's head for a minor fuck-up.

Howard-Smythe was sorting though a litany of items that needed to be taken care of.

Sergeant Jaeckl was yelling off of a list, work parties peeling off to their destinations, one group taking down empty hangar tents, one bunch crating the last half-dozen kites (planes,) one party loading twenty and thirty-foot crates onto the flatcars at the siding. Groups of men, boys, pilots, soldiers, miscellaneous clusters like myself and Corporal Bill. He had water barrels, cups, all the men's personal kit under control. By the look of things, the officers and men had done it all before. Before they were in the RFC; they had served in some way; whether it be in the Army, or in civilian life.

"Last thing we do is fill in the latrines," he concluded.

Surprisingly quickly, we had everything aboard. Our small convoy of motor transport lumbered off, dragging a trail of chalky dust. They would rendezvous with us at a compound near Dover. Now it was time to, 'hurry up and wait,' for we had no real idea of when to fire up the locomotive until this exact moment. I waved at the engineer, patiently watching out of his window.

"Better take one last walk around," I observed. "I like to leave a clean campsite for the next fellow."

We ambled around while the locomotive slowly built up heat in the boiler. Aside from some bare patches, quite long ones in the grass, and flattened-out areas from the hangars, maybe a few mucky spots, we were leaving the place pretty much as we found it.

"I want to streamline this operation," I suggested. "Wouldn't it be nice if it didn't take three days to load a train?"

He listened carefully. When we did it next time, we were going to fly the planes from one locale to another. But the rest of the materiel was far too bulky.

"The more often we do it, the quicker we'll get, sir," he observed confidently.

"Huh. My personal feeling is that some of this crap will never be used," I explained as we walked back to the siding, bone-tired. "At some point I will declare it useless, and jettison it in a farmer's field somewhere."

Bill grinned.

"Dogs and dartboards I can handle. The timber we can use. Some of the other items, kind of questionable," he admitted. "The desks are good, the tubs and cooking gear are actually very bulky."

Bedding, clothing, tables, chairs, all hard to come by in the front lines. That much is true. Lamps. I mean literally, 'lamps.' It was unbelievable; much of it in the form of simple, common, household items.

"If we can just grab a farmhouse for ourselves, some of that is unnecessary," he concluded.

"I don't know, Bill," I ventured. "It's tactically-sound practice to set up an aerodrome, entirely self-contained. The enemy will look for us, in order to bomb us. I'll bet the Fritzies know every likely prospect for an aerodrome, on both sides of the line."

Ultimately, it was his job to explain everything in detail to the men. And they would ask questions, which is a socially-acceptable way of complaining in the military. The idea that we would always set up in a cozy chateau somewhere. Wasn't that what the enemy prisoners were telling us? We were too rigid. Too set in our ways. It was time to do something about that. Chateaus are marked on maps, and the enemy knew where to look, if they wanted to retaliate for a particularly nasty raid on their own aerodrome. And there were a few interesting ideas on that subject kicking around in the old 'brain-box.' If we set up in remote locations, they had no choice but to come looking. If we bombed them first, we could provoke them.

Comfort is important to a soldier. It keeps up morale to get enough food, or sleep; to be able to wash and shave once in a while. To get mail, or have a beer, or a hot cup of tea and a biscuit.

To sit on a chair. What an unbelievable luxury, after life in a hole.

But we had an awful lot of junk on that train.

***

Canada, where I come from in southwestern Ontario, is cold, and it snows in the winter. But it is by no means a sure thing, and we have that endless season of fog, murk, mist, rain, flurries, melting snow; and slush everywhere. It goes on for weeks, sometimes. Hell, it goes on for months. Cabin fever actually sets in about the end of winter. It's at its worst in early spring.

Sometimes a thaw, usually brief, sends the temperatures soaring up to ten or twenty degrees above freezing! Freak weather, but there is also the season where winter is not over yet, and it's just mud, mud, mud. Sunny days are cold and windy, and then there's the mud.

The mud of February, covered under a sticky layer, two inches thick, of fresh white snow, newly-fallen. Yet the grass seems perfectly alive under it, and there is a ring of warm earth exposed under every pine tree, under every bush or shrub. Bare patches in front of every home, barn, wall, or rock outcropping. The mud of March, the breezes of March, roaring for endless days across the slowly, interminably-drying land.

England has its season of mud, I realized, as we sped across the winter-deadened landscape. Yet I could see the buds all ready for the spring, from the bitter cold of the doorway.

We stood on the step, looking over the countryside as we smoked. These sessions, with a couple of the NCO's and Howard-Smythe, were part of the team-building process. For these gentlemen, non-flying personnel, the challenge was to get them to build the system I wanted, and not necessarily the one they expected, based on familiarity or past experience.

"It's been dry lately," said Jaeckl. "That little sprinkle last night was a bit of a royal pain in the arse."

There were nods of agreement. The sun beat down on the greys and browns of England in mid-February. In the distance; heat waves were coming off of the metal roof of a building in an otherwise indiscernible village, obscured by the trunks of a thousand trees. An English forest. One often thinks of Robin Hood and his merrye men, expecting them to step out, arrow tips raised to greet strangers. The train gently swayed from side to side as we clicked over the points where the rails join up.

"There are buds on the branches," I observed. "When we get stuck on a siding, it might be a good idea to strike up a football game, keep the lads out of trouble."

On and on and on we rolled.

As long as it's not too far away from the train. Someone might wander. We had quite a motley crew along with us.

"Don't you worry about that, sir. We'll look after it," said Sergeant Jaeckl. "We'll keep the lads out of trouble."

Swear to God; I smiled when he said that.

I grabbed the rail, as we entered a sweeping turn. Doctor Jones jostled up against me.

"How's it going with you, Doc?" I asked, barely knowing the guy's name.

"The usual thing so far," he stated, in a neutral tone that said he didn't really want to be here.

This was no surprise. He was 'on secondment' from jail and didn't want to go back.

But there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm, as he said further, "Aches and colds and sore assholes, and pimples on the dink."

We roared with laughter. He cheered up a little at this reception to his conversational gambit. Technically, Jones was a captain, but otherwise useless.

"As long as you can tell the difference between an ague, a fit and a quinsy, and humours of the brain," I told the man with a knowing look. "That's all I care."

He raised an eyebrow. No comment, apparently. He was a volunteer, but then it was better than a pioneer battalion, where you have to work with pick, shovel and axe all day long, like Paul Bunyan. The Doc and I were due for a chat, very, very soon. A nice little man-to-jerk talk. Nobody likes sitting in jail, but this wasn't a holiday camp for wayward alcoholics and drug addicts. He needed to know that.

Knocking the bowl of my pipe on the railing, so I could put it away without risk of fire, I nodded good evening to them and left them to it.

No doubt a little discussion amongst themselves would help. Time for a walk through, and then to bed.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Some Things Stick In Your Mind Forever

Some things stick in your mind forever.

As I swung into the first of our troop boxcars, some bright lad was all set for a little squaddie brew-up.

"Ah, shit!" I heard, as a private moved suddenly and a tin cup fell over.

"Relax, boys!" I told them. "Just passing through."

The other side door was open, and a man urinated out of it. I waited in order to avoid any blowback from the slipstream.

"Cup of tea, sir?" a man asked.

"Yes, thank you."

This guy has to be my new corporal.

We stood beside a couple of barrels with planks on them, which made a fairly decent sideboard. He put tinned milk, the evaporated type, and some sugar into the enameled metal cup. I was huffing and puffing from the exertion of getting in the boxcar, literally running alongside on a slow curving stretch, and waiting for willing hands to catch me up. There were eight or ten Indian troops among the platoon.

"They're all good lads," the man next to me said.

He had a single stripe on his shoulder, but we hadn't been properly introduced.

I stuck out my hand.

"Tucker," I said.

"Carson," he replied. "Nine are from Calcutta, and one is from some little village up the road from Bombay."

In the background men's voices could be heard as the first five or six finished getting the tea in their cups and headed back to slump wearily down on their packs and bedrolls.

These were in the forward end of the car, because of the breeze coming in.

Someone had rigged up a stretch of stiff wire that held the door on the lee side of the box car open eight or ten inches, to let out the fumes from the little stove they had going.

This division had been decimated, and was now totally dispersed in small groups of reinforcements from a central pool, according to Howard-Smythe.

"This guy here," he pointed. "He was an accountant in an insurance firm, before he enlisted."

Well; I didn't think everyone on the subcontinent grew rice, actually, and had met up with Indian troops before. Perhaps the corporal thought I was still wet behind the ears.

"Oh, really," I said with interest. "Have him report to Captain Howard-Smythe in the morning."

"That's diabolically stupid."

Someone behind us was muttering in the dark corner where some heavier equipment, boxes and crates were strewn about. One or two were already open.

The corporal moved off to investigate before I got too involved.

"...some people think they should have their own political party," came a voice from one group of lads. "But then they find the obvious recruits are all the same kind of people, who all think they should have their own political party."

Chuckles all around that group.

Other fellows were groping in the grey leaden light. I sipped my tea, piping hot.

"Alfred! Where the fuck's me pack?"

"It's right over there, Dave!"

"Shit! This razor's dull," said some kid with nothing more than peach-fuzz to worry about.

Draining the cup, I thanked the man by the brew-up central area, and continued with the walk-through. I answered questions as best I could, reassuring people that they would get their mail. Some needed a pat on the back. One boy was looking kind of sick so I told him to report to the doctor at the next stop.

That would smarten him up.

In order to be completely effective, all propaganda must contain an element of truth.

Hopefully the men were reassured by my confident air.

It looked like I knew what I was doing, but I was just faking it. The train was pulling to a halt again. Now what? At least it was a lot easier to go from the last boxcar to the first passenger carriage. Better than clambering around in the dark on a moving train. No wonder the boys called me mad. Funny, in one carriage, virtually everyone was asleep; except for one bleary-eyed fellow who was clearly confused as to whether or not to salute from the prone position.

I returned the salute politely enough.

"I'm not expecting a fanfare of trumpets," I whispered on the way by.

Silly bugger blushed in embarrassment! Everywhere, people sleeping in the aisles.

In the next car, it was a bull session, and this time it was some guy quoting Cyrano De Bergerac!

"Sometimes the best causes are the ones that are already lost," he was saying.

An intellectual in every crowd. Keep moving, although the conversation is intriguing.

Hopefully they're not talking about me.

Next clump of lads, pretty quiet; although someone said, "...an ass like a tame bee!" as I went past the open compartment door.

Wouldn't mind hearing more of that one, either!

Boys will be boys.

Reluctantly, I moved on. Next doorway.

"Give it up, Billy, give it up!"

I felt like standing sheepishly in the door and asking with a dumb look on my face, "Duh! You guys playing cards?"

A CO has to keep a certain dignity. The wisecracks better be good, or I keep them to myself.

"Yeah!" someone won the pot, and the murmuring could be heard as I proceeded down the hall to the command cars nearer the front end. Another perquisite of rank; we get to be at the front of the train.

***

After a brief hiatus at Dover, and a very slow, but thankfully calm passage; then came the nightmarish hassle of getting all hooked up again. We finally chugged and clunked into a marshalling yard near St. Omer, France. Nearby was the bustle of the Royal Air Force Depot. Pulling in during the night, we made sure to be on the very farthest verge of the yard. No one even bothered with us.

My head felt a little woozy, with a rushing and beating in my eardrums, just for a moment. We used to call it, 'angel's wings.' A sign of over-tiredness. It was a strange kind of thrumming in the inner ear, often on one side of the head or the other.

"Send in Ali Baba and his sidekick Shifty," I asked the Captain, who was just leaving after an early consultation.

A hubbub came at the door. Who's this?

Dawley!

"Hey, buddy," I said, as he came into the command centre.

My office was long and skinny, with lots of windows. I quite liked it, especially the stove, and the bed, and the roof over my head. A bunker on wheels, courtesy of the Siddeley-Deasy Car Company. There was a little plaque and everything.

"Well, this is the way to go to war," he murmured in dry humour. "Is this thing armoured?"

"Yeah!" I giggled. "You know me. Always thinking!"

We shook hands and he grabbed a seat. Corporal Bill came in with cups, steaming with strong coffee. Then he set out cream and sugar. Dawley was opening a briefcase.

"Here are the materials you requested," he began. "You have planes at the aerodrome, and the commandant says come and pick them up when you're ready."

Dawley must have flown in to the St. Omer base early. Up with the birds. I like that.

"How come you got this job?" I asked him. "Did you say or do something to upset someone?"

"No! I asked for it," he assured me. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

A knock sounded at the door.

"Sit tight," I motioned. "Come in!"

"I would rather be ripped apart by lions than gnawed to death by rats and vermin," he said inconsequentially.

Ah! Office politics. Well, that's always the way, right? Poor fellow got sick of kissing ass.

'Ali Baba,' and, 'Shifty,' stood in the room, a trifle ill at ease. Aware that they haven't done anything lately, a thief also knows that the first thing he ever stole was his own honour, his own reputation. Thieves are aware that their word doesn't amount to much. It makes them feel a little vulnerable sometimes.

"Where did you get that tin stove, the one you boys use for brew-ups?" I began affably enough. "Is that an American invention?"

Dawley sat there watching sardonically.

"Um, um, oh; er, well..." began Ali.

His pal fidgeted, and focused in on the papers on my desk. I transfixed him with my gaze and he looked away, reddening slightly.

"How much would it cost me to get another half-dozen?" I asked Ali in a pleasant and even voice, neutral, and non-judgmental.

"Oh!" he came back in a different tone. "Oh, well, we couldn't charge you, sir!"

Dawley grinned in appreciation, probably 'cause he knew I would have a big shopping list. We'd sprung these boys from the hoosegow for a reason.

"Just let us know what you want! We're only too happy to get it for you," and he took a quick and sneaky glance at his partner in crime.

No disagreement there, merely a look of awe. What kind of CO was this?

"That's right, only too happy," said Shifty, tugging on a forelock and shuffling his feet.

Snuffling at his grubby and tattered coat sleeve. These gentlemen hadn't been issued new clothes yet.

"I have a list. We'll need a couple of extra box cars," I told them. "Wait until dark. Get some French railroad guard uniforms if you can."

They agreed that this might be a good idea.

"One more thing. Stand up straight when you talk to me," and then I let them go, no doubt grateful to do so.

"And talk to Sergeant Jaeckl about some new clothes," I called, as the door closed ever so gently behind them.

"For starters, we'll be at Aire," I informed Dawley. "We think we can find a rail siding, next to a big open area, and if we have to knock down a few trees, so be it."

"I'm all for new tactics," he noted. "This mobility is going to pay off. I just know it."

As long as Military Intelligence was cooperating.

"Anyway, here are all the reports you requested. Biographies; the jastas und stafelln und geschwaders of the enemy forces; and their locations. Enemy aces, enemy aircraft, enemy aerodromes as of Friday, activity on a variety of fronts."

Major Dawley and his office were very thorough.

"It's as up-to-date as we can make it."

He shuffled papers to and from the briefcase. My work was cut out for me.

"Okay. Now I need to borrow one of your pilots and a plane, so I can go up to Paris,"

he said. "I'll get those certain little items you requested."

He was serious, although in point of fact the whole idea had a certain ludicrousness about it. We were going to try to create a 'gravity-suit,' and our big brainstorm was to wear girdles and such-like under our flying clothes. We even planned to try tight stockings. I'm not lying, it was just quicker and cheaper than going through the more usual purchasing commission.

The usual design-and-bid process, with tenders and all that bureaucratic red tape would simply take too long. We figured the planes were capable of pulling a lot more 'gravities,' than the human body could tolerate for more than a few seconds. Some 'poof,' named Parnall at the Royal Aircraft Testing Establishment came up with the idea. The idea of ordering the men to wear the stuff; well, that might take some courage.

We had to put up with some of that kind of thing, because we were, 'experimental.'

And they were writing the cheques.

Mind you, it was true enough that men 'greyed out,' when pulling out of steep dives; although no one had ever 'confirmed,' actually blacking out. That was all speculation. From the point of view of an observer; in the case of an aircraft where the pilot took a single bullet to the spine, or simply blacked out, and then spun in, how can you tell the difference? You can't. You can only speculate as to why your buddy, in an otherwise intact airframe, suddenly loosened up in a turn or a pullout and then crashed, or flew straight and level, maybe slightly drifting; until small arms fire or anti-aircraft fire took him out. Was my buddy asleep? Blacked out? Or, 'just dead?'

"Well, at least make sure they're all one colour," I suggested. "For the love of God, make sure they're not pink."

"They probably don't make khaki kinky-clothes," he quipped.

I have to admit, I was stumped for a response to that one.

Another thing on his list was hockey tape, the kind we used to hold our sticks together back in Canada, after taking a pounding on the frozen, rock-like surface of a pond.

Perfect for patching bullet holes in airframes, and inventing anti-gravity suits.

The first hockey pucks were frozen horse-patties. We called them, 'shit-pucks.'

Later, when games were broadcast on the radio, the name was changed for obvious reasons, including an 'all-ages' audience.

"All done then? I'll call for a pilot. Presumably you have a car," I told him, and we shook hands.

Dawley was soon on his way over to the airstrip with McGill, one of the newbies.

McGill had twenty or thirty hours on Avro's. He should be fine. I hoped. The Biff was easy enough to fly. He should be able to tell the difference. What's next? I picked up the first one on the stack and opened it. Men's voices were raised outside the train, as the sergeant organized some sort of group activities. Until our motor transport caught up with us, it was a good time to rest and catch up on the reading.

"Did you ever answer that letter, sir?"

Now it was Corporal Bill's turn to plague me. "The pretty smelling one?"

"Holy, schmoley," I grumped. "Will you fellows never leave me alone?"

Putting down the file; I looked through last week's mail. That ought to keep us busy for a while.

"It doesn't take a fool to see what's going on here, but I do," said the corporal.

"What?" I questioned sternly. "What are you implying?"

"You're afraid of this Russian lady, sir," smirked Whittington.

"Ha! Damned right I am," I told the cheeky bugger. "She's got a reputation as a real man-eater."

"She's probably a spy, or a divorcee, or something," I added.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, sir," he answered.

As long as they put a 'sir' on the end of it, I pretty much tolerate it around here.

"You bucking for a transfer, again?"

He shut up then.

"I promise to answer the mail, all right?"

He nodded and went back to work. Cheeky bastard.

***

The plotting and scheming never let up for a moment.

Half a dozen of us sat around a big table in the other half of the carriage. Black, Powell, Andrew, Howard-Smythe, myself, and the corporal. We were planning,

plotting, scheming, bull-shitting and in general trying to wrap our minds around all the work that needed to be accomplished before the first machine took to the air.

"We need to get our act together, gentlemen," I advised them.

We were fortunate, in that some of our aircraft were never uncrated. They were easy to put back on a train. The disassembly of twenty-seven aircraft took about a week before the train arrived; and three more days elapsed while loading.

We were behind the eight ball as far as time was concerned. Time is the one precious element. Almost any other resource can be replaced, even blood. Ideas skipped and danced in my head.

"Ideas, boys?"

They were growing into the job, each and every one of them, each in his own way.

Christ, they were like my own sons.

"I like the electric fuel-pump idea, but we shouldn't modify all the planes at once," offered Powell.

Most of us agreed with his opinion.

"We're going to be bolting brand-new engines, right out of the crate, onto some tired old airframes," he added. "They'll require running in, and thorough testing."

"Smart thought. Let's make sure all the pumps don't fail after twenty minutes of flying time," I acknowledged.

"I'm not wearing no frilly girl's underwear to fly and fight the enemy," stated Andrew firmly.

Grunts and nods.

"I think the men would mutiny," said Corporal Bill.

But there were pretty firm orders, and there's always a way.

"Oh, I got that one all figured out, " I assured them. "We make it a punishment, and keep it top secret. Swear them to secrecy and make them sign the form. Howard-Smythe has the procedure. He's got a memo, just get them to sign it first. It's all in the set-up, and how you present it to the individual offender."

That made them sit up, even Andrew, all tousled hair and sleepy black eyes.

"That's fucking brilliant!" gaped Andrew. "I have new respect for you guys. The poor bastard has to fly the test, write a report, sign his name in the history books, and he can't even warn the next guy."

All the squadron leaders roared with laughter. Howard-Smythe, Whittington, (the corporal) and I just sat and grinned because it wasn't quite so new to us.

"I can't wait till Biggsy pisses me off again," murmured Powell, his squadron leader; from across the ten-foot long desk whipped up from saw horses and plywood. "Can I use this retroactively?"

The table was strongly braced with some light framing, to keep it from sagging under maps and coffee cups. I couldn't help but laugh again.

"That's the spirit," I murmured genially, continuing the discussion by nodding at Howard-Smythe; who had something to say.

"It keeps Whitehall off of our backs, though I shudder to think of what happens if someone gets shot down behind enemy lines," chuckled Howard-Smythe, who always followed our conversations with intense concentration.

"Or what I would put in a letter to his mother," I grinned ruefully. "Shot down while testing a new flying-suit."

"A fairy suit!" interjected Andrew. "His bounteous decolletage exposed to the enemy in gallant fashion..."

"All right, all right, that's enough Andrew!"

"Well, it's better than just faking the reports," he admitted. "Of course; squadron leaders are exempt?"

I have the right to remain silent.

He didn't like that too much, but he shut up promptly. I just sat rubbing my whiskers for a long, drawn-out moment, and then reached for the tobacco tin.

"What are you worried about? You never fuck up, do you, Andrew?"

The corporal, who was all ears, caught the funny little gleam in my eye.

Suddenly the corporal spoke.

"And when future generations look back, never let them forget, that these were all volunteers."

'Heh-heh-heh,' we all chuckled in unison, Andrew somewhat reluctantly.

A notion popped into my head, unbidden.

"Herman Goering wears women's clothing. We have that from a number of sources," all of which were, 'Top Secret,' and, 'Mostly Bullshit.'

But I only told the men what they absolutely needed to know, right?

Extremely economical with the truth, that's the ticket sometimes. And then wildly exaggerate at other times. It gets the job done. A little hemming and hawing. Let them chew on it awhile. Men are very suggestible creatures. That's why women find us so fascinating.

"The next item on the agenda," began Howard-Smythe in his gentle and politic fashion.

"I have to go and find us a field, who's our best gunner?" I asked.

"One of us could go, skipper," suggested Powell.

"All right, Powell! You can be my gunner."

There were more chuckles.

"I don't think that was exactly what I had in mind," he complained, but he didn't have the experience in field selection.

I knew what I wanted, and yet having him along was a good idea. Some day he would have to replace me. It was inevitable that someone would have to replace me...some day.

Probably sooner rather than later.

"Let's have a look at the map," I said, and Andrew slid it over the table.

"There's a little place called Aire, on the Riviere Lys."

I pointed it out.

Lately I was spending a lot of time poring over maps, in addition to all my other duties.

"There's a double track, and at least two sidings. One here, and one here. And this looks like flat ground, but I don't know if it's well drained fields, or scrub and trees. We have to look."

This was a strategic, and very busy rail corridor. The network was extensive, with all kinds of side lines and spurs off to different villages and industrial complexes. It wasn't hilly, but there were ravines, rivers and creeks, and patches of forest that were marked. It was the unknowns that needed to be settled, like in algebra.

"We'll leave in the middle of the night. But first I want any prying eyes to get a good look," I explained some, but not all of my concerns. "Then we'll pull onto our siding, and unload. We'll assemble as many as we can in twenty-four hours, then fly a mission. See how it goes from there."

The enemy had spies everywhere. After we pulled our little disappearing act, they would be forced to look for us all up and down the front. It was just an added fillip, tossed in for effect. Most squadrons took weeks or even months to deploy and achieve combat effectiveness. Enemy spies would be expecting that.

My men would have one day!

"I'll try to get more of this sorted out before you get back," said Howard-Smythe. "Here comes Jaeckl now. Any problems, Sergeant?"

It appeared not, from the head-shake and shrug. 'The Adj' had some papers. Bill was just typing them up. I signed something he shoved in front of me, then another.

"Well, I am out of here. What the heck is with this music?" I gasped, as some foreign, rotten noise came in through the gently billowing curtains at the window.

The boys brought a Victrola along and I hadn't the heart to deny them permission.

"It's a sign of the increasing alienation of young people, in an abnormally-isolated; and rather small demographic group, in a sort of depersonalized urban society; where..."

"Never mind," I barked at the corporal. "Where's my fuckin' coat? Come on, Powell, come on."

We headed for the door.

There was a soccer game in progress. Men lounged about both inside and out. We stepped over men sleeping in the doorway at the top of the short steps that led from the rail carriage to the ground.

"The real problem in my mind; is the fuel supply," I told Powell. "We have to feed the aircraft, our motor transport, whenever it gets here, and the train, and the men..."

"I know; its complex. But I think it's worthwhile," said Powell. "We're breaking new ground."

"I would prefer not to!"

An old joke; but I don't think he'd ever heard it before. He chuckled.

The music blared up again for a moment as someone changed recordings.

"...she wasn't much to wrestle, but you should have seen her box..." and the men around the machine laughed uproariously.

I have to admit to a grin myself.

"Holy, cow," said Powell. "I never heard a record like that before. What, is the whole world going crazy?"

"Yeah, that's funny, Powell. Is the whole fuckin' world going crazy?"

Dumb question, Powell. Of course the world is going crazy.

"Look around you, man."

He had nothing to say.

"Get with the program, Powell," I grinned, a tad unkindly.

It must have taken us half an hour to pick our way over the busy marshalling yard.

Every time we came to the end of a train, we were confronted by another. Then we had to decide whether to go right or left. Every train in the yard was a long one. Once, a train was going east, so we went west, hoping to see the caboose or brakemen's car. The damned train stopped and began backing up.

"Fuck!" said Powell.

I couldn't help but agree; and it was high time he learned some new words.

The ugly danger of getting a foot stuck in a switch, and being run over by a moving train, was an added headache. This helped me to decide to let Powell fly. It had the added bonus of providing an opportunity to watch him work.

I hadn't even flown with him yet. We finally found the control tower for the vast operation, and commandeered a vehicle from the pool of military vehicles standing out front. When time is short, everything seems to take forever. Powell was feeling it too.

"It's a good thing the chaps have a ball to boot around," he began.

The car stood waiting for a chuffing yard engine to rattle past us in a cloud of smoke and steam.

His voice rode up with the noise level, "We have to find our way in this."

The chauffeur was unperturbed, a man of patience who knew his way around. It was a sprawling complex of warehouses, machine shops, assembly areas, repair areas, scrap and storage areas, barracks, officer's quarters, and finally the aerodrome. Turns out we could have walked three-quarters of a mile straight across the fields and found it ourselves.

"How come there's not too many aircraft flying about?" Powell asked.

"Yesterday five squadrons came through here," the driver told us. "Today, almost nothing."

We talked him into driving out amongst the solid-looking wooden hangar structures.

"There! That one's ours," said Powell, pointing over the driver's shoulder.

We swung and burbled to a stop.

"Thanks for the ride," I told the man, and handed him a fiver. "Go get yourself a beer. That's a direct order, soldier. I'm on an expense account."

The army general who owned this machine was going to have to wait a while.

Powell grinned as he began to put on his flight suit, from the duffle bags we both carried. We pulled it all out. This particular Biff was a good plane. One of Bishop's students was kind enough to fly it over before joining a squadron.

The fact that this gave him an extra day or two in Paris with his girlfriend had nothing to do with it, I can assure the reader. Better than sitting on a train, right? And the Channel crossing could be rough on the stomach. Better to avoid sea-sickness. Once you've had it, you'll understand. I gave it a thorough pre-flight nevertheless. You can never be too careful, and planes do wear out or require maintenance.

"Can you land an aircraft in that field?" I called.

"Do you mean the one beside the train?" he asked, and I nodded. "Well. There's only one way to find out."

"All right, let's go find us an aerodrome," I said when he was ready.

Then I swung the prop for him and clambered aboard. I levered the safety to 'off,' and ejected a cartridge from the machine gun. Theoretically the thing was ready to go, but it's difficult to trust some stranger, far, far away. It was tempting to fire a few rounds into the nearest tree trunk, but the urge was restrained. Safety back on for the moment. Where's the strap? It may be necessary to rotate in the gunner's or observer's role, and these straps were different than the pilot's. Familiarity breeds contempt, and I wanted to make sure everything was just right. I hadn't flown as a back-seater for quite a while.

We taxied out into the morning sunshine. Soon we were swaying and bumping over the grass, and then we settled into flight. There were fresh magazines on angled pegs, and there was a date written on the tops of the drums in pencil. Re-loaded yesterday morning. Somebody had a brain in his head. It's rare thing, too. 'February 22, 1918,' so it says.

Powell flew at about five hundred feet.

Then he side-slipped and fired a short burst into an adjacent stream. He was using his head. German raiders could conceivably make it this far, on some strategic bombing attempt, or on a deep reconnaissance. The best place on the map was only about twelve miles from the front lines.

We flew on, pushed by the mid-morning breeze. As usual, it was picking up in force, coming in from the North Sea. Powell followed the tracks, then they broke away from the river bank. Shortly, we began to pick up the little side-spurs that interested us. Due to the close cockpits of that aircraft, it was easy to direct him to a couple of options. After Powell looked them over from about a thousand feet, he finally picked one he liked better and brought us down. He did a picture-perfect touchdown, a nice three-pointer.

"Well, what do you think?" he bellowed over the idling engine.

"It will have to do for the time being," I yelled back. "Let's get back to the train."

If we sat too long, we would overheat.

The engine roared. We were soon winging our way back to St. Omer, as I scanned the sky behind and around out of habit.

Old habits die hard, but then so do I.

Like how I sat down in the seat properly, and tightened up the straps, and put my hands up on the coaming, just like I always did as a gunner-observer. Because when Powell brought her into the field, he tipped her over on the nose. No big thing, really, it happened all the time. He was a little spoiled by the hard, rocky field we had at home, with its clay smears and all. At least it wasn't too soft. This little field was all wet and bumpy.

It was just the long grass, and the spongy turf, the result of a recent rainy spell.

The prop hit and bottomed out, and we went up and over. It was all I could do not to bang my face on the front of the cockpit. We dropped back down again, 'on all three.'

Figures came running pell-mell across the field which doubled as a soccer pitch. The first few men came slithering up to a stop. They saw us sitting there with dumb looks on our faces. Then the whole damned crew was laughing!

"Welcome to France, Powell," I muttered as we got out.

"Thanks," he grumped, as the NCO's put the men to recovering our mount from the middle of the pasture.

"It's not your fault, Powell. I suppose should have warned you," I told him affably.

And that's just the thing, isn't it? I have total responsibility. Total responsibility for Powell, and all the other men. As if I didn't have enough to think about, the little mishap

was a reminder of what could happen at any time. With the unfamiliar approach, being in the back seat, and the excitement of the nose-over, I never even noticed a train parked right beside ours.

"Jesus H. Christ," groaned Powell in dismay. "Did all them fucking Brass Hats see that landing?"

"We'll find out in a minute," I noted, perhaps with a little more assurance than was actually the case.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Brass Hats and Gold Doorknobs

The train next to ours was laden with trouble, of a kind I wasn't too well-equipped to deal with. As we approached, a clump of high-rankers scuttled back up the steps and into our command car.

"Well, thanks for the flight," I told Squadron Leader Powell. "Go get some lunch."

I went in to see what was up. In the car, I tossed my flight helmet onto a side table, and began to peel off the layers. They all sat around the long table and watched silently.

"Lady and gentlemen," I began. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine morning?"

"This is the Countess Svetlana Kuznetsovna."

Bowing low at the waist, I kissed her hand.

Johnny Salmond handled the introductions.

"Boom you know, Brancker, Keynes, Bernie; meet Will Tucker."

There was a good dozen of them, but some preferred to remain anonymous. One of them kind of crowds.

"So what's all this about, then?" I murmured graciously, more politely than I felt.

"We'd like you to co-ordinate with Belgian Intelligence," said Brancker. "And we did request an inspection."

The Belgians were holding a tiny corner of their homeland. The 'Powers That Be' threw them a bone once in a while. There was no question of French Intelligence getting involved. The Countess sat there batting her big long eyelashes, studying me.

"What about that landing?" asked Trenchard.

"Sorry, Boom. The ground is just a little spongy," I explained. "And it is a short field, after all. Maybe Powell touched the long grass slightly too fast. No big thing. Maybe he should have tried the three-pointer. Maybe he should have put more back-stick on it when we started to go over. Maybe he should have throttled up and tried another takeoff. Maybe he should have stayed in bed this morning."

Boom was grinning by this point.

"We'll check the plane out before anyone else flies it again," I assured them. "That particular machine was a spare, and they are expendable."

"We're not here to cause problems for you, Lieutenant-Colonel," began Brancker, who was a nice enough guy, once you got to know him. "We're actually quite impressed. No one's ever done this before, you know?"

I was in no mood to beat around the bush.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said impatiently.

I jumped up and moved to the open window. The stress of the last ten or eleven weeks was beginning to show.

"Turn that damned music down," I barked through the curtains.

The outer world suddenly grew a tad more silent.

Boom's eyebrows rose.

'Very impressive,' his expression seemed to read.

"His master's voice," he joked to the silent room.

"I'm sorry, but my bark is worse than my bite," I responded peevishly.

"It's just that no one has put an entire frickin' aerodrome on a train before, Tucker," Sefton Brancker patiently explained. "We didn't think it could be done. You've got men, machines, tools, and spares, and parts, and food; knowing you, some booze; and fuel, and ammunition..."

I supposed he was right.

"How long did it take you to get here?" he went on. "Once you have your mind made up, there's no stopping you, eh?"

We had the pretty fair nucleus of three squadrons on one little train.

Never thought of it that way! Or one big squadron, from his antiquated point of view. My close-up view, and personal responsibility blinded me to the unique achievement that we had achieved.

"We had a hard time finding you, and a hard time catching up with you," Brancker added.

You catch on fast, I was thinking. When the smart pills begin to look like dead flies...but you get the idea. (I'm halfway to a cure?—ed.)

"We drove around for three hours trying to find your aerodrome at Norwich," he murmured.

He wasn't exactly angry. Just an odd look on his stern visage.

"Sorry, sir. I thought you guys were here to give me shit for something," I told him simply.

My nerves were beginning to settle down a little. We just crashed, after all.

"Have you had lunch yet, my brave young hero?" asked the Countess.

The blood rushed to my neck and face, so I bit down and tried very, very hard to keep my mouth shut. What the heck was her problem? She's after something. I can always tell.

"I'm fine," I assured her.

I preferred to wait until they all left.

"Allow me to offer the hospitality of my dining car. Our chef is one of the finest, and quite frankly, one of the most famous; in the world," she promised regally.

Boom was making eyebrow signals at me like I should take it and I had no choice. But I really don't do politics and I don't do diplomacy. Not on my pay.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I stood up to dismiss them all. "I was just going to have a can of soup at my desk and keep working on my all-encompassing plan of world domination."

"Harrumph!" began Trenchard.

"And I could use some fuel tankers, of the lorry-type I mean," I harrumphed right back.

I sat down. So they weren't leaving yet, eh?

"How many do you require?" asked Sefton in a conciliatory tone. "I'm sure we could get two or three fairly quickly."

"That's what you fucking said last week, and the week before," I barked, jumping up again.

"Turn that music up a little," I bellowed out the window.

Technically, I was in sole charge here. If they want to fire me, they have to go back to London and get a piece of paper.

Slowly, the sound outside the window began to creep up again. I could hear Sergeant Jaeckl move the men away from the window, and he must have started up another game.

Cricket it sounded like, this time.

"Sorry about that," I muttered feebly. "This should be top secret, I guess."

I gave a meaning-filled look at the Russian lady.

"Don't you worry about the Countess. It was very kind of her to let us use her train," Trenchard explained. "She's just been dying to meet you."

"Sorry, ma'am. You must think I'm very rude," but I just wanted to get rid of them.

I had to get some sleep, before we cleared out of there in the middle of the night. After more chit-chat, they began to stand up and shamble off in the direction of the door.

Everyone was very pleased with my progress, everyone was rooting for me, or so it seemed. 'Big fucking deal,' I was thinking. If this goes bad somehow, it's my ass and mine alone. Out on a limb and with all of you termites gnawing at the tree.

They trooped out on the way to lunch next door, in the flashing train cars with The Imperial Eagle of the Czar and all the Russias painted upon its polished and waxed sides. Howard-Smythe came in and handed me an envelope.

"She must have done some recon work ahead of time," he marveled. "She passed it off as she went by."

Opening it, and quickly perusing the contents; it seemed he was right.

Dear Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker;

'I am sorry to have dragged all the boorish officer class along with me; I quite understand your feelings. I had no choice, but that is war.'

'Please allow me to feed you. It is the least I can do to honour your brave and noble sacrifice, etc, etc, etc.'

'The Countess, etc.'

"Holy, schmoley! She doesn't give up easily," I commented ruefully to the Adjutant.

"Why don't you have dinner with her? She's not bad-looking."

Howard-Smythe's fatherly advice was distinctly unwelcome.

No, she wasn't. But there was Jennifer to think of.

"Her handwriting is nice," he noted, but I just shook my head in impatience.

I was just too damned busy, and we were supposed to be leaving later that night.

"Heard anything from our foraging party yet?" I asked, but apparently not.

He stooped to stir the fire. It was February, after all. Somebody knocked at the door. Howard-Smythe opened it up to a guy with a tray. Thank God! Lunch time. Apparently the foraging party hadn't checked in yet. We worked through my lunch. Presumably he had already eaten.

"What time is it?" I finally gasped.

Half past two! Was it any wonder that the nerves were jangled?

"The motor transport is checking in," Howard-Smythe advised. "They have to go through the process."

At least they all made it without a breakdown or an accident.

"That's funny, they didn't notice the train," I mentioned gleefully. "But of course roads have checkpoints. It's a good thing the Fritzies don't attack by rail."

He smiled at that one. The military police don't normally flag down speeding trains to check, 'zee papers.' What with all the paperwork, last minute details, and inevitable questions, questions, questions, the afternoon passed quickly enough.

I had a good, long nap, and when I woke it was dark. The men were being fed from our field kitchen. Grilled pork chops; beans with mustard and onions, boiled new potatoes, and some bread with butter. Lots of tea.

"That ought to stick to your ribs, sir," one of the older, more mature troopers chaffed as we ate.

He must have a son somewhere.

We sat on wooden boxes, a couple of benches, crates, whatever the lads could find on short notice. The small number of folding tables allotted didn't seem to go very far. The food was good, as food in the outdoors often is. We all seemed to have a keen appetite, from my own observation. After eating, I quietly gave instructions to the sergeant to keep the men on the train after supper, and break out a few bottles of rum. After the supper dishes were washed, the crew on kitchen detail began heating huge vats and kettles of hot water. Howard-Smythe came out of my office-car and brought me yet another, familiar perfumed note.

"She's asking you to go over for desert and a drink, now," and I'd just about had enough by this point.

You had to admire her persistence, though!

"All right, I'll go see the lady, if only to get her off my back," I said, sighing deeply.

***

It was an encounter with a she-cat.

For the most part, all the Brass types were gone. When I entered the car, it turned out to be an ornament; a rococo delight in mirrors, carved wood, gilt frames, velvet on all the furnishings, and it was pretty overwhelming. I thought we had it good on our little train. One or two guys sat there having coffee and conversing in some foreign language. After one look, they ignored me. They looked like minor functionaries, or flunkeys.

"Bureaucraps," I call them.

I kept moving through the train, having entered at the back, a logical choice, and moving forwards. Presumably she had a dining car, or private dining compartment. The next car was a long hallway. All polished wood panels and oriental rugs, with a lot of locked doors. All of a sudden a door on my left opened and there was Bernie. He gave a furtive look back into the room, and a guilty start at the same time. I could hear muffled voices from behind other doors up the way. Behind us a door slammed, but I ignored it.

"I promise not to tell the wife," I said, brushing past, not even glancing in.

"Tookair! May I have speaks with you please?"

He grappled with my elbow, as I twisted it out of the way, and cross-checked him, fairly gently; into one of the mirrored panels of the wall.

An adjacent oil painting almost fell off its hooks and he momentarily juggled with it before catching hold and firmly replacing it.

"Tookair! Tookair! I must have speaks with you!"

Finally I eased up. We sat in a booth in the next car. Looking around, it seemed to be a games car, or maybe a study if the person who owned it traveled and hunted big game extensively and expensively.

Bernie carefully adjusted his mustaches.

"Well; we are supposed to coordinate with Belgian Intelligence," I relented somewhat.

"Thank you," he sputtered. "I realize that we dropped in unexpectedly this afternoon."

"Here's the deal," I offered; the milk of human kindness. "Howard-Smythe will show you, on a map, where we expect to be tomorrow morning, and you could have those fuel trucks there by noon, if you wished."

He nodded vigourously.

"Myself and Lieutenant Hastings are in fact detailed to take care of that very thing," he explained.

"Oh! Well, good."

"Be nice to the Countess," he advised. "She is on our side, even though her nation has collapsed."

"Yes, I understand," I told him. "What else do you need to know?"

"Boom and the others have moved on," he offered. "People like that always need an entourage, you know?"

Bernie wasn't too far off the mark on that one. I felt myself warming up to the funny little man with the noggin-shaped head and the bizarre, wax-tipped twirling mustaches, curling with every puff and zephyr of the breezes. He was at his most fawning. In that suit, he better be.

I can be ingratiating too.

"Who's your tailor?"

He wrote it down for me. Now I know where not to go when I need a suit. His green eyes stared at me in a disconcerting way. It's like he was doing some deep psychological analysis. That's always annoying, for some reason. As I pointed out earlier, there were a lot of people who seemed to be depending on us, for all their own reasons. It gave me new sympathy for the silly bugger. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

"Basically, we're going to assemble all our planes."

I tried to explain it all patiently.

"Then we're going to hit them hard. Once we do that enough times, they'll retaliate."

"And then?" he asked.

"We'll be gone, somewhere down the line, and then we hit them again. Pretty simple, really."

"And then?" he prodded as I sat introspectively, mulling it out.

"Then they'll start coming to us. They'll keep trying to put us out of business," I allowed.

"And sooner or later," Bernie mused. "They will have little choice but to send the very, very best against you."

Sounds like somebody told you about the plan, eh? I wonder who that could have been? The game is afoot...

"Something like that," I reckoned.

He sat there, looking me over pretty thoroughly.

"I understand that your plans must remain, er, fluid," he murmured. "But my job is to help you in any way I can."

He tilted his skull in a characteristic flounce, and gazed intently into my inquiring stare.

He nodded, thoughtfully.

So did I.

I nodded thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I know. But have you ever wondered why they would use a foreigner? Nothing personal, but hasn't it occurred to you that the Army, and the Navy, are just trying to fuck up this mission?"

A little light went off in his head. I could see it from where I sat.

"Ah!" he said. "But surely your superiors also thought of that?"

He had the oddest little gleam in his eye.

"Hey! You fucking bastards!"

The man was a plant or a ringer; probably selling information three different ways.

They all thought he belonged to them, but men like that don't belong to anyone.

Interesting. Bernie was the only one among us with any objectivity!

"By the way, one or two of your soldiers look familiar," he noted with a certain relish. "A wanted bulletin, somewhere along the way, on the post office wall."

Someone told me that Bernie, or, 'Hercules,' which is what his real fake name was, was a police officer before the war, a gendarme in the Surete Belgique, or whatever.

"It's possible," I conceded diplomatically.

My poster has no picture. But there is a description.

Learning, learning all the time. Besides, it takes all kinds to make a war.

"Anyway, I have to go and see the lady, and get my milk and cookies."

I was almost forgetting the true purpose of my sortie tonight.

"We'll-a be-a there-a tomorrow-ah," he told me by way of goodbye. "At-a noon-ah."

"Yeah, whatever-ah," I acknowledged.

***

Finally I came to what had to be it. She probably had two or three cars all to herself.

There was a pair of tall doors, carved and embossed with the Imperial coat of arms.

I pulled one open and went in. The door was ajar...the gold doorknob felt warm in my palm.

I stood in the doorway, drinking in the scene. It was quite the little set-up, a lavish tableau. One put on for my sole benefit, and others before. And others after, no doubt.

They say, 'woman is a riddle, a mystery wrapped in an enigma.'

She went to the trouble of having a snack laid out on a small dining table, set with candles, and two places. I had my doubts about this woman, let me tell you.

Inside of every woman is a conspiracy.

Other than that, some chic Italian designer went to great lengths.

It looked like a Persian harem. Silks hung from ceiling to floor, dividing up the space, and rugs and pillows were scattered all around the place in profusion. One little alcove seemed more like a nest; or the den of some wild she-cat.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," I called in a high falsetto voice, feeling kooky and impulsive.

'Spontaneous,' that's it. I carefully made my way past a bizarre, hookah-pipe rig on a table of its own. It looked expensive, and I wouldn't want to break anything.

Then a smaller door at the far end popped open and she entered the room.

It fair took my breath away. She stared deep into my eyes. Then, inevitably, I scanned her into my memory cells. You can't blame a man for looking. Guilty thoughts of my Jennifer, kind of hung heavy on me like dread for a half a second. Then my heart began to thud, thud, deep and strong in my chest.

The Countess was wearing sheer, very sheer harem pants, clinging at the ankles, cut from waist to ankles on the outside, and from crotch to ankles on the inside. They were a kind of purply-mauve colour. The front and back pieces were held together by strings at the knees. I gazed upon her.

The lady had slender little calves, and beautiful toes and feet. Thankfully she didn't have big, honking, hairy, funny-looking feet. Nice knees.

She had on a kind of headdress, and a lacy veil. Her eyes looked huge in the limpid light of the chandelier, which somehow automatically turned itself down. I heard the door lock behind me. Perhaps there was a servant there? But I couldn't tear my eyes away, anyhow they were gone. Music began to well up from somewhere. I'd heard of concealed gramophones before. Her breasts weren't huge, but they were perfect. She stood at about five foot three inches in height, and looked to be about a hundred and five pounds.

She had blue eyes and thick, straight, medium-length, flaxen blonde hair. Her navel gazed at me from the middle of her tummy. She stood in front of me, practically naked to my eyes and I could say not a word.

I just swallowed and stared at her.

Why not?

She obviously didn't mind.

She wore golden-hooped earrings, and rings on her fingers and rings on her toes. She had on a see-through teddy-like garment. Her lips were a pale, pale pink, all shiny and glossy. Bracelets and ankle bracelets jingled and jangled as she walked barefoot.

She had on a golden belly chain, I remember that. A big, red ruby, right in the middle of it.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker. I am so grateful to have your company tonight," she purred.

Her aroma tickled my nostrils, and I did say the train was loaded with all kinds of trouble when it first pulled into the yards. Right?

I thought, 'What the hell?'

Lust is a many-splendoured thing.

"Would you care to sit down?" she asked demurely, and damned if I didn't just plop my arse down on the only other chair in the room.

She poured a drink, and I had a quick sip of it, more like a breath mint than anything. There was a faint hint of some vaguely familiar musky odor, clean and perfumed as her body was, but I couldn't place it...hmn?

Standing very close, her pretty little breast was outlined through the sheer thin fabric where it hung down, backlit by a wall-mounted sconce. It looked good enough to eat.

"I have a small gift for you," she said, straddling my knees, which I was keeping close together in some defensive reaction, and she kissed me.

She barely had to bend at all, because I'm pretty tall, and I was sitting up straight in my seat, as you can imagine. The kiss went on for a long time, and she shoved her tongue in my mouth. This left little doubt about what was in store. The sound of that locking door, left little doubt. She wasn't taking 'no' for an answer.

All I could do, really, was to put my arms around her and kiss her in return.

I know that sounds like an excuse. Her veil was over the top of my head, I thought.

The curtains are closed, I thought.

But it's not an excuse. Sometimes you're just, 'defeated on the battlefield.'

Then she pulled away, and holding my hand, she led me over to her little she-cat den. I sat on a blanket, with pillows all around us. She began to take off my shoes. She was really stunning, and there seemed little point in resistance.

Then I had an idea.

Now it was the trousers, but it was just so surreal.

"You shall be first among my concubines," I told her grandly. "But first..."

I grabbed her and pushed her across my knees, so that she was sort of on all fours, looking up at me in total astonishment.

"So; where are you going after this?" I asked.

"Unhand me, you brute!" she squealed, as I put one hand in the small of her back and one hand up on the nape of her neck.

She couldn't get away now. I gave her a quick little smack on the bottom. Her flesh was smooth, firm and warm under my fingers.

"Yipe!" she said. "Why you..."

I didn't let her finish. Smack! And another, smack!

Tears started from her eyes, more in surprise than any real pain.

"...big meanie!"

"Whack!"

She got the message. I'm a lot bigger and stronger than she is.

"I'm going to Paris, to do some shopping," she blubbered.

"Yeah? Where are you going after that?" and when she didn't answer quick enough, I gave her another little spank.

"Zu-zu-zurich," she quavered through her rage.

She was really squirming around in my lap, and it was pretty arousing.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"After that maybe I go to Germany! We are not at war with Germany anymore," she cried.

"No, but I am," I told her. "Who are you going to see in Germany? Why are you going to Zurich? Do you need to get your watch fixed?"

Oh, I was tough on her, all right.

She cried some more, but wouldn't give up any names. This merely confirmed my suspicions. Anyway, I was having fun. The harem pants were obstructing my view. I went over to my trousers and got out my buck knife, very sharp, and carefully and gently cut the strings at her waist, and then cut them off totally. I cast them aside. Then I cut the fine string at her neck, and then she was mostly naked. I was having a little trouble breathing. Pounding heart, either guilt or excitement, not too sure which. She was sniffling and weeping, but not objecting so far as I could hear. And she crawled right back into my lap when I sat down.

"Why are you going to Germany?" I asked, hand raised to smack her again.

I thought she was going to answer, but she waited too long.

Smack...smack...smack...

"We must fight the Bolsheviks!" she cried. "Together we can beat them!"

"Ah, for fuck's sakes," I sputtered in dismay.

I let her go then. She lay across my legs, blubbering and moaning something fierce. Her veil and headgear were lost somewhere. She can buy another. And when did we take off my pants?

"All right, all right," I said, and picked her up in my arms.

Standing, it was no big surprise when her arms came up and round my neck. She looked up at me with shining eyes as I carried the blonde little Countess to the love-nest amongst the pillows. I drew the curtains around us. There was like a little Roman couch in here, double width. How much did that cost?

Upon a surmise, I put her down gently and opened up one of the tiny little drawers of the miniature bureau beside the divan. Sure enough, soft silken cords, two pairs of handcuffs...nice. Another drawer held condoms, and in the big bottom drawer; a blanket.

I quickly hog-tied her hand and foot, leaving short little piggin' strings about a foot long. She wasn't entirely helpless.

"Promise you won't go back to Russia!" I pleaded. "They'll just put you up against a wall and shoot you."

I told her. God; I hope she was listening.

She seemed subdued, just putty in my arms. She grabbed on when I came close, and began kissing me all over the face, neck, and ears.

"I promise," she said.

But I didn't believe her. The train gave a funny little lurch under us. We never paid any mind. It appeared that I was in enough trouble. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'm serious," I said sternly. "No matter what they tell you, no matter what lousy promises they make, don't go back to Russia."

She stared up in wonder.

"Take off my underclothes," I instructed, and she complied.

Her graceful fingers undid my undershirt buttons, removed my briefs, and I was soon more naked than she.

"Socks, too," I added.

She complied. All of a sudden she went down on me. For a moment, I plunged my finger into her wetness. She moaned in ecstasy, but kept plunging up and down. It was effective.

"No! Bad girl," I said, and gave her bum another little smack.

I made her open up a condom packet and put it on me, still gasping and crying a little.

She was hyperventilating. I kissed her deeply, then spun her away from me and as quick as a wink entered her vagina from behind.

Now, I was totally in control. In the champagne light of the chandelier, she was magnificent. It is really something to see virtually every square inch of a woman, from the tips of her toes to top of her head, all of her back, legs, bottom. One arm under her neck, left hand holds and strokes right breast, other hand busy down in her crotch. She writhed around, but she couldn't escape, even if she really wanted to. For some reason, I had no worries about controlling myself, and plunged into her roughly and deeply.

I just enjoyed watching for a while, potent in this new-found power. A kind of editorial detachment.

She moaned, and squirmed, and squealed and gasped. Nibbling at the nape of her neck, chewing on her ear, sticking my tongue in her ear, drove her wild. She twisted and turned and came up for more kisses. Her right hand, the only one that could reach, wrapped up around my head and neck. She pulled me in close, her gasping breath hot on my face.

"Oh, my God," she said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I returned a little unkindly.

We kissed, deep and hard. Tongue pushing on tongue, wrapping around like snakes fighting. Every time I went in, my hips and abdomen slapped up against her bum, and it jiggled in such a pretty way. I could watch that all night, but I had a train to catch. I liked doing it with the lights on. I decided right then and there. Finally I just decided to let go, and relax, and go with the flow. Then she turned around and kissed me some more, and I didn't mind at all.

The two of us subsided into each other's arms. She actually snored, as I had a quick shower in her bathroom. I kissed her on the cheek, and put a blanket on her. She looked so innocent. A child, really. What the hell was she doing, going around playing at spies?

***

On the way out, a servant gave me a package. It looked to be about the size and weight of a cake box. It dragged my arm down, or was that just fatigue?

"Whew!

Made it back to my own turf. Howard-Smythe looked up when I entered.

"How was it?" he asked in unconscious irony.

"Best damned milk and cookies I ever had," I muttered.

Thankfully, he didn't ask for details.

"What's that, cake?" he asked.

"I don't know...hopefully it's not a bomb."

That's all I could say.

"We'd better have a look," he said.

"Tell me about it later. I need a nap," I told him in a mellow, dreamy voice.

Some of the tension and stress were gone, and for that I was grateful. That, and a vision. A mental picture that would last the rest of my life. If I made it that far. I could have loved that woman. I think a lot of guys got recruited that way, and ended up in Murmansk fighting the Bolsheviks.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Ali Baba and Shifty

Ali Baba and Shifty did some good work. I was awakened about one-thirty a.m. by the juddering of rail cars moving forward, taking up the slack. Then came the barely perceptible movement, gradually increasing in speed, noise and tempo.

Someone knocked at the door. It sounded like we were leaving early.

"I'll be right with you," I called, reflecting how cold and damp a person feels when they fall asleep in their clothes.

I brushed my teeth; had a piss, then went into the office section.

"I have a question," I motioned to Howard-Smythe to quit his typing.

"What's that?" he returned, with a grin.

"A short, interrogative vocalization, but that's not important right now," I mused. "These stories, which were all over the place in the early days, stories of the Germans tossing Belgian babies around on their bayonets. Do you think that really happened?"

'The Adj' pursed his lips after a deep long breath.

"You've been thinking. That's not always a good thing. But I have to admit, I just don't know," he replied seriously.

The room was relatively silent as the train sped along the open countryside at thirty knots or so. In the darkness, stuff outside the window was just a series of whizzing blurs. Probably trees, I decided.

"Why do you ask?" he said after the pause.

I moved around restlessly, closing the blast-curtains, metal mesh screening, on the windows where they were open.

"I don't know, but...once there was this time, and we grabbed a Hun prisoner, see?

We grabbed him right off the latrine, newspaper and all," I paused to collect my thoughts.

"They had the same kind of stories about us, in their papers," I told Howard-Smythe.

"How could he have been reading a newspaper at night?" he asked.

"Er, I think he was planning to wipe his ass with it," I explained.

"Of course," he nodded, aware that we rarely attempted such things in daylight.

"War changes people. Not always for the better," he tried to express something.

He was an intelligent man, but he didn't know everything either. Maybe it was unfair to put him on the spot. He sipped; and I wasn't even sure he would answer.

"It's possible," he conceded. "And stories grow in the telling."

He was right about that. It's possible that German soldiers tossed Belgian babies around on bayonets. In my personal opinion, not too likely. Every army attracts its own share of brutes and barbarians. People who would kill, murder and rape even in the best of times, for no good reason. The truth, in my opinion, is that war brings out the best and the worst in ourselves.

Ali Baba and Shifty stole everything we asked for, and more. They had some French Rail Authority uniforms, and three, not two additional boxcars. They got all the items requested, including portable stoves; extra cots, blankets, more fuel, hand pumps to fit the barrels, and one or two more surprises. Machine guns, ammunition, aircraft linen, you name it, the boys swiped it for us. Those two guys alone were more than repayment of the time invested speaking to Foreman. And by now I was glad I hadn't run into Melissa when up there in Birmingham.

"Excellent report," I said, but I didn't think he wrote it.

Too many typos. Always working, always working.

"Who wrote this?" I queried.

"Chandragupta, the new fellow," he explained.

"Ah," I responded. "Buy him a dictionary."

He nodded in the affirmative.

"Outrage is irrational, not factual," he said.

"Huh?"

He repeated the remark.

"I suppose you're right."

The acknowledgement was easy enough.

I wasn't a hundred percent certain I understood him, but a nudge is as good as wink to a blind man. Like the girlie nudes we used to look at out behind the pool hall, 'it looks good on paper.'

The clock on the wall indicated four-thirty a.m.

"We'd better put up a clock with London time," I was thinking aloud. "And the first thing we want to do is tie into the telegraph and telephone wires, and start telling lies about our location and itinerary."

Silence is golden. Howard-Smythe just nodded.

He was a good bloke, that man. I miss him something terrible, on occasion.

"I want to paint, 'Rocinante,' on the locomotive," he blurted suddenly, as if he was feeling guilty about something. "How do you feel about that?"

"Passionately ambivalent?" I quipped, and he guffawed.

It always makes me happy when someone laughs at one of my jokes. (Oddly enough, some people do get offended.)

"Unequivocally uncommitted?"

Silence, then.

"It's from..." but I interrupted.

"I know where it's from! I ain't illiterate."

Then I remembered the cake.

"By any chance do we have any cake around here? I'm fucking hungry," I told my henchman in no uncertain terms.

These sudden and rapid mood-swings were starting to trouble me deeply at times. You just have to live with it.

"It's not a cake," he responded with another of his quick, reflexive grins.

"Oh, goodie! It must be a bomb," but no; it turned out to be a box filled with Russian Imperial decorations, and a bunch of blank forms to be filled out.

In triplicate, and presumably in Russian.

Who was I supposed to send those to? The nerve of some people's kids.

"Spacebo," I told him in a businesslike tone.

"What the hell does that mean?" Howard-Smythe was impressed.

"Very good, Howard-Smythe," I explained.

"You're shitting me!" he avowed firmly.

"Nope. Absolute pravda...truth," I replied.

He shut up then, as I was reading from the note.

"Please give these out to your men, for their part in the common struggle against our evil foes, etc, etc, etc."

"Jesus fucking Christ! Is she mad?" I practically bellowed in sheer astonishment.

"And the big one is for you," the note stated boldly.

Holy, schmoley!

"So. You want to put a logo on the train," I prodded conversationally.

"Well, we need to cover up the old...the old marks," he spoke in a quiet and neutral and solemn kind of voice, and was he trying to slip something past me?

"What marks," I asked. "What marks?"

Did our bleeding train get damaged? While I was sleeping?

"Howard-Smythe! Did you put a bloody great dent in my locomotive?"

"Um, it's just some marks," he said, not quite meeting my eyes.

"Please tell me what's going on. It is my train," I reminded him.

"We have a new locomotive," he said. "It's really big, powerful, shiny, new, and; I hate to be the one to break this to you, but I think it belongs, or belonged to your little lady friend."

"How did this happen?" I positively bellowed.

"Some of our...your men showed initiative," he muttered sadly.

He spoke in a kind of, 'It's been nice knowing you,' sort of tone.

"Did we leave her the old one?" I asked incredulously.

"No, we're dragging it along behind us for a spare," he reported.

"Really?" I said, surprised, and pretty pleased about that, let me tell you!

This could save my ass. Maybe hers, too.

"Doesn't it have like a, a, cow-catcher or something on the front?" I asked.

"We're dragging it backwards, in neutral," he explained.

"Okay," I told him.

"Really?" he asked in amazement.

"Yup."

I would deal with it. Somehow or other, I'll deal with it.

"Send a telegram to St. Omer, and don't let her out of France," I ordered. "Write it now, mister, and send it the minute, I mean the fucking minute we get a line hooked up, okay?"

"Yes, sir!" and he actually saluted. "But honestly, it would take some time for her to find a replacement."

He seemed grateful. As long as I'm giving the orders in a convincing tone, he's not responsible, I guess. That's exactly the right attitude, in circumstances like this. We might be saving the silly girl's life. I'll try to explain it someday, over a few beers.

Not now. Definitely not now.

"How about this?" I suggested seriously enough. "Die Now and Save!"

He was silent for a moment.

"They do say it pays to advertise," he admitted.

We both smiled and went back to work. My coffee was cool enough to drink in one gulp. Time for another, and another. I got mail like that all the time. Pre-paid funeral plans were all the rage among a certain set. Like a big fancy Italian wedding, where the object is to brag about all the money you spent. People think you're rich, and that's worth ten years of poverty and payments to a certain type of mind.

"Howard-Smythe. If you're so smart, how come you're not rich?" I asked facetiously.

"But I am rich, old boy. Didn't you know?" he replied.

His eyes, well; I don't think I'll ever play poker with him. How do you top that?

Humour is like war. It is the art of the unexpected. And sometimes you're defeated on the battlefield. Funny thing is, I didn't laugh. I was trying to remember if I had said anything recently that might be particularly offensive to rich people...don't think so. Oh, well. I'll soon think of something.

God, I hope we get to our field soon. Are we there yet?

"You know, if I had to join an oppressed minority group, I think I'd like to be rich," I told him.

He laughed. No one can beat me. Not when I'm making all the rules.

"Our next chore is assembling an aerodrome."

I was so tired that I was muttering to myself.

"You seem very tired," Howard-Smythe was concerned.

"Well, we have to find our little place," I began. "Hopefully the boys are there and we won't have to waste time cruising up and down the rails. Then we have to unload, pitch tents, set up the kitchen, unpack tools, and begin assembly."

He nodded in the knowledge that we had our work cut out for us.

"I'd like to fly within twenty-four hours," I said.

"Wow," he said. "The show must go on, eh?"

Twenty minutes later the train chuffed to a standstill. Gill and the gunner, Malarkey; had three small fires built in a row alongside the tracks.

"We've marked the path with ribbons," they reported, as clusters of people were being organized by the NCO's.

They were rounding everyone up and outlining different work assignments.

"Do you guys want to sleep?" I asked, but they just shook their heads.

Gill and Malarkey didn't disappoint.

They had a tarp and sleeping bags, and spent the night under the wing of the plane, complete with a tiny campfire. The fire ring and ashes were so small, I had no concern about a fire near the plane. These guys showed some sense and responsibility. It must have been Malarkey, Gill wasn't too swift to take the initiative. Malarkey was observant, and I had high hopes for him.

"I'll make you guys a deal," I offered. "Get some breakfast, as soon as the cooks get going. We'll fuel up your plane, and then I have an errand for you."

Off they went to help the cooks unload the gear for that peculiar profession.

"The command tent is ready. The wires are hooked up. I sent your telegram," Howard-Smythe recited, as we walked back toward the train. "I said we commandeered her engine because ours was broken."

We dropped off the 'broken' locomotive, our original one, to keep other trains from ramming into us from behind. We entered our command post as it was taking shape all around us.

"I didn't say anything about her being a spy. I said she was mentally deranged," he added.

As soon as we turned out onto the siding, we dropped off our other locomotive.

We chocked the wheels. Locked the brakes, put the transmission in gear. It was plainly visible from a mile and a half back.

"Thank you, what else?"

Boys moved a desk in. Someone proffered a chair. A lamp appeared, and we could hear a generator firing up. The lamp came on.

"Your plane will be ready in four hours," he advised.

"Awesome," I said simply. "Get Gill's plane fueled up. Find out where McGill and Dawley are. Wire St. Omer aerodrome, find out if the 504-C is there yet."

"All righty, then," he said.

"You've done well," I acknowledged.

Putting my feet up on the desk; I listened to the sounds all around, plainly audible through the thin canvas walls of our command tent. Voices, shouts and calls.

Clatters, and banging, and pounding.

Hammers nailing, saws going, men grunting with exertion; as barrels of fuel were rolled gently down planks from the train, then lugged and rolled on their bottom rims along plank-work tracks. The train, as the brakes let out air pressure once in awhile.

"Who's available?" I asked the Adj.

"No one," he grimaced. "What do you need?"

"Good," I said. "I don't need anything, but it seems everything is being taken care of."

Two men brought in the first big map board, and set it up on one side of the room.

They went out, and came back with another, as I sat thinking. Two more men came in with a dolly and placed the first filing cabinet where Howard-Smythe directed. The Army types and some RAF types were setting up tents. These were dispersed in twos and threes under the trees. The Army was in charge of setting up machine gun posts to defend from air attack. The mechanics were setting up their benches, polishing tools, and beginning to assemble planes in the big hangar tents.

The cooks were feeding the first line-ups of men, and fuel was being unloaded. Our little machine began to buzz, and click, as a reply came in from one of our queries.

"The 504 is there at St. Omer, and Perry will come looking for us in an hour or so," he advised.

I nodded. Gill and Malarkey entered, and stood in front of my desk. Malarkey looked to be sucking on a hollow tooth.

"Ready to go," said Gill.

"Fly up to St. Omer and round up Perry," I instructed. "Remember you're in a combat zone now, and get back here straight away."

They saluted and left the tent.

"After this, I don't want anyone flying alone," I noted to the Adj. "That's, 'Standing Order Number One.'"

He made a note. That's good. I may not always be here. Sometimes pilots gave the ground staff a hard time for no good reason. He needed to learn how to stand up to them.

After all, he did outrank them. They wouldn't give him any guff.

'Put it in writing,' and they can't argue with that.

The Biff started up, and then a few moments later it took off.

"Wait," I told Howard-Smythe.

Here it comes.

'Brrrrowwww...' and then the spoons rattled in the saucers.

"I knew they were going to do that," he said, and we both smiled.

They couldn't resist being the first ones to buzz our 'drome in the woods of Artois.

We had a telephone, telegraph and tele-printer set up within the first half-hour, and we had all the housing up in two.

***

Everyone got breakfast, and everyone had their tea.

A droning noise in the distance alerted us. Our planes appeared to have made it back intact. Men were still unloading the train. The good weather was helpful. At least it was dry. The ground was fairly hard, but already tracks in the grass were appearing, and it was easy to see that it would quickly turn to muck on a wet day.

Standing in the door, I watched them land. They gingerly taxied over the grassy paddock. The hummocks of grass and unfamiliar terrain made both pilots cautious. It was kind of a good thing that Powell tipped over. The other boys all saw it. They were now aware that the Army and our ground personnel would laugh, and that it might not be too pleasant. You could get hurt, and damaging the plane for no good reason gets you in shit.

People directed the planes on the ground, and both immediately began to turn in to the fueling area. For now, at least until our convoy of lorries arrived, this would have to do.

Two planes do not a squadron make.

"McGill sent a telegram," reported Corporal Whittington.

"And?"

"He says he should be here in a couple of hours, maybe less," he speculated, eyes screwed up in contemplative frown. "Hopefully he can find us."

"Dawley with him?" I asked, and got a nod.

Truck or tractor engines ground and rumbled in the distance, somewhere to the west. A good number of them. It sounded like they were about three-quarters of a mile away. A soldier with a rifle on his shoulder came in and stood in front of my desk.

He saluted and reported.

"Sir! Looks like we got us a convoy."

I nodded thanks and dismissal.

It was our motor group. They must have gotten lost for a while. I noted the time on my watch. Where the hell was Bernie? We could hear them groaning up the road in low gear, fully loaded with fuel and other supplies. Stuck on protocol, that soldier still stood there.

"Thank you!" I finally saluted and he exited in some gratitude.

"I love it when a good plan comes together," noted Howard-Smythe.

Standing and striding to the door, I bellowed, "Jaeckl!" and he came running out of a big hangar tent from a hundred yards or so away.

"Sir?" he puffed to a halt in front of me.

"Break out a couple of boxes of Le Prieur rockets and get those planes armed up," I ordered.

"Right away, sir!" and off he went.

"I want to hit them later this afternoon, about dinner time," I explained to Howard-Smythe and the corporal. "Then drop a few bombs on them tonight. No! We'll use rockets then too. Very spectacular; in the middle of the night."

"Who...where do you want to hit, sir?" the corporal asked, pulling the map drawer open.

It was a big set of drawers like in an architect's or an artist's studio, both wide and shallow. That meant the maps didn't get all crinkled, with fold lines in them. It protected them from leaky roofs, coffee stains and cigarette burns. We tried to think of everything.

"I'll let you know," I murmured.

After a moment of silence, the corporal came back.

"If that doesn't piss them off something fierce, I don't know what will."

Never at a loss for an answer, that was Bill Whittington.

Howard-Smythe reported that a party had returned from locking out the switch at the far end of the long section of siding where our train sat. If we could keep doing that sort of thing we would be all right, bearing in mind that the rail net didn't always cooperate.

In this area, with spurs, sidings and branches all over the place; we weren't too much of a problem to higher-priority traffic, including munitions, or, 'bullet' trains.

We had trees falling down, with men chopping them up and loading brush on a flat car. The locomotive took the load up the line about a mile and a half, and they began to build a decoy airfield. One that might pass muster, at least at night. We could afford to use a dozen men on that little job.

"Have we jettisoned any stuff yet?" I asked the sergeant.

He was just about to grab a cup of coffee. He needed a smoke, and the corporal gave him one.

"Some crap on the train. It's obviously too silly. Some crates. A few barrels, maybe."

"Use it to set up fake airplane-like shapes on the ground. It needs to be kind of lightly-coloured. Brush won't do," I ordered.

The brush was for big bonfires, three of them at least.

"Strip some pine, cedar and other conifers. The resin flares well, and attracts lots of attention."

"Right," he said. "We could sacrifice a few old blankets."

"Put a can of petrol by each 'target,' and have a some men standing by there for tonight."

Make sure they keep their matches dry. A couple of machine gun positions, a small crew stationed there might bring results. We talked it out. We hadn't formalized any sort of tactical doctrine. In some weird way we were kind of 'winging it.' We were totally experimental.

"I understand," he said.

We would be expecting company.

"I hear a plane," Jaeckl called.

He had good ears, that's for sure. In a moment, I got it too.

"That's McGill and Dawley," I thought.

Sure enough, it was them. What with the lorries, and the men, and the planes, we had a busy little day. Bernie even showed up with three fuel trucks, right at noon on the dot. I figure he arrived early, waited a mile or two down the road and then timed it to the minute, but I didn't say anything.

Who was he trying to impress? Was it good gas? Or was it chock full of water and dirt?

We'll see. We'll see, 'Hair-cue.'

Then maybe I'll be impressed.

Chapter Thirty

The Morse Code Clickers Were Kept Busy

The lines were humming as we got to work. We sent a number of telegrams to nearby aerodromes. Questions and clarifications shot back and forth. The commanders of the aerodromes immediately to our north and south informed us of their own operations in this area, and the times of their takeoffs, and the expected duration of certain missions.

The Morse code clickers were kept busy.

All up and down the hangar line, men were busy with aircraft up on sawhorses. A dozen aircraft were in various stages of preparation. The machines could have been flown across the Channel. This was good practice. We were still using our old planes, for the most part. My men could take apart and re-assemble planes in their sleep.

They also thoroughly understood their machines.

We had three Bristol fighters fueled up and ready to go, with a full load of machine-gun ammunition, and three rockets mounted on each outer pair of wing struts. Normally, the French used them against Zeppelins, but our job was trying new things.

The Avro was all bombed-up with four 12-pound Hales bombs.

I planned to fly the Avro and be lead navigator. I was to fly top cover in the cone above the enemy airfield, where air defense is oddly quite thin. That's just my private theory. Even experienced enemy formations tended to neglect this area, simply because they're either taking off or landing. To attain ten thousand feet straight up above your own field takes time, precious time. It's a very vulnerable time. Just try and convince Higher Authority that it's useful, and not just cowardice!

Inexperienced enemy formations are even more vulnerable. If they haven't been taught, if the lessons have not been learned. If they're not thinking, or are ruled by bad habits. I knew who we were dealing with here, and my boys didn't. They would find out later.

The Germans ate dinner about six, maybe seven at the latest. The British, the French, the Americans flew offensive patrols, timed to begin at dawn, or end at dusk.

The Germans knew what time to knock off for the day, and of course they could provide alternate squadron coverage. They switched off amongst themselves, for a given period of the day. Lunch, or dinner, or whatever. They were good at covering for the guys next door in terms of air defense; if the neighbours had to escort a deep strategic photo-shoot.

I picked the most-improved pilots and not necessarily the best pilots.

The three pilots were Snotty, Powell, and Dempsey. They all had the machine gunner of their choice. We sat around the briefing room, which was separate from the office, and discussed the mission.

"It's a little place called Les Erables. 'The Maples,'" I began.

Then I further explained that we needed to look the place over thoroughly, watching for the sort of landmarks and features that could be seen later that night.

They were attentive.

"We're coordinating with Blake's boys to the north and Jackson's to the south. They like to be home by dark. The enemy harasses them with light bombers at night. Nothing unusual. Blake's crew is fairly new and inexperienced. Jackson's crew has more combat experience. Both units have been very hard hit, and have suffered serious casualties."

They listened well.

"We're going to help them out, by raiding the enemy aerodrome, here."

I showed them a little red 'X' on the map.

"Now, when you see me fire a flare, a green one, I'll begin to climb. The first one, that's you Snotty, you go in with your nose gun blazing. Launch your rockets when your bullets match the three-hundred-yard sighting. You should be at one thousand feet and diving at about five or six degrees. You two guys watch where the shot and rockets fall. Snotty has extra tracers, so you can see where he's shooting."

They would be separated by a few hundred yards. The other two planes would be off to one side, and they would modify their approach accordingly. That way, we could all watch Snotty's attack.

They made notes and studied it in their minds.

"So we're using the guns to sight for the rockets?" said Powell.

The trajectories were about the same at three hundred yards.

The gun pointed straight out the nose, but the rockets were inclined slightly upwards on their firing rails.

"At some point the arcs converge. They have to. You just wait until the tracers are coming up on the target. I've done the math fifty times."

The explanation was simple enough.

It took a half second to push a button, including a small reaction time for the fuse. All they had to do was to fly at a hundred miles per hour until they began the dive.

"Just walk your tracers right up to the front door," I said.

"Yup, okay," Powell said.

It was their first mission, and a tough one for all of us. Then I continued.

"After firing, Snotty rolls left, and begins to climb in a big circle, a three-sixty. One guy fires, then goes left, then the next guy fires. As you guys climb out in an arc; the rear gunners get to shoot at the enemy. Tell them to be careful not to shoot the tail off the plane."

I looked them all in the eye, oozing confidence.

"One thing will surprise you. Bullets bounce. You'll see tracers come flying back up. Don't shoot your buddy down. Don't be too fucking close behind when they open fire. I know it's tempting to all go in at once. Make sure your gunners know that bullets bounce."

They all nodded seriously.

"When you break off the target, pull fairly hard to get out of the line of fire. Then ease up a bit and go for a good climb rate. Don't pull too hard, or you'll stall. You'll be aiming at a big stone farmhouse. Powell, you go last. Make sure to get a good picture," I added. "Some of your bullets will come right back at you. It's just the cost of doing business."

All eyes were on me. The room was very quiet.

"At some point the enemy may try to launch. If they do, just keep climbing. They can't catch up. I give you my word on that. Trust me. Follow the plan. Watch for other enemy formations. That's our real danger, here."

Not a word.

"When ready, I'll drop my little bombs to discourage the enemy from taking off. You boys are climbing in a circle around the aerodrome. I drop my bombs through the hole. Everyone knows their jobs, right?"

They all nodded seriously, eyes intent on the CO's face, i.e., me.

"Then we go home, in a zigzag course to discourage the enemy from locating our 'drome immediately. We stick together, make like the birds and flock off."

"Any questions?"

None so far.

"Write these numbers down. That's our course for home," indicating the blackboard.

"Stick with your partners, and support each other, and we can pull this one off."

I tried again.

"Questions?"

None. They seem to know what I want. Absolute silence, in fact.

"Make sure you know what this area looks like. Look behind you once in a while on the way over, to see where you came from. Stay alert at all times."

Damn. Next time I'll have the tail gunners here, especially for a small, unique operation.

"We should be crossing the line at about five-fifty p.m. Blake has agreed to focus his efforts to the north, and Jackson promised to put his boys here, a little further south than usual. They're going to try to keep it up high if they can."

They also agreed to begin their last patrol just a little later than usual. That would give us a window of opportunity. The enemy didn't know we were here yet. They'd mistake us for one of the other squadrons, or not see us at all, and act accordingly.

"They'll keep the enemy busy. We go in at fifteen hundred feet, weaving through the Archie belt. Then we just head straight for the target, and the way should be pretty well clear for us."

On the way home, four thousand feet, diving down to three thousand at the 'Archie,' belt. Maximum range for machine gunners, kind of low for 'flack.' To the big guns, we would appear 'fast,' relatively speaking. We wanted the minimum exposure of 'time in the zone.' Diving across the Archie belt. It was the best I could do.

I let them go. Then it was time to wait. In my office Bernie, Dawley, and others sat.

No nap for me. No rest for the wicked.

Instructions to dig trenches, instructions on how much toilet paper to requisition, instructions that aren't always covered by the book. Sometimes you just have to make it up as you go along.

***

The first mission was set to go.

We ran up our engines, then took off one by one into the west. The glare of sunset dazzled the eyes as I circled, waiting for the others to form up. Finally the four of us were as one, with Snotty on my right. The other two were invisible, staggered up and a little behind him.

We proceeded to the east, and after ten minutes or so the Western Front lay below, obscured by the fog of war. An artillery barrage was underway, something often heard sporadically from our aerodrome. The reality was that we could be hit by a shell falling through its trajectory.

Craning and twisting my neck on its socket, I searched the sky. I couldn't see a damn thing in the deepening indigo of the heavens. Looking to Snotty, he pointed straight up.

I took another look. Ah! Still in sunlight, tiny flecks of brilliant colour, like white seagulls against black clouds. Tiny bright dots wheeling and mingling. That was one hell of a fur-ball. We were wary of someone pouncing from above. A flare of petrol, and one machine was heading our way, but he didn't make it. He burnt out and disappeared altogether. Thank God he wasn't directly above and ahead of us. We didn't want an engine in the face. Minutes seemed like a lifetime. As we went past the place, a riff of smoke leapt into focus, once the sunset was behind it.

The fur-ball was gone. The enemy machines must be returning to their home bases. All of them at once. Wouldn't that be great! Every damned one of them coming up from behind. The sky above at about 10,000 feet was spackled with orange and yellow and white flashes. Smoke puffs hung there like cotton balls in the washed-out lighting of late sunset.

In daytime they look black, at night kind of grey.

'Archie' was concentrating on something above us, but I couldn't see it.

We were flying at 1,500 feet, with the enemy lines behind us now.

On the left, two miles away, were three enemy machines, also going east, at about 5,000 feet. Thank God my boys were well disciplined. With only four, to break off and pursue would be fatal for all of us.

They were slightly ahead of us. Plenty of 'pucker factor' this fine evening. I scanned the sky all around.

Holy shit! There were two directly behind us, at about half a mile, and at the same altitude! I picked out half a dozen more in front of us, and then some on our right, way up high in the sky. Fuck! I hoped that was it. But I could find no more.

That's one reason why we flew a direct bearing to the target. To turn or deviate now would draw attention. It's a queasy feeling. And yet human nature being what it is, they ignored us. The Fritzies painted their planes all kinds of weird colours, canary yellow, pink, light green. We were olive drab.

It was our roundels and bright flashes of white that worried me, like the number on the side, the letter on the wing. I planned on changing some of that, but hadn't gotten around to it. We must especially monitor our speed, because of the enemy behind. I'll bet they're either low, or conserving fuel. Snotty was watching the sky all round us. Good man.

Another seven or eight minutes, and then I saw it. The sun was gone. The shadows lay across the valleys, across the fields, and all of the world was in gloom. The big white house stood out like a sore thumb.

There were aircraft in the landing pattern. Hopefully everybody was out of fuel. There were still two of them behind us, but the other clumps of enemy aircraft were gone.

Those guys lived down the road somewhere. A long way, hopefully.

The forest ended and a field began.

Perfect.

The big white house was getting bigger, and at about one mile, I popped off the green flare. Advancing the throttle to wide open, I started climbing. Snotty passed about twenty yards away on the right. Now I could see the other two planes. The plan was to cross above them.

I kept climbing, and pushed a little to the right, and finally the three planes came into view to my lower left. It was a whole new perspective, at the sight of the three rear-seat gunners in the Brisfits. Those poor bastards have to sit there and watch enemy fighters following along behind!

What were they thinking right about now? A small grin crept over me.

Time well spent, scanning all around the sky.

Snotty fired. Sparks, and dust and dirt erupted across the enemy aerodrome, and then began to tickle the broad front steps of the chateau.

Flaring blossoms leapt from Snotty's plane and streaked towards the house, and cracked and snapped and went 'whump!' in the night. Flashes lit up the landscape below, as I tried to memorize the layout. A tree line to the south. An impression of bays, a few hangars, a road. A long line of aircraft. Little men scampering in panic and dismay, in the vicinity of a row of field latrines.

Tee! Hee! Hee! Yippee!

I was delirious at the sight. Caught them with their pants down.

Dempsey let go, and then Powell in quick succession. It looked like fireworks, from where I was sitting. Having arced right and begun climbing; now I leveled out and turned left over the center of the aerodrome. I had no worries about the two guys behind. The Boche were investigating the lurid scene ahead of them.

Here we go.

I let the bombs do their work. The plane lifted as I pulled the lanyard to release them. I kept seeing tracers from the three Biff tail gunners, as I turned west at about 3,500 feet.

Snotty was just completing his three-sixty. Dempsey and Powell were still behind him. Tracers splashed the ground below, now brilliantly lit by small fires. The sky was getting darker, with the pale slash of the western horizon the only other source of illumination.

The tail gunners were getting in their two cents worth. One last squirt from Powell's back-seater. It curved up and over towards the receding target area. Nice work, buddy.

There's hope for that one, anyhow. I'll get his name later.

It was done.

The boys gathered in beside me. I made a signal to Snotty; holding the palm up and out, making a pushing motion. We headed to the northwest, full throttle, and held that course for three minutes, at 4,000 feet. Now turning in, we all went southwest for four minutes, we turned south for two minutes, then west, due west....

And on the right, as the last of the dusk faded, was a glowing little worm. Howard-Smythe and our brave lads had the train all lit up like a Christmas tree. My companions and I swung away. Lining up, and making an approach, truck headlights glimmered through the treetops around our field. More lights. Men were standing beside the trucks, watching us land.

Hoping, praying for us all to land.

It was up to me first, and it was a good one. As soon as the tail skid hit, I wiggled her a bit to settle her in and then moved off the field to the left. Snotty couldn't be much more than a thousand yards back. My successful landing should inspire the others, (one might hope.)

A man with a flashlight directed me to a station. We had a fuel rig set up, and a pole erected, and tarps ready. Many willing hands grabbed the wings, stopping her on a dime. I shut the motor down and sat there for a long moment, feeling a sense of sheer tiredness.

All the other planes must be in by now, as the truck lights all winked out of existence at once.

"Just two lanterns," a strong voice called over the sound of aero engines.

Figures scurried by as I unstrapped in the darkness, feeling elated to say the least.

"Get that fucking tarp over here," griped the same voice.

"Pull on that rope," and; "Come along now, lads..."

Strong hands gripped me under the armpits as someone tried to help me up and out.

"Hang on! How many planes did we get back?" I asked.

The recalcitrant strap that was holding me down finally let go.

"All four, sir," I was told. "Dempsey bounced a little, the other lads did fine."

A huge wave of relief washed over me.

"Did Powell get a picture?"

Finally I levered my bulky shoulders up out of the cockpit, and managed to let myself down to the ground.

Unbuckling the leather helmet, I pulled it off, feeling my hair stick to it with sweat and static electricity. They felt good when you put them on, they always felt bad when you took them off. My knees were awfully weak and shaky.

"Okay! Boys, you know the drill," another familiar voice heard in the background.

"No bombs, Corporal. Just the refueling. I didn't fire the guns, and the safety is on."

I watched with approval as a crewman walked over and shone a light in the cockpit.

"Confirmed," said a different voice; and it made me feel pretty good to see some real professionalism.

I trained these guys, after all.

"Check for damage," Jaeckl instructed the lads.

Things seemed well in hand.

The plane was already covered by tarps, and I had to feel my way through to the outside world. Walking around the tent-like heap, I pissed behind it and checked to see how much light we were making. None at all, and that's good.

Don't take unnecessary chances, not with anything.

Then I made my way to the briefing room, to see how the other boys made out.

A gaggle of lookers-on chattered and gaped, as I forced my way through.

"Yay!" a bunch of guys said, and I had to grin in spite of my Lieutenant-Colonel-like dignity; but I gave them all a quick wave.

I entered the big tent, thumping across the newly-planked floor, feeling sudden heat from the stove and the lanterns glowing on poles.

They all sat around the table with big smiles on their faces.

"Sergeant!" I called. "Break out ten bottles of rum, and take those men down to the mess."

"Yes, sir!" and Jaeckl barreled out the door.

I stood surveying the room. Bernie, Dawley, Corporal Whittington, Dempsey, Snotty, Powell, the gunners three, and one or two more. Chandragupta, and Taffy, both typing clerks for the time being. (And my end of the unofficial lines of communication.)

A private was pouring out glasses. Malarkey had already downed his and was going back for more. The Irish are good for three things. Fucking, fighting, and I forget the other.

"Make mine a double, buddy," I asked Malarkey politely.

He hastened to comply. Taking the glass, I raised it to the room.

"Over the lips and past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes," and I tossed it off to gasps and chuckles.

A quick shudder.

"What, you never seen a God-damned Canadian have a drink before?"

They all laughed.

"Sure we have, Skip!" blurted Dempsey.

"Squadron Leader Powell. Report," I said, unbuttoning my flight suit.

"That was amazing," he nodded. "It went exactly according to plan. I ran the camera, and have six or seven exposures. We should have the negatives within a half an hour, prints shortly thereafter."

"What else?" I asked.

"Well; when you pulled up and to the right, you looked to be about a mile from the place, and Snotty fired, and launched his rockets. When he pulled left, Dempsey fired. I switched on the camera and then I fired. I could see you above and to the right just before I fired...Dempsey has something to tell you," he said.

He was mopping his face, wiping sweat, dirt and oil from it. I had my own cloth going, and just then a private came in with cans of hot, soapy water.

"Ah!"

The boys all jumped up and took towels and hot water to themselves.

"Your bombs hit one of them, sir," said Dempsey.

"Oh really?" I didn't think I did anything but keep their heads down.

"You took his wings right off..."

"What! What do you mean?" I asked in amazement. "You mean he blew up? Was he taxiing around, or stationary?"

"No, he was flying! One of them buggers following us. At least two bombs must have gone through his wings. The plane sort of staggered and shook itself. The fuselage spun like a top, real fast..."

Poor bugger didn't have a chance.

"The other plane, when he saw Snotty coming around, he climbed up. I thought he was going for you, but he jumped out of the plane with his parachute."

"Holy, schmoley," I said in disbelief.

Powell nodded. They saw it blooming white in the sky.

"Out of gas!" I surmised.

"We only caught the tail end of it," admitted Powell. "But someone or something was falling as I turned. And the plane just flew off into the night!"

Empty, it flew off into the night. Wonder where the hell it went?

"A very impressive piece of work," said Bernie.

Dawley sat, writing at a furious pace. The corporal was also writing, and he had a question.

"What about the raid itself?" he asked Powell.

"It was bloody perfect," came the response.

All of them were grinning from ear to ear, even the poor bloody gunners, Malarkey, O'Higgins, and Sack.

"And what about going back tonight?" I asked Powell.

"I think if we follow the plan, we have a good chance of really hurting them bad," he said with confidence.

That's the spirit, laddie.

"Do we really have to go back?" asked the Adj.

"We have to make it personal, or they won't retaliate," I explained.

"Well, we should have seven or eight planes by nine or ten," he allowed.

"You guys willing to go back?" I asked the crews.

Thinking, always thinking. They all indicated a willingness to go.

"You sure, Malarkey?" I asked him. "How did it feel, watching those enemy planes following along behind?"

"They would have been bloody daft to get too close my gun," he said. "Besides, they must have thought we were their own chaps."

"You men get some food and a good nap into you," I ordered. "The gunners can take off for now."

A new batch of gunners could get some experience on the next run.

We'll do it a little differently tonight. I was pleased, very pleased. But; it was only our first mission, although night ones are the toughest on beginners. And it doesn't pay to get too cocky.

***

The mechanic spun the prop on my little Avro, a tiny, gossamer thing, when compared to the hulking Bristol fighters lined up to the right.

The engine roared, blasting an icy stream of air all around and about my head. The coldest part was the upper face and eyes. Everything else was all tucked in, padded up like some knight in shining armour. A strangely secure feeling.

The man beside the plane got a curt nod. No point in talking. One green flare went swishing up into the cloud-laden sky. The clouds billowed, and loomed, and on the horizon they flashed and flickered intermittently. McNaughton kept his promise. The artillery duel has begun. That's worth a few telegrams to a friend, eh? And my old buddy Andy is an artillery genius. But don't tell him I said so. He's not the type to be fishing for compliments. Although I do believe he aspires to command.

Advancing the throttle, the power surges. The plane has a new, 160-hp version of a familiar rotary air-cooled power-plant. No telling what the top speed is, but we've been well briefed. The men have a fair degree of experience in night flying and navigation by dead reckoning. They all have thirty hours of it, in the night sky over Norwich.

We never did catch up with any Gothas or Zeppelins.

Rolling out and ruddering right, there were small lights and figures scuttling in the darkness, as six Bristols and now seven Bristols had their props spinning over. My cockpit lights were on. Full power. Hopefully the boys will be following along soon.

Once up about three hundred feet, I began a gentle left-hand radius, watching the instruments, although the flickering smudge pots were in my peripheral vision. One three-sixty around our little aerodrome, and then I made a beeline for the east.

The boys, if they had their wits about them, could see my black silhouette against the flickering bursts of lit-up clouds and smoke. I was struck by the silly notion that we should have hung a lantern on the plane!

I worried about them guys a lot, don't think otherwise, but at some point they had to be able to find their own way. That's why we earned the big bucks, even then. Most guys never mention that in their memoirs.

The noise of the bombardment covered our comings and goings, eased my initial navigation woes, and was an interesting experiment in army-air co-operation in the field.

Behind, I couldn't see a damned thing. The engine was loud in my ears. It sounded very strong and reassuring. With all the noise, the enemy anti-aircraft gunners didn't stand much chance of hitting us. It's possible they could hear us briefly between shell bursts. It was a beautiful thing, for at exactly two-forty-five a.m., McNaughton's crew began sending up star-shell behind me. If any Boche were out of doors on the aerodrome, looking towards the western sky, they were now blinded. My lads should be flying on their instruments, and ignoring the flares. The light lingered on, as the flares slowly cascaded down to the muck and filth below. The German infantry, snug in their holes, must wonder if they faced a fresh onslaught, yet another in a long series.

Over the hills and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go.

There was the river. Time passes surprisingly quickly in a situation like this.

Holy cow! The road leads right up to the gate.

The road was visible, being graveled and appearing white in the diffused moonlight, which was the major source of illumination now. Distant shell-bursts still outlined the trees. There was a big clump of birches. There it was. Pale, inscrutable, stark in the valley below.

A big white house, and to the right, the darker slash of the forest.

Gaps, pale glimmers of something...could it be the hangars? Metal roofs? Why not drop a bomb and find out? It's too bad. Not a lot of snow. That would have been very helpful. I would bet those are canvas tents, covered in hoar-frost.

A dull thud in the night. Brightness and glare, long leaping shadows made a picture of the ground below. The darkness was shattered, and by looking off to the side, a snapshot of the landscape was burned into my retinas. Circle to the right, watch the altimeter, compass, airspeed, counting inside of my head. Drop another bomb. This one started the smallest of fires on the ground, but it was enough. I circled at about 4,000 feet. My boys were briefed to fly directly to the target, as the bombardment should make it difficult or even impossible for the enemy's sound detection apparatus to find our bearing. They were supposed to fly at 2,000 feet.

"Foom! Foom!" and then another and another.

On and on it rolled, like pealing summer lightning in a rainstorm. At least one of my boys made it, as I caught a glimpse of a Biff, brilliantly transparent; backlit by a flash from its own bombs. By the rocket's red glare...about half a mile or maybe a mile of diminishing detail was about the limit. I orbited above the field; watching them hit it with bombs, rockets and gunfire. Another plane lined her up in the sights, and zoomed low over the field.

The gunner was standing up; and he let loose a stream of red tracer over the side at the tree line below. His fiery rounds were directed under the big oaks and towering conifers on the south side of the enemy aerodrome.

Another stream of fire slashed at the house on the north side of the field, and behind that, in the woods, more krumps and flashes of light. Two of the boys hit it! And that's for sure. I tried to keep track of the number of rockets fired. They fly in pairs.

A big, bright flash and then two bobbling trails of fire, arching down to the ground.

One, two, three, and more tracers. Burning into the retinas. Look away sometimes. I tried to watch with my peripheral vision. The centre of the cone of vision is almost useless at night. I had to hunch down and watch the instruments for a while.

I could see a whole hell of a lot better now, and turned back to release my last two bombs on the hangar and shop complex that the Huns had built into the wooded area of concern. This part of the field was in the photos taken earlier in the day. We pored over those photos, all of us. More machine guns, and more tracers from an aircraft I was unable to pick out against the lowering sky.

Now the enemy returned fire, their machine guns pointed skywards in rage and futility. I fired off a red flare, and was answered by the sights and sounds of more bombs hitting the target. From time to time I could see cockpit lights from other planes.

As long as the boys didn't turn too steeply, or go upside down, I don't see how the enemy could get a glimpse of the dim little cockpit lights.

One more stick of bombs fell into the southern tree line. The pale shape of that plane circled to the right, tracer shooting downwards to where we figured the enlisted men's quarters must be. Some came back up and curved off into the night, glowing red embers with wings of their own. Lang was briefed for that little duty.

Off to the north, yet another clump of rocket bursts. That must be just about every-body; checking my watch with my pocket flash. In another minute, no more rockets going off...one more minute...then I put the nose down and flew across the field at about 700 feet, and pushed the button on the camera attachment.

I climbed up to 3,000 again and headed west and for home. Finding my new course, waiting for the ground below to light up with shells exploding. Jog to the left and go around. Settle up on the compass.

Less than ten minutes later, there was a faintly glowing worm on the horizon, and as I got near, tiny pin-pricks of light.

Checking the watch; the fuel gauge, my tank wasn't holed, for it showed, 'three-quarters.'

I resolved to wait and observe. My vigil was rewarded by the sight of three planes, one after the other; casting their shadows on the hillside and tents. Then they stopped, surrounded by figures. Three good landings, a good sign. Where were all the others?

A sense of dread, but I had no information.

After waiting another two minutes, a green flare went off down below. It was quickly

muffled, as it was fired into a barrel of water; as per instructions. It was all I needed to know. Suddenly the train lights were doused, and all I had to do was land in the field and I would be home. Don't forget the five-knot crosswind....here we were, and shit!

She was nosing over, and there was nothing I could do!

"Cock!" I bellowed as my face banged into something.

God, what the hell was that?

I thought we dealt with all the little projections. For just that reason. Helping hands, voices in the darkness. My leather helmet took the shock. Hopefully I'm not bleeding. It did hurt, though.

"Are you all right, sir?" it was the doctor.

"I'm relatively uninjured," I replied in a far-away voice, and in the noisy background babble, someone was cursing.

"Get those fucking lights out!"

In the silence, my ears rang. Sounds were muffled, and alien.

"How many?" I asked.

The doctor told someone standing there, "He's frozen and exhausted. Concussion, maybe."

I felt like a frozen piece of shit, if the truth be told.

"All down safe," he reported.

Then I began to relax a little, and thawing commenced. They say you should live each day as if it were your last. I was doing a lot of that lately. It gets tiring after a few weeks.

The artillery was silent. I was shivering uncontrollably.

"What kind of shape are the other guys in?" I asked, but he didn't answer.

"All nice and quiet now," a voice observed in the darkness.

'The Doc' walked along close by my side, as if to prevent me from falling down, but not wishing to intrude on the CO's prerogative. In other words, if I can make it on my own, that's for the best. Morale reasons...but my legs were awful stiff. They kept going off in strange directions. Finally we made it to my tent.

"I'll just help you to peel out of all that," he said.

"It's all right, Doc, no problem," I admonished. "I've done all this before, once or twice."

To be confronted by death is a curiously liberating experience.

I used to worry about what other people think.

Not any more.

Chapter Thirty-One

Keep the Noise Down

The third raid was being armed and bombed-up as I told my three veteran pilots to take a load off. Four new pilots would handle the dawn raid.

"I think that went rather well," said Powell.

We would hear a nearby enemy plane in the night. The men were under instructions to 'keep the noise down.'

"There's no telling," I began mildly. "It's possible they got a plane airborne within three or four minutes after our departure. They may have caught a glimpse of our landing lights if they climbed up high enough."

"That doesn't seem very likely," noted Powell, and I had to agree.

I had another thought.

"We're not sure if the enemy flies observation balloons at night," I pointed out.

We hadn't noticed any, in the flares and well-lit scene of the bombardment.

"Why would they do that?" asked Howard-Smythe, who along with the corporal, participated in all of our briefings and de-briefings.

Dawley was there, Bernie was there, the whole pack.

"It's just a crazy theory, but spies on our side of the lines could communicate with them by means of lights and code."

His eyebrows rose. But a dim light pointed upwards would be almost undetectable.

"Okay, maybe I'm just a little tired," the admission came easy enough.

But it was possible.

"What about enemy bombers, flying back from wherever?" asked Powell. "They could have seen our lights, and eventually they must report it to some higher authority."

"That's a good point," said Howard-Smythe, making sure the corporal wrote it down.

"Essentially we wait and see, and kind of make it up as we go along," I reckoned, but we were ready to respond to an enemy raid.

It was an enemy reconnaissance that I didn't quite know how to deal with.

"Why don't we put up a fighter half an hour before dawn, tell him to gain altitude and wait?" suggested the corporal.

The enemy could be predicted, within certain limits. Even the corporal was doing it now.

"Two fighters," suggested Snotty, and I gravely nodded back.

They could circle, and watch against the faint promise of dawn in the eastern sky. Especially if the snow held off for a while.

"Rather than go to the east, and try to block observation aircraft, better to circle north-west, and try to shoot them down from ambush," I muttered, adding the cryptic comment: "Sunrise, southeast."

"Two fighters? I'll just go check on the progress," said Corporal Whittington as I closed my eyes in exhaustion.

Man; that stove felt good. Burn you on one side and freeze you on the other, but the canvas-walled room warmed up pretty well. The stove was in there all day, after all.

We launched nine on the dawn raid, with two fighters standing by to take off after the last bomber. The timing was tight, with everyone working very hard, but in between snatches of orders, and instructions to others, we continued our debriefing. We all had innumerable cups of tea, coffee or cocoa inside our guts by now.

My body was warming up well, and with my brain going full blast, it was unlikely that sleep would happen anytime soon. Too wired up. There were times when it was very hard to come down from it all. Just buzzing with adrenalin.

"I figure we hit 'em pretty hard," said Dempsey.

"It's awfully hard to tell," retorted Powell. "But they'll be flaming peed-off."

"Depending on timing, the dawn raid may be able to see a lot more," I hoped.

"Have a drink, lads," said Howard-Smythe.

The corporal brought out glasses.

That hit the spot. You could see the effect on the crews. The gunners were talking out all they saw, and even heard on their missions. We put it down in as much detail as we could. A report always had to be filed. We liked to nip questions in the bud.

Nothing worse than people pestering you with questions, once it's ancient history.

If I was the enemy commander, I would be wondering what hit me. And why me? And who's doing it? My eyes kept closing, but the talk went on.

"So. How many planes did you see?" asked Dawley.

Dempsey said, "Maybe thirty."

Someone slurped their drink, then rose to get another. Murmuring in the background.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

"Thirty enemy planes, all lined up in rows; with tarpaulins on the bonnets," Dempsey said. "We might have hit one or two."

"What about the house?" asked Dawley.

"Hosed her down real good," the gunner told him.

"There were dark marks, hard to see, but the house was absolutely hit earlier," he said.

I drifted in and out of sleep for a while.

Awakening to the sound of engines, the tent was empty. Light was streaming in through the slightly-parted canvas doors.

"We got them all back," Howard-Smythe called from the doorway.

Bernie brushed in and sat down with a whump, for all our chairs were hardwood.

Not too many cushioned chairs around here. Sitting up, my backside ached.

"Oh, my. Things are going well, Tookair," Bernie gloated enthusiastically. "I have to admire your psychologically-adept methods."

"Well, I suppose it's simply a matter of using the little grey cells," I muttered.

His eyebrows rose at that one. The boys trooped in one by one, having cleaned up and removed their flying suits. The gunners were looking pleased, as they always did. They always seemed so grateful to be alive.

I guess they didn't trust their young pilots too much.

Most of the gunners were older, more responsible individuals.

If you want a good gunner; you choose a completely different type of personality.

When confronted by an enemy fighter on their tail, they can't curl up in a ball and hide in the fuselage. They have to stand up and shoot back. A kind of bull-dog courage and tenacity. I wouldn't call it bravery. Perhaps stubbornness or even a quick, hot temper.

You need someone who will shout curses, and shoot straight.

By this time, our equipment was already being loaded on the train; but it took time for everyone to de-brief, and then there was breakfast. We had to send them off to sleep, at least some of them. The enemy's retaliatory raid would be sooner rather than later.

Honestly, we invented formal debriefings, and now everyone does it.

Aircraft still came off the assembly line under the trees. We had fourteen planes lined up under canvas and tenting; some under camouflage netting, stashed here and there.

Dawley was typing up his assessment. Bernie was at the machine, supervising his man Hastings, as they put in some kind of coded message on the wire for his government. Whittington, handed over some sheets. Then he went to get me a coffee.

"So many bombs, so many rockets, so many rounds of ammunition," it was that kind of report. "So much petrol, so many gallons of oil, so many bullet-holes patched, so many man-hours expended."

The new Air Ministry wanted all this crap for study. No one would learn a thing from it, that's my guess.

"I must congratulate you," began Bernie. "Six or seven enemy machines confirmed destroyed! You did it in twelve hours!"

"Sounds like it," I nodded. "But I take that kind of thing with a grain of salt."

There were wrecks in some of our pictures, but they could have been there from days before, or maybe they were damaged on landing by the enemy. I pointed all this out, but to no avail.

"Two of them confirmed, by six witnesses," he reasoned. "You got them without even trying. You are a thoroughly dangerous man."

"It was an accident, I swear," I replied in unconscious irony, but he seemed intent on some point.

"A man like you comes along about once in a lifetime."

"Don't go falling in love with our Colonel, Bernie," scoffed Chandra from his desk, in a colossal display of nerve.

"Well, let's hope the boys are learning," I told Bernie. "It's also dangerous to keep using the same tactics. Sooner or later; we all have a bad day."

The boys were pretty surprised when Howard-Smythe finally broke it to them just exactly whose jagdstaffel we were attacking. They were impressed with themselves. The word went through camp like wildfire. People were abuzz with it.

Today we 'rest in the sun,' clean up a little around the site, and hope the enemy comes a-calling. We had a hot reception waiting. It was a cloudy, gusty, rainy day. But we had high hopes for better weather later in the afternoon, when it was expected that the sun would come out and the clouds dissipate. Then we would see.

In the meantime, it was enough to bask in the sun, or rather the hot light of our trusty pole lamps. Feet up on the desk, I surveyed the big boards. The map, sectional, painted on the boards, was all laid out before my eyes.

Perhaps I should go to bed.

I usually think more clearly after a good day's sleep.

***

Sleep did indeed help.

All told, I probably got in about five or six hours of sack-time; then a bunch of us took off around four-thirty p.m. Fifteen Biffs, and six of us had the new engines. All broken-in and properly tested. We climbed to the west for a few minutes, and then to the south-east for another eight or ten minutes; and then we could see the battlefront.

There were low, broken clouds, heavy and dark looking; but actually in thin layers.

Technically, spring was still a long ways away, but it was deeply anticipated. God, I longed for the warmth of spring.

Through small holes in the layers of cloud below, we could see the fresh-fallen snow that lay upon the land. We were above the Western Front. On the right, was my wingman for the trip, Nelson. Beyond him, Black and a section of six planes. The rest were behind us somewhere. Watching the chronometer, watching the altimeter, the fuel gauge out of habit. The revs, the temperature, everything.

Watch the compass. Watch the sky. We could see everything in every direction.

We were at 18,000 feet, heading east. Three-quarters of a tank or maybe a little less in terms of fuel. The engine seemed good. My men were alert. Down below and to the right, puffs of smoke indicated some kind of fight, but it was too far away. A few planes down there. No way of telling who they belonged to; us or them.

In our present, 'bumblebee formation,' we looked like a bunch of rank amateurs, and it was excruciatingly important to scan the sky for the Hun in the Sun.

***

At first I didn't believe it. It was almost too easy, (and I was right.)

At first it seemed so unreal. At first I just didn't get it.

It was him. It was him, all right! Fuck! The Red Baron! Ghostly in the haze, a dark, dull silhouette in the back-lighting of the wan and pale sun. A little red tri-plane, washed- out and made into water-colours. His plane was all pastel greys and pinks, made so by distance and perspective.

Up in the sky above us. Up and to the right, and a little off the starboard bow, it was him, God damn it! Fuck, I can see it now, in my head. It's as clear as day. That little red tri-plane, he must have been 3,000 or 4,000 feet above us. And then his nose came down and he was falling from the ghostly semi-haze onto us! Son of a bitch! For some reason I was almost caught unawares, suddenly wishing that I had the formation on my left.

But there was nothing for it but to break into Nelson, who was a damned good pilot. He was watching me and watching his position. He was back and above in exactly the right place. I had full throttle and so we climbed to meet the enemy.

Hopefully, all the boys saw what was coming.

Down, the little red tri-plane was falling, still too tiny to be a threat, but this man had shot down something like fifty or sixty of our boys. I lined up the nose on him, timing it as best as I could. With the safety turned to 'off,' a quick glance confirmed it; I still had a little more time...yes. Fire off a few rounds as he goes past. Pop-op-opo-opapopp!

Always turn into the threat.

My gunner blasted away at him, and I quickly searched the sky and recovered from a deep stall as best as I could. I think I timed it right. Not a hope in hell of hitting him, but then neither did he? And that's good sometimes, and now as we came about and plummeted earthwards in pursuit, the formation was all skimming about in parabolic curves at they tried to re-form. The bloody Red Baron, he was 5,000 below and heading for home, or the clouds, or somewhere to hide.

Two of my guys were in pursuit. Good luck, boys, but you're too damned slow.

Who's that? And I wracked my head and neck around some more to see Nelson forming up. He waved, inscrutable in the face-mask and goggles.

He had smoke stains on the fuselage. The adrenalin rush slowly subsided. A quick count. We all seemed to be here and undamaged. The Baron must have a squadron around here somewhere, wouldn't you think?

We couldn't find them. We cruised all up and down the battlefront for about an hour.

Every time we saw enemy aircraft, they were too far away, too far above, or too far below, and all we could do was just keep the formation together. Finally we sped through a few isolated 'Archie' bursts and dropped our token bombs on the enemy trenches.

Then we turned for home. Flying about three hundred feet below the clouds, my men were stacked up to the right. We picked our way home, always watching the edges of clouds as we darted across open sky areas. We landed with a good quarter-tank of fuel in the planes. No losses, no damage, and no other actions to report.

The men were in a fine fettle, after seeing Manfred up close and personal. One or two even fired at him as he went by.

I must say; I was pleased.

Nobody killed so far.

And that's always good.

During the post-mission debriefing, I listened intently to the talk as the men went through a question-and-answer session from the Adj. When he was done, then I went to work on the finer details of pure flying.

"Why did you guys go after him?" I asked Nicholson.

"We have the new engines. We wanted to see if we could catch him," said Nicholson.

"I go where he goes," stated Leonard.

"Well, that is the rule. Good for you," I told Leonard approvingly. "Fine, how did you fare?"

"He had really good speed on as he came down," Nicholson replied. "When I pushed over, my engine coughed, but we eventually stabilized and we were at least holding our own."

"Why did you break off pursuit?" I asked.

"At some point, I realized we would become separated from the formation, and under the clouds," said Nicholson. "To follow him further was asking for trouble."

It took several minutes for them to rendezvous. I was forced to 'S' turn the formation right and left to make it happen. While we were doing that, all of our attention was distracted.

"The Baron must have had some of his boys somewhere out there," said Leonard.

"I'm inclined to agree," I said tartly. "Why do you think he chose just that moment to attack?"

They sat there thinking, looking at me.

"The Baron wouldn't engage unless he was totally committed. For him to take a quick swipe and then break for the clouds below is an indication that he knew exactly where his jasta was. Or; he was out of fuel and going home for the day," and either way it was food for thought.

"Did you shoot at him?" I asked, and they both shook their heads in the negative.

"Well, at five hundred yards, there wasn't much chance of hitting him anyway," I advised.

Some of the other boys took shots, or at least thought they had. Maybe they pulled the trigger and some bullets came out! Shooting from two thousand yards isn't going to do any good. Technically, two hundred yards is feasible...barely.

They hadn't hit anything of importance.

"Next time you push down hard on the plane, throttle back to idle," I suggested.

"Try and see if the engine keeps running. You're starving the carb due to negative gravity," I explained patiently.

They looked at each other.

"Your engines accelerate rather well, at least when they keep running. At idle, there's plenty of air-fuel mixture in the intakes to keep it running, at least."

They looked at each other again.

"It's better than half-stalling your motor, bogging out, and then sitting there stupidly, wondering if it will recover," I told them. "Also a good snappy split-S sometimes works. When done right, it's a beautiful thing to see. It keeps the motor running, anyway."

I sighed and shuffled papers. They saluted, which I waved away, not being big on formality.

"Thanks, gentlemen," I told them by way of dismissal.

The next couple of guys didn't have much to say. Times like that I wondered if they were paying attention out there. But some guys just can't express what they saw and did. Maybe they were so busy trying to get out of the Baron's way they didn't have time to see what else was going on.

That's all right. They had survived, and we were still rotating men through the first few missions. Not all of my men had even flown in battle yet, while I also had a half dozen with two or three missions each. Early days yet, early days.

But it was a start, and a pretty good one.

And we were still hoping for a night-time bed check by the Huns. We were preparing a hot reception. A bit of a party.

***

We figured the Huns would come calling.

"Corporal! What's the sunset time for today?"

March 9, 1918. My desk calendar confirmed it. Hopefully the corporal flipped the leaves this morning.

The Germans were smart enough to time their attacks to the minute. To take full advantage of sunset, dusk, darkness, and moon periods. We kept an almanac around! It's not easy to predict the weather, but with the thin daily weather reports, plus our own instincts...and we asked a local farmer once in a while.

Sometimes we were surprisingly accurate.

"Sun-times; six-fifty-two a.m. and six-twenty-seven p.m.," he reported from the book.

The Boche might try to hit us at sunset. My hunch was that the Huns would want to strike back, and then they would probably get pulled out of the line and sent elsewhere.

According to military intelligence, the unit had been in the line-up for about three weeks. It wouldn't be too much of a blow to the Baron's ego or the morale of his men, who were taking a mauling, to be rested at the routine interval. I thought of the hard training my men and I went through. The long hard days were a blessing in disguise. Units have been decimated within hours of arriving at the front, but we were doing very, very well.

"Howard-Smythe," I called, and he came over from the other side of the tent.

"I want that train out of here by four-thirty at the latest," I reminded him.

"You have my personal guarantee," he quipped. "Especially as I plan to be seated comfortably on board."

I grinned in appreciation.

"Somebody wants to paint something on the side of his plane," he began innocently enough.

"Oh, I don't know, man," I said in dismay. "We're opening up a whole new can of worms here."

In the infantry, a can of worms is grounds for mutiny. Honestly, the bully beef is much better.

First it was the train, and now this.

Sighing deeply, for these were schoolboys for the most part; I just had to ask.

"Who is it and what does he want?"

The Adj shoved a sketch onto my desk.

Dropping my feet to the floor with a thump, pulling myself upright and adjusting the green-shaded lamp, I took a look.

'The Damned,' it said, and whoever drew it had flames coming off some of the letters.

"Sounds like Andrew?"

The Adj nodded affirmative.

"Hey, that's not bad," I murmured. "Sounds like a book title."

What else can I tell him?

"At least it's fricking literate," I ventured.

"I thought it was quite clever, actually," said the Adj. "Perhaps a tad morbid."

Me, I don't know the difference between morbid and maudlin, but I didn't tell him that. Too macabre. Too 'makabree.' That's often the problem with being self-educated, purely out of books. You may have never heard someone smart actually pronounce a word.

"Anybody else?" I inquired.

"Oh, a few," he admitted.

"Like what?" I asked, sheer curiousity getting the better of me.

A commander really has more important things to think about. Or does he? The Adj remained silent.

"Don't let them put it on too big," I told Howard-Smythe obliquely.

It seemed the decision was made.

But a commander should command, even when he is doing nothing.

"Pardon me?" he spluttered.

"Don't let them put it on too big," I gestured, with outspread hands at about thirty inches or maybe three feet.

"Paint out the white letters on the fuselage. And the wings, top and bottom. Make the numbers half-size in yellow or grey. Not white. Make the roundels red and blue. Get rid of the white, and let me think..."

Rather ambivalent about the whole idea of colourful squadron markings or insignias, I prefer to blend in to the mob. But if I made it a condition, that they had to do all the work, to do the painting for the other, modified paint scheme I had in mind, then it wasn't a total waste of time. It kept them off of the streets for a while.

"Anything but pornography," I added. "No crucifix-up-Kaiser-Willy's-butt sort of thing, either."

Howard-Smythe kind of swallowed and paled when he heard that.

"Yes, sir," and then he took off with his sketches and notes.

That ought to keep them happy, or at least busy for a while.

It was the least I could do.

As for the Fritzies, we had a half-dozen borrowed French 75-millimetre guns, chocked up to point exactly where we wished, in the vicinity of our satellite field. We had a number of shells with fuses set for a certain time-delay, and the men to fire them. Jaeckl and Carson had a bet on. A handful of weekend passes were the booty. Our machine guns were manned, and all the staff were briefed on what to expect; where our boys were located, when to shoot and when not to shoot. Most especially, where not to shoot, for our bullets must inevitably return to earth. The men on this field could not shoot south, the men at the southern, 'field,' could not shoot north.

'What goes up must come down,' was the watchword of the day.

Telephone lines, signal flares, who was supposed to be doing what, and when, and with which, and to whom. All we had to do was to wait and see if the enemy turned up.

Which the buggers did, although not exactly on schedule. We were ready for them.

They kept us up half the night waiting, though.

One became aware of a distant buzzing, like flies on shit from twenty feet away.

"Howard-Smythe!" I called.

Just then the field telephone rang, somewhat superfluously.

"Here they come, sir!" he acknowledged as he grabbed his tin hat from the table by the door, and snatched up the phone.

Men scampered past the tent, running for the trenches. The door was fully closed; and Carson went to check on the blackout. They were heading west, but it sounded like they were some small distance to the south.

"I wonder how they found us?" mused Corporal Whittington.

"They must have some idea. It's pretty black out," noted Bernie.

I have no idea why, but he was wearing some weird kind of Belgian cavalry officer's hat. Oh, well. It never costs anything to put on a show, and I winked at Howard-Smythe.

He winked back.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. The sounds of explosions came over the hills. The enemy saw something, that's for sure. Suddenly the crack of our 75's rattled the eardrums.

A staccato barking came from the direction of the machine gunners. A roaring noise passed overhead as one enemy machine, low to the ground, zoomed by. If the enemy didn't attack our fake field, the man in charge was supposed to fire a flare and open up with tracer from the machine guns. Apparently our little plan was working. Guns going like the blazes. All Hell was breaking loose. They were having fun over there.

Thunk. Thunk. More thunks. The enemy was hammering at an empty field, and we all just sat there grinning. We could hear ragged cheers off in the distance from some of our mechanics and ground staff, the ones not noisily engaged in firing at the enemy. The men on our real aerodrome were permitted to shoot their rifles, within reason.

Another roaring overhead, as I paced back and forth in sheer excitement.

Barely perceptible over all the other noise, came the nearby 'pop,' as a sergeant or corporal or somebody fired off a hand-gun. Now all the machine guns and the rifles outside opened up with a vengeance. Then came a funny 'blurp!' to the engine noise; a pause; and one hell of a crash.

It sounded like somebody stomping on a tin.

More cheers. Bernie leapt up and went to the door. With one outstretched arm; he reached through and then carefully slithered through the widely-overlapping canvas sheets which kept the light inside where it belonged.

"I have to see this," he told us, voice slightly muffled.

His head popped back in for a moment.

"I will get you a souvenir," he promised.

To the south, we could still hear pops, thuds, whunks and whacks. Machine guns.

Bombs. Something that sounded like a big bonfire.

Looking at my watch, I noted, "This can't go on all night."

The corporal stood beside me. The telephone was busy again, as I set most of my attention to listening to the sounds of the fight.

Corporal Whittington poured me a stiff shot of rum. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

"Might as well make the rounds."

A lot of the boys could use a drink, after that little episode. The sound of several enemy machines faded into the distance. There was a strong desire to sit down. The phone rang, and someone picked it up.

"One aircraft on fire, heading due east, four to five miles from our position."

The clatter of the phone piece being hung up. A figure appeared at my elbow. His feather tickled my nose. I was very tired, as were all the men by this point.

"That was brilliant," said Bernie, shaking my hand.

He threw a smelly, charred piece of coloured linen on the corner of the desk.

"A C-seven," he told us proudly.

A Rumpler product. Nice machines, if I remember the description from M.I.

"I can only give the recipe," I joked. "You would have to salt it to your individual taste."

Finally all was quiet, as the men filed in and out, making their individual reports.

Well, quieter, anyway.

***

Considering that I was living on small naps, time seemed to stretch and contract sometimes. All one could do was to focus on the moment.

Another little trick I learned, was to stand out behind the tent and urinate. This opened up all sorts of little opportunities. It gave the chance to listen, whether it be night or day. To expand one's consciousness. To hear men working and to know if they were happy, angry, working hard, or not working at all. In a sense, it was like standing in the air, a hundred feet above the ground and surveying all that was mine, through the medium of sound. The sandbags absorbed the noise of the golden waterfall. They were stacked up in a ring about five feet tall to protect from bomb-bursts. I was the quietest thing out there.

The ring of an axe on wood. The gramophone grinding away at the same damned tune the third time in a row. Someone snoring in a tent nearby.

The sound of water draining out of a shower-barrel up on stilts, or a squelchy-farty sound as a man on the latrine worked things out.

Peeing is sheer luxury to a pilot.

You might as well appreciate the little things in life.

A curse, a chuckle, a noise as some unseen something crept through the bushes.

Some little animal, looking for roots or shoots to eat. I stood there a while, and relieved myself. Inside the tent, there were voices as well. I could hear Bernie, Dawley, Andrew, and some of the other men.

"He's just fucking with their heads," Andrew said to the others.

"He knows what he's doing," this was an unfamiliar voice.

Who's that? Brubaker? Kowalski?

"You boys have knocked out one-third to one-half of an enemy squadron," pointed out Black's deep and singular baritone, like a man talking through a tube. "And without really meeting them in any major air combat."

"Yes, the enemy must be convinced we're a bomber formation," added Dawley.

As I zipped up, one last comment.

"He's fucking with our heads, too," said a voice. "Waiting until later to tell us we're lambasting von Richtofen's Circus!"

"Well, would it have helped you to know?" asked Bernie dryly, in his fruity accent.

"Wouldn't make much difference," retorted the other. "It's not like we have a frigging choice."

A smile in the pale dawn light.

"You let the boss worry about things like that," Dawley said. "You guys pasted the Red Baron's aerodrome. No one can deny that. Not even you!"

I made my way to the hangar tents all strung out in a staggered row just inside the tree line. We put them where the rays of the sun barely penetrated under the masses of barren branches above. Time for a quick check around the aerodrome, nodding to one or two men at each position.

Flying over the area personally to check; it looked pretty good, i.e. the camouflage tenting, the olive drab and khaki tarps, netting over the 75's. It was quite hard to detect if you didn't already know where it was. With the train gone, everything was simplified. I had all that infantry experience to draw on, something a lot of RAF officers might have lacked.

Reduce everything to its essentials. We were a lean, mean, killing machine.

Arriving back at the briefing tent; I looked around the room, and it quieted down.

"Are you guys all ready to go?"

They all nodded, and mumbled and murmured back. It wouldn't hurt to run through it again, and along with that thought, came Black's voice.

"Let's go through this again, boys," he said. "One more time."

They murmured some more, but they could see the sense in talking it out fully and thoroughly beforehand, before launch. There was no way to talk once airborne.

"So the SE's are about four-thousand-five-hundred, one minute behind you," I gently prompted. "Andrew?"

He picked it up from there.

"The Camel Jockeys attack the specified enemy targets," he outlined, and pointed down at a segment of the enemy trench lines on our table map. "We go in at fifty feet, straight in, and then we all turn into one another...ones go left, twos go right...ones go high, twos go low."

There was a little trust involved, but then it was also one good reason to train all the men together, at once, as a team.

"The Biffs head east immediately above the Camel Jocks, at three-thousand-five-hundred feet; and proceed to the primary target," chimed in Powell.

He considered.

"If we're intercepted before we get to our target, we simply abort. We break, split-S and attack the enemy lines from the rear...here, a half-mile north of the Camel Jockeys."

Their job was to silence an enemy battery of howitzers. Very well dug in, as they appeared in the photos. A precision target.

Black's turn.

"We penetrate hard and fast and do a visual reconnaissance, and if they're at home and receiving visitors, strafe the living hell out of them."

On that thought, he nodded in satisfaction. He looked up from the map with a gleam in his eye. Three squadrons, three separate but related targets, mutual support.

Divide and conquer.

"Okay boys, launch in fifteen minutes," I confirmed.

I planned to be around in my little Avro.

My job was to bomb a short section of the line and just go around causing trouble in general. Blake's boys flew the 200-hp version of the SE, and Jackson's squadron flew the Camel. Ah; but our Camel's were equipped with special experimental versions of 165-hp each, while the SE's had absolutely gorgeous little 260-hp engines, and they were fast.

The enemy would confuse us with the other, 'normal' squadrons.

Our Biffs were approaching three hundred horsepower. While the top speed hadn't increased that much, it made them much handier in air-to-air combat. It improved acceleration, which meant you could turn the plane a lot tighter without losing a lot of speed or even stalling into a spin. You could just keep pulling. It was like gangbusters, turning in that plane.

As for the Avro, we used an old interrupter, and a new motor, and my plane was all new. Hopefully, we would have an edge on the enemy aircraft. While their pilots were usually pretty well-trained, any technical surprises would be in our favour.

I took off first, and sped west at very low altitude. I wanted to get four or five miles further back from the Front before my climb. The boys would wait until the appointed take off time, then their mission was unstoppable. Or un-recallable. I was a noise decoy.

Ignorance is bliss. What you can't see or don't know will kill you. It's always wise to keep that in mind; even in peacetime. I figured out that you can be the best driver in the world, and some other guy asleep behind the wheel will come across the centre line and kill you deader than dead in a heart beat.

Stay alert and pay attention.

After twenty-five minutes or so, I hit an altitude of about 9,500 feet.

Then I cautiously approached the battle lines alone. Ever wary, scanning the sky, especially above and into the sun. I never flew straight and level for more than fifteen or twenty seconds, and always kept aware of the spot under my tail. Down somewhere below, the attack must be commencing. My knee ached, my back was stiff but; oh, well.

What the hell.

At 11,000 feet, I found the base of the billowing cumulus clouds. It was a balmy day, with the chance of a March thundershower. Its promise hovered in the air with a humid, musky smell even at this altitude. There was no way in hell that I could see my boys from this vantage point. Clouds hung in the way and the gaps were too narrow. It was too difficult to scan several at once. I had to watch my own ass. My boys were down there somewhere.

***

This time there were two of them, and I knew it was him. Again, that misty, smoky look of a plane several thousand feet away, in the glistering, sparkling sky. Ice fog! The air was suddenly a lot chillier than it was. The motor sang sweetly, and there was life in her yet. I climbed ever higher, perfectly aware that the Red Baron and his friend have been waiting for a chance like this.

He must recognize me. No, that's wrong. Different plane.

He was heading west, and now turning, always watching. He slithers back to the east, his faithful companion dogging his tail about five hundred feet back. The pair of them hung in the halo around the sun for a while. Little black crosses, as they hung there like vultures in the early spring sky, ever-hungry and ever cautious.

I could almost see his nostrils flaring, scenting the breeze like an animal.

Imagine the thoughts going through his head. He's trying to find the trap, obviously. When he's ready, he'll come down. Start jigging the bait. My guts were churning.

Just then it happened that a pair of enemy two-seaters came along; heading west at about 12,000 feet, coming towards me on the left side. The best-laid plans of mice and men oft gang agley, as the people say. I turned north above them, hoping that Manfred and his buddy would think I was preparing to attack, with all of my attention totally focused on the pair beneath. Von Richtofen must be trying to identify my aircraft type.

He saw me go after them...conventional attack. I must not see him...

My attention was at a hundred percent. It was merely divided. The targets were the least of my worries.

My eyes were intently focused on a little hand-held vanity mirror. Careful to keep it from flashing in the sun, yet watching, waiting, timing...swing it to the left a little. He's coming down after the slightest hesitation, almost like he's marshalling the other pilot.

And I watched, and I waited, scanning the sky all around, while I still could. At the exact psychological moment, I began to come up under the enemy two-seaters. It looked like a standard dive-down-and-come-up-from-underneath attack. Manfred faced a tough choice. He could either set up a rookie for his first kill, and risk losing a valuable reconnaissance machine, or do the job himself.

I hope; I pray, that I have played this right.

The stakes were very high.

Vital milliseconds were lost to the pair of enemy fighters. I even blipped off a few rounds at the hindmost two-seater as I pulled into a hard loop.

By tilting my head straight up, I could see the two enemy planes coming down, or 'up' at me. The sky was beneath my feet, the reconnaissance machines below my ass, and the two enemy fighters streaking inevitably towards my gun-sight. Richtofen, suddenly sensing the trap, sprung away in a flicking motion and the flashing from his guns was wasted.

His neophyte wingman was totally unprepared, and he made the mistake of trying to pull up and over. I was already pulling out around the bottom of the loop by this time, and when I saw him from behind and below, at about fifty yards, I just naturally pulled the trigger and shot him down. It seems he was pulling up and therefore slowing down at the same time when my machine was gaining speed.

It's just too easy sometimes. Poor little fucker.

'Should have stayed home,' as my dear old grandmother used to say when someone got struck by a trolley.

Von Richtofen was nowhere to be seen. I chased the two-seaters, then broke off and went back to the battle lines. I dropped my bombs from about 4,000 feet. I went home well satisfied. The boys did well too, with not a plane lost.

It must have been cold up there. I had a good case of the shakes for about a half an hour or so. They looked perky though, and appeared to have enjoyed their little outing.

Although some got hit.

A few hours of patching, an engine change or some other niggling problem. Yeah, I was on some strange kind of high that day. But there was nothing that we couldn't fix; what with all the tools and spare parts we had.

"So tell me something, Tookair," Bernie spoke. "How must the Ritter be feeling right now, eh?"

"The Baron? Oh, I don't know."

I felt better for having a cup of tea or two. We stood by the humongous cast-iron stove.

"He must be feeling, how you say, psychologically discombobulated, no?"

"I suppose so, yes," I agreed.

We stood there, chatting in the command tent. He had a drink in his hand. It looked like champagne. These Belgians really know how to go to war.

"How would you feel?" he asked quietly, once again studying my responses.

"I really don't know, Bernie," I said; somewhat exasperated by all the incessant talk.

We were planning a little afternoon party, and I just needed to put my feet up and have a drink. Really. Hell, even tea is good sometimes.

"Perhaps he might feel responsible, that his charge, whom you feel to have been a 'rookie' pilot," he continued. "Was shot down."

Of course he feels responsible.

"Like watching a good friend die?" I shot back. "Like watching kittens being drowned?"

"How do you feel, Tookair?" he murmured. "Or do you prefer to stand, 'muet,' or silent?"

The phone rang and he picked it up. He listened for some time.

"Preservatif? As in sheath or condom? No? Why not just say parachute, then?"

Finally he hung up. He sat at the desk and wrote things in the book.

"One captured enemy pilot," he noted. "So, you didn't kill him after all. An interesting study in pathological psychology."

I think he meant the Baron. But he might have meant me.

Back to our conversation.

"It was probably dumb to fly alone and to use myself as bait," I allowed.

That sort of thing has to stop. It's immature. Still, the sight of a couple of bombs under my wings must have appeared pretty darned convincing. Little dinky bombs, and he bought into it. Proves he doesn't know everything.

Bernie stood 'muet,' or silent in admiration.

But seriously, what the fuck does he know?

***

They tiptoe around doctors.

The Doctor sat across the desk, and the others rather diplomatically left us alone. Why people tiptoe around doctors like they're some kind of moral arbiters, confounds the hell out of me.

"I want you to muck about and come up with some kind of diet and nutrition plan," I began. "These men are flying to high altitudes."

Bad attitude and resentment were written all over him. I never did anything to the guy.

"Steak, lots of proper foods. Nothing fancy," I suggested. "Write this all up in high-falutin' language, if you don't mind. I'm going to send it to the Ministry."

"Yes, sir."

"These newfangled vitamins, trace elements, a balanced, high-protein diet. Cut down on the cakes and pies. I know the boys love 'em."

We could cut down on the fatty, bready type foods, I told him.

"Essentially, you're the expert," I said.

I suggested baby beef liver, certain greens, vegetables like peppers, but also pointed out the undesirability of items which produced large amounts of gas.

"Carrots, lots of carrots," I was making it up as I went along.

It was his fucking job, after all.

"You need to invent some kind of twenty-minute daily exercises," I went on.

"That seems easy enough," he acknowledged. "Getting them to do it, now...?"

"You leave that up to me," I smiled. "I just need it in writing. Something on paper to wave around. You'd be surprised how much credence people put in stuff that's in writing. Let's make it useful stuff for a change. It's obvious that the men need iron in the blood, they need red blood cells to carry the oxygen. You might want to give them an anti-smoking talk," momentarily consulting my notes. "They may have to go up to twenty-four or twenty-five thousand feet, on a regular basis."

"How quickly do they achieve that altitude?" he asked, curious in spite of himself.

"Anything from twenty-five minutes to an hour, maybe a little more. It depends if we're saving fuel or going like gangbusters."

He knew little enough about flying.

Someone should take him up sometime, so he could see what we were talking about.

He could monitor his own bodily functions.

"Do you ever suffer the bends?" he asked.

No one knows everything.

"I don't fuckin' know!" I answered. "But, we do all suffer earaches, swimmer's ear, hemorrhoids, eye problems, diarrhea. That's from the castor oil in the fuel. We end up swallowing a lot of it, because it runs down the mask, and it just soaks in. When you breathe hard in combat, you end up swallowing some of it."

They could get colds, influenza, pneumonia. They could get just about any disease in the book. That's why I had to get him involved in some way. You can't just flog a doctor, they have very high social status.

It really sucked when you got a good gutful of castor oil and un-burnt fuel.

"Literally puke your guts out," I assured him. "It's a sickly, burning taste, too."

Plus; castor oil wasn't too good on its own. My dear old mom used to make us take a spoonful of cod liver oil when we were kids. It was chock full of something, and it made you regular. No argument about that. As far as 'caisson disease,' or decompression sickness, it might explain some of the little aches and pains. I never considered it. We all seemed to have our little problems.

"Have you given them a talk on mental hygiene?" I asked. "What about prophylactic devices?"

This was actually better than giving the doctor shit for something. He's a soft-spoken character and a born con-man. How exactly do I handle this guy? Load him up with work? He's not too smart in other ways. He thinks, 'Fu-cking' is a town in China, for example. I mean, he never swears or cusses. He can give sex education talks. That ought to keep his mind busy. Most of our men were under twenty.

"Give the men a talk on cussing and morals."

Put plenty on this man's plate.

"We need an inventory of all the dope supplies, or stuff will start to go missing."

He needs a doper orderly to assist him. They can keep an eye on each other and won't allow the other to steal too much, thereby killing the golden goose.

Learning all the time, learning all the time.

"Do eye checks on the men. Talk to the Adj about our little gravity suit experiment..."

He could give all the men periodic medical check-ups.

"And watch for signs of stress or mental breakdown," I said firmly.

"Now, this fella I'm giving you as an orderly, he's not too swift. He's not the brightest star in the heavens. He thinks if a label is marked, all you have to do is take what you want, then bring it up to the level with water. If there's a bunch of marks, he'll just add another. You'd better watch him," I suggested.

The doctor digested all this silently.

"Now; if you're caught on the stuff, we're going to put you up a against a wall and shoot you," I added. "So do your job, and when the war's over, you can do anything you want to yourself."

The bugger had something to look forward to. Always leave something on the table for the other man. That's the key to successful negotiation.

He sat there very quietly.

"Yes, sir," said the doctor.

"That's the right attitude, and get to work on the diet and stuff. We really do need a good doctor, you know."

That seemed to help, in some small way.

I patted him on the back as I shoved him out, and there was plenty more to do.

It took a lot of time, reading the stuff Dawley and Bernie were beginning to pull in from their nefarious webs, their networks of good old boys. It didn't pay to think too much about how they got some of their intelligence. Like Aristides, the renegade Greek. Caught in bed with his mother. Some kind of 'Oedipus complex,' and you have to be careful how it's pronounced. If you say it, 'eat-a-puss,' all the people around you laugh and it erodes respect for the Commanding Officer.

Run out of town, apparently. The Greeks were an orthodox people, and jokes about Greek features and stuff don't mean a thing.

Oh, God! Some idiot had a fiddle going, and we could use some peace and quiet.

A wild and ragged reel screamed out in the afternoon stillness. This was bad for the nerves and the digestion.

"Have you ever been to an Irishman's shanty,

"Not much water but plenty of brandy...

"A three-legged stool and a table to match,

"And a dog and a cat sits licking it's snatch..."

I barked out through the thin walls of the tent, "Snotty! Take that dog and pony show somewhere else!"

Finally he got the message and moseyed off to bother some other poor souls.

Some guy in a Royal Army uniform entered the tent, strangely silent and empty, without Howard-Smythe and Whittington. Bernie and Dawley were probably napping. We were on call twenty-four hours a day, lately.

"Your plane is back from test, sir," he reported.

"Awesome," I told him, and he left.

The boys were sitting around the briefing room, most of them, when I entered. It was still early yet.

"Are you all eager for this one, son?" I asked Saul.

"Sure thing," Saul replied, in a dry tone which drew a small chuckle.

Saul wasn't exactly an enthusiast.

A few more pilots and gunners trickled in as we studied the map.

That makes pretty much everyone; and now Dawley arrived. He wanted to ride as a gunner. Some kind of complex there, I suspected. The men liked it, though. He's fit in well.

"Okay, gentlemen, this is our first big party as a team, and I want you to listen very, very closely..."

It was pretty informal. I thought for a moment.

"The most aggressive pilot has the best chance of survival. Always stick with your buddy. Watch your fuel gauge..."

I had to stop there.

You really can't load them up with too much good advice. Our mission was a fairly simple contact patrol. The only major complication, was that I was using all three squadrons. There was enough that could go wrong, even though showing up in numbers always impressed the ground troops, who would be watching. Of that we had no doubt.

They are entitled to an opinion. Much of what we do is never seen by the general public. The men seemed confident enough. They know their jobs, which is always a comfort. The fog of war is legendary, but it can be dealt with by proper training.

It was Freud who believed that all human motivation is put down to sexual tensions, while Kant...or Jung... or somebody, put it down to feelings of inferiority. I leave it to the reader to judge. Some other crackpot theorist put it down to, 'the creative urge.'

"I like these calm little moments before the storm," I said boldly. "It reminds me of Mozart."

One more point. A four-step program. About the most the human brain can hold at one time.

"Squeeze out as much piss as you can," I concluded. "We'll be airborne for up to two hours, maybe more."

We were ready to mount up.

Chapter Thirty-Two

A Thorough Pre-flight

After a thorough pre-flight of my new SE 5a, with its very own 275 brake horse-power Wolseley Viper engine, and a few other modifications, we were ready.

A wave was sufficient in daylight. Clouds of blue exhaust smoke veered off as the engines caught, one by one.

First the Biffs trundled out, bobbing and weaving as the line formed up for take-off. They started from way down at the far end. All that could be discerned were their shapes. Next it was the Camel Jockeys. There goes 'Idaho Red,' with a little potato-headed figure complete with cowboy hat and six-gun painted on the left side of the forward fuselage.

He thinks he's a cowboy. Pretty much every plane had some kind of crazy artwork on the side.

Someone painted a big tiger on the side of my plane, and they did a good job, too.

That man had real talent.

'Blood and Guts,' it said, in white cartoon lettering.

"Thank you," was all one could say, when they proudly showed me the plane for the first time.

I was really touched. It was a moment totally irreplaceable. When you get really, really old, you wish you could recapture certain moments, certain feelings from your youth. That moment was one of them. It was with a good warm feeling; that I centred her up on the end of our runway area. The plane was pointed into the western breeze. Three-forty-five p.m. Advancing the throttle, the plane was soon airborne and the mission proceeded shortly thereafter. As CO, I tended to take a few notes and trust the boys to follow along without a lot of supervision.

If they have engine problems, they're smart enough to return to base on their own initiative. That's one psychological advantage to being, 'experimental,' there's no question of cowardice or lack of moral fibre.

They're under orders to use their heads.

We flew a semicircular route, relying on the northwest crosswind to help drive us to our battle position.

Right on time.

Noted.

After climbing at about three-quarters throttle the whole way, I was at 19,000 feet and the boys were right there. Ahead, 4,000 feet below, were the Camel Jockeys.

The Biffs could be seen further down and further ahead.

The other, lower groups were staggered off to the left of us. The sun was up over my shoulder, on the right.

Within a few short minutes we had our first brush with the enemy, who was also up in force. The sky is a vast and empty place sometimes. You really learn to use your eyes. The great blue bowl of the sky was cloudless and clear, the light harsh and unyielding. That could be deceptive. It was still a big place, and airplanes are very small objects. The few that could be seen, were way off to the south, and I preferred to turn north, keeping the sun at our backs. There was no sense in changing the plan now.

We were still heading east. We had to go about half a mile through the expanding puffs of black Archie smoke, over the enemy trenches. Just then, and I didn't see them coming but someone must have, were two enemy heavy reconnaissance machines, heading more or less due west. Halberstadts. Wallace and Webster separated about seventy yards to the left of the Camel formation, and then I saw the enemy planes.

Wallace, without any hesitation at all; simply put his right wing up vertical, and pulled hard around on their tail. The Camels and the enemy must have been at the same altitude. He fired away at one, and it began to smoke and then burn, as his wingman hovered behind, taking the odd pot-shot when chance permitted. If the enemy had simply reacted a little quicker, they might have saved themselves.

I couldn't watch the whole thing. I had to watch my own sky. But it was beautiful to see, a thing well done. And it wasn't long after that, when a whole bunch of German fighters came down from up ahead of us to engage in a vicious little dog-fight that lasted ten minutes or so; and then the Boche broke for home and dinner.

Those head-on attacks were a nightmare, but we all seemed to have followed the proper procedures. During the engagement, I observed at least three enemy machines catch fire, send out smoke, or spin down out of control, but I didn't go down low enough to verify where each one crashed.

Sometimes a spin is merely an escape mechanism.

I had my own little duel going, with a red machine of an unfamiliar type. He had a big white something painted on the side. That plane was fast and well-handled. We first met frontally. We both missed with our head-on shots. When he turned left, as I could see over my shoulder, naturally I turned left, and at the exact same time we both started climbing up the corkscrew. We were on opposite sides, but I sensed some small advantage.

There was no time for any fear.

All I wanted to do was to kill him quickly.

I've noticed that before.

The corkscrew became a more vertical rolling-scissors movement, and as the speed slowed, lots of other planes in the vicinity became a threat. We decided to plummet downwards for a while, still locked in a scissors maneuver. His plane had small, wide wings, and it seemed to handle a little heavy. It's difficult to describe, but the second it became apparent that I was gaining on him, he reversed his turn, and flicked away towards Germany. We were down to about 10,000 by then. I couldn't catch him, being on the far side of the circle at that point. At that point I checked for unwelcome attention from other fighters by rolling and snapping as I re-oriented myself to find the western horizon. It was gratifying to see my own wingman right there, wagging his wings.

He was sticking like glue, no doubt giving the enemy pilot much food for thought.

Food for thought for me as well. That was one very quick-thinking fighter pilot, in my assessment. He knew he couldn't win, and so he broke off as soon as he could.

No wasted heroics.

Very professional.

Hopefully we would meet again.

***

There are sights and sounds that can never be forgotten. A fighter plane, shedding bits, pieces and chunks, all aflame, as it turns end over end.

The screaming, banshee wail of a runaway engine, way past its limit, shaking itself to pieces as it flicks past your own machine. Little black somethings, not smoke, not people, not airplane parts. Just little black things, falling in lazy spirals, drifting down.

Three planes, chasing around in a circle. No one dares to be the first to let go. It is bedlam, it is insanity. You're all alone, and the plane that just passed over you smoking and flaming, could be your best friend. Sometimes you line up on someone, and only at the very last second do you see the cockades, the roundels on the wings or body of the plane.

All your senses are ablaze with the passion of living at death's door.

You feel every emotion in a battle like that, a three dimensional battle of cut, thrust, slash, and parry. You feel love, and joy, and fear and hate, and envy, and pity. There are times you laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. Sometimes you shout, scream and curse.

Everything happens all at once, and then it's over in a heartbeat. Then you get to shepherd your flock home again, nursing one or two wounded ducks, trailing thin smoke trails.

If you're lucky, God smiles on you, and all your boys get to live, to fight again another day.

***

"How do you feel about a little impromptu press conference?" asked the Adj.

And so it came to pass. The press brigade arrived en scene, as they inevitably must, sooner or later.

Howard-Smythe, only recently returned after a brief hiatus, setting up our next little operation, announced that there were several gentlemen waiting to speak to the CO. It was 'de rigeur,' under the circumstances.

News bulletins to the Home Front and all that rubbish.

"Send them in and close it behind them," I told the Adj. "And then wait."

"Yes, sir," he said, and as the door shut behind him, I heard his voice.

I skittered out under the rear flap in three seconds or less, and silently trod my way around to the front of the tent. I arrived just in time to see the last of them filing into my office. The Adj gently closed the flap. He looked up in surprise.

"Yes?" he inquired in a low tone.

"You have about ten minutes to get the word out, so listen good," I informed my minion, my churl, my esquire. "They can talk about anything they want, except the mission, the training, the operations, the equipment, the routine, or anything else you see around you."

I thought briefly.

"Communications, off limits. Personnel, off limits."

"Who, who? The men, you mean?" he gasped in surprise. "What are we supposed to talk about, then?"

Howard-Smythe lip-read carefully as I spoke.

"Home, wives, children, jobs. Plans for after our great victory," I suggested. "Talk about anything but our work, and don't use your last names."

"If you have nothing nice to say, talk about the government," I ventured.

He gave a quick nod and bolted for the door. His work was cut out for him.

Entering the office; the boys were looking a bit puzzled, but to hell with them.

They might figure out how I disappeared, and why. Who cares?

"Pee time," I noted.

With engines being run up on test, it's doubtful if they caught any of it. As long as they're taking everyone else's statements at face value, they could have a few of mine.

They were already raising hands and clearing throats, preparing to drive me batty with silly dumb questions. Bunch of brain-dead bottom feeders.

However...

When you have a captive audience, you might as well make the most of it.

"You people are free to go anywhere on this aerodrome. No photos will be allowed.

You can talk to anyone you wish. If they have work to do, do not waste their time," I started off. "Perhaps we can find you a picture opportunity. If you behave yourselves."

"How much longer do you think the Huns will last?" asked the nearest reporter, a pince-nez-wearing dandy with a trilby hat and gaiters, pin-stripe seersucker suit, and a long, trailing, golden watch chain.

A real, 'Teddy boy,' which is what they were called. Yes, 'a seersucker suit that he bought at Cox's,' or was it the other way around? Another silly tit wearing white spats!

That guy has an extra 'X' chromosome. Or was it a 'Y' chromosome? I can never remember.

"It will be over by Christmas," I informed them with confidence and assurance.

They didn't even blink.

They just wrote it down.

This could be fun.

"What do you think should happen to the Kaiser after all this?" asked another.

"D'you mean you don't know?" I gaped at him, playing it up a little. "Let's hope he doesn't suffer Roger Mortimer's fate."

No one laughed. Don't they ever read a fucking book?

Buggered with a red-hot poker. Maybe it wasn't him...Hotspur?

My mind is going. That's scary. I should be able to remember a simple little fact like that.

"Well, um; well, er; well. What is your opinion, Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker?" the little bastard came at me again.

"How about exile in the Netherlands?" I suggested. "You can't hang one single member of the nobility. It sets a bad precedent."

Can't hang the Royals can you?

"Really?"

"Yes," I replied firmly, then began stuttering and stammering. "I, I mean, no!"

"In what way?" he kept at it.

"Well, we've all read the telegrams, the ones in the White Paper. Right?"

They wrote it down. Apparently they knew all about it. They'd splattered it all over the front pages years before, after all.

"Yes, of course. But what are you getting at?" he asked again.

Slow on the uptake.

"If you hang the Kaiser, there's no telling where it will end."

I tried to let him down gently.

I doubt if they read their own papers.

They kept writing it down.

Clearly; every head of state in Europe was threatening every other head of state in Europe, back in the summer of 1914. There was only one way it could end...or begin.

"Would you hang Franz Joseph?" I asked the room. "Would you hang the Czar?"

They stopped writing then. They all looked at me with blank faces.

"Surely we're not going to hang Georgie, and Clemenceau, and good old Winnie...?"

They all smiled then. I think they got it then, in any case Howard-Smythe has had his ten minutes and I am a busy man. No doubt their stories will say I am valourous, and noble. Affable, sincere, and 'just dying to get one in for King George and Merrye Olde Englande.'

In this case, maybe it is better if they misquote me.

The press filed out on their way to journalistic Nirvana, or Valhalla, or whatever the press dreams of. Whatever the fuck they dream of. Shangri-La; or those Victorian child-brothels, for all I know.

They would say I was a jolly good commander.

I was interviewed by a reporter once. He asked perfectly sensible questions, and was well informed, and he listened very carefully to what I had to say. He was a very good interviewer, and his questions followed up on every point I made, intelligently and well.

Apparently his editor, 'punched up,' the story a little. It bore no resemblance to the conversation we had. None whatsoever. As far as Will Tucker is concerned, those bastards were completely on their own, as of now, 'Mister.' And in the article, I came across as a pompous ass, something I figured was not entirely accidental. Someone had labeled me, 'a radical,' or something.

Editors, I guess they have their job as crypt-keepers or goalkeepers or something.

I wish 'em luck, I really do.

The Adj came in.

"Lay on a big, fat lunch for them," I said. "Tell Cookie to pull out all the stops. Not much food but plenty of booze."

"Yes, sir," he said. "Oysters, and crackers, and camembert cheese!"

Yuck! Glad I have a lunchtime appointment with some enemy fighter planes.

"Give them some of the fish eggs," I suggested. "Toast, home-made butter. Bring out the champagne for these chaps. Make the fuckers sick to their stomachs, if you can. Give them some Boston cream pie on top of all that."

I was chock full of ideas.

"Take it in turns. Give them a plane ride. Use McGill and that new guy," I thought.

"Let 'em take pictures of Ali Baba and Shifty. Tell the boys I said to talk about our personal contribution to the Empire's war effort, and how proud to serve they are, and how every man-jack among them is an unsung but much-appreciated hero. Oh, yeah! Make sure they say how honoured they are to serve their fellow man."

"Do you mind if I tack on a few other points?" he asked, rather dumbfounded by all of this. "Do you really want them to say that?"

"Yes. Not at all, have a little fun with it. You earned it, buddy," I said, slapping him a good one on the shoulder.

He winced under the impact.

"Sorry! How's the bursitis?" I asked.

"Very good today," he muttered in irony.

My own injuries should alert me to the pain others must feel sometimes, but often we're so busy we don't ask, and it's kind of unnatural to bring it up. We don't wish to complain, or be perceived as whiners.

"The Doc was supposed to show up with some pills," he admitted.

"Well, maybe he took them himself," I joked. "Probably fell asleep on the way over."

The military mind has nothing but contempt for the truth.

Besides, this is my aerodrome, and the truth is what I say it is.

"What is truth?" asked the Adj rhetorically as he left to go looking for the doctor.

"Hey Adj!' I bellowed and he hurried back.

"Yes," he asked.

"See if you can locate a few sticks of dynamite. And fuse. We need lots of fuses," I asked. "One of them crates of rockets got damaged somehow. Right?"

It's just a thought. Never know when it might come in handy. Like if the press decides to stay the night.

"We probably have all that," he acknowledged.

***

Another unwelcome visitor! This time it was a goddamned psychiatrist, sent by the Air Ministry to conduct some kooky study. Sure hope he has his own transport.

"Oh, God," I sighed, as I studied the documents.

Well, it was all legit. Signed, sealed and delivered. Hope he's not after me. Those guys have reputations to make, just like fighter pilots. Like cops, they have no sense of humour. And like cops, they never believe a God-damned word you say.

"How many shrinks does it take to change a light bulb?" I joked.

He looked deadly serious.

"Only one, but the light bulb really has to want to change," he answered.

Yikes! A control freak.

"I hope you're not after me," I joked, but he looked deadly serious.

Earnest, and sincere.

"Hmn. Our personnel will be instructed to give you nothing but their fullest and most cheerful cooperation," I informed the gentleman, a certain Dr. Scolz.

A man of borrowed importance, but a real insignificance. You have to be careful, or you might find yourself in luke-warm water. One of those totally-useless men that naturally gravitate to the circles of power. Well-connected to some authority figurine. He was also a member of the Young Whigs or some such nonsense, as I recalled from news coverage.

My personal opinion is that the group was formed so that their leader would have an audience to address when he needed, and not much else. I should ask him about the usefulness of glory. Maybe I'm 'just having my monthlies and in a bitchy mood.'

That's a little joke we used to make.

"I find myself, above all, very tired," I informed Scolz. "You should meet Doc, he's a fellow professional man. You guys might get along well."

It doesn't pay to get too tired.

"I was up at the butt-crack of dawn today," I noted. "And it's unlikely I'll get to bed before midnight or two a.m."

The camp was flooded by a heavy spring rain the day before. The muck and the mud trails everywhere. It sticks like poop to everything. It makes walking very tiring.

"Feel free to get out and around, and talk to the men," I offered. "The Doc's tent is down two, then left."

I beckoned vaguely to the left side of my tent. After a few more minutes of desultory chit-chat the Adj came in. By the way he situated himself on the arm of a chair I knew it was something. But not too urgent; due to the fact that he took his silvery wire-rimmed spectacles off and polished them. This was code. All was taken care of regarding the shrink's visit. Same deal as the press. Be careful what you tell them. That way it can't come back to haunt you. Unless you want it to; for the press does have its uses.

That was my job, not theirs.

The men knew what to do. Theoretically, head-shrinkers have their uses. The key thing is to be more stable than them. If they can provoke you, they win.

Life is a sport. Thirst is nothing, and image is everything. If we operate on our own, then we have to be trusted, and if we have to die for, 'them,' then Jesus H. Christ, we're entitled to an opinion. The establishment hadn't learned the lessons of the Boer War.

Half-trained Boer infantry in dug-in positions, armed with rifles and machine guns stood off the weight of the British Empire, and why?

'Smokeless powder.'

Nice, simple, rational consideration, and they never got it until it was too late. This psychiatrist was preparing to put a paper together. It was for the next war, not the one we were fighting now. And it would be forgotten anyway, gathering dust on some back shelf in Whitehall. Hey, other than that, he was some mother's nice college boy.

I had no patience for this shit, that much seems clear.

Because of smokeless cartridges, a war of mobility was impossible. Because now men could shoot, and see through the smoke to shoot again, and again, and again, and so on, 'ad infinitum.' A new way had to be found, and the shrinks could not do it.

As far as this boy is concerned, take 'em all out and drown 'em.

It's a point of view.

***

Now what?

No sooner had I gotten rid of the witch doctor, when there was yet another visitor.

"What now?" I barked at the Adj, who in reality hadn't done anything wrong, and couldn't control which bleeding idiot the Air Ministry sent to bother us next.

"This is Mr. Phil McAffee, from the Research and Historical Section," the Adj informed me as diplomatically as possible under the circumstances.

Poor Mr. McAffee must have overheard my outburst. But he seemed a decent enough chap, perhaps a little embarrassed at what he'd heard. Short, lightly-built, big head.

Itty-bitty, teeny-tiny hands and feet. Standard-issue, ill-fitting grey suit. Poverty-stricken. Could have made ten times the money by dropping down a notch in the social rankings, and if he did some actual work.

The usual.

His big, brown, puppy-dog eyes stared at me sadly from over the desk.

"Sorry about that," I apologized. "Whitehall has been on our case quite a bit lately."

I asked the man what I could do for him. They were probably all ringers.

"Our mutual friend H.G. mentioned your name," he began. "He suggested you first, to be frank. I'll be earnest if you'd rather."

Huh! Funny, but not too funny.

"H.G. Wells?" I inquired, "I only met the gentleman once."

It was at a party with Betty. H.G. and I hit it off. I was interested in the future of technology, especially as in how it related to air matters, and he was a science writer and social commentator. So our historian, by some strange serendipity, was a friend of H.G. Wells. H.G. wrote, 'Outline of History,' a Bolshie sort of history book, of a kind that is not written in the west anymore.

He asked about our record-keeping. He stressed the need to keep meticulous records, 'properly tabulated, collated and cross-referenced,' in order that the Air Ministry 'get the most out of it.'

He mentioned, 'transparency,' and, 'ease of access,' for his fellow researchers at Whitehall. He used the term 'actuaries,' like the guys who compiled 'Evetts's Rates,' which listed the rate at which men would be 'wasted' in combat. You know, the famous 'light combat, medium combat,' and, 'heavy combat,' people.

(For heavy combat, use hot water and a stronger brand of soap.)

"You are, after all; engaged in research of your own," he pointed out reasonably.

"My men do their best, and we question them thoroughly about their reports," I told him. "In the case of aerial combat, there really isn't time to write down serial numbers, or to decide if the enemy was shot down by two bullets from one gun, as opposed to three bullets from another gun. Ultimately, who cares?"

"I care," he said, affably enough.

Wise, guy, eh?

"We'll do our best," I allowed. "But I want something back?"

"Quid pro quo?" he asked.

"I wouldn't know about that. Call it, 'up'n the ante,' if you wish. How do you feel about Gibbon's 'compilers' of history?" I queried obliquely.

It wasn't an attempt to alienate the gentleman, but his face flushed.

"What would you have me do?" he murmured grumpily.

"When you guys get around to writing the Official History, make sure to put in something about...let me get this right...how, 'at all levels there was inter-service cooperation that was exemplary...cheerful acceptance of low pay and dismal working conditions...et cetera...'"

Poor guy just stared at me with his jaw a-hanging.

"Let me think...'there was never anything other than friendly rivalry between services at all ranks...'"

He had nothing to say to all this!

"Let's call it a, fuck, I don't know, a 'spirit.'" I suggested.

Yeah: an R.A.F. spirit...

"Haw, haw! H.G. and the Pope will get a kick out of that one," he returned, baring his fangs for a moment.

I laughed at his joke. It was, quite literally, the least I could do for the man.

He deserved nothing more.

"We always do that, old bean," he pouted.

Profit stems from self-denial. I denied myself the pleasure of throwing him out.

Perhaps it may result in some profit someday.

"Um, where do you live?" I asked semi-courteously.

Noted the name of the town, but it has gotten lost over the years. I think it was in Wales. That is to say he told me but I forgot it instantly. Some grimy northern industrial town in the northern hemisphere. Somewhere in the Temperate Zone.

"Oh!" I cried, as if perturbed. "I thought you might be going back to the twenty-first century!"

He flung his head back and laughed in a high-pitched hysterical tone, just like a girl, or that guy over at MI-6. You know, the one who specializes in Middle Eastern Terror Groups.

I fumbled the name, once or twice. "Bill... Chosser! That's it!"

H.G. wrote, 'The Time Machine,' he wrote, 'When the Sleeper Wakes,' and stuff like that. Chosser works over there in MI-6.

"Chaucer?" he asked with raised eyebrows, no doubt thinking me completely mad.

"Geoffrey Chaucer?"

Finally it clicked in.

"No, Chosser, Bill Chosser..." I told him. "MI-6..."

"MI-6 is outside the pale! My department doesn't have much truck with those boys," and he shivered.

"Absolutely ruthless," he advised. "And they prefer not to keep records."

I had a moment of sympathy, thinking of the Countess.

"Absolutely ruthless," I agreed. "So they don't want their history written down either, eh? Bastards."

We ended up on fairly innocuous terms. My diplomacy was improving, which is a good thing, sometimes.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Brat-a-tat-tat

"C'mon, c'mon. Burn, baby, burn."

Brat-a-tat-barattata-tatt—the siren song of battle.

Hot fumes stung my nostrils, as an enemy machine hurtled below, belching white vapour. The gas tank was all shot to hell, and he was going the same way.

You can almost hear, but it is probably the imagination, which supplies the 'whoof,'

as she goes up in a big orange and black fireball.

Some poor bastard was screaming his life out in there.

"Cut to the bone, cut through the wire," for some reason I would talk to myself.

"Swing away, little girl, swing away," and yet another one blasted past, with a pair of Camels hot on his tail.

My fingers had that characteristic sting to them, but not frostbite. Not yet.

Twisting, turning, rolling, diving and climbing, and all the while it was dog eat dog.

When a target presents itself, blaze away at it. Sometimes, he's gone as quickly as he appeared, and you're unlikely to hit him.

They just go whizzing past. Other times, you get in close behind, where the bullets are traveling along his flight-path, and they converge in the middle.

The stench as they catch fire, and crumple up in a ball, and begin the long fall to earth.

Terminal velocity depends on shape, which causes drag, and mass, which determines the pull of gravity. Terminal velocity might be a hundred miles per hour in a burning plane, with failed engine, all twisted out of shape. It could be two hundred miles an hour.

I don't care to find out.

From 20,000 feet, to fall in flames could last an eternity.

Twenty thousand feet, that's almost four miles up in the air.

One hundred miles an hour is one and a half miles per minute. You could fall in flames for up to three minutes. Even longer in a spin or a fluttering, falling-leaf type of state. That's why guys jumped out. That's why the German fliegers were beginning to use parachutes. We were seeing more of them lately.

Basically I told the men to ignore parachutes. Don't shoot at them, just rally up with some pals and take it from there. Don't sit around watching the novelty of it.

Down to one-quarter tank. Check the altitude. Two guys, then three, and they did rally. We broke off pursuit and headed for home. It would appear that we have again splashed a few bad guys. We'd find out soon enough. By all appearances we've severely mauled a couple of German 'hunting-squadrons.'

The deep robin's-egg blue of the sky was punctuated by fairy fart clouds. Little white puffs artlessly cast aside by some goddess, seated at the Olympian vanity mirror. Used cosmetic swipes, tinted by the setting sun.

Leaves floating on the surface of the brook, and like a good minnow should, we used them for cover, watching for predators above and behind them as well.

It was surreal. The view went on for miles. The shadows of late afternoon lengthened. While ever-scanning the sky, I also counted shadows on the ground when possible. Just habit. Too many shadows would be bad news, though.

Sea gulls soared over the battlefield. The white, wheeling shapes were a reminder of more peaceful times. It's just like when the farmer ploughs his field, and the flocks come into the field to get the grubs. Sea gulls, geese, and ducks.

The gulls also come to the battlefield. So do crows, vultures, and other scavengers.

"Take me to the river," I sang sweetly to the instrument panel, as the compass held steady and true.

It's not always easy to locate yourself after a big dogfight. We tended to get blown back over enemy lines, but the wind wasn't constant at any level, and we flew at all levels.

In a ten or twenty-minute scuffle we drifted five or six miles. The fact that a few of the boys were with me was a good sign. Here we were. The river, as requested.

"Seek and you shall find," I reminded myself.

I wondered how those enemy sound detectors were doing, and how the enemy observers were faring. The new squadron to our north was doing a good job of taking care of the balloons in this sector. The Huns put one up, they shot it down. Day in and day out.

They were pretty keen.

It was our turn tomorrow, and I needed to do some thinking about that. In order to get cooperation from them, we had to give something back. Blake's boys were pretty darned good to us. They passed on the good word to the new set.

The whole bunch of us landed in good order. Most of the boys were already back.

Two planes shot up, one minor wound. We were lucky again.

One of the gunners had a scratch on the left hip. Machine gun bullet. Back in a day or two. I always tried to give a guy a couple of days off for even the most minor wound received in combat. The psychological impact of discovering one's mortality can be pretty profound, but he would be fine. A pat on the back, and a good long sleep can work wonders sometimes. He's pretty young. Hopefully a good drunk, maybe get laid or something. He'll be bursting at the seams to return to duty so he can tell us all about it.

Nothing lasts forever. Sooner or later we would have a bad day. Often I felt a long moment of dread, especially when walking into the briefing room, and seeing all those innocent young faces beaming after their latest escapade.

Oh, yeah, Biggsy and Brubaker really screwed up, so they were on the carpet.

***

They say truth is stranger than fiction. That's because fiction has to make sense, otherwise the editor sends it back. Sometimes life doesn't make sense, and war is of course the greatest absurdity of all.

You have to keep that in mind.

Rome was governed by 'bread and circuses.' Modern 'civilization' works the same way. Even Bismarck knew that, which is why he brought in social security for the aged; and lots of big military spectacles; parades and such.

No Englishman, (or Frenchman, or Belgian,) ever thought to ask why an aristocrat, a conservative reactionary, concerned himself with the problems of the aged, the sick and the crippled; or the working classes.

It was the price he was willing to pay, to weld together a state from something like three hundred and fifty lesser Germanic states. The Germans had a long history. They had states like Prussia, Saxony, Mecklenberg, Bavaria, little Duchies and Princedoms all over the place. Symbolism is important. Bismarck gave them a flag and an emperor. They had lots of Bishoprics and 'free cities.' He needed to weld Germany together in order to lead it into war.

The Sleschwig-Holstein thing, the whole Bohemian thing. The Austro-Hungarian thing. They had to weld it all together with a lot of propaganda. It's not that we didn't have our own propaganda, but theirs was very effective. They built heroes, where our policy officially discouraged heroes. I agreed with the policy but for different reasons.

I wanted professional war-pilots. Heroes are dangerous to themselves and to others.

They think they don't have to play by the rules. Much of what I 'knew,' about German fliegers came out of our own popular press. In the early days, the Baron's red Albatros lent itself to all kinds of crazy rumours.

Some thought the pilot was a girl, due to the garish hue. But the Baron experimented with paint jobs for a number of reasons. For one thing; on his Albatros, which I saw months earlier in other encounters, he did away with the white on the crosses. The red plane with dull black markings served him well. As a hunter, he used what cover or deception he could find. And unlike a stag, or grouse, or partridge, his new quarry could shoot back.

Lothar was an interesting character. Younger; more impulsive than Manfred, he was probably in awe of his brother. Little bit of hero-worship, a little of the show-off.

According to, 'information obtained by a source close to Lothar,' the Baron first experimented with earth tones, but found that no colour made him invisible in the air. In my own experience, even pale blue, which might be fine if seen from below at a distance, clearly distinguished itself when seen against the ground from almost any distance, and it showed up against a white cloud as dark and against a dark cloud as light.

It seemed almost luminous at dusk and dawn, no matter what the angle.

The Boche called him, 'the Rote Kampflieger,' which translates more or less as 'red battle-flyer.' Manfred wrote a popular book by that title. Oddly enough a couple of English publishers tried to get hold of it. Sheer profit motivation, right?

One interesting thing Lothar told our source, possibly an American journalist, while they were still neutral...? Lothar said it was 'fun,' at first, 'like a game.'

It quickly became more serious. His brother had changed since his head wound.

Always a loner, he became more reserved and withdrawn. Perhaps Lothar got drunk at a party, shooting his mouth off to diplomats from a neutral state? Something like that? I don't necessarily trust my own sources.

Is this person in a position to know something like that? One of the first rules of criticism. When you grab an enemy trooper out of a trench in the middle of the night, and under questioning, he tells you, 'Twenty divisions are planning to attack at dawn,' we usually just laugh in his face.

Then we smack 'em around a bit.

That's neither here nor there.

Later, in the diminutive little tri-plane; his black crosses were backed up by big white squares. Red, white and black is the most visible colour combination in the sky, due to its good contrast. It's a lot easier to focus on the little details, and that makes it easier to judge distance. Dazzle-paint might work on ships. Had anyone tried it on a plane? To break up that distinctive airplane shape? Aircraft look like black dots in the sky, long before colour becomes apparent.

Maybe a nice, soft, medium grey; a milky colour would work.

He painted his aircraft bright red to let people know who he was, which wasn't very smart. He wanted to be feared, and he got his wish. At some point everyone wanted his head. I gave careful study to everything Dawley and Bernie provided on the subject of Manfred von Richtofen.

It was interesting reading.

Young Manfred joined the First Regiment of the Kaiser Alexander III cavalry, the renowned 'Uhlans.' Iron Cross at Verdun in September 1914. As a cavalry officer he was trained in observation, reconnaissance, and for command.

In a letter dated August 28, 1917, Manfred admitted: 'I've noticed that I'm not quite right myself. I have just made two patrols. Of course, both were successful, but after each one I was completely exhausted.'

Holy shit!

Where was I in late August 1917?

On his first patrol after being wounded, 'something almost happened,' and he also wrote that his head wound was healing 'frightfully slowly.' He got hit when an 'excited' enemy opened fire from the unheard-of range of about three hundred yards. He got hit by the observer's fire. That happened July 6, 1917.

Heart pounding. Where was I that day...but it just wouldn't come. Nah! Couldn't have been me...could it?

We'll never know.

I tried not to think of how we obtained this information. Someone like the Countess? The Baron's servant, bribed to copy his letters? In the cause of the International Workingman's Association, or some such nonsense? Bolshevism, or that other specter of the land-holding elite, International Jewry?

It really doesn't matter, I take it all with a grain of salt.

It's just my way.

"Very interesting...but stupid," was my first impression.

Most of the information turned out to be useless. Young Manfred started off as a bold and impetuous cavalry officer. He became a canny, scientific fighter pilot, an adult.

One aged well beyond his twenty-something years. Food for thought, but otherwise inconclusive. In the early days, in the cavalry, a taste for glory almost got him killed more than once, but he learned the lesson. When he took to the air, it was like a game again. He had to learn the lesson again.

And, 'with all due respect,' to the Kaiser and the German officer class...

They gave out Iron Crosses like so many hot rolls. To be a member of the Junkers and not have one would have been the exception.

Courage was the rule, not the exception.

Brains would have been the exception.

A little imagination would have been unique.

One more thing. In his memoirs, (posthumously compiled after the war. –ed.) he mentioned some English two-seaters visiting the Jasta one night. Didn't hit anything of importance, but they knew the English would be back. They set up machine guns and waited. The English didn't come the next night. But they came the next. Three of our machines were shot down, and all the crews captured.

The score was evened up a little. Those men were friends of mine. I thought they were dead. But I didn't owe the Rittmeister any favours.

Not to mention the three balloons shot down today, all nice and confirmed by ground observers and others.

Our own balloons were shot down too, of course.

It was all just part of the game. But how in the hell did our spies come up with some of this stuff? It was real cloak-and-dagger work, that's for sure.

***

There are four major forces acting of an aircraft in flight: lift, thrust, mass and drag.

Old Biggsy was a massive fellow.

"This is a drag," he said.

"Relax Biggsy, don't sweat the small stuff," I advised, watching Doc and Dr. Scolz assisting him.

Next it was Brubaker. When a guy fucked up he took his wingman with him. That was the rule. Seeing as they flew Biffs, i.e. two-seaters, this also dragged their gunners into it. Saul looked pretty unhappy, but it was just him as Dawley volunteered to ride along on the mission.

"It'll look good on my resume," he joked.

"Wrap yourself in the flag, and do it for your country," I acknowledged.

I owed him a favour. Having a high-ranking officer along gave it the sanction of a Higher Authority. Normally Biggsy flew with Dempsey, but Dempsey was employed elsewhere that day. To say Brubaker was pissed with Biggsy was a slight understatement. As a commander, let me tell you, peer pressure has its uses.

Poor guys, their naked hairy asses exposed, as they pulled on the two sets of very tight elastic women's; like leotards. They had to pull real hard to get them over their shoulders. Poor old Biggsy made a bizarre, scary sight, all red-hairy-beard and big white belly as he was. Sheepish-looking, too. I'll bet that's the last time he breaks the most basic rule.

Don't fly with a broken airplane.

It's just fucking stupid.

"Lift up your, ahem; 'mass' for a moment," joked Doctor Scolz.

No laughs from the guinea pigs.

"Didn't like the thrust of that remark," said the real doctor.

We laughed but the guinea pigs didn't, much.

We put bands of hockey tape around each ankle, just below the knee, above the knee, the upper part of the legs, as high as we could 'comfortably get,' and then one around the pelvis, and one a little higher just below the navel. We put strips of tape up and over the shoulders to help hold them up. They struggled into a maximum-size girdle, and those had no stretch at all. We had a bugger of a time to get the little hooks fastened on Biggsy. Remarkably quickly, he donned his flight suit; as we worked on Brukaber and then Dawley and the gunner, Saul. He flew with Brubaker.

What an unhappy bunch of lads. Biggsy disobeyed orders. Having detected a fuel leak, while still on our own side of the lines, and actually quite near home, the idiot proceeded with the mission.

This was, 'contrary to instructions,' as I flatly told him. The fact that he got damaged in combat, with his wings shot up, tail shot up, landing gear shot up, and flipped over on landing, hadn't helped his case. In my view, it put the final polish on what he did. He and Saul, his gunner; were fuckin' lucky there was no fire.

"I didn't waste all that time in training to have you go fucking everything up," I told them. "I expect you to know your ass from a hole in the ground."

They were trained to switch off the ignition in the event of a forced landing, but that's not important. A hard impact can strike sparks kinetically; like banging rocks together. All you need is a leak from a ruptured tank, a torn-off fuel line, or exactly the kind of damage that happens in a crash.

This was their punishment.

"My toes will be much warmer," said Dawley.

Why was he volunteering for stuff? Maybe he wants to fly. It gets in your blood.

He made funny little side-to-side curtsying motions, like he was breaking in a set of leather underwear. He waddled over to the side of the tent and let himself down on a bench.

"I can sit! I can sit!" he cried.

He seemed awfully cheerful. Playing it up for all it's worth. Perhaps he's planning to write his memoirs after the war, and needs something to put in it.

"Pray you don't have to shit," said Howard-Smythe.

He winked at me.

"Tell me about it," winced, 'the happy gunner,' Saul, who was the last to get suited-up.

"The whole thing shouldn't take twenty minutes," I advised. "Can you hold it?"

Saul nodded glumly.

"We have half a dozen sets of scissors. We can cut that stuff off you guys pretty quick, when you get back," I reassured him.

Preparations complete, the doctors went back to more normal duties.

"Now this little gadget here," I noted, pulling a spare one out of a box; "Is mounted in your two aircraft."

I put it on the table and they gazed at it.

"What you do is to take off, move south of the aerodrome, where our Camels can protect you, and then simply fly in circles."

I had their attention.

"You start off by flying a head-on pass, then you each roll left, and then start turning left. Try to keep the wings at plumb ninety degrees, although you won't be able to do it."

That was for safety, put them on opposing sides of a circle.

"At two thousand feet, you take a reading off the gauge, at three thousand feet, you take a reading off the gauge. You have to write down your speed at that time. That's why the observer is looking over your shoulder and not manning the gun today," I explained further.

"Every thousand feet, take a reading, both the gauge and the speed," and write it all down. "Try to max out the gauge, okay?"

The mission profile had them going up to 15,000 feet, which would be enough of a unishment, especially in a full turning climb like that.

"Pull as hard as you can and still maintain climb and flight control. Any questions?"

Not so far.

"We'll monitor you, and make our own comments and observations. I'm very proud of this little device, because I invented it," I explained.

It was built from two thin plates of aluminum, about a sixteenth of an inch thick, and held an inch apart by spacers. There was a slot the front plate. A thin, red-painted needle was attached to the back plate, and stuck out of the slot in the front plate. It was a narrow strip of spring steel with a weight on one end.

I held it up in front of them.

"See; one gravity."

Two gees were determined by doubling the weight, three gees by tripling the weight!

How accurate they might be, I wouldn't care to speculate. Probably not very, to be honest.

I gave it a little shake.

"See, the increase in g-factor moves the weight up and down the scale."

The base-plate was screwed to the dash of the plane, where it could be easily seen and read, even over the pilot's shoulder by the gunner or observer. The needle moved up and down the gauge as the plane maneuvered. Dead simple.

The boys at Farnborough very kindly made them up for us, and they were properly calibrated with numbers and little marks on the plate.

"Your planes won't take a lot of negative gravity without the engine stalling," I told the men. "An outside loop is verboten."

The men sagely nodded, even Dawley. We could rotate the gadget, mounting it in another way, for example in the 'fore and aft plane of rotation,' as the explanation went.

Then it would be on the side of the cockpit. We could measure pull-ups, and dives; even mount it in the rear cockpit. (Which would have made more sense for this test. But I did want the pilots to have some feedback as well. Otherwise g's are purely subjective, and observations vary from pilot to pilot. )

"How's that tape holding?" the corporal asked Saul.

Whittington was assisting us.

"Tight as a duck's ass," came the reply.

"You ruddy Canadians always say that," complained Brubaker. "I could never figure out some of your quaint colloquial expressions."

Brubaker was the prim and proper type, always well-spoken.

"A duck's ass has to be tight," I patiently explained. "Otherwise it would sink."

Perhaps it was the alien scene, or the personal discomfort, which unleashed the gales of laughter. The look on Brubaker's face was simply priceless.

"While we're into explanations, what's all this stuff about brick shit houses?" Dawley asked.

"Because every once in a while you have to dig a new hole, which means that you also have to pick it up and move it," I explained patiently. "It's just a joke, basically."

Absolutely deadpan, Dawley looked over, catching my eye.

"Don't forget the special cream," he reminded.

"The special cream!"

I almost did forget.

Corporal Whittington went over to the command tent.

"We keep it in the safe," I explained.

When they were all ready, except for the cream, I would give them the rest of the mission profile. There were one or two other tests, sharp pull-ups and the like. I asked them to make observations of 'P-effect,' if possible. Otherwise, 'put something in the report about it,' and that way if the Ministry queried it, we could explain further. The blast from the propeller hits the aircraft in a helical motion, and most of our aircraft still didn't have trim tabs or any such consideration. Also, when a plane is climbing, it's a strong headwind, and the propeller is 'chopping' the air into little bits at an extreme angle. This creates high pressure beneath, and low pressure above, in an asymmetrical fashion. This is different from simple engine torque.

To be honest, I loaded their heads up with all kinds of nonsense. Trim tabs would have made it easier to fly the machine. It would reduce the work load and thus pilot stress. We had to go through the motions of running tests, 'scientific tests.'

It gave us a chance to tell the Ministry what we wanted.

I knew they would work.

While waiting for the corporal, I asked Biggsy, "How does it feel?"

He just grunted.

"The general idea is that we keep the blood from pooling down in your legs. We want to keep it up in your head, where you need it."

If you've ever seen those spinning black and white shiny things swirling around in the corners of your vision, then you know the early stages of a 'head spin.' Lay around for half a day, smoking and reading on the couch. Then suddenly stand up. If you return to consciousness lying on the floor, you'll know how dangerous it can be, and how it would be all too easy to get shot down in combat.

"I can see how it might help," he ventured, uncertainly. "Maybe something properly designed would work."

Whittington came in with a screw-cap jar. It had a bogus Air Ministry label on it, 'Sample # 114-A,' or some such nonsense.

"Okay boys, the cream goes on your faces and hands. Just before you put the gloves on, and your masks," I instructed but there was more chit-chat.

The cream was just bullshit, part of the punishment. It's to make sure they don't talk about it.

Hell, let them take their time. More talk. The Camel can climb ten thousand feet in nine minutes, and the SE in about eleven minutes. How fast they can do it in a Biff eluded me for the time being, but this test shouldn't take too long. We can always find out.

Sooner or later someone else will screw up.

"It's not at all ideal," Saul said.

"That's my fault, I'm afraid," admitted Dawley. "It turns out I'm colour blind."

"No one cares whether it matches," brooded Saul darkly, and we broke up in laughs again. "Just get this shit over with."

"I'll be honest, it was kind of weird to go in the store and buy them," allowed Dawley with a glint of humour in his eyes.

I giggled along with him.

Soon the men mounted up in our special Biffs, 'The Tadpole,' and 'Shovelhead,' which while named, had no assigned drivers.

"You gentlemen are privileged to try out the only three-hundred-twenty horsepower Rolls-Royce Falcon engines in existence," I informed them.

Other pilots and staff watched from one side. The boys were distinctly uncomfortable.

Those of us in the know were just dying not to laugh.

Saul's handlebar mustache looked droopy. He seemed a little subdued. He was normally one of these contrarians, who contradict every damned thing you say.

You know the kind.

If you say, 'good morning,' they say, 'Fuck you, somewhere in the world someone is suffering.'

'Tell me about it,' was my usual response.

Saul was as slick as a red-ass fox. He was always taking the opposite tack. The opposing point of view, no matter what you said. You could say one thing one day, and he would argue against it. You could contradict yourself the next day, and he would suddenly contradict you; and whatever he'd said the day before, as well.

You could manipulate Saul.

You could get him to say anything you wanted, if you were willing to work at it.

"This all seems a little silly to you men, I'm sure," I informed Saul, as I stood by the fuselage.

Biggsy, intent, was going through his checklist thoroughly.

"No, I don't think so."

He was, 'firmly convinced,' that we needed, 'more funding committed to research and development.'

I reached in and gave a tug on his strap for him.

"It's obvious we're operating on a shoe-string," I ruefully acknowledged.

He had to disagree.

"I think everyone's all doing pretty well," he said witheringly.

"Any suggestions?"

"More room in the crotch!" according to Saul.

No one had any other ideas.

"All right men, off you go then," and then they fired up, and taxied off to launch the mission.

I looked around from in front of the briefing tent door and beckoned at a couple of pilots out there. The tag was now removed from the post, to be hung up on the board.

"All clear," I told them.

They could use the room to study their maps or plan their vacations or whatever, and I went back to the command tent and more little chores.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Research Planes Departed

After the pair of research planes departed for their foolishness, then it was the appointed hour. We sat listening as another batch of trouble was brewed up. Now came the awesome thunder of twenty-four aircraft engines, all running full-out for brief spattering seconds as they checked their revs, the thrust, the magnetos, and then the intermittent blast and roar when they took off in twos. Their mission was to blow up three enemy redoubts that were holding up the advance of our tanks. Then they would fly south, patrol for enemy machines and land at a new location. It sounds very simple, but my guts were tight.

If they saw a balloon they'd go after it. They seemed to like it!

So far we hadn't lost a man.

The afternoon was heating up, but all the noise made any real talk impossible.

"The train is ready to go," Howard-Smythe remarked.

After a time, the last rumble petered off into the distance.

"When do we leave?" asked Bernie, back from being somewhere else.

"Oh, I don't know," I murmured. "Although we did get confirmation from Jackson's.

boys that Von Krumholtz is in the neighbourhood."

I've always wanted another crack at that bastard.

Von Krumholtz had a squadron of about thirty Pfalz fighters, and we were planning to test ourselves against them, but my men were still learning to work together. Our squadron leaders were still learning their trade, and I could only push them so hard. As soon as the experiment was over, and our fighter cover safely landed, we could bag up and book out.

"You know, what we can do with a train, the navy could do with a ship," I mused.

"What do you mean?" asked Bernie, no doubt aware that ships were sometimes equipped to launch a Sopwith Camel from a forward gun mounting.

"You could put all the machine shops, and fuel facilities, on a flat-decked ship, like a monitor with no guns," I mused.

I thought further.

"They have seaplane tenders, with cranes and a hangar on the back," I said. "You could have hangars below decks, with one of those fancy electric lifts like they use in hotels. A ship's elevator could use steam, or hydraulics. Whatever."

I was daydreaming aloud.

"Why not a ship that could take an entire air wing on board? Or maybe use steam for a catapult-like mechanism? And perhaps even an angled deck, for aborts and touch-and-goes. Maybe even some sort of angled, directional lighting system for night landings."

When I got the time, I would try to write it up a little better. In the meantime, aircraft engines could be heard approaching the landing pattern. Almost time to knock down the tents and get on the road. First the men had to get cleaned up and write reports, and after supper we could be on our way. The aircraft needed to be stowed away. Since we were leaving a few of them here under guard, that took but moments.

The others should be well on their way by then.

***

The paperwork never ends.

As I sat on the train, there were quite a few items on the agenda. For starters, there was a need to firm up the squadron rosters, so the leaders knew who they were in charge of, and who needed extra work, and all that kind of stuff.

Mike Black was a tall, sparely-built, balding Englishman from London, and was in charge of our SE's, number 192 Squadron. At this point he only had Anderson, his winger; then there was Snotty and Sampson, Brown and Earnhardt, Emery and Kowalski.

He needed more guys.

He could have Swede, and Bianchi, and Williams and Carroll. That's twelve.

Andrew Jay was in charge of 193 Squadron, flying our Camels. Andrew flew with 'Big Bill' Arnold. Then there's Ron Wallace, Webster, Lawrence and Mootry. Nelson, Perry, Cowings and Dexter. Was that everyone? Have I forgotten anyone?

A couple more guys. Who do I have? Stevens...McGill. That's enough for now. Seems to add up to twelve. Each squadron had experienced and inexperienced pilots, a nice even leavening throughout.

Powell has 194 Squadron. So far he has Biggsy, Dempsey and Brubaker. Normally Brubaker was Powell's wing; then there was Leonard, Nicholson, Oliver, Bartlett, Greensmith, Duzek, King, who else? Seems we're still short one.

Oh, yeah, there's Jeff Lang, he's flown with them guys. That's twelve. I'll have one of the corporals draw up a chart.

I still had a few boys in the pool. I should cast my thoughts over that situation for awhile, then write a few letters. Read some mail from home. I guess you could say I quickly fell asleep.

The clickety-clatter of the train going down the tracks had a hypnotic effect.

***

"It is better to be married, than to be inflamed with passion," Howard-Smythe's voice came at my side.

I awoke with a start.

"St. Paul's epistle to the Corinthians," he muttered.

He carefully folded up the multi-paged epistle he was reading, gingerly forcing the corners into its tight-fitting envelope.

"That'll be the wife, then?" I murmured. "Are we there yet?"

"Soon. Coffee's coming," he added.

Another bleary-eyed face settled in beside us.

"Early to bed and early to rise, I yawn and stretch with bloodshot eyes," he yawned.

We were just gulping down our second and third cups of coffee and chatting with Hastings, Bernie's liaison, who was also up with the birds.

Corporal Bill brought a report and put it on my desk.

"The early bird gets the worm," Hastings informed us confidently.

"Huh!" I muttered, feeling my grand old age today.

"Although what I'm supposed to do with the damned things when I get them is beyond me."

Hastings was all right; and he could do things that Bernie couldn't, like be taken seriously when talking to major Brass types. It was pleasing to find, when we finally ground to a halt, that all of our aircraft made it to the new base. Admittedly, some were damaged, shot up pretty well, but still no casualties. I was even more pleased, as I examined our new aerodrome in the lengthening light of the new day.

"How many planes on hand?" I asked Howard-Smythe.

"Forty-two, counting spares and hacks."

Holy shit!

"You've done very well, Captain," I told the Adj.

The day started off ordinarily enough. We began with a few office chores, and watched the patrol depart. Twelve planes under the command of Black. They headed out and then Andrew and Powell took off with another group. There must have been eighteen or twenty of them. If numbers meant anything, then we were doing very well indeed. All of a sudden I was running low on pilots again.

"Who's all with them?" I asked, and Howard-Smythe promised to put it in the report.

I had time to do a thorough pre-flight check on my own personal SE. The mechanics stood around and answered my questions about the servicing, and any problems they might have noticed. From time to time I made a request for a 'half-inch,' or a 'seven-sixteenths,' in order to check on the nuts, bolts and fasteners.

At some point an operation like ours does two things. It takes on a life of its own, and in some ways to operate by itself. It also spawns complications. People like Hastings, Bernie, Dawley, none of that was my idea. I ignored them when I could. If they came and went, that was less of a problem than if it were someone like Shifty and Ali Baba.

Now those two, by suborning them over to our side, they adopted our 'gang'. So we put them in charge of supply. This sobered them up as individuals, gave them a job they could actually do well at, and it made them feel like important father-figures to other members of the group.

It gave the younger lads someone to look up to.

You know, if I had simply signed up with all the boys in my county, they probably would have put me, a farmer, in charge of horses or something.

And it would have been sheer hell.

It would have been even worse than a mere infantryman, or a colonial lad in a Royal Army Regiment, lower than low. Yet everything worked out, and I knew I was in the right place. It would have been sheer hell to see horses all shot up in some artillery barrage. Animals are truly innocent of any guilt or sin.

All those enemy sound detectors were rolling around and around in my brain, already brimming over with ideas. Some of which might be useful, and some half-baked. My mind was like a cornucopia of ideas sometimes; a real jumble sale.

"Wounds my soul with a monotonous languor," came a voice in the background as someone patiently worked on a translation of a bad French poem by a bad French poet, writing in a particularly bad era of French literature, which was bad at the best of times, which weren't many.

"You could learn more French by spending the weekend with a good whore," a voice complained.

Desultory argument ensued, with the pair of them half-heartedly disputing the laurel crown of good-natured invective.

"Oh, God! A really good sport could let the other guy win one once in a while," I heard an exasperated Corporal Whittington tell the pair. "Why don't you guys walk north until your hats float?"

He suggested this not unkindly; and I could hear them rambling on as they moved away. I put the file down and checked the time.

"Ah!"

Almost time for the briefing.

Despite the sunshine, it was still March, so I put on a sweater and went out and around to the briefing tent. Winds gusted to twenty-five, thirty-five knots sometimes. Treetops, still sporting as yet unbroken red buds, waved and swayed in the blustering winds.

***

"Are we all here?"

Ground staff had rigged up a couple of good lights front and centre, and a table for all the photos. Bernie was doing a head count. The babble of voices slightly diminished at the sight of my raised hand.

"I make it fifty," he said.

"Who's missing?" I asked.

Whittington said, 'the effin' new guys,' who were apparently out on an engine-test.

They weren't needed, so I told Bernie to go ahead.

"Military intelligence is the art of analysis," Bernie began. "We take unrelated and disconnected pieces of data and try to draw conclusions from them. This is how we can predict the course of the enemy's next campaign. If we know how many men he has, we know how many men and guns to put in front of them. We know how many bullets we must buy. Do you understand?"

We all paid rapt attention. He was an excellent and well-prepared speaker, and the sublime dago accent didn't hinder it a bit. It actually seemed to help. Everyone had to concentrate totally, just to catch and decipher his very words. He was keeping it nice and simple.

"The enemy has listening posts. At night, men creep out into no-man's land, and try to overhear the opposition," he lectured. "Sometimes they use a parabolic microphone, and attempt to eavesdrop on conferences."

"Headquarters are usually pretty far back from the front," he added. "Out of the reach of roaming cavalry, and in the modern sense, back from long-range artillery and balloon observation."

A hoarse whisper came out of nowhere.

"With that accent, you really have to squint with your ears," and a few giggles emanated from the back of the group.

Bernie soldiered on, oblivious.

"This is most effective in the diplomatic setting. But the same principle is used, to varying degrees, upon the battle front. The gathering of data is a ceaseless process."

He paused.

"In our Army, and in your own Observation Corps, we have a device called, a 'sound detector,' which is shown in this photo."

He handed out a few copies, showing the thing from a number of sides. One photo had a man with head-phones sitting at a chair beside it. It looked to be seven feet tall, and two or three feet square. It was a devious device.

"You see the approximate size," he said as we examined them. "The enemy uses them as well."

One of the pilots put up his hand.

"Does that mean they can hear us coming, and even when we take off and land?"

"Yes," said Bernie.

Elmer Duzek looked at me.

"That's one of the reasons why we try to limit unnecessary flying," I mentioned. "We've been varying our takeoff times quite a bit as well."

But this was Bernie's show. Elmer nodded, satisfied with the explanation so far.

"Also, in the early days, an aerodrome might have been four or five miles behind the lines, when aircraft flew at sixty or seventy flat-out. We're ten or twelve or fifteen miles back, most of the time now," Bernie added for their benefit.

Bernie waited half a minute, then went on.

"As you can see in the photograph, it resembles a funnel, squashed flat, but open in a slot or plane-like aperture. The sound waves are focused down the little tube so the operator can hear them. If you look closely you will see the table has a quadrant. They can level it and align it with North."

The slot was in the vertical plane.

"The narrow slot limits the sound waves to a small area, and the operator aligns the turntable to the strongest intensity of the sound. He reads the dial to get a bearing. Then he will try to analyze further. For example, how far, how many, or whether it may be tanks, or aircraft."

The operator had a field telephone in order to report his findings. The device also had an electrical pickup and, 'a wire-recording device,' which was 'top secret.'

According to Bernie, this permanent recording was for subsequent analysis by intelligence experts and higher-ups.

"The enemy can find us with a fair degree of accuracy," he suggested, giving a significant look about the room. "A good operator can tell one engine-sound from another. They can estimate our strength, as few other units are operating at night."

"We fooled them the other night," he pointed out in closing. "But soon enough, the very fact of an impromptu artillery barrage would let them know we're coming. And we cannot keep up a barrage twenty-four hours per day, seven days a week, when it isn't a military necessity."

"Tell us about this parabolic microphone," asked Bartlett, and the talk took a different turn.

Bernie explained that it was 'a hemisphere,' with a microphone mounted to catch the sound that it 'collected, reflected and focused.'

"Imagine if a council of war was being conducted, and you could listen from a half a mile away," said Bernie. "Le chateau, le maison; the windows might be open and the perimeter guarded, but at what distance?"

Guards usually stood around; 'close to what they were guarding,' he added.

"There could be people in the long grass not five feet away," he explained.

This was interesting enough, but I wanted to find a way to fool the enemy sound detection apparatus, and their observers. Comprende vous? I wanted them to overhear us, selectively.

I interrupted briefly.

"When we take off, we almost always have a pair of fighters overhead. They're either a couple miles south, or maybe at most a mile north. When we take off, we circle quite widely, and we often fly parallel to the battle front for some distance."

It doesn't hurt to repeat one of my own lectures once in a while.

"Our sound is wider. More dispersed. We have all kinds of engines. You don't always have to go down the same street when you go someplace, right? We don't always go to the same place, or do the same things all of the time either."

We also tried to disguise or limit the noise of our train, a sound that carries a hell of a long way on a quiet night. As for our present location, we stopped in the middle of a brief thundershower. Simple, really.

Once, when I was camped on a lakeshore, on a quiet evening. On the opposite shore, the beach curved away in a 'parabolic curve,' just as Bernie said. The trees, which somehow shaped and reflected the noise of my dishwashing right back, amplified the sound of water and sand scrubbing greasy cast iron. It was maybe fifty or a hundred yards away, the other shore. The fact that we still get new pilots coming in made it essential to keep talking, to let them know who I am—even if I don't know who they are sometimes! (That's why we have badges and uniforms. I give an order and it is obeyed by perfect strangers.)

"To a certain extent, all of our activities are a compromise," I added.

There was the germ of an idea cooking in my subconscious, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. All I could do was wait.

Education of the whole person is part of a commander's job. I didn't know much about eastern mysticism, at least not at the time. But I wanted to make them think; to open up their latent awareness, and expand their consciousness. While they continued pumping Bernie, and old Hastings, I went back to the command tent. The new one looked just like the old one. Just like in the infantry, one locale began to blend into another.

"Here you are, sir," reported Corporal Bill as he brought me a coffee and a batch of papers.

Paperwork was the bane of my existence, especially when the weather was bad.

Everyone else got to rest but I didn't.

#193 Squadron 'The Camel Jockeys'

#1, Andrew Jay, #2, 'Big Bill' Arnold, #3, Rod Wallace, #4, Mack X. Webster, #5,

Henry Lawrence, #6, 'Mooch' Mootry, #7, Jim Nelson, #8, Perry, #9, Cowings, #10,

Dexter, #11, Stevens, #12, McGill.

I signed the bottom.

#192 Squadron 'Black Angels'

#1, Mike Black, #2, Tom Anderson, #3, Snotty, #4, Sampson, #5, Brown, #6, Dave Earnhardt, #7, Emery, #8, Kemsley, #9, Swede, #10, Bianchi, #11, Williams, #12, Carroll.

Sign that one as well.

#194 Squadron 'The Biffs'

#1, Jack Powell, #2, T. Leonard, #3, Biggsy, #4, Dempsey, #5, Steve Bartlett, #6, Les

Greensmith, #7, King, #8, Duzek, #9, Nicholson, #10, Oliver, #11, Lang, #12, Davies.

Gunners: Malarkey, Kowalski, Smith, Jones, Patrick, Callahan, Wilson, Paul, Watson, Shane, Ellesmere and Aweemowep.

I must have miscounted. And I couldn't even describe Davies!

Who the hell is Davies?

What happened to Brukaber? My mind kind of blanked out on that one. But he must have another job assignment...right?

The Adj was doing his best. Those on a roster would know where they stood. As for the list of pool pilots, it would be a good idea to speak to them boys, set them up with some kind of shadow structure. Use them creatively. They could be the 'Ghost' squadron we keep hearing so much about. Sign off on that last one as well.

Anyway, I needed to fly with backup. I needed to train the boys a little more. There was much that needed to be done. That left me a few men. We had Hubert, Reno, Nugent, Ilderim, Leroy and Bolton. Couple more new ones. All of those guys needed a job to do, and I'd start on their training as soon as possible. Just as soon as I got a minute. I put them in proper order and stuck them in the basket.

The Adj was taking good notes of virtually every briefing, lecture, and even a few 'bull-sessions,' along the way. I initialed most of these, made corrections in some, added marginal notes to others.

What else was there to do, when the winds were thirty-five from the northwest?

Gusting, turbulent, with a very low cloud ceiling, at best about seven or eight hundred feet. Flying wasn't impossible on a day like this, it was merely very, very dangerous. The men were doing well and it was high time for a break. No sense losing anyone we don't have to.

"Have you seen the papers?" asked Howard-Smythe.

"No. Who's Premier this week?" I responded.

The French changed Premiers about as often as I changed socks.

"I'm reading about, and I quote, 'the gallant and determined defense of one of our aerodromes on the Western Front,'" by that Shmeffords character."

Howard-Smythe read some of it aloud.

"Ah! It says he was privileged to witness a night attack by an overwhelming force of enemy bombers, or reisenflugzeug."

He looked over with twinkling eyes.

"Well, that's one way to get rid of the press," he noted mischievously. "All it cost was a few sticks of dynamite, a half a dozen boxes of Brock and Pomeroy, and some engines revving in the darkness. Simply brilliant."

"Seems like a bit of a waste," I noted for the record.

"Well; they're cheaper by the dozen," he grunted. "Shit! They used your name! Oh, God, even your picture."

"The really great part is the editorial," I pointed out.

My name in there, that was all part of the plan.

"I haven't got there yet," he grimaced.

"Holy shit!" he said after a silence.

"They laud our efforts," he laughed.

"Without even really knowing what it is that we actually do around here," I added.

"Perception is reality," he noted for the record.

Shit, I've known that for ten years.

"Try to figure out a way to fool those enemy observation people," I suggested. "Their perception affects our reality."

"Maybe we could fake them out somehow," the Adj agreed.

I stood up to go. It would take a few minutes to get my flight gear on, and then it was a 'full out, balls to the wall' fighter-bomber sweep with every aircraft at our disposal. A cheap and desperate bid for attention, as the witch doctors and head shrinkers would say. We were hoping to get the attention of good old Von Krumholtz, in order to shoot him down.

It was our job to smite them and to strike fear into their hearts. One way to do that was the squadron circuses. We had a new satellite field, so this time we took advantage of the opportunity to separate and disperse the planes over two fields. As usual, we sent the train on with fifty or sixty guys to begin work on our next 'wet-operation.'

***

It takes a long time to launch forty planes, even from two fields.

All the squadrons eventually rendezvoused over a fork in the river, and then we climbed to the west until we made 10,000 feet. Then we turned east.

A thrilling sight, for a commander. Down below, the 'Shagbats,' a dozen strong.

These were the Biff pilots, who simply rejected the name given them and found their own.

They flew in front, at about 8,000 feet. Above, at 9,500; it was that most gay, the most ebullient, the most fractious, the most incorrigible group of unabashed and unashamed individuals, unrepentant individuals; to say the least, that it has ever been my highly-distinguished privilege to meet. The alleged, 'Camel Jockeys.'

Swinging east, the late afternoon sun lowered itself gratefully into a dark mass of cumulus on the horizon behind us.

Then there were the 'Black Angels,' hovering over the errant, 'Camel Jockeys.' Steady, sober and reliable individuals who could absorb the first shock of an attack like the good old Saxon wall of shields. Older, more mature individuals, the technical aspects of their machines were important to them. They flew them very high, and very fast, and with a precision lacking in some of the Jocks. The Biff crews were selected for unusual personal physical courage, a kind of bulldog quality. These guys had to be able to work as a team. They had to be able to roll inverted at fifty feet and strafe well, if necessary.

They needed a steel-nerved kind of workmanship in a plane.

In all the squadrons, we had the ones and twos, our buddy system.

'You are your brother's keeper.' That's the law around here.

The Ghost Squadron, with myself as lead hand, cruising back and forth. A little above and behind the Camel Jocks, below the Black Angels. We were in the slot, just the four of us.

It was a stirring moment, to see forty freaking airplanes; and they're all mine.

People don't mess with us anymore. We mess with them—and they sure don't like it much.

The Front hove into view. Visibility was excellent. The cold breezes, still not fully blown out. But they cleared and cleansed the sky. It was five-ten p.m.

Just about when you'd expect them, there they were. Certainly no higher than us. It looked like they'd just been in a scrap and were trying to re-form. It's amazingly hard to count aircraft in a hurry. I was pretty sure it was an odd number, perhaps twenty-seven.

I felt a little sorry for them, as several machines had large white fabric patches visible. The enemy had no time to re-paint. Imagine the poor pilots, or the commander; who had to mount up in Albatros or Pfalz D-III's, when most of the squadron flew the D-V's.

They were obviously pulling old, worn-out, reserve machines from the depot.

A long, straggling line of enemy machines, they tangled with the Camel Jocks head- on. Our thin line of Camels broke and the turning fight began. Ones and twos circling warily, with everyone trying to get on each other's tail at once. For a few precious seconds the Boche had the numerical advantage. Their wide flanks meant they could envelop my Jocks. The four Ghosts were heading right into the mess.

It was a huge mushroom-head of planes, and we were in the midst of them. Blue-white smoke blurred the vision, as a smattering of castor oil hit my goggles, and a Pfalz zoomed past blazing from the engine area.

I hoped Ilderim wouldn't run into him. The enemy machines circled around again, even as Camels climbed, and swooped, and dove at another damaged enemy machine, and the Biffs climbed like bandits to get in on the action. As I turned hard right, leading my boys; spin the head around and look for them, yippee! They were still right with me, and we threw our machines around hard; and went mucking in again.

An SE-5a hurtled past the nose of my plane, tightly followed by another.

Its guns were blazing at an unseen target. From certain indications I think it's Earnhardt. I'd have to ask him later. He dove vertically and was lost from sight.

So far I hadn't fired my guns. It was all happening too fast. Swinging my head and eyes about; I was trying locate my Ghosts.

Still with me! What the fuck, and I dove east, and then pulled south, and climbed up to the south with the sun on my right hand. Clench the fist and study the sun's corona. Is there anybody in there? Come out, come out wherever you are!

Dirty little cocksuckers.

It is a fucking game. One of those moments of clarity. I suddenly understood the universe in all its infinite complexity. I should have written it down, but I didn't have time.

And now I have forgotten. Sorry. If I ever get the chance again, I'll try to do better.

So anyway, we turned north and circled back at a height of 14,500 feet, and of course we never fly more than ten or twelve seconds in straight and level flight in the zone.

I could see my boys below, and if I thought it was hard to count enemy airplanes, it's even harder to count your own.

We had possession of the battlefield. We must have won.

On the surface of the land below, there were a number of smoke columns. Under these circumstances, there was really no way to tell who put them there. I did see a German plane shot down. There was no way to see everything all at once. The Ghost Squadron turned back into the sun. Down below; it looked like three squadrons all back together again. Some of my worries faded, for we were on the enemy side of the lines. Their fighters have been routed, and now we can take our photos in the shadows of late day.

These should be good photos.

We went to enough trouble.

***

The boys were really pumped.

The briefing tent on our main field was bedlam. One could only imagine the wild and crazy scene that must have ensued at the other field. The phone rang and then Sergeant Jaeckl was talking to someone, probably Bernie or Howard-Smythe.

The air in the command tent was blue with smoke, exhaled breath and cuss words.

He jammed a finger in one ear. I waited patiently while Jaeckl looked around.

He beckoned me over, with one hand over the mouth-piece.

"It's Hastings!"

When I took it, there was a cacophony of voices in the background over there.

"We're getting them settled down, and we'll have some reports for you in about half an hour," Hastings said.

"Thanks," I replied. "Are the guns on alert?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Good," and then I hung up.

"How come there was no Archie?" Nicholson asked.

"They were afraid of hitting their own. We met them right over no-man's land, and it was the wind that drifted us over the guns. But by then; we were all mixed up like a dog's breakfast."

"Yes, sir..."

"You'll get your fair share of Archie," joshed Whittington, handing Nicholson a sharpened pencil and some forms.

Nicholson had broad features, and a long torso, with big shoulders but short, bandy legs. Frizzy auburn hair, brown eyes. His eyes flicked around nervously, and he always seemed a bit more alert than anyone else in the room.

"Just try to put it down in logical sequence and if you can't remember, don't worry," I suggested.

"Don't worry," Whittington repeated to Nicholson, who was claiming a kill.

"Name, date, type of aircraft you fly, type of aircraft you shot down," the corporal explained.

They moved away, heads close together, murmuring back and forth.

The phone rang again and I grabbed it.

"Still waiting for a couple of planes," Howard-Smythe blurted unceremoniously. "Shy about landing, I think."

At a voice in the background, he shouted furiously; "Pipe down!"

There was a significant pause, as I tried to visualize what was going on over there, and then finally he said, "They're down all right now!"

"Call me back," I told him, and hung up.

'Give me a form,' I beckoned to the corporal.

Dropping into a chair, I used a rag to wipe most of the oil off of my forehead, neck and in areas where it went down my clothing.

The boots could wait. As I sat there and looked at the form it was difficult to put it in words, or even to know where to start. Usually, once you begin with the routine details, it begins to flow. But poor old Nicholson had never written one before.

I had, theoretically.

The room was quieter now as the men settled in to write it up, consulting with each other. Men went to the phone, and called over to the other squadron. Painstakingly, we pieced it all together. We figured for certain; that we shot down three and damaged another three, probably more like five or six. That's not bad for an engagement that by all accounts didn't last more than two or maybe three minutes. Now it was just a hum of voices. I was finishing up my threadbare little write-up when the phone rang again.

"Are you sitting down?" Howard-Smythe inquired.

"What's up?" I asked.

The line buzzed quietly in my ear.

"Bernie and Hastings are going over to Army HQ to check it out," I heard him say.

He must have been consulting with someone at his elbow, also talking. For a deaf guy, listening to two conversations at once is the most frustrating thing, and it was easy to hear impatience in his voice as he argued with someone. If he was totally deaf, they would have booted him out of the Army. As it was, they gave him to us. Probably thought it was funny.

Finally he told me.

"There's a wild rumour going around, that we might have gotten Von Krumholtz."

"Oh, really!" I exclaimed. "Find out what you can!"

The line was silent for a while except for that buzzing, and low electrical voices on the other end as some kind of discussion was brought to a conclusion.

"We're pretty sure we got Schumacher...one or two others," he said hesitantly.

I understood his reluctance. It doesn't pay to make wild claims. This type of thing always requires further investigation.

"Von Krumholtz always drives the black one," I reminded the silent line.

"That's what the boys are saying," he advised. "A black one with a little yellow shield painted under the cockpit, left side...some kind of a crest..."

"That's his family coat of arms," I told the Adj.

"...last seen going down in flames," the Adj said quietly. "Three pilots claiming hits so far..."

Sounds like we might have gotten him!

Holy, schmoley! Von Krumholtz must have had forty or fifty kills by now!

The enemy fighters had limited duration, and we must have caught them low on gas, out of ammo, and disorganized. Fuck, it almost seemed too easy.

Von Krumholtz just had a bad day.

It was going to get worse for his replacement.

We were planning another little rocket attack for tonight. No quarter asked, and none given. That's just the way it is, and now my report must wait to be re-written.

It's all up in the air, until we get more facts.

"Grab Hastings for me before they leave," I told him. "I have a doozie of an idea."

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Usual Thing, With Subtle Variations

The rocket attack was the usual thing, with subtle variations. We were planning to move again. It was such a simple little idea. To put a thermometer in our cockpits and to look at them once in a while, yet it paid handsome dividends.

One reason we only used nine Biffs for the rocket attack, was because we only had nine properly modified with carburetor heaters. In the iffy spring weather, there was a tendency for the aircraft to run fine up to five or ten thousand feet, then for some reason; above that they would bog out. And sometimes it was even possible to notice a distinct drop in temperature. It wasn't so much the cold you noticed, as the 'warmth,' when you came back down. The fact that the engine cleared up and ran better hadn't exactly gone unnoticed. Our coolant and cylinder-head temperature gauges weren't all that precise, but the needles moved, essentially.

Nothing is more frustrating for a fighter pilot than to return to base, and then to find out there's nothing wrong with the motor. It was very demoralizing, and it had to be fixed. Sometimes the best way to evade an enemy is to out-climb him, yet the men lacked confidence in their engines...bad news.

And it didn't always happen, which made it pretty difficult to analyze at first. It depended on the throttle setting, and how much of the fuel-air mixture the engine was sucking, and how hard, if you take my meaning. The lower the air pressure, and the lower the temperature, the less moisture the air can hold. That moisture was choking up the carb in the form of ice, deposited there by the venturi effect.

The faster the air goes into the carb, the lower the pressure. It was the Bernoulli effect.

Why were we always the first ones to figure it out? We went looking for the problems, where other guys just said, 'it doesn't work,' and complained about the equipment. We went looking for solutions.

Our research wasn't useless. We proved these necessary modifications in combat.

The fact that we had the privilege of creating our own fireworks just helped to break the monotony.

"Are we trying out the coloured goggles?" someone asked.

Some amber ones, a whole box-full, to test for the Ministry. I actually liked them myself, but only in daylight. They made the colours just jump out at you, and that's a help when trying to locate a distant, dull-coloured object such as an enemy aircraft.

"It's your choice, but I just plan on ducking down while I launch the rockets," I told the pilot.

Kowalski hunkered at his shoulder, a gunner; but the name of the other guy just wouldn't come, a sign of fatigue. Owens.

"Don't watch them fly," I added.

"Yeah! Don't watch them," agreed one or two others, helping to brief the fledglings, the inexperienced ones.

We all chipped in on briefings.

"Just fire and forget them," I noted firmly.

"The trouble is, if you want to change back to the clear ones in flight," Snotty said.

You certainly couldn't fly without them on, like having them up on your forehead.

Your eyeballs would literally freeze solid.

"I don't expect a whole lot of enemy fighters up there in the middle of the night," I mentioned. "But it's not impossible. After all, nothing is impossible. We'll be up there, after all."

"Yes, you might have time to switch goggles," put in Powell. "The trouble is if you lose orientation, because it's a very dark night, and if a heavy band of cloud comes along, well, then you're just pooched."

"Just duck down, and concentrate on your instruments," I told the group. "Learn to trust your instruments."

A light overcast, and an early-setting moon promised to be useful. We had other tricks up our sleeves. The train would be moving, we would be taking off from two separate fields, et cetera. Just a quick note; but we had various little aids to navigation, and for returning to base especially. For one thing, we had guys with lanterns ride out on my motorbike and a couple of other machines the boys 'found.' They would light their lanterns and put them ten or twelve feet out in front of the west side of a farmhouse.

The Fritzies couldn't see them, but hopefully we would, on our return journey. We set them out at two farmhouses, laid out north-south, about two miles apart, and then one to the west, a mile away. These made a triangle seen from the air. The pilots had to look down once in a while, they had to look back once in a while, but it was a useful aid. The boys went all around the neighbourhood on bikes, and so they knew the actual distances, to some degree.

Now; at all of our fields, including the satellite fields, we had those five-cell torches the Bobbies use in lieu of more credible weapons. We stuck them in a three-foot long piece of four-inch pipe, then stuck a nail through a hole to stop them from falling out.These pipes had a spike welded on the bottom end.

We could shove torches in them, stick them in the ground, and while it was a pale and faint guide, the beams of light could be seen in the air from a short distance. At best, maybe a half a mile, but anything was better than nothing. There was always dust or fog or mist in the air, but the faint beams were barely visible even up close, sometimes.

We had smudge pots, flares and water barrels for quick signals in an emergency; we had railroad-type emergency flares with the spikes on the end, we used those in various ways, and by the most careful choosing of the field, the terrain masked our lights.

We had a three-inch spotlight mounted on a tender, that's a personnel vehicle in the RFC. We parked it, after backing it halfway up the east side of our little vale on a cow trail. The eastern rim of the little hollow had lots of scrubby, thick brush.

The crew pointed the light west and down at the valley floor, and, 'voila!' Instant runway. We made smudge pots out of soup cans. These were used on the downwind side to avoid smoking out the pilot's view. We kept a candle in the window for our boys. The use of a little foresight kept it away from the enemy's prying eyes.

The whole system could be shut down in moments, with a quick call from one of our field telephones, or in some instances a couple of blank-cartridge pistol-shots.

Admittedly, all this took some manpower.

My big worry was enemy planes out at night and roaming around. Enemy balloons were not such a problem.

According to Intelligence, tethered balloons were used sporadically at night, although they had no recent reports. In their opinion, the sightings might increase with better weather. But taken all in all, we had a pretty good system. It was a wonder that no one ever thought it all through logically before. From my point of view, it only made sense to bomb at night, when with our equipment we never really hit anything to speak of. I mean in daylight, that is. If the bombing is ineffective, why waste men's lives and lose a lot of expensive machines? Far better to make the enemy lose sleep. Never let them get any sleep. If they don't like it, they can move further back, or devote a lot of precious time and resources to countermeasures. They can bring up their concerns at the surrender negotiations.

To destroy an enemy airdrome takes a lot of bombs and a lot of time. Most bombs just land in an empty field, after all.

Sometimes we had to re-invent ourselves.

We were waiting for a package, and at some point a phone call informed us that Major Dawley was on the way back from Army Divisional HQ. The nearest one was just down the road about ten miles or so.

One of my guys began one of those interminable stories, a sordid tale of alcohol, sex, wild music-hall antics and utter debauchery. We listened patiently, until finally Dawley arrived. I waved him in as the story concluded.

"...I thought she was the most passionate woman in the world, until I realized we were laying on an anthill..."

The conclusion of the rather predictable tale brought gales of uproarious laughter.

It relieves the tension.

"I did my best," Dave said hopefully. "I think it will be enough."

Dawley was pleased with himself, a very good sign.

"What did you get us?"

The resident general was offering us anything from his mess, 'anything we wanted.'

We accepted the offer.

The booze was for us.

"Pass that around," I told the corporal in a mellow tone, all filled with confidence.

"Once in a while, on a cold night, it's O.K. to drink and drive," Dawley mused. "It helps you to stay awake."

"Yes, and cigarettes are healthful, refreshing, and help to maintain proper vitality," muttered the good doctor, and we all nodded sagely, exchanging grins all around.

I had a good slug myself, and another. That was fine, and it gave us all something to look forward to after a good night's work.

"Promise you won't tell Les Flics," I winked. "La loi du cauchon."

A little Quebecois for the boys' edification.

"That means, 'the law of the pigs,'" explained the rather educated Howard-Smythe, raising an eyebrow in mild disapproval.

The cabbages would raise a few eyebrows, of that there was no question. Who in his right mind would request cabbages? The most vital item; a case of squid, all smelly and wet-looking, and not too fresh in spite of thoughtful packing in dry ice. If our generous general-friend thinks I'm mad, he wouldn't bother us too much with trivialities.

***

In war you talk to your enemy. It is more than a tradition. It's necessary. That's why we have ambassadors, and diplomats, and attaches, and charges d'affaire. That's why there's always at least one country that remains neutral. It wouldn't surprise me if King George sent birthday telegrams to his cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm, in the midst of the war.

That's right, cousins.

There was a wait of a few short minutes, as the Crossley tender took four pilots and four gunners over to our auxiliary field two miles south. We planned on sending a message of our own.

One top-secret and very special little rig was attached to my plane, and all the other boys had three or four cabbages on board to toss at the enemy aerodrome. It sounds crazy, but there was an important psychological aspect to it.

'We can do anything we want, and you can't do a damned thing about it,' a nice, pathetic, childish, and immature little message.

Along with rockets, bombs and tracers, that should let them know who we are. All I had to do was to pull the lanyard at the right time and fifty pounds of fresh squid were going to plop down right in front of their squadron office. If I was lucky enough to be able see it.

(We used to drop flechettes from such boxes; but I was having trouble ordering them. I would have dropped a million of them on Manfred, given the opportunity.)

They would get the idea. Convention calls for a wreath under these circumstances, but fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. Just for the record, while the author may be a little crazy, he ain't stupid.

***

My gunner for the night was Aweemowep. Chandragupta put me on to this guy. A qualified machine gunner; he was the one from the little village up the road from Bombay.

He told me the name of the place; but I've forgotten. He invited me to visit after the war. That was nice of him, but unfortunately I never got around to it. I would have liked to have seen his ranch.

"Are you ready to go?" I queried.

"Yes," he responded, distracted by three buddies there to see him off.

"I am saying goodbye now," he told them cheerily.

They all waved like it was the train station.

"Cheerio! Cheerio!" they called at an unnecessarily loud volume.

"Hop in," I said.

"I fervently pray that you are a good driver," he admonished. "A long time, have you been doing this?"

"I'm very smooth," I muttered acerbically.

He thinks he's in command!

"I'm a qualified machine gunner too, you know," I told the guy.

Who in the hell does he think he is?

At least we had something in common, and he eyed me with new respect. What the heck. He was new around here, and we are pretty unrecognizable in all the get-up. I helped him to strap in, no doubt adding to his impression that I was merely a chauffeur.

"You are all being so very, very kind," he said, tipping me a farthing.

Hopefully he listened at the briefing, but he didn't seem to be all there! Shock, I guess, at being the first. The first man from his village to fly. Something to tell his nine-hundred and sixty-three grandchildren.

"Promise you won't mutiny on me?" I asked with a quick grin.

Then I climbed into my seat.

Chandra stood there.

"He's not as dumb as he looks, and he really does know how to run that thing," he assured me.

"Any idiot can fire a machine-gun," I said shortly.

He moved to the rear, where he repeated the remark verbatim to the muffled-up figure of Aweemowep. Smart ass! These freakin' Sepoys are all alike.

"Any idiot can fly an aeroplane," I was startled to overhear from the man in the back.

The mechanic looked ready, and so we fired it up. After waiting two or three minutes, it was time to launch. A member of the ground staff on the far end of the line fired a flare. One red flare, and they waited, and then each one followed in sequence. One green flare, and it was time for me to go. It was very dark, with just a smudge of moonlight on the bottom of a few clouds to the south, low in the sky.

Everything seemed to be in order.

***

I took a deep breath and focused on what was important. There was a line of Lombardy poplars planted as a windbreak at the east and west end of the field. Along the north side was a river, its banks covered in brush and huge oaks. To the south were more fields, but this was also the short axis of our 'drome; so we never took off north or south.

A low rubble fence separated us from those other fields.

There was virtually no wind, as I opened up the throttle and began rolling to the east. There were two guys down at that end of the field, standing in front of the tree line. They pointed powerful torches at the branches. My cockpit lights were on, and the speedometer needle crept around, ever so slowly. The plane got lighter, and then I rode her up and out of our sleepy little hollow in the groves. Behind those trees there was a hillside.

It was a nice, simple mission, with sporadic artillery fire from the north and south drowning out our takeoff noises. At low altitude and in moonlight, navigating was fairly easy.

There were tanks moving on the road behind Moreuil. Our train got bumped by the French rail authorities due to an important freight going down our little line. This was no problem, as we would use the noise of these movements for cover.

The longer you're in the air at night, the greater the chance of navigational error. But the boys around the Somme in the vicinity of Matigny started a firefight with machine- gunners on the Hun side. The tracers flew across right on schedule, and the Fritzies found themselves unable to ignore it, and so their tracers answered back.

Then we knew where the river was.

With the moon-glow through the clouds to guide us, it was really just a matter of keeping an eye on the old chronometer. Follow the river, looking for the church steeples.

Every village has its own steeple.

They're very much like the vertical white signposts that dot the intersections in this part of the world.

In Canada we usually just put a skinny little post in the ground, and a strip of metal or a wooden sign on top, about six feet up. Without illumination, they're invisible from the air. But French signposts are concrete obelisks. They're whitewashed and they can be seen. They're not always so easy to interpret, but they can at least be seen. The land had a sheen to it, probably from frost or at least a very heavy dew. Hopefully the mist and fog wouldn't spring up in the next hour. The air was very moist. Hopefully all the boys were following instructions and using the carburetor heaters.

Sometimes you can't see any roads at all. Sometimes a two-lane cow path sticks out like a sore thumb, shiny and wet. It depends on the angle of the moon and the thickness of the clouds. The first time I ever flew, what startled me was just how white roads look from the air. The conventional, modern thinking is that roads are black.

Maybe no one ever really looked.

The mucky, often-reprinted reconnaissance photos we were trained with hadn't done justice, of course they were black and white. There's not much colour at night anyway. I can't describe the difference. Perhaps reality focuses one's mind, or maybe some of the photos got left in the developer too long.

Von Krumholtz's aerodrome wasn't easy to find, due to the fact that he had no major roads nearby, no rail lines, no villages. The river was a mile from the aerodrome. Even the farm-field polygons, the little tetrahedrons of the countryside had a characteristic pattern, like the whorls of a fingerprint. Blackbirds navigate. They do it by lining up on distant marks, like notches in the tree-lines.

Some nights the wind howls and you can hear the shingles rattling on the roof, but sometimes it's dead calm. Tonight it was easy to calculate for drift. The Biff was very stable in a cruise. I was already planning our next escapade...each mission brings new insights. Fresh opportunities open up.

It was the usual chateau. It had a dark mansard roof, and the usual row of dormers, but the white walls showed up like a Currier and Ives postcard. Oh, my God! They had lights streaming out like fucking beacons, staining the ground outside with a golden tint.

Were they having a wake for the fallen?

My goal was to be first. It was unlikely that anyone had caught up. Diving to about three hundred feet, I pulled the 'D' shaped handle and felt the tug, and then the cord relaxed. Throttle up and climb.

"Sushi, coming right up."

I hope you like it smashed in the dirt, you sons of bitches!

I could imagine the sound as it hit the graveled driveway. Hah!

Flying on to the east, I did a full one-eighty, carefully watching the instruments.

The lights still hadn't gone off in the chateau!

What the fuck was the matter with them guys?

And it wasn't even a decoy. Men came out and stand there studying the mess by the front steps. They know that I'm not friendly. I'm not a straggler. I'm not just another idiot pilot lost in the night. After another hundred-eighty degree turn, I put the nose down and opened up with the machine gun.

Dirt-splashes spurted and bloomed, and they all ran back into the house...mostly.

Yanking on the next handle, a couple of piddly twelve-pound bombs fell into the gloom. The man behind me didn't fire, but there was little to see as yet, and then we were too far away. That's cool. It's better not to waste ammunition when you can't hit anything from here anyway. Then; as if to make me look dumb, he popped off a few rounds in a tentative manner. I gave a shake of my head.

What the hell, it's the thought that counts.

Do another circuit. Have two minutes gone by?

I asked myself this question. For some reason the clock seemed frozen in time.

Once again, the planes were lined up just in front of the southern tree line. These guys all think alike, not that my planes weren't dispersed along similar lines of reasoning. I put them in the trees, they put them in front. Tracers slashed upwards in the night, seeking us out.

"Right! I'll do you for that," I barked, full of the hubris of youth and the foxy light of the ambient moon.

What I needed right now was a frigging hole in the clouds. Sudden flashes of light illuminated the tree line, and a whole row of planes was suddenly revealed, all lined up wing-tip to wing-tip.

"Oh, my, my," was all I could say, but after all that's why we're here.

A zig to the left and a zag to the right, chandelle, chandelle, 'Allemaine left,' as the caller says at a square dance. I unleashed the hounds of hell, personified by six Le Prieur rockets, and finally the gunner opened up on something.

We had friends in the neighbourhood, as more flashes provided intermittent clarity to the scene below.

We figured at the briefing that the nine of us could clear this target in less than twenty minutes; and it would be preferable if it were ten or fifteen minutes.

With nothing better to do, I climbed up to a nice height. Turning back, I could see tracers reaching up in a great arc into the night, and answering fire from yet another of our planes on site at last. From 6,000 feet, I fired off a few green flares in case one of the boys was lost on the way.

The reader may think I'm crazy, but the enemy machine guns couldn't reach that high, the likelihood of fighters was small, and if there was anti-aircraft artillery in the vicinity they were being awful quiet about it. Some kind of weird noise began scratching at my attention; which was concentrated upon the sheer act of flying at night over enemy territory.

"Take us back! Take us back! Damn you!" it was Aweemowep; and he was yelling his damn-fool head off in sheer, unmitigated frustration!

I finally got it; and now he was shouting at me again. What a nut.

So, I hauled it around in a semi-circle again and we went back to let him hose down the line of enemy planes with a couple of magazines.

"Take that! You dirty Imperialist German dogs!" he was shouting like a maniac.

He was loonie!

"Take this," and, "Take that!"

He was shouting like a mad whore. For some reason it simply never occurred to me that a guy from India might hate the enemy as much as anyone else. Like it wasn't personal to them after a while, and that they could be objective.

I mean the guy was nuts. He really was.

Aweemowep was a very accurate gunner though, as I assessed the results. Now came more bomb flashes and the distant 'crump,' more felt than heard. More rocket's red glare in the night. The German Imperial flag was revealed on a big pole in front of the chateau. The dummies should've taken that down at dusk. Their CO would have given them proper shit for that, but of course he's dead. Still, his second-in-command should have more sense. Discipline and routine have their uses.

"Hah!" I barked at the rear-gunner though the tube, the crazy Indian guy in the back. "Want some target practice?"

"Why certainly, young man," he said.

The accent almost disappears when they shout or sing, have you ever noticed?

"See if you can hit that flag. Hold your fire until I say," I shouted, hoping that he heard properly.

The gunfire from the back seat let up.

Keeping the flag's position firmly in mind, I dipped the nose and shoved in major rudder, reducing throttle with my left hand. I rolled it so that the right wing was vertical, pointed at the stars, several of which were clearly visible.

There was a sudden, 'Yipe!' from the back seater, then it cut off as quickly as it started.

Another flash, and another, 'whump.' My guys were still out there. There was some risk of collision.

There it was. Hold it, hold it. A little down, a little left rudder, a little aileron, a little throttle, a little down, a little up. You get the picture. The Huns were throwing up a lot of frightfulness, but most of it was going the other way. We came at them unexpectedly.

"Fire!" I yelled, and the little son of a gun stitched it something pretty!

The line of his tracer-fire went right though the Imperial Eagle of Germany. What a kook! That silly fucker was shooting alternate red, green and amber tracer rounds.

What an enthusiast. Truly psycho. I wanted him for my gunner on all subsequent two-seater flights. That is to say, if he was willing to go with me. I resolved to try and make a smooth landing when we got back.

Our flight was the longest. We were slated to head northwest; to land at our original field. They were ready for us with lights and flares. The other planes would disperse to no less than three other locations. We had the two fields down south, and one just short of this one, where two planes were due to land shortly. Let the enemy sound-trackers make sense of that!

I could see a couple of preliminary lights on over there as I swung in to line it up.

Wracking my memory for the layout, but it was fine, and we soon had her down on the ground again. The sudden silence, a roaring in the ears; the ticking of the motor as it cooled down. We beat the fog by moments. Thin streamers of it were flooding the wide open spaces of our field. Perhaps it was the dim landing light system; that simply revealed the fog creeping up from the river.

A voice called out in the night. All the lights were suddenly extinguished.

The few men on hand pushed her in to the last fuel rig on site. The tarps went up; and it was a little painful getting out this time. The effects of long-term sleep deprivation are cumulative. You become more and more impaired in your ability to make decisions, especially snap decisions. With two more attacks scheduled for tonight, the enemy pilots would be plenty tired by tomorrow. All we had to do was to outlast them!

But we knew what was planned, and they didn't. We also had three times the men.

Now was my chance to work on that sleep deficit we keep hearing so much about.

My back hurt like hell.

I prayed for a good night's sleep, but as they say, 'No rest for the wicked, eh?'

Off in the distant night, the sound of more aero engines. That would be the boys landing at the satellite field. It was just down the road, after all.

We went into the former command tent, and found a cubicle at the back with a couple of folding cots prepared and waiting. On each was a fresh pillow, blankets, a sleeping bag. One cot had a brown paper package with my name on it.

"Ah!"

Fresh socks are always good.

"Take that one over there," I told Aweemowep. "I'll go rustle up some hot water."

"I'll go along with you," he suggested. "If it should devil-op; that there is hot stew in the brick cook-house..."

He was always thinking, that guy.

***

There is much to remember when you're a professional pilot. For example; there are six different kinds of altitude. To remember five out of six isn't good enough. There is indicated altitude, the uncorrected height in feet as read by the pilot directly from the dial; then there is actual altitude, or elevation of the terrain expressed in feet above sea level, then true altitude, this is actual height of the aircraft above sea level; then there is absolute altitude, which is the actual height of the aircraft above the terrain, you get that by subtracting elevation from true altitude. Then there is pressure altitude, which is the setting adjusted to the standard atmospheric pressure of 29.92 inches of barometric pressure. The density altitude is pressure altitude corrected for temperature variations.

Five out of six isn't good enough. Biggsy could lose a leg to the mistake. His gunner was in a coma. While the doctors were both hopeful; (the shrink stuck around, 'to help out,' as he put it;) the truth was he was still in a coma.

That was not the best phone call I ever woke up to.

Mind you, we were grateful that both men were alive.

Insofar as Biggsy was concerned, he's out of it all now. More power to him. As for the gunner, Malarkey, all we could do was to ship him out as quickly and as gently as possible, and pray like hell. If he survived the trip to the field hospital, he stood a pretty good chance of making it. Biggsy flew from field to field and hadn't re-set his altimeter. He forgot that one field might lay at a different elevation than another.

He was relying on it too much, when it came time to land in the dark. Of course I felt responsible. Would another couple minutes of lecturing have helped? And I was always telling them to, 'trust your instruments.'

As for Malarkey, we'd know more when we got some information from the hospital.

I could say that sunny, late winter morn was like any other day, for after all it was.

With our aircraft scattered in groups all over the French countryside, it was a good chance to vary our tactics. We had groups engaged in a 'long patrol,' from the southern aerodromes. This was a sweep in strength as well as a photo mission. We sent twenty planes where normally there would have been six or eight. They bagged three enemy machines, to boot.

We had planes giving other squadrons a helping hand with trench strafing. We sent out a couple of pairs of planes on balloon duties. Their role wasn't so much to shoot them down, as to prevent them from being launched. It seemed like a much better use of young lives! But all we had to do; was to show the enemy balloon corps some fighter planes cruising above, and they got the hint. We kept a pair of Camels in the air almost continuously, as best we could, over our major fields. We made ourselves useful. We did a few favours to earn a few brownie points.

I won't say we were stretched thin, but the day is long. We had over fifty pilots and a grand total of forty-seven planes. While my old Avro 504-C might not be good enough to penetrate enemy airspace in daylight, pilots could patrol with another hack, a worn-out Camel, and watch for enemy reconnaissance machines looking for our operations.

Some of our less-experienced pilots were flying these machines. I made it quite clear they were to remain in the 'cone,' where they could be effective as air cover, and yet stay within 'gliding range,' of the aerodrome at any given altitude. One pilot shot down an AEG-IV bomber that was seriously astray, so they weren't too unhappy about obeying orders. You know what some of these young bucks are like. They get their first car, a crappy old heap of junk and they immediately think they can race it. I had to nip that attitude in the bud. That guy's wingman was jealous as all hell. The urge to roam must have been overwhelming. But he disciplined himself, they both did. In the end, they were both better pilots because if it. Both of those guys survived the war, incidentally.

After a predictable and not entirely unexpected engine failure in the Camel, the pilot brought her in for a perfect landing right on the field. I buttered him up real good for that little exploit, and why not? We could put another engine on it.

He was alive, and that's always good.

With the two main fields, plus our satellite fields, we had to remain in constant contact with each other. The wires hummed with communications traffic. We shot telegrams, teletypes and phone calls back and forth, with me standing in front of the big board at field number one and perhaps Howard-Smythe, or Bernie, or Dawley on the other end, staring at the map on their board. One telling the other how many planes were available, results, mission requests, latest intelligence, at either end jotting notes and thinking furiously.

Bernie was proving useful. He had sources Army HQ did not. Dawley had his own sources. I could call any aerodrome on the Western Front and get answers. Howard-Smythe knew a few people, in his role as a rich bastard; and we pieced together a pretty good picture. By doing our homework, we learned what was going on.

The funny thing was, we had it all cleared up by ten, and the photos were on their way to the relevant agencies such as MI and GHQ.

I now had four planes at my 'drome, all fueled up and ready. Two guys dropped in at the north end of their patrol line for fuel and ammo. I was holding them on site for the next phase of the day's activities.

Dawley was on the phone again.

"We have strong action up here," I informed him. "Can you get me more fighters?"

"We already have another four Camels on the way," he reported. "The Angels will be refueled, re-armed, and take-off within a half hour."

"Any losses?" I asked, holding my breath on the phone and straining to hear him over the static on the line.

Static is caused by sunspots or something in the atmosphere, or distant thunderstorms.

It plays hell with communications by wireless. It's no military secret.

"None so far, but opposition is light down here today," the Major said. "I pulled a pair of machines out of the line-up due to engine and cooling problems."

His promotion seemed to be agreeing with him.

"That's fine," I mused. "Keep every plane on the ground except for your air cover, and if you guys launch about three o'clock, just tell the boys to cruise north along the battle lines. They have to draw enough Archie so that they can be seen, and rendezvous with us about four p.m. They'll have to fly low enough for Archie to shoot at them, with a fair degree of, of, temptation..."

We modified the plan to 'S' type turns along the Front, at varying altitudes. All I wanted was to leave a trail of smoke puffs, like bread crumbs, so that Hansel and Gretl would know where to find us. Small arms couldn't get you much over three thousand feet, but Teutonic efficiency was always devising bigger and better anti-aircraft 'kanone.'

"If you have to sit a few out, that's fine. Put up our best twenty or two dozen. I've got close to a dozen up here."

We'll take it from there. It was the classic von Schlieffen plan. A pincers movement, conceived, planned and executed by yours truly. Sometimes I amaze myself. Even more so if it works.

We know they're out there. It's been confirmed by several reliable sources.

That's the trouble with being famous heroes like the Von Richtofen brothers.

Lothar and Manfred. Everyone knows you by name, everyone knows what you look like.

It's easy to find you.

"How soon can you have the men finished with lunch?" I queried.

"About half are just finishing breakfast now," he reported.

"Really?"

Flexibility is the key to success.

"I've got an idea," I told him. "See if you can get them all in the air by noon or one o'clock. All of them. Every damn plane you got. Call me the minute the last one takes off, and we'll set the clock from there."

So that's how it started. March 13, 1918, pretty much a day like any one before or since. The sun came up, the northwest wind came up, the clouds cleared, the fog cleared. The battle raged on around Amiens. Men died in the muck and filth.

The men in the mess tent were in good spirits. Things were going our way, except for poor old Biggsy and Malarkey.

"Enjoy your lunch, boys," I told them. "Not much going on yet."

Okay, so I lied, but in my experience you're better off hearing about it in the briefing room, after lunch; and not before.

***

It was a little after noon when the phone rang. Strange, how a call so anticipated can make your guts flip over inside, but this one did.

"I've just launched ten Biffs, eight Camels, and eight SE's," Howard-Smythe told me.

"At exactly twelve-oh-eight, the last one cleared ground."

"They will cross the lines at point 'A,' going in, come out at point 'D,' then follow through points 'F,' through 'L,'" he specified further.

I studied the board as he talked me through it.

"They should enter your little zone at about twelve-forty-five, if they're not engaged by enemy fighters, and they will cruise at fifteen thousand in your planned vicinity," he said.

"Thank you," I said and hung up.

"Would you be so kind as to get the pilots and gunners into the briefing tent?" I asked Aweemowep.

"What's that name mean, anyhow?" I queried as he headed for the mess area, and me to the latrine.

"It means, 'mighty tiger, king of the jungle,'" he replied. "It's an old family name."

"You don't mind helping out?" I joshed as we parted.

"There are no accidents," he admonished rather didactically. "The CO put you with me for a reason."

It's a good thing he cleared that up for us.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Flying Circus, Later that Historic Day

And so it came to pass, that on a fine and sunny March day we met up with the Flying Circus. We were cruising at one-twenty, as we patrolled, six Biffs, a pair of Camels and four SE's at about 19,000 feet. We were over the lines approximately half an hour, when we saw it. It felt good to be back in my personal SE.

There was one hell of a fur-ball down there, south of us. It looked to be at about 12,000 feet, and there must have been fifty or a hundred planes down there. A huge balloon of planes. And yet the whole mess of them couldn't have taken up more than a cubic mile of airspace. They were that tightly spaced. Imagine the difficulty of breaking off such an engagement if you suffered damage, and as we approached, one or two machines did indeed suffer a quick fate. Every loose plane that didn't have an opponent already, seemed to go for these strays.

The cherry-pickers hovered at the edges of the fracas for just that reason.

As we got closer, they began to disappear under our bottom wings. I had time for one last, quick look around. The Camel boys were briefed to stay high, but you never know if they were listening.

No Hun in the sun, and by careful feel, timing it in my head, I rolled inverted and began a blistering dive on the mass below, and even as we dove, I could see machines burning and falling out of the fight.

There was music in my head. I was a man with his own theme music. But it was a moment I had prepared for all my life, or so it seemed. And there he was! The 'fockinge Rote Kampflieger.' Oh yeah, it was him all right. On my way down I throttled back; so there was a brief moment in time to think, to anticipate.

Due to my slow plummeting speed, other planes edged forward in my periphery.

This one's all mine, boys.

I put my left eye up to the cold gun-sight, and gently used the elevators and ailerons, lining him up in the cross hairs. Momentarily, I couldn't believe my luck.

It was just too fucking easy.

The safety was off the Vickers, the safety was off the Lewis.

Manfred tracked to the left. He was pulling up and onto the tail of a Camel Jockey, not one of my boys, from its big, bright cockades. Roll left ninety degrees, so that he's going 'straight up' in relation to my nose, bright against the dull backdrop of the ground below.

Puffs of smoke hurled themselves backwards from the Baron's red DR-1, but the Brit or whoever snapped into a barrel roll and spoiled the attack! Good for you, boy!

Placing my finger on the trigger of the Vickers, I took up the first tension; riding along with the sights just behind him now. Time to stroke through him as they turn yet again.

Pull the trigger...now! And nothing happened.

Not a God-damned thing happened!

"Fuck!"

I shouted in vain. Nothing fucking happened when I squeezed the trigger.

Man, I was pissed off! I was in also deep trouble, as every son of a bitch in the place suddenly sensed that I was the best target available.

Pulled hard to the left, and thank God, but my neophyte winger stuck with me, and he flies a Biff.

They're pretty green, but they've stuck like glue, and I pointed at him and then to the west. We poked our way back into the fight, and just then a tri-plane came along and his gunner blasted away at it, and it seemed to think better. Two Albatros fighters appeared and they were in front. A quick glance confirmed that the Biff's front gun was taking one of them on, and my Lewis thankfully fired enough times to discourage them.

I quickly let up before it jammed too. There's only about four dozen rounds left.

You can almost count your shots, 'one-Mississippi-stop' is about thirty rounds.

"Fuck! Fuck!" I bellowed in rage in my cockpit.

I could have had the bastard!

Blam! Something whizzed past my head, and we went left this time, up into stall turns. The boy was learning, he's still with me. We went tearing back. Some cocksuckers in Fokkers want us for trophies?

"Visualize this," I ranted, blasting away, hosing them down good from thirty yards behind.

Vaguely I could hear the Biff's rear gunner having a go at someone or something behind us...oh, God...

Smudges of black vapourous smoke leapt out of the enemy plane, bits flew off the gunner's target...good lad.

Good instincts, get the fuck out of here. The pilot, driving 'Shovelhead,' waved and pointed west, making the question gesture.

"Yes," I vigourously nodded. "YES."

Roll hard and pull, check compass, 8,000 feet. Man is an organism. Once dinner is on the table, he just wants to live long enough to have it and wash it down with a beer.

Homo sapiens wants to have its cake and eat it too.

I could see smoke columns rising up from the ground below us.

Half a tank of gas, damage of some sort to the aircraft, and one fucked-up Vickers.

It's time to go.

Just then, along comes another damned tri-plane. Again the Lewis fired off a few rounds. I watched the tri-plane. Head-on, slightly below...he flew right under me heading east, and he didn't even fire back.

There can't be any more bullets in there...can there?

Shit!

There was little choice but to split-S and go after him. Not the best situation, but it's my job, and at least I still had a wingman.

There was no trouble catching the little fucker. I had all kinds of power in level flight compared to him. I was flat out, level, and doing one-forty-eight, by the dial, and I doubt if he could do much over one-ten, one-fifteen. With a twenty-foot wingspan, three wings, a big fat rotary nose; it's like a big Venetian blind. A lot of drag. And he's only got what?

A hundred-ten horsepower.

He was getting bigger, and he had a different-coloured elevator.

It wasn't Manfred, but he was a Circus clown, so he would have to do for today.

Taking careful aim, I squeezed the trigger on the Lewis. Bumpy turbulence threw off my first shots, and the rounds chopped away at the cabane struts, all around his head, but no killing shot. There came a sudden moment of clarity, and I felt real sympathy for the guy—he could see it better than I. He knew what was going on.

Just as I fired again, the gun ran out of ammunition. He frantically turned left, and right, and left again. We blew through the thinning fur-ball, headed towards Germany. He was diving. He made 'S' turns every few seconds, checking his tail.

I knew that was going to happen.

Fucking Lewis...fucking Vickers.

We were about 7,000 feet and he had the nose down, but I finally got the gun back up on the level with a new mag. I threw the old one out. No sense in having it tangled up with my feet and rudder pedals.

Once again, he was lined up. I put about twenty rounds into him, but he was turning again, and now he had some severe structural damage. I fired again, and again.

I was just fucking hacking away and couldn't get a vital hit.

Finally the gun went silent. The Biff leapt forward, at my right side. I literally and totally forgot about him! I hovered off to the left a little.

No other fighters behind us. I made double sure of that.

"Yes! Get him! Get him...Fuck!" I was shouting like a son of a bitch.

"Fire, damn you!" I shouted again in impatience.

Smoke, fire and noise ripped out of the Biff's nose gun. I could see the top wing of the enemy plane fluttering and vibrating, and suddenly one end was lifting. The enemy pilot was frantically struggling in the cockpit...

Exactly then the top wing came off the tri-plane, and narrowly missed hitting my boys.

They ducked, pulling hard to the right. As they turned, I was just in the middle of changing the magazine. I stared in amazement. That tri-plane had suddenly become a biplane!

With no ailerons, it's hard to say if he made it home or not. Theoretically he could fly with only rudder and elevator...right? So that's why we never made a claim. Could have been Lothar, in my opinion. And I was in the middle of fumbling with the magazine for the damned Lewis!

I watched him fly off into the distance. I never would have believed it, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes! The magazine was being cranky and I cursed and swore at it.

Somehow, foolishly; I dropped it; and then I was well and truly fucked.

We blew right back through the goddamned fur-ball.

Oh, God, finally we went home, and this time I just followed my winger.

Whenever he hesitated, and looked over at me, I just kept pointing west.

I felt naked without my gun. I jiggled and juggled the plane, trying to get the mag to slide over to within reach. Finally, I pulled out my six-gun and kept it tucked under my thigh for the ride home.

It was better than nothing.

I was one pissed-off dude by that point.

***

We threw a little party for the whole camp.

"How can you tell the German officer from the British officer?" the riddle went.

"The British officer is the one with the umbrella," came the laughing reply.

"A Britisher walks into a bar, with a monkey on his shoulder. The bartender asks, 'Where did you get that ugly thing?' and the monkey replies, 'I got it in England.'"

The jokes were flying fast and furious.

"And if little girls are made of sugar and spice, and everything nice, why do they smell like anchovies?"

Hoots and hollering, whistles and catcalls. As for me, I was grinning so hard it hurt.

"If a light sleeper sleeps lighter with the light on, does a hard sleeper sleep harder with a window open?"

More hoots.

"My physician has provided me with something called 'Preparation F,' I asked him what became of preparations, 'A-through-G?' But all he would tell me, is that now I can poop with confidence!"

Oh God, that voice, that accent!

"A woman accosted me on the street. She told me she would give me oral sex for a pound," he went on without pause or rest. "I asked her what do I get for fifty pounds?"

The room was very quiet now, as everyone strained to catch every word, every inflection.

"'Why mister, I would do just about anything for fifty pounds,' she replied. I said, good, come over and help me to paint my house..."

We all broke up in a huge roar.

"A little boy goes into the bathroom while his mother was having a shower," Aweemowep started another one. "'Mommy, what's that?' he asked, pointing at her crotch. Unable to think what to say, she tells him, 'Mommy and daddy were fighting and daddy hit her with an axe...'"

We're all laughing like idiots.

With deadly accuracy, and unerring timing, he hits us again:

"And the little boy says, 'What, right in the cunt?'"

The place went nuts.

It was amateur night in the mess, and this guy was so good we broke the rules about 'fraternization,' between enlisted men, NCOs and officers. Normally, 'ne'er the twain shall meet.'

'East is east and West is west,' that sort of Kiplingesque, Khyber Pass thing. Well, there were other reasons for separate messes. He had a glass in his hand, and swallowed the contents at a gulp.

"Two men were sitting on a ship and it caught on fire..."

Aweemowep began another round.

"A Catholic priest went up and down through the salon, saying in a firm voice, 'do not panic, everything is under control'...the one fellow says to the other, 'why do we need a Catholic priest at a time like this?' and the second fellow says, 'Oh, I think he used to be a fireman...'"

That room just broke up! This guy was bleeding hilarious. It probably helps that most of his audience members have had a couple of drinks, and don't get out much.

We were cooped up when the weather was bad, one good reason of many to break up into smaller camps. I should send this guy on a tour. I should tell the general about him.

He had a million of them. I wish I could remember them all, like when he said he joined the Royal Army, 'in order to get off of disability.' Or when he said the officer class was, 'a product of too much inbreeding.'

"The boy says, 'Mommy, where do babies come from?' and she says, 'The stork.' The little boy asked her, 'So who fucked the stork?'"

He warned us, after the war, when we got home, "Remember, the next time you shoot someone, you could get arrested."

Some kind of social commentary there.

"The Last Supper is the sacrament administered to a dying Catholic," you had to hear it in that pedantic, Indian-Oxford accent.

"A home is where you live with your loved ones and a house is a big mansion on a hill where there is plenty of trouble."

Oh, Jesus, people were falling in the aisles! They were rocking back and forth on the floor, holding their sides!

"Henry the Fifth was a good king, only like many other kings he went mad. Edward the Third would have been King of France if only his mother had been a man. The Romans made their roads straight so that the Britons could not hide around the corners."

Stop, stop. Just stop.

"In the middle ages the Pope had very great sexual powers..."

Holy cow, this bugger just don't quit, but it's the speed of delivery that cracks you up.

The man just keeps hammering away, and if the one don't get you the next one will, or the next.

"In a recent survey of homosexuals, ninety percent figured they were born that way and the other ten percent figured they got sucked in..."

The room was bedlam, but he kept going on, and on, and on...

Roars of laughter. I just had to get out of there. That man could warp your mind.

I swear to God. I had to run from the tent, and that hypnotic voice. I have never seen anything like it, before or since. Funny thing is, you forget what he said almost as soon as he said it.

A roar of laughter as I walked away, and I overheard, "...where are you measuring from?" and another huge roar.

What the hell. They earned it.

The thoughts rolled around in my mind. Another figure materialized at my side as I fumbled my way through the sudden darkness.

"I recognize what you were doing there," said Dr. Scolz. "Thank you for letting me observe."

I remained silent, for I have that right. He went on, uncomfortable with the quiet, as psychiatrists often are.

"That seems like an excellent way to break down class barriers," he informed me and the lowering night, black with mist and overcast and puffing breezes left and right.

"There's a real bond there. A camaraderie," he added.

He would probably like the way I re-frame every failure. One of the keys to my success.

"I thought we could use a bit of a party," I stated neutrally.

Doctor Scolz followed me into the command tent.

"So anyway, how are you today?" he asked earnestly.

"Fine, fine, Doc," I waved him to a seat, and I could have been wrong, but it sounded like he muttered, sotto voce; something like, "So we're still in denial, then...?"

He whipped out a little book and made a notation.

Every day, and in every way, things just kept getting better and better. Now, this guy was all personality—and you can quote me on that.

"What are you working on now?" he asked.

Oh. Damn.

"Well, I'm going to write up instructions to paint the leading edges of my plane yellow. I want all the struts filed to an aerofoil shape, sanded with two hundred grit, then four hundred, then eight hundred, and then sixteen coats of hand-rubbed lacquer."

He nodded.

"I also have to begin sending a few men on leave," I sighed. "I have so many men, we'll be sending some who've been with us less than two weeks, and some others who have been with us right from the start. Doesn't seem fair, but I can only spare so many at a time."

So many from each section; mechanics, pilots, troops.

"He's pretty funny," said the shrink.

"Yeah, Doc. He's got the second biggest inferiority complex in the world, and he's wildly overcompensating. But that's not my fucking job, not my problem. If his buddies, or if his wife can handle it, so can I."

He regarded me soberly.

"He knows his audience," I said. "He thought I was a junior pilot. He walked in, saw all those British officers, all those men. And he figured, 'I'm sunk.' And then he thought, 'in for a penny, in for a pound...'"

"What about you?" he inquired.

"I think he's going to pull it off," I admitted. "Whoever would have thunk it?"

This man could analyze the hind leg off of a dog.

A little advice to the unwary would be in order.

Do not give in to the temptation to tell a shrink, 'I like to dress up as a wolf in old woman's clothing and eat little girls.'

They will take it literally and send you for a long period of, 'observation.'

It's a waste of your time, trust me. I've been there.

"Why don't you tell me?" I glowered.

There's work to do, couldn't he see that?

"You seem a little insecure," he noted. "In this society disabled people have to become overachievers in order to have a level playing field."

"Who's disabled?" I asked.

What was I supposed to say?

'You seem well educated?'

"How is your back?" he countered.

"I suppose I can't keep any secrets around here?" I glowered some more.

He studied me, a specimen, or something.

"Tell me, Doc, was I expected to set up a nice, safe and cozy little training field; and then putter around, just killing time until the war was over?"

No response. He just stared at me.

"Look, either the Air Ministry has no ideas of their own, and they're desperate, or maybe I just had a hell of a good idea. And who better to try and carry it out?" I asked.

No one else need take the risk.

"I'm not debating that," he murmured calmly and coolly. "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger."

"St. Paddy's day is long over," I told him. "That German philosopher ripped him off and now everyone thinks he said it first. But I can pronounce, 'St. Paddy,' and I can't even spell that other guy."

"A man of enormous courage," he noted inconsequentially. "Well, as long as you can continue to adapt, improvise and overcome, your squadrons will do very well."

He was quiet for a brief moment, lost in thought.

"As for the Air Ministry, they've never run up against anything quite like you," he allowed, and then he got up and left without further ado; except for one murmured remark as he turned his back. "It is the hardest thing to be accepted around here."

As he left I called after him in some desperation.

"Hey Doc, how do you recycle a condom?"

He turned, standing there patiently. I could see him thinking, 'You can't recycle a condom...'

"Turn it inside out and shake the fuck out of it," I barked, almost doubling up in laughter.

This guy pissed me off to no end. His face went all red.

"That is not particularly funny! Think about the girl, and the fact that she might get pregnant," he scolded with white-lipped fury, and then he visibly controlled himself.

Get real. Every joke has a victim, buddy. It's part of the format. I just wanted him to take things a little less seriously. Hell, even once in a while would have been nice.

You would have to be some kind of masochist to want his job. Just an observation.

He brushed by another figure as he left.

Howard-Smythe came in.

"Priceless," he noted. "What's up? And did you see that act with Carson and his boys...?"

There's one in every crowd, sometimes two or three.

"I've ceased to be amazed at what little excuse it takes to get a man to dress up as a woman," I told the Adj.

Time to move on with our business. The weather could clear up anytime.

"Excruciatingly funny, though," he guffawed. "Did you see when someone took a photo?"

If I was him I'd burn that. The last thing you need is to have someone get hold of that picture.

Imagine your grandkids asking, 'What did you do in the War, grandpaw?' and then someone whips out that photo of you in drag.

"I find myself confounded by this McGill business," I admitted to the Adj.

"Ah, yes," and he went to the filing cabinet. "It's a strange one, with controversial implications, and a hyper-sensitive dependence on existing conditions."

"You've been talking to that shrink again," I sighed.

"The quintessential complainer," he judged.

"We're opening up a whole new can of worms here," I started off, opening up the folder.

***

According to the report, McGill took a plane, not his own, but one of the SE's up for a 'test' flight.

A nice easy daylight patrol over several of our 'dromes.

To my mind, this was a good thing. Men got more hours in the air, and there is no substitute for hours of experience. They got to try out different machines, and the SE was a real thoroughbred compared to the hacks we usually let him and some others fly.

With no dual-control trainers, it showed confidence. It was valuable experience for a new pilot to drag a winger up on some semi-official, voluntary patrol.

At 20,000 feet, he and his buddy got lucky and came across an Albatros, the C-VII variant. This was a two-seat reconnaissance and light bomber aircraft. Somewhere in the fight, his Lewis gun, mounted on the top wing, came loose as he rolled inverted for reasons which were unclear. The gun whacked him right on the noggin. He blacked out, spinning out of control, with his bewildered wingman following him down and keeping a watchful eye in case of enemy fighters; all the while hoping and praying McGill would pull out.

Which he did, at a height of less than five hundred feet. According to McGill, he was still unconscious. He had a real welt on him.

"A head like a half-chewed caramel," I told the Adj.

Howard-Smythe nodded seriously.

"McGill wasn't too good-looking to begin with," he mentioned.

I grinned, but he wasn't as near as funny as Aweemowep.

'Be careful who you follow,' as the comics say.

McGill was claiming that the plane 'pulled itself out,' and it was technically possible.

Falling from that height, his wingman's report confirmed the climbing and diving of a plane flying on its own. Assuming they didn't hit the ground too soon, an airplane will sometimes recover itself. We had a report, early in the war, of an enemy machine making a perfect touchdown on an Allied aerodrome, and the pilot and observer had clearly both been dead for quite some time. The fuel tank was bone-dry.

In combat, I once observed a plane, looping, and looping, and looping. That guy must have been dead. Really; it's just a question of how much altitude it gains or loses as it climbs and dives. How much fuel is in the tank? Will his frozen hands fall off the stick?

The problem with McGill's report; was that we couldn't quite see how it happened. I don't know if you know anything about the Billy Bishop controversy. He had a machine gun fall off of his plane in mid-flight. It happened on the mission where he earned the Victoria Cross. Some people used it as an excuse to carp, to cast doubt on the whole thing. Jealous, bitter, miserable little people, I might add. Billy did us a favour by taking some of my students into his shooting school. Part of the problem of perception was that Billy took off on his own and did it purely as a kind of stunt, I think.

Perhaps we could return the favour in the best possible way. At the unofficial inquiry, there were one hundred and eighty-seven witnesses who weren't there. They spent one-point-six million pounds, and it was, 'inconclusive.'

It was a kind of make-work project for flunkies; none of whom would have the balls to make the final call, one way or another.

"Put a fucking SE upside down on some big horses, or A-frames, or something. Use McGill's...or whoever's plane," I ordered.

"Maybe we can get to the bottom of it," he agreed.

"I have a theory," I vowed. "We'd better hang on to this report for a while. Tell them guys not to talk about it. If they haven't blabbed it all over the place already."

Time to put it to the test.

"There's a big spider in here," the Adj muttered, looking askance up into the corner of the tent.

"Spiders are cool," I grunted. "Let him live a little longer. They eat ticks and fleas, chiggers, lice, cockroaches, biting flies...you name it, and they eat it."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Machine-Gun Mystery

It's disturbing; the way military decorations are so coveted by men. Billy Bishop, by some accounts, was a very ambitious young man. So what? So am I. But I have often wondered if the intimidation of class-conscious British society was a factor in his psychological make-up. All of us arrived there at a young and rather impressionable age.

Guys like Bishop, or Major William Barker, coming from the Dominions; sometimes found that the Brits didn't take them too seriously; or treated them as unwashed and unwelcome.

The desire to wipe someone's face was overwhelming at times. Society has few outlets for the naturally-aggressive person. There's hockey, of course, but there is also hunting, or business, or other, 'games,' for want of a better word.

For myself, there is no substitute for physical action.

It's perfectly understandable why fighter pilots over-claim. When everyone else in the room has an exciting story to tell, you have to compete for attention and recognition. And for the most part, pilots are driven individualists. A certain very confident personality type.

What happened to Bishop's machine gun? He was flying a Nieuport, a scout aircraft, returning after a middle-of-the-night, solo attack on a German aerodrome. It fell off.

He said it got stuck, in the pointing-up position, right in front of his face. He rolled the plane inverted, gave it a yank and jettisoned it. It's a real pain in the ass to try and fly like that. I don't even want to try it. You don't want to land at night with that up there!

Too much chance of smashing all your teeth out.

If I had to dismount a machine gun in mid-air, I would remove the firing cable.

No sense having the gun flopping around still attached to the aircraft.

I would put the safety on.

No sense in having it whack the tail and let off a round or two into the back of your head as it flies away. I would remove a clip that held the gun to the mounting quadrant.

Bearing in mind that the SE-5a's we were flying, and the Nieuport, each had different types of mount.

If that gun was stuck in front of my face, I would indeed have rolled inverted and hoped it fell off. In order to mount the gun on an SE-5, the gun was placed in this position, then slid up into its forward-firing position. This was the only position safe to fly; in almost any condition except instant use against an overhead enemy.

Personally, I never tried to use the gun in this position, and never flew the Nieuport.

You can see the mount in photos, in any popular (bad) history book. The gun would have been installed by ground personnel standing beside the plane. For the Nieuport, they used a small stepladder.

If Bishop rolled inverted, and put in a little down-stick, the gun should have sailed off into space, arguably with enough momentum to rip the cable loose.

A trained gunner on the ground could have put a tight little grouping into his rear fuselage. This might have happened while the plane was in a stalled state, or perhaps climbing out; and thus it would have had little forward motion relative to the ground fire. He might have been upside-down when it happened. Even on an aircraft, entry holes can be distinguished from exit holes. The ground experts couldn't come up with anything other than 'inconclusive.'

One of their theories was that he landed at a French aerodrome, and shot up his own plane! That would have been an unnecessary complication. Their theory was that he couldn't get the gun mounted again. If he really wanted to fake it, all he had to do was to fly around in the dark for a couple of hours, dump his war-load and come home.

Nobody is that fucking dumb.

Someone would have remarked upon it sooner.

If it were put to a vote, most people would prefer Billy to remain a hero. The fact that a man can even consider whether he is worthy of receiving the Victoria Cross says something about his makeup, his personality. Most guys were concerned with making it through to another day. And just staying alive.

Did Bishop get up in the morning and say to himself, "Better get a couple more kills, or the buggers will never give me my VC?"

All I can say as a disinterested observer is, "Blow me."

You can quote me on that.

Did Bishop come up with the idea, 'Hey! I know what! I'll just go over there and bomb that little aerodrome single-handed? Then they won't be able to deny me my VC?'

'Blow me.'

Is bravery the absence of fear? Or is bravery when a man is scared shitless, and goes over the top when ordered, or asked, by his commander?

What is courage? In the final analysis, a hero is a man who had no choice but to act, when other guys preferred to stay in bed or just plain keep their heads down. How comfortable was Bishop, as a man inside of his own skin? Did he prize the truth, more than he wanted the VC?

A guy called 'Pappy' once told me, "If they knew what a louse I was, they never would have made me a hero."

Now that guy had a sense of honour about the truth. A sense of humour. He knew there were more deserving men than him. Did Bishop ever ask himself that? I wonder.

I have asked myself that question.

The answer is, "Of course," but I can't speak for Billy.

Not really.

Those little details, and I think people were just jealous.

So in addition to planning and launching the sound detector mission, we had to figure out the machine gun mystery. First the science. We took twenty-five guys and flipped the plane over, which we had to do nose first, then we lifted it up onto some big sawhorses a carpenter-type whacked up. We had the plane inverted, in a nose-up position.

We put the rear fuselage in a padded cradle. The time-consuming part of the operation was draining the fuel, the oil, and the coolant. Better than having it splash all over the place. We used a lot of sawhorses and a lot of pillows for padding under the wing.

Then Howard-Smythe and Bernie took turns. We had the gun in the forward position, and they used a walking stick, which was fashion in those days, and spent minutes at a time poking and prodding at the muzzle of the gun.

A mechanic brought a piece of soft iron baling wire, and some hockey tape.

"Give me the stick, Bernie."

I tied the wire in a loop on the end of the stick and taped it for security.

Carefully, bending under and forward, I unlatched the gun, and with some beef to it; pulled the gun into the loading position, and pretended to switch magazines. Then I shoved the gun back into its level firing position. One could hear the little 'click' when the spring-loaded pin snapped into position. A wedge of metal on the carrier pushed it out of the way, and then it would snap in. The wedge acted as a safety catch. There was another pivoting pin, and an arm, and a cable to release it when the need to re-load arose.

On some Nieuports, as I recall, there was no rail, the gun just pivoted directly on a mount. A cable went to the front of the wing. You had a whole different system. Yet the basic 'machines' were simple; i.e. a wedge, (inclined plane,) or a pivot, (pulley,) etc; were common to both mounts. The Nieuport cable pulled on the end of a lever—another example of a simple machine. The lever mounted on a pivot and was bolted to the gun. The threads of a bolt—you guessed it, an inclined plane. There were common elements.

"Bear in mind that the slipstream would be a hundred miles per hour." I noted for the men gathered to watch this interesting sight. "Adj, slip the loop over the end. Now wiggle it around in big circles."

With the end of the stick knocking and clunking, the gun wobbled back and forth a good two inches either way at the barrel tip.

I used another length of baling wire to hook on to the gun from a position behind the cockpit, and got a mechanic to yank on it intermittently.

Murphy's Law states, 'If something can go wrong, then sooner or later, it probably will.'

"Give it some fairly hefty tugs," I suggested. "It kind of pulsates back and forth, around and around," I explained. "It also goes back and forth a little, and up and down a little."

We were just considering whether or not to raise the nose of the plane on some higher saw horses when suddenly the thing let go with a 'clunk.' The gun slid backwards along the track, upside down and hit with a wham! It rocked back and forth considerably.

"Holy shit!" said the mechanic.

"The fuckin' thing practically came off in my lap," he added, as he was standing right there.

"What is amazing, is that it stayed on at all," noted Bernie.

Stepping forward as one, the gun hung there, upside down and muzzle pointed at the dirt.

"The track isn't bent at all. Well; a little kink, maybe," said Bernie, and we all saw it. "If it came back with much more force, it would have fallen right off. It looks like the carrier is spread."

Under those kinds of forces the track was far too flexible. It whipped from side to side maybe two to three inches.

It turns out the little sliding carrier that bolted to the gun lug was a casting. Due to the initial batches being brittle and easily snapped, the manufacturer fiddled with the metallurgy and made it softer. That little casting, with its squared off 'C' shape, was all that held the gun in place on its 'I' beam track. The gun bolted through a lug in the casting.

"If the muzzle swung to one side, it might have just jammed in the track, and it would have been immovable," was my own conclusion. "On the Nieuport, it could have just twisted the mounting lug. If it wasn't latched properly, this could happen when the plane was right-side up, as well!"

It would have had the same effect.

"We'd better write up a memo to all our guys on this one," I told the Adj. "It would have been better to machine this from the solid."

And we're not sure which type Billy had, either.

"Yes, sir," he said cheerfully.

"The missive to the Air Ministry will have to be very detailed and very specific," he informed us. "And very diplomatic."

"Make sure you describe our test, and suggest they try it out on the Nieuport," added Dawley, as Bernie nodded his approval.

"I can rely on you," I agreed.

Why fight it? He was the best man for the job.

There you have it. The gun worked itself loose. It just sort of ratcheted its way, especially when the barrel was swinging from side to side; with the airstream pushing back. We figured a little wear on the wedge, a spring-pin a little worn, or a little weak, or not quite seated-in properly. Who knows? Perhaps a little burr inside the hole, working on that pin in a side-to-side motion. We had just proven something. And with Howard-Smythe and Bernie to write up the reports, I was pretty happy with the whole thing.

With my education no one ever believes a word I say, at least among, 'Higher Authority.'

Billy and I were even. A cheap and effective, 'thank-you.'

"Okay, boys, put her right side up again," and we left it to Jaeckl and the others to return our plane to service.

"Why do you think McGill went upside down?" asked Bernie.

One final aspect of our little mystery remained to be cleared up.

"This is where the all-important psychological aspect comes in," I decided. "McGill probably just got a little disoriented, or better yet the plane was at a high angle of attack and it simply stalled. He can't even account for it, or won't admit that he could have made a mistake. He was already disoriented when it happened."

The little Belgian nodded in comprehension.

"That's even easier at night, if you think of Bishop's case," I added. "He was probably side-slipping, and it just wedged itself in the track. He must have given it a hell of a pull, and when it came off, fuck! I'll bet he felt some real relief."

It was only when the questions started, that he ran into trouble. If a cop asks you enough questions, sooner or later, there will be one you just can't answer.

And then you're just plain fucked.

"I'm convinced," I told my brother officers, as we trudged along.

"The sky is a huge and empty place, encompassing vast liberties for the soul," Bernie noted philosophically. "But only for the truly adept."

You got that right, Buddy. Nice thing about Bernie, he makes a nice, highly-credible witness.

***

Speaking of the adept, our next operation involving the sound-detectors went off fairly well. It's hard to say if it had any real military value, or if it just proved a point.

On this one we used the terrain in a whole new way. The enemy lines were across a wide valley, at the bottom of which was a stream. Into that stream drained tributaries, each running in its own little valley. These eventually sloped up in snaky turns to the flat plains above. It was a 'dissected till plain,' or whatever. The side gullies were separated by long, knobby fingers of land. The tops of them were level with the surrounding countryside.

Bernie brought in a big flatbed lorry and ceremoniously presented us with a pair of Hanriot aircraft. We put a big crew on it, supervised personally by a man from the factory. We mounted 130-horsepower Clergets on them. These tiny planes would be good for short-range strafing missions of a pin-point nature.

A 'surgical' operation.

Captain Dawley's map showed a stream coming in from the west-north-west, and then draining generally east, tending to the south-east. The opposing armies were encamped and dug-in on the high ground, looking at each other across this water barrier.

In some of the side valleys were ponds, swamp, spring-fed pools of water; and in the bottomland, a flat floodplain of dead, brown marsh grass, although a few shoots of green would be in there amongst the shell-holes by now.

All of this was easily swept by machine guns. No-man's land was a morass.

The enemy sound-detectors were set up on the points of the fingers of land, maybe a mile and a half to two and half miles apart. There were strands and clumps of forest, where peasants once gathered firewood. The sound-detector crews had their own vehicles and tents, a nice little set-up. They looked very comfortable.

If a number of them could get a good 'fix' on our engine noises, especially when engaged in takeoffs or landings; they could find us pretty easily by triangulation off of a map. They would send every bomber, and every plane they could scrape up if that happened. A little creative thinking was in order.

"So two planes attack each target, at sunset," and everyone at the briefing nodded.

"Two Hanriots, due to their small size, should be good for the first one on the north-west," I allowed. "I'll take one and Duzek, you've been plaguing me, you can fly the other one."

Duzek was from Canada, and we flew together from time to time.

"We plan on attacking these four here, in Captain Dawley's drawing."

I passed it around; "We'll have top cover provided by six Camels from the Jocks, and six SE's from the Angels."

The boys in the tent looked on and listened with rapt attention.

"Essentially we have a pair of Jocks, they take on the second one, a pair of SE's take on the third one, and the Shagbats get the last target. That way we all take a share in it. If we go in as a group, parallel to the lines, our Biff gunners can strafe the Hunnic hordes all the way along, and keep their heads down until we peel off in turns."

"I won't tell you your jobs, but I plan on going in fast, and low, and hard. Out of the setting sun, just when they think they should be packing up and going home for the day."

The German machine gunners were used to targets that walked towards them at twelve paces to the minute; not traversing across their front at a hundred-something miles per hour.

"I'll bet a hundred bucks they don't lead their targets, us; by anywhere near enough to hit anything," I confidently offered, but there were no takers.

The Biffs would strafe the trenches with their front guns going in, but they had to conserve ammo for the targets. An aircraft up close and personal can be a daunting thing. The lower and closer to their faces we could get, the better. Most of the infantry would have their noses in the dirt. Actually, it's not a question of money. We were betting our lives on it.

"It is going to piss them off," I concluded. "Cherry Bomb, take target number two, Excalibur, number three, Bronco Bill number four."

They have those crazy names painted on their planes. And for one brief, split second of time, I had my doubts. Not about the mission, but about the whole damned war, the sheer ruddy childishness of it all. I pushed those thoughts aside.

"Anything else?" asked Howard-Smythe.

"Six pounds of bacon, and about thirty-two eggs," I muttered. "Have Cookie fire up about a half-hour from now."

He nodded soberly.

"Is that enough for ten guys?"

No answer. Dead silence.

We made our approach at low level, sneaking down a small valley on our own side.

Then we made a hard turn to the right at very low altitude, perhaps thirty to fifty feet. The wingmen, who were on the left, had to take the high side. The leader determined the speed and 'lowness.'

I tried something new, something I'd been thinking about for some time. A few of my pilots were taught to shoot by Billy over at Narborough. Not to take anything away from Billy, but some of his tactics were a little out of date.

I figured we should evolve continuously.

So; I tried a new thing. When I came to the hillside on the enemy side of the valley, sure I pulled up, but this time it was a very different technique. I came arcing in low, coming at the finger of land from the side, instead of head-on. I went rolling over in a sort of 'axial-roll attack' as I pulled up and over.

Honestly, it was no concern of mine if the winger, in this case Duzek; followed.

He knew the plan, so he could stay out of the way.

I fired inverted at the enemy, and when safely going down the other side of the hill, I rolled out and continued on towards the next hill. Only then did I speed out into the valley proper, and reverse the turn, to come at the target again. Those procedure turns come in handy. Ninety to the right and two-seventy to the left.

Hah! Duzek was doing it his way! Can't say as I blame him, but he'll at least divide the opposition. He was flying 'Wild Thing,' the other HD-1.

The theory as visualized; was that the big threat was from underneath. This way I could see the terrain, and it was easier to 'pull' the plane than to 'push' it. It made a tighter turn, closer to the ground, and I could see more; and I didn't worry so much about the engine conking out.

I made three inverted-gunnery passes at the sound-detector, the tents, the latrines, and horse-drawn wagons. The Fritzies were all in their holes. It's pretty easy. Just zoom straight at the wall of earth and grass and shrubs dead ahead of you, pull back, and roll with the ailerons, shove just a bit of down elevator into it, then fire the gun. Zoom past the isolated hilltop, plunge down the other side, rolling out and down and across the valley beyond. I whooshed through the air and did it again, then we turned for home. And now Duzek would go home, and he would tell two friends. They'll tell two friends. No one can hold a candle to me when it comes to unusual attitudes. It pays to be able to shoot from any position, any range, any attitude. The reason I sent guys to Billy was because I didn't have the facilities, or the time. Now they could figure that out for themselves.

The Germans would go home and tell two friends as well.

It went off pretty well, although we all took hits through the airframes.

Big Bill Arnold got shot through the wrist, and so he went to the hospital.

Ultimately we lost him from the group. A couple of other guys had various nicks and scratches, due to small arms fire. Fragments more than anything. The Doc pulled a funny-looking chuck of something out of Patrick's leg, one of the Biff gunners.

In some strange twist, Patrick had just taken out life insurance, or so he kept telling us.

We figured the bullet shattered on something, then went on to do other harm. To make a long story short, we knocked them all out, made it home fine and dandy, and then we really confused the Boche by moving all our operations to our third field.

Like I said, it all seemed so childish sometimes. The army launched their abortive little counterattack, and we got a nice little thank-you note and stuff like that.

We might have saved a few lives here and there.

***

Some of the others were worried about me.

The pain was pretty bad. Since I obviously couldn't hide it from people like Bernie, the Adj and the doctor, I had to be seen to rest once in a while. To kill time, I went for a walk down the laneway without even telling anyone. There was no guilt, no worries, I knew I had an hour or an hour and half, and those inevitable little crises that come up every day could be handled by any one of them. I had my walking stick.

It sure would be nice to talk to Jennifer once in a while.

***

It's all in your point of view.

The front view of a plane is a very small object. It's hard to see, and if it comes at you out of the sun, then you've had it. The rear view of a plane is the exact same size. But it's even harder to see. The rear view of a plane is all oblique angles. It literally disappears sometimes. It can have a shine to it that may not be immediately apparent when viewed flat-on, and yet on an angle it reflects a mirror-like image of the sky, becoming even harder to see.

Much has been written about aerial combat in the Great War, but by far the most dangerous work we ever undertook was low level, pin-point ground attacks against specified, high-value targets.

They knew that sooner or later we would show up.

The best way to do that was to rip out a page from Nelson's book and cross the 'T.'

Not so much in the Jutland fashion as in the Trafalgar fashion. At Jutland, Jellicoe cut across the head of the Fritzie battle column, bringing broadsides to bear on the end of a line. His battleships could fire broadsides, against a target which could only shoot back with front turrets.

At Trafalgar, Nelson split the enemy line with similar effect, using broadsides against ships anchored in a long line-up. This left one or two French ships using their fore and aft guns, the only ones that would bear, against an entire British fleet firing the usual broadsides, from both sides of the ship at once. These ideas had some bearing on what we were doing. Nelson did the small 't' as opposed to the big 'T.' This doubled his own effective firepower. I can't recall if he used two columns, but the reader gets the idea.

What this meant for us, was to approach the enemy trench at right angles. This limited the all-important exposure time where enemy small arms were a factor, and a dangerous factor at that.

The Hanriot HD-1's had a bit of a disadvantage.

They were only armed with a single .303 machine gun in the nose. However; this was usually enough to keep people's heads down on the attack approach. We did a few S-turns on the way in, firing short bursts. But the real problem was that when leaving the scene, the best thing to do was just to continue in a more or less straight path. To present one's tail to the enemy, and make the turnaround further back, behind enemy lines, where there would be fewer rifles fired at you. You didn't want to be lingering through a lazy, low-level turn directly above a trench that you had only recently strafed.

The big challenge, was that it made the most sense to strafe a trench lengthwise.

We decided to put a piece of steel plate behind the pilot's back, head, and a plate under the seat to protect, 'the family jewels.' We took off the original, stock Clergets and substituted more powerful engines. They were highly-stressed, and very experimental, but we used them on short-range missions with limited duration. We shipped them back to the factory after a ten-hour life. That was probably as safe as we could make it.

The steel was only three-sixteenths of an inch thick, but it did the job on a number of occasions. Most of the hits were on an angle. A straight-on shot would have punctured it, and small metal fragments did cause a number of injuries.

We would have liked to put more armour around the fuel tank, but we didn't have the time, or the resources. It would have required total disassembly of the front end of the fuselage, with many problems of reassembly. About all we could do about that, was to fill it up with a third or a quarter of a tank, and, 'don't mess around in the combat area.'

We screwed a simple metal plate to the bottom of the fuselage to protect the fuel tank.

A plate on each side. That's it.

For this type of work, a professional, disciplined pilot is key. We made a suggestion, to put some nitrogen gas from a bottle into the tank, and sent it off, but we never heard back. That would have helped with fires and such. The pressurization of fuel tanks would have been a good idea. Since our electric fuel pumps were working, the idea didn't get too far. The electric pumps eliminated the need to constantly pump pressure into the tank.

Just one more of our unsung contributions! It's not always about racking up a big score.

With our new, specialized, 'weapons-system,' pilot and wingman could go out, launch rockets, turn around and be back in half an hour. And they still had guns to defend themselves against enemy fighters. Them guys loved shooting up trenches now.

While it didn't put a lot of hours into your log book, the number of missions tended to mount up. It was a lot more effective use of our time and 'combat exposure,' rather than just cruising around looking for trouble.

With his twinkling green eyes, the bizarre waxed tips of his twirling moustache, the noggin-shaped head and his constant harping about using our, 'little grey cells,' in spite of all that, Bernie was a real asset. It was no problem to test the HD-1's in a new role and write up a quickie report for them guys. Tom Hastings, a 'Leftenant,' as they say in England, (and when in Rome, do as the English do,) turned out to be pretty useful too. For one thing, we couldn't spare any manpower to do Bernie's legwork. They seemed to work as a team. Apparently they saved each other's lives at some point early in the war.

We didn't have time to get too deeply into it.

***

Some things are not my fault, and there are some things I take full responsibility for.

Depression is an ugly thing. It's very debilitating. It's a kind of physical ailment. It can go on for days. Sometimes you make a joke, and laugh, and then someone pipes up with, 'sounds like you're feeling better,' and then for some reason it all comes crashing down again.

Depression feels uncomfortably numb.

Getting up in the morning was a bit of a chore. It was like flogging a zombie from the bed, to the 'bath,' and then to dress. I seemed to be moving a little slower in my old age.

No one has a perfect life. I had that all figured out by age twenty.

"Someday you'll look back on all this and laugh," said Howard-Smythe.

He had, 'his mother's eyes and his father's hard outer shell,' but sometimes he came across as an older brother. He was telling me to take a rest now and again.

"I understand how this is a compelling urge," he said one day early in April. "Stick-to-it-ive-ness is a wonderful thing. But you can push too hard."

I've learned to listen to guys like Howard-Smythe, even when they're wrong. But in this particular case he was dead right.

"The Baron wants your head," he added. "Like you said, it pays to advertise."

"Now you know why I let the press put my name in that story," I murmured.

"The vertical element, only not in air combat but in psychology?" he asked.

He and one or two others were really into the bull-session thing. It was a kind of recreation. With our jobs we really didn't need to play squash. Physically demanding as the flying was, it was the mental disruption we craved. We had to disrupt the obsession from time to time.

It's bad enough to be a potential trophy for von Richtofen, let alone to obsess all day long about getting him first.

I saw an article in a paper once, entitled; 'Slav versus Teuton,' and it outlined the racial basis for the war. That stuff is not well remembered.

World War One was the last 'nice' war, where there were crystal-clear moral issues.

We had to fight to save the world from Imperialism under the wrong colour of flag.

Good and evil were easy to determine. And of course the winners get to re-write history endlessly until it meets the needs of their mythology.

And so, many years later; people had no qualms about it, and in a sense, in Canada;

Remembrance Day is 'sacred,' and somehow, 'holy.'

It's an icon, and you don't mess lightly with people's icons.

It's kind of socially-acceptable ancestor worship, but don't tell anyone I said that. Tell them it's your own idea. See how they react.

There are no accidents, only cause and effect. When something happens, it is due to a chain of events, with no single event being overly significant in itself. All of the murder, all of the frightfulness of the war, all the 'schrecklekeit' was no accident. The evil that men do lives on long after they have gone. That's quite a legacy. Guys like Hindenburg, Von Bismarck and yes, a few people on our side; built that legacy. Klausewitz, von Metternich, you know them guys. Cecil Rhodes, Lord Kitchener, 'Chinese' Gordon.

Guys like that piss me off.

In the years past, it was their hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears, wants, and needs.

Their courage, cowardice, sense of duty, honour, vanity (and all is vanity,) and integrity. Greed is not a family value. Pigheadedness is not a policy. Bigotry, prejudice and hatred play a role in fucking up the world in any given era.

Look where it got us. Look who's in charge now. If they had brains they would be dangerous. Keep that in mind.

Keep in mind that no fame, no fortune is worth losing oneself.

Pain is quickly forgotten, no matter how agonizing, no matter how excruciating, the memory fades. That is merciful, or that is a 'survival mechanism,' whichever you prefer. Constant pain, as in a back injury, can be pretty demoralizing.

It's all just a 'narrenschiff,' a ship of fools.

Some will be offended by this attitude, but I really ain't prejudiced. I try to offend equally.

"All is vanity, and a striving after wind."

That's how it feels some days.

"And hoorah for the next man to die," as the song goes.

(Tucker was obviously drunk when he wrote this. – ed.)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

What's It Going To Be?

"So. What's it going to be, then?" I asked the assembled men. "What didst thou

havest in mind?"

Black, Powell and Andrew and gazed up from their informal little conclave.

Mike Black did the talking.

"We all want to do it," he reported.

There were associated nods and grins all around the tent. Having said it before, it needs to be said again. If we are going to ask a man to die for us, at the very least he is entitled to an opinion.

You never know how it'll all work out, and you never can tell about some people.

Andrew was my best pilot, yet he didn't exhibit huge leadership qualities.

Powell soldiered on as the leader of his squadron, and they were all workmanlike and well-prepared.

It was Black who emerged as the 'political' leader and spokesman.

Andrew must have had a high opinion of himself or he wouldn't have fought so hard. He fought hard to prove he was the best, or to prove to himself that he was as good as anyone else. I never figured it out. Wildly overcompensating for the deep feelings of inadequacy. Or something.

Powell seemed content to be Powell, and nothing shook his equilibrium. I learned to live with it and gave the man an appropriate task.

"All righty, then," I noted as if for the record. "We'll play it your way, gentlemen."

"So it's on for tonight," grunted Black, seeking firm, final approval as the men began to stand up to leave.

"Yes," I agreed. "We do it tonight."

Now let Black organize these other guys. He can explain all about me, and apologize for me, and try to justify me to the other guys.

Let him take some of the heat.

It was their own fault for looking up to him in the first place, but they had to learn.

Poor old Richtofen was going to be kept awake tonight! This was a biggie, and it required a certain amount of advance planning. Half a dozen of us went to the command tent.

The plan was to bomb the enemy, 'continuously and around the clock' as best we could. We planned on using every aircraft at our disposal, and while we had some pilots who would have to sit this one out due to inexperience, it was meant as a massive insult to the Baron.

He knew we were here, we knew he was there, he knew that we knew that he knew, (et cetera,) and we had been scrapping with them for a few days now. But these fleeting skirmishes were as nothing compared to what came next. Our friends to the north and south would keep the pressure on the Boche for the rest of the day.

"Now; the Camel Jocks don't have a lot of experience bombing at night," I noted.

"That's why we should go," said Andrew. "None of us are chicken."

"I know that," I grouched.

Andrew was a very good-looking young fellow. Yet he could be obnoxious at times, and downright nasty at others. Apparently he wasn't having much success with the ladies, either. The arrogance thing only works once in a blue moon. The whole problem was one of maturity, no matter how fascinating you may actually be deep down inside.

"We have to launch our planes, one or two at a time, depending on experience, and keep planes over that aerodrome," Black said. "If that doesn't get their attention, I don't know what will."

"I've taken the liberty of ordering a case of squid," he added with a grin.

"Excellent," Bernie nodded, a similar look on his face, too.

Apparently he approved very much, but I only recently found out that his older brother was killed by Lothar.

It was more than just a job, or an adventure to him. It took some time for his inner thoughts to be made known. Some people keep it all bottled up inside, as the reader may be aware.

It was one of the worst nights in my life. My back was so bad it would have been dumb to fly, and a recent bullet through the leg sort of mucked things up.

Just a flesh wound, really. It missed the right knee, missed the arteries, the ligaments and tendons, and went clean through the muscle without much ado. It did hurt like hell, and the real doctor did offer enough medication to, 'make it through the night,' as he put it. I hate pills, but sometimes you have to look beyond that.

It was necessary to let the men plan this one themselves. To show confidence in them, to let them all gain the experience and the confidence. This may sound a little cynical, but it was a way of sharing the responsibility.

"You guys do realize; that in an operation of this type, it is almost a certainty that someone will not come home."

I brought that up at the meeting.

Didn't do a bit of good. In many ways they were raw and green and inexperienced, with only a month in the line. Some guys had been flying five weeks on the Front. That's not enough time, actually, to get a picture. Not a true picture, for we were extraordinarily lucky so far. Malarkey was out of his coma. Biggsy kept the leg. Some other minor wounds. One man disappeared, probably deserted, or for all we knew got murdered on leave in Paris. There was no way to know until he was heard from, or seen again, or until his body turned up somewhere. One dead pilot. One gunner still in hospital.

A couple of other guys were in the hospital, for ailments too serious for the doctor to treat here.

Let's face it, we were very lucky. No one knew that better than I.

These guys thought they were good. For all I knew they were the best-trained pilots in the world right then, and we were still God-damned lucky.

'Die kunst ist tot,' or, 'art is dead.' Now we go by science. Sometimes it takes a long time to heal. It took me many years to heal. Not so much from my physical wounds as my spiritual ones. My mental ones for sure. The spiritual ones took a long time.

I know I will never be the same man. I can never go back. Maybe this is as good as it gets. What I'm trying to say is that maybe I am already, 'better,' now. And yet I find myself an atheist with five crucifixes nailed up on the wall.

My blood runs cold sometimes. I changed in those years.

***

Standing outside the tent in the darkness, and it was miraculous, unbelievable. The Aurora Borealis was out. I bolted back into the command centre.

"Wake up everyone in the camp," I told the Adj. "This is pretty unusual, and I'd like the men to experience this."

I had this weird feeling. It was like being a Scout-Master.

He went off, quietly arousing the camp into life. This was something many would have virtually no chance in their lifetimes to see. I was in a strange kind of a mood that night. The leg wound was down to the 'soreness' level of pain.

I was taught how it is to hate a man's guts, and I wish I had never learned that.

It was the death of my innocence, and it grieved me.

Ultimately I learned how to forgive.

Now that; is a real accomplishment.

Small groups of men stood around looking at the sky. It was a curiously muted and subdued bunch of people.

"Nature is the symbol of the power of God," I declaimed to someone next to me, as we all stared upwards.

It was Saul, looking up with mouth open and his ingenuous face totally blank, not unusually for him. Just this once he didn't try to contradict.

'Oohs,' and 'aahs,' came from the surrounding groups of men, as a bloody great swirl waved its arms at us. What I found unusual about this particular display was the crystalline nature of it. Beams of light came up out of the horizon. These beams then converged into points in the great heights of the sky. They were blue, green and yellow, while the swirls in the top of the sky were red, orange, and deep purple.

With an otherwise crisp, clean sky, and no moon, we were lucky to see this.

Some people never look up. They keep their faces to the ground. As a farmer, and as a pilot, I was in the habit of looking up as soon as I came out the door first thing in the morning. Those cones and shafts of light were amazing.

Towering pyramids in the sky, deltas and triangles, like living crystals, growing in random patterns. It was like the cone of a searchlight, only in reverse. Wide end at the bottom, narrow end at the top, extending from ground into the sky, sometimes shifting and changing and moving along the horizon. Fantastically, the beams slithered and flickered around in the heavens above. A few stars; the Big Dipper, just icing on the cake. All we needed now was a meteor shower. Like an omen, a portent.

The shape of things to come.

"Humans are not that far removed from animals," I told Chandragupta. "Women still have the nesting instinct, and men and children still have the pecking order."

"I was wondering why you were being so quiet," he answered with his quick, white-flashing grin. "You are being in a pensive mood. Do not worry, very fine they will be."

"I am feeling hopelessly anal," I quipped, and he laughed.

"You have to let them go upon their own once in a blue-cheese moon," he reassured me.

"Assembling the new airframes went rather well," he added. "I noticed that you built two or one of them yourself."

He thought for a moment.

"And you gave them then to the most inexperienced pilots! Why was that?"

"I didn't want them to have to deal with any sort of mechanical failure, considering their limited knowledge," I said.

(Obvious, really. They didn't get the best, or the newest, or most powerful motors.)

"A specialist is someone who knows more and more about less and less, while a general knows less and less about more and more," Chandra said.

"I'll be careful," I chuckled. "Jerk of all trades, and master of none!"

This was so much better than sitting around a smoky tent and reading week-old grubby newspapers. Or worse, those horrible, whining and complaining and sentimental and so-fucking-maudlin letters from home. We used to have someone play a violin, some real sad music when we read them.

"How would you describe this?" I asked Howard-Smythe, first making sure he was looking my way.

"Surreal. Sublime," he muttered in acknowledgement.

"Real twilight of the Gods stuff?" I asked.

"Yes! Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"I have a question, Howard-Smythe," I asked.

"What is it?"

Let's not get into that one again.

"What do they do in England, when they're teaching kids the alphabet, and they get to the letter 'r'?"

A couple of the guys were Canadians. They laughed and laughed and no one else had a fucking clue; of what the hell I was talking about.

"Copper wire was invented by two Dutchmen fighting over a penny!" said Howard-Smythe, who had just been reading 'Punch.'

"Who owns that gramophone?" I asked the Adj.

"We do, actually. It's a perk."

I figured it was stolen! Can't take my eyes off these boys for a minute.

"Find something suitable to play, and fire it up about half an hour before takeoff...i.e. right about now," I suggested.

"Gotterdamerung, baby," he joshed.

We didn't have Wagner's, 'The Ride of the Valkyries.'

Too bad, really. I would have liked to have been the first. We had lots of records, though. Tons of the things. The man on the machine played marches, he played popular songs. He played Christmas music, he played opera, he played every recording we had by the time the night was over.

Waltzes, foxtrots and Highland reels.

Bagpipe music.

That almost made sense.

Just this once we didn't overly concern ourselves with the enemy hearing us.

Every so often a plane would land, and taxi back in, and then figures assisted the man out. Hands would fill the tank, clean it up, push it forward again. More hands would clean the guns. More hands would load the guns. Hands would drag bombs forward on carts.

Shoulders, hips and back, legs and feet, would lift those bombs from a doggie position. A man with a bomb on his back. It is an interesting feeling as CO to stand and watch something like that. Hands would push and pull it into position and lock it there securely, and a grateful doggie would crawl back out from under the wing.

***

We had a nice pond at this field. It was just through the woods, a hundred yards away, over a light rise in the ground. The beaten-down path was easy to follow. To step off the trail was to crunch on dead leaves. Long grass and dead twigs tugged at the bottom of my pant legs.

There was a millpond, a broken water wheel, with a thin trickle of water from the head, falling through long trails of algae. From time to time the wild scene was lit by lurid flashes from the horizon. Pulling out my new pipe, a birthday present from the boys, I could watch and listen from there for a while. It was going to be a long night.

Crunch, crunch, crunch...something this way comes.

Two engines fired up, and we could see shadows and beams of glaring light in the treetops. I recognized the figure by its overall shape.

Black stood by my side.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"There's no way we could have foreseen this," I admitted.

"It's like an omen," he said.

He was feeling it too. A 'fey' kind of mood in camp this evening.

"Then we'd better launch before they do," I re-affirmed.

He belched, and was silent for a moment.

"The lights of heaven are dim, but the fires of hell burn brightly indeed," said Black.

I couldn't argue with that.

Like the first hint of a distant thunderstorm, the air was vibrant and expectant with distant concussions, so faint that we could only feel them. It was warm, humid, and very dark without those flashes. His eyes gleamed, but the rest of him was just a shadow.

"After the first shot, the first explosion, those lights will go out. The sky is pretty faint. I saw that as soon as the first lantern was lit," he murmured in a kind of reverence.

It was a strange mood.

I cast my mind out into space, like some ancient Celt, a priest in the woods with the oaks and the holly. Was the Baron looking up at the sky, at exactly that moment in time?

We stood listening to a pair of aircraft slowly roar down the runway. The aircraft successfully took off and droned away into the night. Still sounding a bit tentative. Two separate and distinct entities roaring off into the darkness...tentatively.

For some reason I was all shaky and upset. Not that I let the other men see it; and it wasn't the back pain either, nor the dull aches and pains of my injuries.

The Germans, the, 'Allemagnes,' would have dinner. They would write letters. They would play football, and socialize with friends. They would play cards. They would listen to the gramophone.

They would have all gone to bed by ten or eleven, for the most part. Except for the 'inevitable ten percent.' The party animals would dribble in by two a.m.

Now is when the fun begins. When the last one hits the hay.

No sleep for them guys for the next two or three nights and days. That was the plan.

Day and night, around the clock.

We would go through them like shit through a goose; after a couple days of this. But then; we simply out-numbered them. How original is that?

When you put yourself in extreme situations; all your faults are shown. Like if you were unprepared. But it also shows where the problem areas lie. What did we fail to anticipate? What could we not know? What random factors might come along to fuck it all up? This evening Howard-Smythe, Bernie, Dawley, Jaeckl, they all seemed a little strung-out.

For them maybe it wasn't so bad. Coping with the stress seemed easier to the rank and file. They at least, were thoroughly trained in their jobs, whereas I wasn't. It was a lonely place, that's for sure.

Black stood there in silence. A long and unspoken moment.

He tipped his head back from time to time, easing tired neck muscles.

"Reality. What a concept," he stated firmly, then moseyed back to camp.

There came an engine in the distance. One of our boys returning.

There was a moment of tension as it moved to the wrong side, but he will figure it out. We had catechisms when we were younger. I wished at times that I had a prayer written down. It was disturbing to forget them all just when you needed them.

There's nothing worse than waiting.

'All things wait for He who comes,' which is a paraphrase but I can't remember it.

I finished my smoke by the pond. Better get back to supervising.

The gloom was somehow less gloomy right about here, and the open field beckoned. It was like a relay, a marathon. Someone popped a flare. The engine perked up and the pilot went around to try another one.

He circled to the left. First he goes half a mile, straight off the end of the field, then a one-hundred-eighty to the left, then about a mile downwind, and then he tries again. He makes his second one-eighty, and tries another approach, and this time he snagged a good one. Tiny leprechaun lights led him off the 'drome. Tuk-a-tuk-a-tuk-a-tuk the engine goes as he taxies, barely ticking over. That's a Biff. The sounds are so completely distinctive with aero engines. Every man has his place, and for some reason I never felt so useless.

'A Goddamned Figurehead.'

My back. It just plain hurt, and my leg was going numb. This may not be unusual while sitting up straight in a chair, with one's legs crossed. To be walking along and have your foot go numb right up to the hip is a tad unusual. The pain when sitting was even worse. Lying down hurt. Sitting on a cold and frozen latrine was a kind of unspeakable hell. Standing to piss hurt. Sitting at the dining table hurt.

A sign of problems with the old spinal column. That's what holds you up.

Doesn't bear thinking about, for a pilot. Someone commiserated with me, upon rejoining a group of men currently not involved in the operations at the fuel points, the re-arming points, the briefing rooms.

"I know you'd love to be up there, sir," he said. "A fan-fucking-tastic night for flying."

One of our mechanics. Pete. Sometimes when one is distracted, it's hard to find a name to go with that mug.

"Yeah, but it's the dumbest thing I could do right now, Pete," I allowed. "It will clear up in a day or two."

"And yet we all knew it was just a matter of time," a voice unseen from behind, as others talked and chatted.

Propinquity, like when you cut the deck and there it is.

The card everyone wants.

"There's a lot of crazy rumours going around," Pete revealed.

"The one about 'Crazy Jane,' that was a good one," I reminded him. "Sounds like her poor hubby didn't know his fuckin' head was cut off until he tried to sneeze."

He barked out a huge single laugh-part.

"You hit the nail on the head with that," he said. "The craziest rumours turn out to be true, sometimes."

He stood there looking sideways, but I wasn't going to enlighten him.

Two men came striding past.

"What's up?" I asked them.

"Really looks like it's bleeding there, man," one replied.

I nodded in commanding officer mode.

"Get a move on then, and thanks for looking after your buddy," I added.

"I liked working on them light boxes made of wood," Pete said a little wistfully.

Yeah, Pete was my special mechanic. I wasn't going to embarrass him by making a big thing about it; but you could look it up in the secret files at Whitehall if you wanted.

If you're willing to fill out all the right forms properly and wait long enough. There is a small nuisance fee. At some point we ran out of ideas, and we had to let him loose at a plane once in a while.

"Well, those were used in an earlier phase, on anti-Zeppelin patrols," I told Pete. "I suddenly remembered, and I thought we should give it a try. It floods a nice gentle light onto the field and it doesn't project too much into fog or onto low clouds."

Two-foot wide strips of plywood, a few brackets, a few stakes, nails, and 'voila.'

The back of our smudge pots were covered, the tops were covered, yet air came in, and the insides of the wooden angles were painted with thick coats of whitewash.

Dim, but effective.

Dumb, but effective.

"It's fucking brilliant," he told me in no uncertain terms. 'Real spy-versus-spy stuff."

He was referring to an earlier incident. Bernie and some French Intelligence types, 'Les Flics,' absolutely glommed onto some minor little idea put forth in a bull-session and, 'Voila!'

They caught themselves some pathetic little perpetrator.

Now those guys, 'les flics', thought we were a God-send, but I don't know.

The guy was caught sending signals out of his bedroom window to an enemy observer on a distant hilltop. He tried to cover up his activities by using a small light, and setting up a box-like tube on the far, opposite side of the room from the window. He forgot about the glare on the ceiling, and he had no choice but to open the curtains to signal. He got caught. His lady friend was already caught, by the opposition. She was under house arrest, most likely. She would be kept available to answer questions; probably sitting there at gunpoint in case our friend asked about Uncle Pierre's hemorrhoids, or something.

He should have painted the inside of the box black, or the ceiling, at the least. Some gendarme was walking down the street, on some cold, dark and lonely night, and a furtive orange gleam in a second-floor window on some back alley half a block away is going blink-blink-blink-blink.

Fucking idiot!

The poor man didn't have a clue that he wasn't talking to his girl. He was so innocent.

He was in deep shit. Many would condemn him, but wait until you hear the circumstances. It seems he fell in love with his cousin, a girl of seventeen. When she got to eighteen, they secretly married in a civil ceremony, bribing the clerk to keep it a secret, and he visited her once a week on Sunday afternoons!

It was just bad luck that the war intervened. The young lovers with nothing better to do, found themselves separated by the Western Front. They were waiting until she was twenty-one. Something like that. So they could tell their folks, and it would be all legal, and some such. I don't have all the details. Quite frankly, all the reports were written in French, as we weren't officially involved.

Anyway; Bernie was in a tough spot, but what can you do? It's a crime, and a capital crime at that. We kept it nice and quiet, and no one wanted to embarrass anyone else; so we had a degree of cooperation politically.

Let's just say the whole thing never got too far up the ladder. We did Bernie a favour. We strapped a chute on the man and dropped him out into the dark sky over Germany one night, and hopefully he was re-united with his girl. If the Fritzies caught him, they'd both be shot.

"Better if they shoot them, than us," is what I told Bernie!

His best bet was to lay low and try to rescue her from house arrest when he got the chance. Hide under the fucking porch, if possible. That's what I would have done. Anyhow, we gave him some money, (a lot of money,) some hard rations, and dumped him out. Poor bastard. What a man won't do for the love of a good woman. Mind you, it's worth it. Right?

The really important thing was that particular source dried up just when the Fritzies needed it most. All's well that ends well. But I must say, that poor, pathetic bastard caused us all a lot of heartaches.

He caused us a lot of trouble.

Old Bernie was awful down, but as he put it, "My hands are tied."

The truth is; it's better to throw the little ones back. I told Bernie to use that window.

"Use it and send false reports to the enemy. Why don't we just drop this kook out over Germany," I suggested and his face lit up in such sincere gratitude.

I guess you could say we became friends.

"You would do that for me?" he asked.

"Of course," I smiled in glee. "You know me."

What's next? Free shipping?

"Snotty's winger is Geoff Lang. They've been doing real well. I'll send them, and if they come back, I want you to give them the Croix the Honneur, or something," I advised Bernie. "Would you do that for them?"

"Of course," he said, absolutely without hesitation.

"Whatever the heck you guys call it. I mean the big one," I thought further. "I have a few Russian decorations that I can hand out, and I'll put them in Dispatches. Mention them by name, talk about their contributions, et cetera. At least put them in for one."

It couldn't hurt to try. I'd think of something plausible.

"I can get you a German bomber-plane if you want," he said happily. "Perhaps you could do an assessment on it, and write a report for my government? That way, we can maybe, as you say, 'skin two cats with one stone?"

Come on, Bernie. You ain't that fuckin' dumb.

Tit-for-tat. It sounds like poor old Bernie has done a little horse-trading himself.

I've always wanted a German bomber.

***

It was a tough choice.

The real doctor gave me a number of options.

"Take the pills, and stay on the ground," was the first. "Get some rest and you'll be okay in a day or two."

"Don't take the pills, fly, and make it worse," was the second. "And you could take a pill or two and fly, which I don't recommend. You'll only keep that up so long, and then you'll find yourself in big trouble."

"Or I could stay on the ground and not take the pills," I grumped.

"If you want to be stubborn," he agreed; with a tolerant grin. "Trust you to find the alternative no one else ever thought of!"

More planes revved up and prepared to take off into the night. The droning was constant, but once again we had help disguising our noises by tanks moving along nearby roads. In a sense we were covering them with noise too.

Keep the enemy guessing.

"At the very least, take something to help you sleep," he offered, big, sad brown eyes boring sincerely into my own.

"I'll think about it," I murmured. "All right?"

"I'll just leave these. They're labeled with simple instructions," and he stood up to go. "I'll be in the medical tent. We've had a few minor injuries so far."

"Thanks, Doc," I said.

It's all up to me to command, and to plan these things. But when we attempt to carry them out anything can happen. I can't be all doped up. The Commanding Officer, on the ground, has no avenue of escape. And every so often God gives you a good smack on the head.

God answers all prayers. Sometimes the answer is no.

One aircraft crashed on landing. Thank God there was no fire. Just one dead pilot.

His gunner was seriously injured. Their faces looked so pale in the wreckage. It was predictable enough. One of the new guys. His gunner was beat up pretty bad but he might make it. At first, I couldn't even remember, just who was assigned to that particular plane as rear-gunner.

Howard-Smythe was writing most of the notifications now, and I just signed them.

They came in on top of a thicket, heavily overgrown with close-set young trees. It helped to cushion the impact. The pilot, Cowings, was shot several times. He never regained consciousness after the crash.

He got a medal posthumously. He saved the gunner's life. Knowledge dispels fear, but not this time. Edward Cowings flew by instruments, in the dark, unable to see or to examine his wounds. The terror must have been overwhelming, the pain unthinkable. But he did it. They hit just thirty yards short of the field.

The road a little less traveled, it sure does have a few stones. Perhaps I needed a pill and a sleep just to disrupt the obsession and maybe even get a fresh perspective. One could only imagine how much sleep old Manfred might be getting these days.

"Gentlemen abed in England will find themselves accursed," said Howard-Smythe as he came in. "That they were not here."

"That's easy for you to say," I muttered.

"No more, no less," he admitted. "I've been thinking we need some smaller cameras, to document and analyze certain aspects..."

He was trying to distract me with cheerfulness and irrelevant stuff.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, we could have taken pictures of the broken gun carrier," he said. "Or even how we did that test. The reconnaissance cameras are useless for that type of shot."

I supposed he was right.

Howard-Smythe was an attractive character because he learned, somewhere along the line, how to listen. Which is pretty good for a deaf guy. He knew when to speak up, and when to keep his mouth shut.

"That idea of putting coloured paper on the windows of the train," he marveled. "It's awesome, simply awesome!"

We could use it as a beacon almost anytime.

"Once the boys figured out it could be done, and got some practice in night-flying and navigation, and bearing in mind it's only twenty or thirty miles each way," I ventured.

"I guess once you know what to look for, and more or less where to look!"

"It's working out well," he said. "And it's not too bright. All we have to do is beware of the night with extremely low cloud."

"A half-mile long Chinese lantern," I said. "Anyhow, tomorrow we'll have up to ten or twelve, squadron-strength fighter-bomber sweeps."

The enemy had a limited number of options. They could come up and defend their airspace, many times during the day. They could sit on their butts and wait to be bombed and strafed. Or they could come and attack us.

If I was von Richtofen, what would I do? After being pounded all night? With a number of killed and wounded? Destroyed and damaged machines, hangars, quarters, supplies, etc?

They weren't too likely to attack. Not the first night, nor the second, nor even the third. Although a heavy bomber attack at night couldn't be ruled out. That's why we were dispersed. He should call for some kind of reinforcements. But it was M.I.'s opinion that the Fritzies couldn't build them fast enough. They were running out of pilots.

Sooner or later, one side or the other must run out of pilots.

A gaggle of Gothas couldn't hit anything, except by chance.

Maybe they can hit a city like London, but not pick one field out in the middle of the night and hit it from ten thousand feet. That's nonsense. Another thing, the bombs are armed by little propellers on the front end. They have to spin up in order to arm the warhead. A low-level heavy bomber attack didn't seem too likely, although a large number of very small bombs was a frightening proposition. Especially if they landed in the right place.

Mr. Baron von Richtofen would defend. He would be lucky to have eighteen or twenty planes available tomorrow. They weren't equipped for bombing per se. His men were trained and used as interceptors.

Which means that my boys still have to take it to him.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Taking it to the Foe

Over the course of the night we took some damage from 'Archie.' We had one engine which took a couple of 12.7 millimetre bullets through the crank-case; but brought the plane home.

Each of our fields put up one or two bomb-laden aircraft every half hour.

This would really annoy the Fritzies. It only took six or seven pilots at each field, and that meant the night shift could go off and rest, and the day shift could take over for more normal daylight operations. Then it would be the turn of the afternoon shift.

Experienced pilots were dispatched alone. The less experienced followed a more senior man. The gunner in the number one aircraft had a tiny flashlight, all taped-up with hockey tape to allow a gleam of light. He flicked it out the rear every minute for the trip to the enemy aerodrome.

The second plane just had to follow the blips of light. Then, make a simple bomb or rocket attack. If the pilot was feeling confident, they could try a strafing run, but it wasn't a requirement. Just optional. While we did do some damage to the enemy, the real key was to keep him awake.

The fledglings would follow their senior home.

It seemed to be going remarkably well, and we had all the other navigation aids set up.

Not that it could have been easy. I know better than that.

A journalist is someone who has to attribute his statements to someone else. The general feeling among the men was that the ground fire was manageable, if you stayed above three thousand. The Boche might sooner or later get some cannon in there.

They didn't seem to have a problem with their missions. Losses were nowhere near what could have been expected. Going through the 'Archie' belt was as safe as anyone could make it; bearing in mind the random nature of shooting up at night, at something you couldn't see. I think the big difference was that my men were properly trained for aerial warfare, and they followed instructions. It was as simple as that!

All we could do was to sit it out, and let the men do the job they were trained for.

***

"I wish I had your confidence," I remarked to Dawley.

"As compared to what?" he countered, hunched up close to the stove.

"Well, I just don't buy it," I said. "It's hard to believe they can't reinforce."

"I'm giving you my word," he stated firmly. "Even if they could build the planes fast enough, they simply can't train a good pilot fast enough."

"After all this time?"

I was learning a lot of skepticism.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you." he vowed with confidence. "The Fritzies are in exactly the same position as we were a year, or a year and a half ago."

"You're telling me that they've improved their training program?" I said in disbelief.

"Yes. And they're also drafting replacements, and instructors, out of the schools as quickly as they can," he went on.

I chewed on that, and a mouthful of tea and cigarette.

"How many kills did you have in thirty missions?" he asked. "I know you're not one to carve notches in your gun barrel."

He went on.

"Thirteen and eleven-sixteenths. Plus a few more, that you didn't get proper credit for. Am I correct?"

"Sure. I suppose so."

"And how many in the dozen daylight sweeps since forming, 'The Damned?'"

His eyebrows rose.

"Eleven and three-eighths when we get the papers back," he pointed out.

"You've become a truly competent pilot. You understand air combat. Your men are the best-trained group on the Front at this point in time. The Air Ministry, whether it be psychologists, or the actuaries, are not the only ones capable of making a study," he revealed.

It was obvious, when you thought of it. We wanted intelligence. Military Intelligence wanted to know how we were doing.

"I figured that out a long time ago," I murmured.

Keep listening. It's a valuable skill.

"Why are they having so much trouble finding suitable candidates?" I questioned him.

"What if I told you they're drafting instructors out of the system?" Dawley responded absently, adding cream to his coffee.

"That's just crazy! The Germans can't be that stupid."

"But we can draw on the Americans, we can get Canadians, Australians, South Africans, New Zealanders. We've got all kinds of allies overseas, where they can't get at them," he insisted. "They're just plain running out of properly-trained men."

The truth according to Dawley, was that they needed their infantry in the trenches.

There was no, 'shortage of suitable candidates.' The whole German Army had a manpower shortage right now. While virtually anyone in the German trenches would have been glad to go for pilot-training at this point in the war, men were still needed in those trenches in vast numbers. One last, big offensive, in the quest for 'quick victory.'

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"They can put all the men they want in the trenches," I said. "The question then becomes, can they feed them? Interesting...interesting. And the same goes for pilots and planes."

"By extrapolation, there must be an awful shortage of farm labour in Germany right about now!" said Dave with a grin.

His explanation seemed logical enough, but I sensed a trap. We'd set enough of our own. My mouth was thick with recent sleep. I drained my tea while it was still nice and hot, then poured myself another.

"By golly, this is like a vacation," I said.

In the past day and a half I took no less than four naps. In addition to a normal shift of sleep last night. It seemed every four or five hours, I needed a nap.

"Nothing beats a good sardine," noted Dawley, as he made up a couple of plates of quick food.

"Some people call 'em pilchards," he ventured.

"It's even better when you throw them in with the stew," I suggested.

"Really? We'll have to try that next time," he said with a quick look.

Very diplomatic, old Dawley.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Major," I scoffed. "Have you tried the stew?"

He nodded glumly, idly stirring beans in a mess tin on our stove.

"Once you taste the sardine, you will imagine just what a dramatic improvement it would make," I postulated.

"Huh," he said.

Then he tasted the sardine.

"That's not bad," he said in pleasure. "Throw a little mustard on there and you have something."

"Got something," I corrected. "Throw a little mustard on there and you got something."

"Okay," he conceded.

We were taking turns teaching each other our little cultural peccadilloes.

"There's no making up for lost time," I noted.

Dawley and I took turns playing Devil's Advocate, which is kind of like Lucifer's Lawyer. It was his turn.

"The Ritter is losing time, and sleep," he pointed out. "While he's cleaning up the aerodrome, checking out equipment, and trying to find replacement pilots; he's not working on more important things."

'Like killing us,' but I didn't say it.

The Baron wouldn't be given time to think, whereas we were a little top-heavy with officers. In the background we could hear men in the next room. They were still trying to get our wireless going. We set it up on the train, received exactly one test message and then the infernal thing packed it in. Getting spares was a big problem. We ended up with about eight broken radios, most of them with the same fault as our own, a broken tube or, 'valve,' as the English like to say. That's all they could give us; broken radios discarded by frustrated operators.

"When you said the radio had a broken valve, I thought you were nuts," I chuckled. "I kept thinking, what does that thing run on?"

He laughed, wiping some guck away from the corner of his mouth.

"Squadron sweeps ten or twelve times a day," he murmured. "I really can't quite get over it."

Smaller squadrons, but used more effectively. It's only three or four missions each.

"Word is, the Flying Circus went about ten miles south this morning," Dawley continued our informal briefing.

I didn't want to get out of touch, although things were going automatically.

"They had combat with Dickenson and Wilson's boys, trying to penetrate on a major bomb party at that big battery near Eparnay. A few miles north, I think."

"What happened?" I asked.

"They got shot up pretty bad, but they managed to get about ten bombs on the target. Two planes shot down. They think they got one German plane."

He sat there thinking.

"It seems Manfred went down there, either to get some rest; or some satisfaction," he concluded. "He impresses me as the sort of person who isn't too used to having his nose rubbed in it."

"I'm real proud of Ilderim," I told Dawley. "Manfred went down there to confirm that there is indeed, something just a little bit different about us."

Dave's jaw dropped a little at that one.

He saw the combat report, a compilation of witnesses and Ilderim's own words in the hospital. We sent him back to England to get some treatment for his burns. Ilderim was at about twelve thousand feet, and holed by enemy fire in the fuel tank. A routine patrol, against a new Fritzie outfit five miles north of the Circus, who were at Cappy now.

According to him, it flared up and back, rapidly burning the fabric away by his left foot and ankle. Instinctively, he immediately rolled right and banked at ninety degrees, and then pulled the throttle back to idle. He began blipping the ignition, relieved to see the flames begin to die down rapidly. He 'mostly' shut off the fuel cock, and remembered that he had only a quarter tank of fuel. In amazement, he watched as 'some tiny little flames,' licked at his plane.

Ilderim side-slipped it down, and at the time, he was about three miles behind the enemy lines. Finding west, he put the nose down with right rudder when necessary, and tried to bring it up when necessary, but found mere rudder couldn't do it. He had to roll out level, which sloshed new fuel on the fire, bring up the nose, and roll into the sideslip again. He kept the motor running and everything! He must have been pretty busy in that cockpit.

His gunner was right with him, patting him hard on the shoulder and shouting, "Attaboy! You can do it! Keep flying the plane!"

Ilderim said it helped. Not that he needed any prodding, but it's better than some voice shrieking in mindless, hysterical fear through the tube.

He brought the plane down just a hundred yards from enemy lines. They scuttled into a shell hole, and then scooted to one farther away. They holed up there until it got dark, playing hide and seek with enemy patrols. Intermittent shellfire, the usual machine guns; probing rifle fire, trying to spook them out and encourage them to surrender.

Ilderim was badly burned, the entire left calf, his foot, all the left side of the leg. I was proud of them both, and sad to see them go. But it also felt good when he took a special moment to write me a note from the hospital.

"Thanks for training us in the sideslip."

He was a man of few words at that point.

It was some consolation. The gunner had taken a bullet through the shoulder. He had a broken collarbone, but the round hit nothing vital. Lucky man, and I was God-damned proud of them.

Outside the tent, there were voices, and then more engine noises sprang up.

I checked my watch.

"About time to go see the Doc."

***

It was as cold as a witch's tit. I was quickly shivering. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, as my dear old dad used to say. The Doc's tent wasn't too far away, but after being cooped up all day, the air was envigourating.

"Hey, buddy," I called when I walked in.

He didn't hear me. Planes were flying overhead. I repeated it firmly in a quiet second, and he came out of the inner sanctum sanctorum.

That means, 'holy place.'

"Hey, Will. C'mon in," proffering his hand for a quick shake.

Obviously, we're on his turf now.

"Your back is feeling better," he noted.

"How can you tell?"

"You can stand up straight, for one thing," he said. "Yesterday you looked like a dog trying to hump a football."

That was the difference between the doctor and the shrink. Shamans, witch doctors, head shrinkers, have no sense of humour.

"Still a lot of pain, though," I grimaced, easing down into a chair.

Sitting was still bad.

A shot of pain right in the lower guts. The hips and pelvis just ached when sitting.

"Yes. Now that the major muscle spasms are gone, that should dissipate quickly," he promised. "The bullet wound, let's see if it's dry."

I had to take down my pants for him, but it was a cursory examination.

"Let me know if it swells up, or if a lot of stinking pus comes out," he advised.

"Oh; I give it a squeeze from time to time," I mentioned casually. "Nothing much happening."

"You can decide for yourself whether to fly or not," he concluded. "Other than that, how do you feel?"

"The sleep was good," I acknowledged. "I think I'm going to have to look after myself better."

"Tell me about this girlfriend of yours," he asked, but for some reason I didn't want to talk about it.

"Not right now. Maybe next time, Doc."

I got up and left without further ado. I'm not a big fan of doctor's offices.

Another cup of tea would be nice. After the last ten days or so, I didn't have a care in the world.

***

"Any of the beans left?"

Dawley was never a pig, but someone else might have turned up. He handed me a mess tin, a flattened, rectangular pan of aluminum.

"Tell me about the trap-line theory," he prompted, re-opening a conversation that was interrupted earlier.

I gobbled a couple of spoonfuls, and then set it down for a moment.

"I'm not sure if that's the correct term," I began. "But it'll do for a start. In the boreal forest, a trap line might go on for a hundred miles. The trapper is self-contained. His home is his sled, essentially."

Dave pretended not to be listening too intently.

"Back home, I could just go out and set a few traps in my own bush."

"So you have your own forest?" he asked. "How big?"

"Not too big, maybe fifty acres," I explained. "And along the creek, that's Bear Creek, you could follow it for miles, and put in traps anywhere someone else doesn't have one."

Dawley digested that for a moment.

In England, a man who owns land is a gentleman.

"Now; old Richtofen, he's a hunter. We're using his own tactics against him. He might catch on sooner rather than later. But once he knows we're actively hunting him..."

An additional factor, the psychological one.

"Men have imaginations, animals don't," I told Dawley.

Animals have a pecking order, but only a basic, instinctive ego.

"So we use traps, and yet each and every one of our little airfield complexes really represents something completely different."

"What's that?" Dawley asked.

I slurped up some hot beans and swallowed them.

Then a breath. On I went.

"It represents a hide, like a shooter's hide. We could drive that fucker all up and down the line, if we had to. He just never knows where we'll turn up," I figured. "All we have to do is to run the bugger in shifts, and sooner or later he will get tired."

We had evolved the equipment, the training, the organization, the logistics and the administration of it all. And with official approval, we had the right to do it.

Sooner or later the Red Baron would get tired. A simple little plan.

The funny thing was, it appeared to be working. The Red Baron; and the Flying Circus seemed distinctly shy lately.

The radio squawked to life in the outer room, and we heard a muttered oath.

Someone must have had the head phones on when it worked.

I grinned at Dawley.

"It's a fucking omen," I whispered; and he laughed! "As I recall; we planned on relentless communications discipline."

He choked briefly on a mouthful of beans.

"Nice," was all he said. "Are there bears where you live?"

"Nope. Not around my place. My old man says it's been twenty or thirty years," I told him. "There's some mighty big catfish in the creek, though."

He nodded, but he didn't laugh this time. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

"Do they bite?" he asked innocently enough.

"No, but they could give you an awful nasty suck!" and he choked up again.

"That's it!" he grinned. "But it's good to see you're feeling better."

He rose to go, taking the dirty dishes with him. He could drop them off at the cookhouse, barely fifty yards away.

Years later you have the opportunity to look back and reflect on the battle, and in my opinion, this was the real turning point. I was well rested and refreshed. My mind was clear and focused. I was ready to get out there and fly again.

I was just sitting there when I heard it, a loud and distinctive, 'pop.'

Off in the distance, maybe a quarter mile.

"What the fuck?" I said in dismay.

Jumping to my feet, I grabbed a coat and rushed out the door. Someone was just firing up one of our motor bikes, so I grabbed it and zoomed off up to the west end of the field. I could see a cloud of bluish-white smoke, quickly diminishing on the breeze of early evening. It was my own bike, actually, and I hadn't seen much of it lately. A bit of a shock, but that was nothing compared to the sight that awaited.

A small crowd of men and boys were all standing there, looking stunned. I slid to a stop, the rear brake locking up as I stood on it. I lowered the bike, my heart hammering.

Damn!

"What's going on here, Carson?" I barked.

The scene told its own story.

The gun emplacement, with the crazy tilt of the Vickers on its swiveling mount. The two dead bodies, half torn-apart. Limp, bloody, rag-like structures.

Like wet dish rags.

"It must have been a grenade, sir," he said helplessly.

"Shit," was all I could say. "Shit!"

"Yes, sir..." the poor man was stuck for words, even thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Carson," I told him. "Get some stretchers and get the bodies over to the Doc."

"Yes, sir."

The poor man was standing ramrod straight, chin quivering and trying not to cry.

I beckoned to Hastings, who was just arriving.

He looked at the scene, jaw open, then raised an eyebrow to me.

"Take the Corporal for a walk, please," I suggested.

Then I turned to the assembled men, a rapidly growing, but silent crowd.

"You, you, you and you! Go to the medical tent and get some stretchers, and then bring the bodies there," I ordered.

This was a time for firm action.

"Bring a couple of engine covers," I called to their backs.

Waterproofed with paraffin wax, they were always the best thing for bodies, leaking blood all over the place.

"You, you and you, clean up this mess. Clean up this equipment."

Take charge.

"And those of you who witnessed this in any way, write it down and report it to Captain Howard-Smythe," I told them.

"Wash everything down, and clean up those guns," I ordered two nearby men. "Bury or burn the rags."

Fuck. Two more men dead, and probably a silly accident. We were all in shock.

None more than Carson, though. Some of the lads began to shuffle off to their jobs.

"Shit happens," said a voice at my elbow.

It was Bernie.

"I'll go to my grave feeling a lot better, knowing that," I told him a little unkindly.

A deep sigh, and I suddenly regretted saying that. I shouldn't have said it.

"Sorry, Bernie."

He nodded gravely in understanding.

"It's all right," he assured.

I waved at Hastings to take the bike back. We could use the walk.

"Jesus Murphy."

That's about all I could say.

It really shook us up, all of us. My little vacation was over.

***

We had the one radio on the train, and when it was working, that meant we had two.

One set on the train, and one where the main administrative staff, would hang out and hopefully co-ordinate activities. Two, or even three more radios would have been helpful. We had a few ideas on that score. Artillery spotting was not my highest priority, though.

You were very vulnerable, no matter how well protected. You were stuck for a certain time period. Literally hours at a time, in a fixed location. Bad news.

Our round-the-clock bombing campaign would peter out at midnight. Then a good night's sleep. Not just for me, but for all the men and especially all the pilots.

Richtofen and his circus clowns could think upon it, and let that feeling of foreboding develop. Let their thoughts work on them from the inside. They'd still be cleaning up and running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It would take them days to recover, merely from the logistical point of view.

We would be back in a day or so.

We would try something different again. Just keep on wiggling the bait.

Sooner or later that big old catfish would come to us.

***

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. The sunlight burst forth in a glorious fan of rays, like brazen swords thrusting up from the horizon. Every little breeze, seemed to whisper 'Jennifer.' Her name tootled around and around in my head.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

We had an unofficial padre, a real sky pilot. He said Mass in Latin, casting his magic spell. He stood in the wavery dawn light and sprinkled Holy Water on a pair of SE's. A strangely moving experience. For a moment the hair stood up on my neck. A prickly feeling. Shivery.

Those who took Communion seemed thoughtful. Here and there others played rugby, or fooled around with someone's pet goat. It's been hanging around.

Snotty stood beside me. The Monsignor reverently put away the Holy Water.

"How do they make that stuff, anyway?" Snotty asked in a quiet aside.

"Boil the hell out of it," I explained.

Snickers came from those around us. I got that joke from Peterson.

My boys are human beings. They feel fear. But they're under control, and it's with a little thrill that the sudden realization comes. We have grown up together.

"Pabsco Biscum," intoned the Monsignor, and a funny little grin stole over my cheeks.

'Go in Peace.'

Poor fella just don't get it.

We prepared to mount up.

Like rutters of old, like condottieri, the White Company, or Robin Hood and his merrye men, like King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table; in some hopeless, forlorn and idealistic and naïve and pathetic and ridiculous quest for a Holy Pail.

We are off.

I nod and the propeller is flipped over. She sputters to life, a life of her own.

The blue sky seems unusually clear. The temperature is about seventeen degrees Celsius. A simple mental computation, around sixty, sixty-two degrees. My altimeter needs a slight adjustment.

Looking over and around, it appears we are ready to go. I get waves and nods from those nearest.

Look at the gauges, check my wristwatch, then the one on the dash, then carefully roll my sleeve down to cover the wrist. Don't want any flashes there. It is really something to feel totally comfortable in the cockpit. How far we have come.

Then I gave the signal, and a flag was waved. This new innovation keeps enemy observation planes from seeing flares. The first throttle movement begins the rollout.

No flares in the day to give us away. Ones and twos, where's my shoes...?

Threes and fours, got my drawers.

A nice, simple daylight takeoff. First day back at work. Rolling out of my little bay in the trees.

Hook in right rudder, and taxi my way down the line. The warrior chieftain; taking inspection from all other eyes. Generally I look out the left side more, but you have to equalize between left turns and right turns, due to the difficulty of seeing over the nose.

It's just that my right eye isn't too good.

***

At the east end of the field, I checked up for a moment, taking a glance at the windsock. A long line-up of planes sat there, along the side of the field, waiting to follow me into the air.

"Waiting to see if I make it," is what I used to think.

Now I was flushed with boldness.

A bit of a revelation.

No signs or signals. Every engine started; no problems. That's good to know. It's good to have a firm count when I launch with a big crew. The enemy thought we needed a huge, vast, wide-open area to operate from. We were taking off from a postage stamp, a long skinny one. The wind blows straight down the runway most of the time around here.

The Baron was still playing by his old rules.

Cappy was a bleak, dismal, and ugly place in the spring rainy season. Located in the Somme Valley. Von Richtofen would take advantage of whatever lulls in the weather came along. He needed to spark his men's morale.

The winds would come up later, or clouds could lower down and obscure everything.

But psychologically, the moment was rife with possibilities.

The sunrise, now blocked by a band of charcoal clouds, was on my left hand side.

We flew south at three-quarter throttle, climbing steadily. A group of S.E.'s were right with me. The other squadrons too. All new numbers again, I might add. They all seemed to be catching up and climbing steadily with us. The battle was eight or nine miles to our left. Smoke streamers gathered into towering columns. It was possible to confirm the usual north-west prevailing wind at about ten knots, judging from the bend and angle of the columns of smoke. Another busy day. Thank God it wasn't me down there, knee deep in mud and decomposing human flesh.

Death is cleaner, more noble up here.

Shag that thought!

Like any good deer-stalker, the last of the Mohicans, we must be aware that while we can sneak up behind the smoke, we cannot see through it. Height is an advantage, and we climbed up as high as we could get before turning east.

Patience is a virtue.

The deer can smell the wind, but the enemy cannot.

The streamers of smoke from the ground are like tree trunks in the forest.

Like foliage made of smoke, dust and just plain bad air. With the heat of morning, the humidity became a factor, and the visibility was less than it was at the crack of dawn. On the best days you could see maybe twenty miles. Today, maybe seven. Maybe only five. Much less, in places. A variable day. Always the smell, even though you tend to get used to it. There's always something there to remind you.

Seven miles is three minutes.

On our morning patrol, we shot down two planes, damaged another. Home for lunch.

Afternoon bombing mission, and a major sweep, minimal results. Although Green got his

first kill. A smaller mission, a separate mission; one plane a write-off upon landing.

The pilot walked away, and I gave him the rest of the day off!

This was my third mission today. There was a rumbling in my belly. I was just too busy to eat or even have my tea.

***

We're at 21,500. Four squadrons, counting the Ghosts, who are only six. But that's enough for our role. We're the bait. It's nice to have three squadrons for backup.

We're the meat in the sandwich. I was suffering from a slight headache, which had been with me ever since I woke up at five a.m.

It was still a decent day when we stumbled through the clods of greasy, stinking black smoke, and came upon a happening. Our neighbours were having a scrap with the Germans. At the sight of one of their number blowing up real good, a dozen enemy Pfalz and Fokker D-VII fighters plummeted downwards and evaded us in the smoke-washed scene below. My men re-formed. The Ghosts and the Black Angels didn't even bother to join in, and the Biffs were too far down below to join in either.

The Camel Jocks handily disposed of that threat. We watched our neighbours.

Some of Dickenson's crew. They broke off pursuit and turned for home.

And again, this time the Biffs peeled off, a pair of them, and smoke puffs indicated pursuit. A pair of enemy two-seat observation jobbies. I was just thinking about artillery spotters, and there they were, poor buggers.

Crikey!

One of them falls in flames, the other disappears into the smoke. The fucking haze was everywhere. God-damn it! A day of indecisive little scuffles so far. Not that shooting down enemy aircraft is wrong, exactly.

Where the heck was Von R? Note the time, write it down, note the enemy machines 'whacked,' as it were.

Like cordwood.

'Whack 'em and stack 'em.'

We cruised north, three to four, or five, or six miles behind enemy lines, just under the hulking, mushroom-headed smoke columns, where they hit a layer of colder air and hang heavy, like a cow's udder. At some point the smoke starts to fall again. A brief rain shower up ahead. Good cover, good place to be ambushed. Those draperies, veils of mist that fall out of the bottom of clouds.

We hung there at 20,000 or so, watching, waiting and all the while we're burning off precious fuel.

There! That's a big fuck-up! I saw it in the distance up ahead, at about a mile, or a mile and a half. Diving in, seek a target, who needs help? But then it was all over again.

Lots of action, not much joy.

Dexter blew away a green Albatros.

Wrote it on my kneepad.

We fought a number of encounters, but our quarry still eluded us. As we turned for home, we had shot down at least seven enemy machines.

One of those fell to my own fire, but that sort of thing was expected of a CO.

At this point, the real satisfaction was survival. The real satisfaction was to see my boys do well. The real satisfaction was to leave a bunch of enemy planes on the ground to lend their substance to the gathering palls of smoke.

To lead my men home, three formations of Biffs, Camels and SE's. To return home from the fray, escorting our, 'wounded.'

At least two of my guys, one Biff and one Camel, showed signs of being damaged.

Finally we all got down, scattered over two fields at the south end of our patrol lines. It would take a moment or two to find out about the injuries and damage. Pulling the helmet off, someone brought me my motorbike. It was running, and the temperature gauge showed it to be warmed up. Lots of fuel.

The damaged planes landed at our main field.

There were better medical facilities, better emergency facilities. Better repair facilities.

They followed routine. That spoke well for their chances, I thought; cruising through the hole in the hedges and turning her out onto the road under the trees.

A German offensive was pushing into the lines to the southwest. From Arras or thereabouts, it ran to Amiens or thereabouts. I wanted to go to my office and check the big board, but first to the medical centre. The first thing I saw was Nelson, face down. He was on a stretcher, up on the sawhorses.

He had his butt up in the air, and he was grimacing with pain. That familiar rictus, so similar to laughter. It took me aback, but having seen it before, I quickly realized he wasn't smiling a friendly greeting.

"Doc?" I inquired politely.

Doc had his back turned as he unrolled some gauze bandages.

"Shot in the ass," barked Nelson.

His truculent attitude rolled off me like water off of a duck's back. He was entitled to it, and I had heard men in pain before. They can cuss and swear something awful, let me tell you!

"Bullet through the buttocks," noted the Doctor. "Clean wound. Quite painful. He'll live."

He stuck a needle in right promptly after that, and Nelson didn't even seem to notice.

"You'll feel better in a few moments," he told Jim. "Worst is over for now."

"Fuck, I hope so," gritted out Nelson. "That burns, man."

A lot of guys say that. It's like being stung by red-hot bees. Only worse. Now that he was in the Doc's tender loving care, he would be doped-up pretty good for a few days.

"You did well to bring your plane back," I gushed.

"Not really," he said with a deep sigh of relief. "The flying was easy enough."

The morphine seemed to work very quickly. Thank God for that. A lot of blood around, but his life wasn't in danger. He would make out just fine.

I was pretty relieved, and his feelings in the matter of personal 'embarrassment,' were of little concern. He'll get over it.

"She's not too badly damaged, but flying home with this..." he went on.

Jim must have been worried about bleeding to death. We all do. The idea that we'll faint from loss of blood, and fall from the sky when we might have lived. But in my own recent experience with a bullet through the leg, adrenalin and shock make you very, very calm.

I would ask Jim about that later. I mean, I'm sure it must have hurt, and everything.

But the imagination is what gets going in a situation like that.

"That's okay, Jimmy! That's okay. We'll have the Adj come in and take your report.

Oh! And take a couple of days off. You've earned it."

Jim actually grinned at that one. That morphine works real fast.

"Any other casualties, Doc?" I asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," he answered.

Better go check and see what happened to them other guys. I patted Jim on the shoulder when I left.

"Thanks, Boss," he said dreamily.

After checking the other plane's damage, which had a coolant line shot up, thereby causing the vapour trail, it was time to clean up and peel off. It was only then that I sensed something was wrong. Because, when I entered the command and control tent, there was a small group of men standing by the tele-printer. They were fascinated by its bzz-bzz-bzz performance as it clicked and clattered out a seemingly endless message from some HQ up the line, judging by the prefix.

"Who's that?" I asked and they all jumped, because they hadn't heard me come in.

Chapter Forty

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Sunday, April 21, 1918.

On the evening of that fateful Sunday, Manfred von Richtofen, the Red Baron, met his fate. He was shot down in combat, either by Captain Roy Brown, a Canadian in the RAF, or by Australian machine gunners. It was a controversy, and a bitter one, that persisted for years. I can state for a certainty that it wasn't us. We came upon the fracas in the closing stages. While I didn't know who we were supporting or fighting, it sort of came back upon wracking my memory cells.

I did in fact recall several machines breaking off the combat and heading along the river. First there was a Camel, and then a tri-plane, and then a pause and another Camel. Then more planes broke off in different directions. From our altitude, we couldn't see who was who or who did exactly what.

I was grateful to be let off the hook. Subsequent events convinced me that fame is an awful thing. Fame is fleeting and useless. You can't eat it, you can't fuck it, so you might as well piss on it. A lot of famous guys had big problems fitting into civilian life after the war. The fame got in the way of normal existence. For most aces, fame translated into something pretty useless.

The gist of it was, a guy called Wop May, another Canuck, had a problem with his guns I think, it's not important, and so he broke and ran for home. Exactly as ordered. He broke off alone, and dove to the north, and sought to escape without notice. But the Red Baron saw him go. He entered pursuit, rapidly catching May, down low along the river. Wop May thought he was a goner for sure. But Captain Brown, mindful of a friend from home and knowing May's inexperience; went after the Baron, and fired on him a number of times.

The Baron's head jerked around and he obviously knew Roy Brown was there.

At some point the Baron broke off from May, and flew over the land, where his plane crashed. He must have been wounded, for he turned into enemy, or our territory, when by all rights he should have turned for home. But that's merely deductive reasoning.

Maybe the Baron became disoriented. It's easy enough to do, especially if you're really tired. And there's simply no telling who shot him or when; whether Brown did it, or if the Baron was already dead. Maybe he was already dead, and his flight path had no correlation to May's movements except coincidence.

People are entitled to an opinion, but it's not enough to convince a doubter. There were thirty or forty reports to mull over and they all said different things from different vantage points. And that was just my guys! Never mind the other squadrons, or all of the people on the ground.

Some of us remembered three planes breaking off to the north, that was about it for our contribution. Coincidentally, we only got one kill. Nothing to report, really. Bartlett picked off a wounded straggler. But the lines were abuzz with it, and technically we had to be debriefed, just for the record. At some point a group arrived from higher command. Senior Army officers, RAF, spooks from Military Intelligence, you name them and they sent a representative.

There must have been twenty of them.

They wanted to settle their bet, i.e. to settle what happened. They wanted a few authoritative, decisive answers, and they wanted them from me. Always glad to help, but not much to say. They weren't taking no for an answer.

"He knew his star was on the wane," I began. "He's known that for a long time. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he knew he would inevitably return to earth, like a meteorite."

It's one of those unwritten laws. Yet these men would not leave me alone, and if our mission was to continue, I had to satisfy them in some way.

"So you can neither confirm nor deny, that Australian machine-gunners fired on him and hit him?" someone asked.

"It would seem likely that they did," I admitted. "It's also just as likely that Captain Brown hit him, or any one of a hundred other pilots."

They digested that, and were unsatisfied. Can't blame them for that.

"Where's my perspective? Two miles above the battlefield, and on the wrong side of the smoke."

It's not my problem.

Were they trying to figure out who to give a fucking medal to?

Not my job.

"Von Richtofen was worn to a frazzle, by weeks of continuous bombing, harassment, and aerial combat at high altitudes," I noted for the room's benefit. "I doubt if a few days leave over the past year really helped with his absolute and complete exhaustion."

The room was very quiet.

"He found himself fighting superior formations, using superior tactics," I went on.

"Our training is improving, and the skill level of the pilots they had available, is declining," I continued. "It's in all the daily intelligence reports."

I started by feeding their own intelligence, or propaganda, right back at them.

They nodded, and some of them were making notes.

"The man was tired. He made bad decisions. The explanation is too simple. We'll have to mythologize something that will suffice."

They stared open-mouthed at that.

"By the way, where do you think Roy got his training?"

I taught some of them guys when I was at Gosport. So the day hadn't exactly been a total loss for me, for my former boss Smith-Barry, nor for the RAF in general.

It was a 'red-letter day,' whatever the hell that means.

"Why do you think Von Richtofen was so far from home?" someone asked.

"Possibly avoiding us," I murmured.

Trying to grab some credit, but not too much. It would put them off if they thought it was all bullshit. They made my skin crawl. Not to try and grab some of the glory would appear unnatural. Yet a little caution was in order. These guys get to go home to England. My boys had to finish this battle. The less the enemy heard about us, the better.

"That's our feeling too, but nothing formalized enough to put in writing..." said some anonymous, pudgy-faced bastard.

Ah...now I see where the wind is blowing.

"The Rittmeister, Manfred von Richtofen, made several fundamental errors." I began anew. "And that is essentially what killed him in the end."

I told the assembly of big shots and brass hats the whole story insofar as I could make one up quickly.

"He had the habit of looking for the wounded bird, the easy kill," I outlined some of my thoughts, but not all. "Bullies can be predicted within certain parameters."

"He thought the name of the game was to rack up a score, when the game is to foil the enemy and bring home the bacon," I soliloquized, like some asshole character in a play.

"To retreat was not cowardice in his mind, but I have no idea what he was thinking. Maybe he thought, 'I'll just bag a quick one for the pot and be home for dinner.'"

I thought further.

"He made a fundamental error when he turned his back on the fur-ball," I told them.

"Why is that?" came the question.

"When you initiate an attack, you carry it through," I patiently explained. "You don't just turn your back and go home. Why would your victim ever want to let you go?"

A thought struck again.

"He should have at least tried to climb out of there. His plane had that advantage. He wasn't damaged. He didn't seem to be damaged, when he went after May."

I thought further.

"He seemed okay to dive with the plane, and he caught up to the Camel."

Camels were not enormously fast in a dive, but neither was the Fokker.

"He didn't have to pursue May."

That made some sense to them, and it was what they wanted to hear, mostly.

"You gentlemen are all cleared? I heard the Baron was having silver cups engraved for every kill?" and they all nodded, no doubt having read the same or a similar report.

"I think he must have been very jaded," I surmised.

"What other mistakes did he make?" asked Bernie, very quietly from the back row.

Good man, keep us on track.

"He forgot to look behind, and under his tail."

All those eyes just stared.

"He forgot that the most aggressive pilot has the best chance of survival. He should never have turned his back to the fight. Where was his wingman?"

All those ears sat and listened.

"Let me think here a moment, guys. Someone pour a few drinks?"

Dawley rose to do the honours. My audience seemed a little less restive now. They had something with a little meat on it.

Some lessons for all of those mouths to chew on.

"Someone suggested that he may have had a problem with either the motor or the aeroplane," came the pedantic voice of Bill Chosser.

My, oh, my, what a coincidence.

All of my old crimes coming home to roost? But he seemed neutral as far as I was concerned. Something about a mime, and a request from the Government of the Republic of France, as I recall. There was a little smile in his eyes.

"Then it was a mistake to go after May with a broken airplane," I stated firmly. "It was a mistake to go below three thousand feet, anywhere near no-man's land, or up to a couple or three miles on each side. Maybe more."

The men kept taking notes. They all have to cover their asses, too. It's not personal, in any way. They just seek to understand.

"If he was damaged, or if he had a problem, he should have stuck with his wingman. He always had one around..."

How long can the questioning go on?

"I can guarantee it wasn't us."

I told them for about the third time.

"Mind you, I can tell my grandkids that I flew against the Red Baron, and lived," I said in conclusion.

No one challenged my logic, even though I was barely twenty!

There was some desultory conversation then, but I ignored it, half in and half out of the world for some reason.

"No one cares what you tell your grandkids," muttered Chosser; he projected it so beautifully, artlessly; through the hum and buzz.

I just sat and smiled my secret little smile.

"Well, we're going to have to tell them something," I told them, and all of a sudden the room went quiet again in expectancy. "That's good enough for me."

At least for now. I would have liked more time to compose myself, and my thoughts.

"If he had a damaged aircraft, he wouldn't have pursued May?" asked a Navy captain.

"That's right," I nodded. "Shouldn't have, anyway."

I gulped a glass of rum, slowly, as they looked at each other, consulting silently.

No more questions? That's fine with me. I've had a busy day. The murmuring and muttering gaggle of anonymous, pudgy-faced men in all their various uniforms straggled from the tent.

No doubt they would be touring the area for a while, generating maximum glory for their respective services. Hell, maybe I was a little jaded too.

***

Finally they all left, their interminable goodbyes were said, and the motor cavalcade blundered on up the road. Bernie, Dawley and I went back inside.

"Jeez," said Dawley. "Some people just can't take a hint."

"Snoopy bastards," I agreed wholeheartedly.

Bernie was, 'muet,' or silent.

C'mon, Bernie, spit it out. We didn't tell the brass everything. We didn't tell them about spotter planes interrupting their artillery duties to flash a quick three letter code and a reference point when they saw the Baron. We have to keep a few tricks up our sleeve. The big shots would talk it up in the press accounts, which were certain to be legion. Surely he could see the reasoning behind this?

"Everything you see around you is a message," he told us!

"What will be our fate?" he asked.

"The time of Empire is past," he said, as we stood there flatfooted.

Dawley and I just looked at each other, dumb and uncomprehending.

"Some very old, very tired, and very stupid men do not realize this yet," Bernie told us.

"Well, after three nights of bombing," Dawley replied. "We're as tired as poor old von Richtofen."

I had this insane urge to laugh, like when you're at a funeral and see your cousin in a suit for the first time, and he's got a fresh haircut, with a wide strip of white between the hair and the brick-red neck.

"Will. Are you going to the funeral?" asked Bernie.

They would give him a big sendoff and I didn't want to be seen there. Someone else could go. Maybe Howard-Smythe. We should send Carson in drag, but my fellow officers would mutiny at that point.

"No," I replied tersely.

After round-the-clock bombing, with aircraft coming in at all times of the night, and day, from virtually all points of the perimeter, with us being dispersed over several airfields; that could all go in the report. A Top Secret report.

Forcing the enemy on to the defensive; and in fact they had really only attempted to attack us once or twice. It was just a matter of time before someone got him.

A simple matter of combat exposure.

"This is going to be one fucking tough report to write," I rasped peevishly.

"What do you mean?" asked Bernie with a sigh, as Dawley helped himself to coffee.

"I fail to see how Brown could be engaged with three enemy planes, and see May, watch May leave the fight, see the Red Baron follow May, continue the fight, even climb higher," I went. "The whole fucking story seems like bullshit. But then I've been there, trying to describe something that happened in a millisecond, which takes a thousand words and they still don't get it. Or it's just a series of disconnected impressions; just a whole bunch of aircraft, like seagulls wheeling over the city dump."

They all look the same, to be honest. You just can't read a hundred aircraft numbers at once, nor notice too many details. Maybe Brown did a quick wingover, and snatched a glimpse that lasted a tenth of a second. And maybe that was all he needed!

Bernie sat there watching me dissect it.

"I'm not here to convince anyone, only to admit that we'll never know," he proffered.

He was drinking some God-awful stuff. Something sticky and sweet, a habit only recently acquired.

"But no one else sees that. They won't let it lie," said Bernie. "The Air Ministry is 'pissed off,' as you say, about the brand-new Canadian Air Force draining off precious personnel. This is happening at a time when the Aussies are screaming bloody murder about casualties among their infantry. Time to assign some glory, eh?"

He fell silent for a moment.

"Glory is cheap," he muttered.

"If I could change one thing about this war, it is the relentless quest for medals and God-damned fucking recognition," I told the walls.

I just didn't care anymore. Some of the starch had gone out of me.

"I'm not here to moralize," I concluded. "But it does kind of make you sick."

Bernie and Dawley sat and stared. They glanced at each other and shrugged.

"You know, if some guy takes out an enemy pillbox, he's not counting up in his mind, 'four more to go and you'll be an ace,'" I explained.

I don't know if they got it, but I tried.

"He doesn't have a fucking choice," I told them. "He's not thinking, 'only another fourteen to go and I get a medal.'"

"Was poor old Manfred wounded by Brown?" asked Dawley.

"Absolutely, and very badly. Probably torso, back, spine, hips, head, whatever. That would account for his flight path."

"He knew he was dead, and wanted that one last kill?" murmured Bernie. "They say he was up to seventy or more."

"How many? Seventy-plus? Holy fuck," I said in astonishment.

Busy lad, that Manfred.

"Perhaps a hundred," he shrugged philosophically. "No matter. He is dead."

"He may have wanted that kill, or some kind of revenge," I acknowledged. "But there could have been some kind of Siegfried principle at work here, a compelling urge to go out in some kind of goddamned..."

"Gotterdamerung," put in Bernie.

"Naw, some kind of goddamned flaming blaze of glory," I thought. "Like some kind of fucking symbol."

"Why not tell the Brass?" Bernie asked quietly.

"Because the Brass have big mouths," I told him firmly. "My men come first."

A thousand dead men were laughing inside of my head.

'Some kind of goddamned blaze of glory,' I could see Dawley write it down.

I'm convinced the man intends to write his memoirs, and on my time too.

"If Brown was as close as he says, how come he didn't fire off more ammo?" asked Bernie in his cute little dago accent.

There are times when he inspires real affection.

"If he was low on ammo, he should have fired anyway," I said. "But what I find fishy is the fucking brass thinks he could fire from two plane-lengths behind and miss!"

That's just disrespectful. And if May was that far ahead, the Baron should have known instantly that his tri-plane couldn't catch up.

But he did catch up.

If you believed the reports.

"Flying west along the north bank of the Somme." I read over the report intensely.

"Fired half a mile before...would have been west of Vaux sur Somme...two miles behind the lines."

And there was more.

"Parallel to the Somme! Holy crap," I said. "Was he watching the Baron, or engaged in a fucking map-exercise?"

Stalking a wounded animal is dangerous. The Baron should have known that. Brown, too; but he was apparently flying along with a map in his left hand...a pencil in his right.

"Why not tell the Brass?" Bernie asked again. "Off the record?"

"They can't handle the truth," I vowed firmly.

The Baron knew you had to get close, where the target swelled up in your gun sights.

Where its maneuvers and gyrations meant less. At a distance, a plane flies out of the gun-sight in a turn very, very quickly. Up close, a plane turns, and it kind of drags a trail of your bullets right through its own guts.

"What the fuck was he doing a hundred and fifty feet over the riverbank?"

The questions were endless. But this was a typical combat report. You had to be extremely careful what you accepted at face value. People didn't lie, exactly, they were pretty sincere in their desire to please. They just couldn't remember.

All those little details, crystal clear in their simplicity, were mostly bullshit.

"Eyewitness accounts have been found to be forty-nine per cent accurate," Bernie told us. "You could get more accurate results by flipping a coin."

The big problem with evidence is that it doesn't always support your convictions.

It's just a theory, but I like it. And for the Baron to proceed further was asking for trouble.

"I taught half them guys, although I don't remember Brown, particularly," I told Bernie and Dawley, who probably already knew it. "Might have been when I first started at Gosport. As an experienced combat pilot, they sent me around to a dozen training schools to lecture and give demonstrations. A two-day course, two or three of them a week for quite some time. It seemed endless."

But maybe not so pointless.

"What did you show them?" asked Dawley.

"Some pretty basic maneuvers and simple combat scenarios," I said absently, reading further. "That's when we really started flogging the buddy system. When we called it the 'two-plane element,' no one cared. Call it the 'buddy system,' and we got the go-ahead. After the war, they'll revert to the three-plane, 'vic,' and save twenty-five percent on budget allocations for aircraft."

No one laughed.

"Fools," murmured Bernie. "They can be extremely shortsighted, especially when things are going well."

"But money is precious. It's human life that's cheap," I grunted, still reading.

Both men were parsing through the materials along with me.

"It says here von Richtofen was within a hundred feet of May," said Dawley.

"Then how did he miss?" I asked.

It was turbulent, smoky and hazy, yet how did he miss?

"None of the accounts directly contradict each other, none is definitive. The crazy Australians are pretty adamant," sighed Bernie.

"Of course they are," scoffed Dawley.

"Ultimately, it really doesn't matter," I said. "We got him, didn't we?"

I can't describe my feeling or attitude. A lot of the heart had gone out of me.

Ultimately it's just a set of parabolic curves. Eventually one came to earth. It had to.

"So tell us what really happened," suggested Bernie, dark eyes boring into my own.

Like a meteorite.

"Von Richtofen was hovering around on the verge of the fight, up in the sun. He was just lining up an easy kill for his winger. My impression is that he was a new guy, a novice. Von Richtofen shouldn't have been doing that, but it's typical of the man. He decided to set up his novice 'hunter,' for his first big 'trophy.' It's just a wild guess, but his protégé was probably a member of the nobility! Again, typical of the man."

They sat up straight and listened in rapt attention.

"He looked up into the sun and saw forty-plus aircraft in three squadrons, plus a smaller group. The Ghosts, in fact. He definitely had a knee-jerk reaction. His plane fish-tailed visibly just before he put up a wing. God, I couldn't tell you which one. The right wing, I think; and he dove right into the thick of the fray. Whether he had a target, we'll never know. If so; we must have thrown him off."

This was just an opinion, but a good one. The Baron figured the fur-ball would take care of all of our attention.

"At some point, he realized there was no future in the middle of a fight with no quarry, no opponent. No good reason to be there. He knew we were up high, and he buggered off out the other side. He saw May below him, maybe half a mile or even a mile ahead."

May's guns jammed. I'm pretty sure. Which means there was nothing wrong with the engine.

"The Baron assumed we would join the fight and get caught up in it."

They just stared, breathless, waiting to hear 'the truth,' or some version of it.

"It wouldn't take long to catch up. If May turned, the Baron cut the inside of the curve. He took a tighter line in the turn. The truth is that the Baron should have climbed to meet us. Instead he plunged through the centre."

"But, but," said Bernie, but I just kept going.

"I would rather meet a whole fucking squadron head on! They can't all line up their sights on you, they would have to converge. They would crash into each other at some point. It's a fuck of a lot better than having any number of the bastards on your tail."

In a converging fight, the closer you get, the harder it is for them to hit you; or even maneuver properly.

"It says they have recovered a seat with a hole in the back, all burnt. They say it came from von Richtofen's plane," reported Dawley.

"Was the body burnt?" muttered Bernie. "Was the seat burnt? How did they strip beautiful, fresh red fabric from a burnt-out plane?"

"Send someone to the funeral and check the corpse!" blurted Dawley.

"Within a week there will be a dozen seats, all burnt and all with holes in the right fuckin' places," I said. "People will pay a penny to see it at some seaside resort or traveling circus sideshow. After a couple of years, they'll get tired of looking at it, and it'll end up on the trash heap of fucking history, where it fucking belongs."

"How could Brown miss at two lengths?" asked Bernie.

"I already said that," I pointed out.

Now Dawley was quoting from the reports.

"Climbed to the left in the direction of Corbie," he said. "How the hell was Manfred a hundred and fifty feet behind May, sixty to a hundred feet above the ground?"

"I think he got tired, and made every mistake in the book," was all I could figure.

My personal opinion is that he was already shot up pretty bad, and if the Australian machine gunners wanted him that badly they could have him. For some reason a lot of the starch went out of me. Maybe he was just trying to land, and if they hadn't shot him, his life might have been spared.

I don't think he was a bad person. No worse than the rest of us.

"You want to know the truth about the Baron Manfred von Richtofen?"

They stared at me.

"He was a twenty-something year-old kid in a fucking bad aeroplane," I told them. "He couldn't do miracles, and he ran out of time."

When I think of Manfred I wonder about the young man he might have become; if there was peace. Every rifle for miles around must have been popping off at him. At them. May was pretty lucky not to get hit, Brown too. The Germans would have been firing at the British planes. No one remembers that part. It's not in the official reports. It was in no one's interest to include those facts.

The Boche could very well have hit their own man, trying to hit May and Brown from what was, after all, a fairly long range. If some German idiot fired at May, from five hundred or even a thousand yards away, they wouldn't have led him by nearly enough...and that's a fact. (Odds are they wouldn't have had the elevation either, but that's beside the point.)

Manfred's great uncle was a geographer and a geologist, a world famous one. In 1868, while in China; he gathered data for his masterwork, the five-volumes plus an atlas entitled, 'China, Ergebrisse eigener Reisen und daraut gegrundeter Studien.' (China: Travels and Studies, 1877-1912. — ed.)

Guys like Manfred don't end up in factories bashing tin or assembling cheap alarm clocks. With his background, he could have gone off to East Africa, and become a big-game hunter. Who knows what contributions he might have made to society. He was a gentleman of the leisure class. Whether he collected specimens for the zoo, or whatever, I'm sure that like all the gentlemen of that era, he would have done a lot of reading and writing. But we'll never know, will we? For all we know, he might have become a world expert on stamp collecting. Manfred had a good brain, and an education, and a sense of honour.

Everything about him, bespoke 'a young man who knew how to apply himself.'

All of that was just a total waste, now.

Chapter Forty-One

Boom's Eyes

"Are we having fun yet?" Boom's eyes twinkled from across the desk.

The others were silent. Salmond had his arms crossed. Admiral Keyes sat straight up and rigid.

The others seemed more neutral.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," I assured the crowd of bigwigs.

This time it wasn't army generals, this time it was the Air Ministry and the Navy and the politicians.

"We plan to continue going after high-value targets, gentlemen," I told the group. "This is the only proper way to run a war."

It was preferable to bombing and strafing ground troops. There were millions of them, and quite honestly that's what artillery is for. A big shell costs five pounds and if you put it in the right place it can kill a hundred men and a hundred horses.

"Who else could do it so well?" murmured Keyes; who was angry about something.

"No deficit for the righteous," he added somewhat obscurely.

Doddering old fool. He's going senile. And the remark was more for the benefit of his colleagues.

"I don't like this big funeral they gave him," I patiently explained. "You should have let him rot in that field."

"Why is that?" barked Salmond.

Winnie glowered. He looked really pissed off. That's the only way anyone ever got him to shut up.

"They've made some kind of symbol out of him," I said. "I have my reasons. Don't glorify him. There's a million men missing, and what makes him so special? That was a mistake, to pay him any more attention than some old widow who starved to death. You shouldn't have made a big fucking ceremony out of it."

"You have no respect!" shot Winnie. "It's not your concern."

"Promise you won't make a fucking symbol out of me, okay?" I glowered right back.

The bigger the target, the harder they fall. It's good propaganda to shine it up a little.

Here they were, glorifying our enemy. For Christ's sakes.

He was just another pilot, in the final analysis.

But to glorify Manfred glorified us by reflection.

"I don't give a fuck about your cartoon religion," I told him reasonably enough.

I was getting sick of these guys.

Trying to break the ice, or thaw out the room a little, I joked, "Did you hear Mrs. O'Reilly hasn't been feeling herself lately?"

"Oh, really?" asked Keyes.

"No. O'Reilly," I responded.

Trenchard was laughing into his cupped hand, faking a little cough; eyes glinting out of the middle of his strong-looking features. In spite of that dry little moustache he's got, he's not such a fuddy-duddy as compared to a couple of the others.

"I didn't come here to be insulted," said Effingtass-Dinglebob-Plunkett.

"Sure you did," I assured him.

Everyone giggled except he and I. We just glared at each other.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, you can't fight in here," said the Adj. "I'm trying to make a long-distance call."

He was busy over by the communications gear.

"This is the command tent, after all. We're trying to fight a fuckin' war, here," he muttered away to himself.

"I don't like to be a piece of meat," I told Winnie. "Make it look wounded and wiggle it around."

He flushed at that.

"The mission is not over," Trenchard reassured us.

What's the difference? Because it didn't feel the same anymore. The last couple of days were something of a let-down. Really anticlimactic. Maybe this time we're the ones who need a spark to the old morale.

"When a wolf kills an elk, it feeds a dozen other species," I told Winnie.

"What do you mean, Tucker?" Winnie asked in spite of his anger.

Gotcha, motherfucker.

"He feeds the crows, the foxes, the worms and the vultures."

The lisping little bugger looked like he was going to have a heart attack, but Boom raised a palm and I let him calm me down, in order that he might demonstrate authority over me. I've been reading some psychology books. Do I have regrets? Yes and no.

"We are the damned, to be accursed with what we must do."

Who the hell was that? One of the anonymous aides-de-camp.

"To follow through on what we have started; out of a sense of duty, or maybe it is some mistaken, forlorn way of accepting responsibility," he concluded dramatically.

Or guilt, maybe. A kind of shame we cannot acknowledge. All we could do was to share it silently, or better yet, quietly.

"Count your blessings," said Howard-Smythe. "Something wonderful is going to happen."

He looked at me absolutely deadpan.

Good one! I owe you, buddy.

"...and it was a nasty, filthy habit she had, too," he added.

"Who did? Who did?" quavered Keyes. "Frankly, you lost me somewhere, old boy."

That's one down.

"Mrs. O'Reilly," I said in a being-patient-to-the-old-folks-voice. "You remember."

"So you put an interrupter on the 504?" muttered Boom in annoyance. "That's a waste of time"

"I don't honestly..." give a fuck what you think.

Sir. He can be a little intimidating. When he tries; and turns on them blazing eyes.

"So you plan to continue the mission," Effingtass-Dinglebob-Plunkett brought us back to the discussion. "But you won't listen to us, you don't take orders from anyone, and you want to write your own ticket?"

"That pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?" muttered Trenchard.

"You catch on fast," I told Sir Effingtass-et cetera. "Perhaps you're not as stupid as you make yourself out to be."

His face reddened, as he snarled, "I am so very happy that I don't have your nerve in my tooth."

He said this with some heat. Huh! Nice one. I have to admit I was impressed, as we held each other's eye for a half a mo'.

Buddy; when it comes to dirty cracks, you've got them all licked.

I kept that one to myself, but I'm sure he got the gist of my thinking.

He's probably everything he pretends to be.

A pair of aircraft roared overhead, very low.

With a little advance notice, we made some arrangements. It was truly annoying after a while. Any kind of an edge, when dealing with the intelligentsia. At least two of them were gritting their teeth as we waited for relative peace and quiet to return.

"By the way, the high-altitude experiments are going well," put in the Adj. "And the anti-gravity results are very interesting."

"Oh, really?" noted Boom. "What are we talking about?"

"Normally a person of average health, totally unprepared; would black out at about five and a half times the force of gravity," I told Trenchard. "We can regularly get six and seven out of our planes, if only briefly. Maybe even more, but it doesn't last long."

Boom was clearly wanting more data.

"We bleed off speed in a turn, so we really haven't gotten much farther than that," I explained. "Our instruments aren't very accurate either, but it's food for thought."

We hadn't attempted any power dives and pull-outs yet, I reported; grateful for a bit of a smokescreen.

"We have requested parachutes, but haven't yet received them," I reminded them all.

"You wish to continue the mission, Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker?" asked Winnie.

"Yes," I said.

"Then why are we here?" belched Keyes.

Silly old fart, but he had a point. Keyes is an Admiral, not to be confused with Keynes, the economist, who has also traipsed through this volume. I think he has. I've kind of lost track. It's a big long book, after all.

Oh, yeah! He was at Bernie's house—not sure if I pointed him out.

"The key thing is to apportion the glory," I told him kindly. "Otherwise some people might feel short-changed. Also, they would like to put in some of their cronies..."

"Who? Where?" he asked in confusion.

"Here. My job," I explained to the room. "Their little school buddies get a month, maybe a month and a half in command. They get to borrow some credibility from our exemplary service record. They get a knighthood, or a baronetcy. Then they get to sit in the House of Lords. They're politically reliable and very impressionable. And they're always looking for fucking approval from their new-found friends."

Poor old Winnie was glaring at me now, boy. But he didn't wish to dignify it with a response either, especially since I was half-right.

'If you can smell a rat, you're often half-right,' as my dear old Uncle Fred used to say.

"They could ram a half a dozen through here in the next six months; or a year or so," I went on baldly.

It sounded just outrageous enough to be true.

"That's the real purpose of giving some carefully-selected person a fucking Military Fucking Cross, or a Goddamned Knight of the Fucking Garter."

You can't lie to Will Tucker. That took them up a bit, though.

For some reason they think the working classes are blind, or stupid, or both.

"We all know this war is in the bag. Now the politicians, and the power-broker elite are trying to figure out how to make out like bandits after the war," I told Keyes.

He didn't seem so senile now, and he slowly nodded, once, twice.

"To the victor go the spoils," I added.

"I see, young man," he said soberly. "I see."

The set-up takes a long time, whether it's hockey or football or rugger.

But the spike is over in an instant. Trenchard was sitting there like a man who just won a thousand pounds on some kind of wager, eyeballing Keyes with a vengeance. Salmond, Sir John; looks like a man who just lost a thousand pounds on a wager but remains philosophical.

Not too hard done by, as it were.

"Will there be anything else, gentlemen?" I asked, rising from my desk.

"I don't like your attitude," Sir Effingtass-Dinglebob-Plunkett said in no uncertain terms.

"The day I need your opinion in order to determine my self-esteem, that will be a cold day in fuckin' hell," I said equably.

In no way mollified, he got up and headed for the door without looking back to see if anyone followed.

"Cock-a-snook, eh, old boy?" chortled Keyes. "Cock-a-snook! Haw! Haw! Haw!"

He seemed much happier, now that he's figured out which side I'm on.

"That man is about as useful as a pair of tits on a bicycle," he told us, and then he got up too.

The Navy, they have a colourful way of speaking from time to time. Hemming and hawing, the rest of them finally left.

So that's why they were here. They couldn't decide whether or not to replace me. I seem to have survived on sheer surrealism.

"I've said it for years, that man is unstable," Winnie complained on his way out the door.

I refrained from kicking him in the ass.

Presumably he was complaining about me, but it might have been one of the others.

Anyway, that's what I call my 'shock treatment,' which I use in dealing with pudgy-faced armchair warriors and paper-pushers and office-seekers. Rude but effective.

And that was the end of the matter.

***

When you get really old, your memories become all mixed up like a dog's breakfast.

A kaleidoscope of pictures, a kaliapede of sounds. One image is me, at age five on a pair of roller skates. But do I really remember that incident? Or is it the fact that my folks had a photograph in the family album, a picture to show me?

A little boy, seated on papa's lap.

"See? This is you," he might say.

I don't remember skating. I remember the picture—a look at myself from another perspective. A look from the outside in. You pretty much have to take his word for it. There are lots of things in life, that we take people's word for.

Still, a few things stick in my mind. That first trench strafing, way back when, the first time I flew as pilot instead of observer. That sort of thing.

It happened like this. My observer had just dispatched a pursuing enemy scout. Rather badly handled; in retrospect. We were winging along at about a hundred feet—not too swift of me, but there you go. We all make mistakes.

And there he was, this poor little dispatch runner. We must have been about a mile and a half or so behind their lines, and going east, to boot. I throttled back, figuring on bagging him. I didn't have much to talk about as a pilot at that point, that's the only reason I can think of. Wanton cruelty, at some level. Young men of a certain age group have no empathy whatsoever.

I lined him up and let him have a squirt, and then pulled back on the stick, careful not to stall. I just wanted to slow her down. My bullets went to the left of him. Another little burst. My bullets went to the right of him! Actually, it was about this time that I realized my shooting wasn't very good, and later on I practiced a lot. The next burst went ahead of him. My frustration mounted. It was a dangerous place to be, behind enemy lines.

I knew it was dumb, but gave in to the temptation.

A quick glance in the mirror. No one back there but the gunner, looking unperturbed by my antics. I fired again, and this time they went right up the bed of the trench the poor little fucker was running in, creeping up on him in the most inexorable fashion.

He came to the end of that particular traverse, bounced off the wall, and took off like a scared jackrabbit, running to the left down the next trench. Missed!

"Holy fuck! That guy's lucky," I heard through the speaking-tube.

It was an impulse. Our morning briefing indicated that this was the 16th Reserve Bavarian Infantry Regiment, and I had a personal score to settle with one or two of them guys. No good bastards that they were. Especially the ones in the first company.

They're the ones that got little Paul. Some fanatical little sniper crawled out into the muck and filth and shot him dead. Right in the ear. The top of his head popped off. We had to put it in his helmet so the stretcher bearers could take it away with the rest of him.

I puked my guts out.

So anyways, I pulled up, put in rudder, and tried again. It looked like a corporal, as I caught a glimpse from a very low-level stall turn. Some kind of goofy mustache. Just an impression. Darting black eyes; with a lock of hair, hanging down and no doubt soaked with sweat. A corporal.

My shooting was really bad that day. I mean, it sucked. My finger hit the button again.

This time it went to the right, and then in front of him, then behind.

Now skittering over to the left of the trench again. Nice, short little bursts of firing, concentrating on my sights and my target. The fact was, I couldn't hit the broad side of a God-damned barn.

Trying to focus on my flying, sweat running into one eye. I ripped off the goggles, pulled down the mask, and it fell into my lap. Forget it. Grab the hanky, a quick rub at the eyes...where is he? Did I hit him?

Pulled up to a hundred feet again. There he is. Fly off to the end of the traverse, wait, pull back again. I fired a few more shots at the guy, just five or six rounds at a time.

The bullets all scattered here and there. If I'm going to hit anything, I'd better learn to just hose it down.

Look at that fucker go! I had to admire that guy. He had a lot of courage. And that man could run. As I turned for home, I kept parallel to the trench, and had a look as I went by.

Sure enough, he was trotting along; neither looking to right nor left, but grimly holding onto the brown leather dispatch case. Stubborn. I would have slid into a hole in the wall and maybe even tried to shoot back. He had a pistol at his belt.

The unique thought came, that he was determined not to show any fear.

He'd had enough. He probably thought he was going to die at any moment, and just didn't care anymore. It's a kind of defiance of life and death at the same time. I felt a moment of sympathy, and a jolt of something in the guts. Understanding. Or adrenalin.

Guilt. Something weird.

Maybe it was a sense of shame. Something unfamiliar at the time.

He just wasn't going to give in. That was it. A fucked-up kind of pride, and I also recognized some of that within me. Perhaps in all of us.

Just then, his head snapped around and I swear he looked me right in the eye. He gave me a snappy, funny kind of salute, and then the running little bastard went on his merry way.

The war was a kind of schizophrenic thing, sometimes.

I swear to God, he clicked his heels at us as we flew by, still giving that crazy, half wave, half salute.

The poor fucker was probably scarred for life. If he survived the war. He must have had deep, un-healable psychological scars. Like me. Probably turned into a paranoid, raving lunatic. A lot of us did. I wondered how he would make out as a civilian, when it was all over. Hope I didn't turn him into a power-mad psychopath or something. Bet he was neurotic, at the very least.

When we got back, my gunner told me, "You should have killed him, you should have gone around again."

He was right, of course. Otherwise, why bother? Why shoot in the first place?

The real problem was my gunnery, but I didn't tell him that. Firing a gun on a mount was one thing, but actually flying the gun, that took a while. Being the gun. That took a while.

***

Ultimately heroes are not born, not made, but manufactured. I won the Military Medal at Ypres. April 22, 1915. I was one of the few left standing with a rifle in my hand when relieved. Almost everyone else was dead, wounded, missing, or simply ran away.

Can't say as I blamed them. I wish I had run myself.

I recall standing on the parapet, looking through our set of periscope binoculars.

The horror sticks in your mind forever. It's a gift that keeps on giving. Having joined the Royal Army, and finally transferred back into the Canadian Army, having finally gotten into a good unit, the strange thing was that I was somehow comfortable.

The Brits are all right, don't get me wrong, but it was good to be back with Canadians.

We had a different outlook. There wasn't such a great gulf between officers and enlisted men. Having discovered incompetent officers in every army, ultimately, what difference does it make?

A competent officer is quite a rarity.

My platoon was fortunate enough to occupy a very small rise in the earth. We were close to the French Colonial troops, who were on the left. When we heard a lot of yelling and shouting, we looked up and over the edge of the trench to see what was what.

And there it was, the first gas attack in history.

A sickly, greenish, yellowish cloud, a hundred yards high, and a half a mile long. It was slowly pushed by the light breeze. It was coming towards us. The Germans waited a long time for the wind to be just right. At first, there was only an uneasy feeling. It just seemed to spring up out of the ground, over on the enemy side of the lines. Long, thin streamers merging into one hellish, foul fog.

While it was far from benevolent looking, there was little sense of dread. At least at first.

We kind of wondered, 'What's the big deal? Smoke is just smoke.'

Dread, fear of the unknown, a queasy, sinking feeling. A watery, gassy feeling in the guts.

Firing reached a crescendo as the rising cloud of bilious, horrid gas rolled over the French, and the Canadians on our left. The tops of heads were bobbing along in a traverse behind us and to our left.

"Where the fuck are they going?" someone (Lenny?) asked even as the sound of shouting, screaming, and yelling came to us; and more of that terrifying cloud obscured our view.

Darker now, blocking out the sky, cutting off the light. Behind us.

Confusion. Had they been ordered to retreat? What were our orders? We began to shoot into the front of the cloud as it rolled onwards, coming inexorably towards us.

A faint smell...like a public swimming pool? Household cleaner? One horrible moment of recognition. That's not a smoke-screen. We are all about to die. Like a hammer in the guts. Heart pounds, out of control. A smell like really bad medicine.

The sounds of rifle and machine gun fire beside us reached a peak, then rapidly diminished. Nowadays, just doing a little house-cleaning can bring back that day in a strange, fragmented clarity.

There was a huge, great silence to our left, as our own fire slackened.

Whoever was retreating along that trench, they were screaming in mad panic now.

A sense of dread.

Fifty yards.

Certain death loomed before us, we knew that now.

The man beside me dropped his rifle. There was still shooting, quite far away.

He got up, and tore at his straps. The nearest escape trench was only five yards away.

He took off down the trench, and I stared at his back, bemused by this strange and bizarre sight. Coughing, off to the left. A half a dozen black troops, in their colourful kepi or fez hats, the bright uniforms, staggering along, clutching, tearing at their throats.

They shouldn't have come this far into our area. Were they lost? I remember that thought.

A couple more guys got up and ran, but took their guns with them. The black men were literally falling down in the trench twenty yards, fifteen yards, now only ten yards from my position. Eyes bugging out, choking, coughing, retching, and the smell was stronger. A wisp of foggy, dense vapour. The view to the left was blocked, and thank God.

In those few short seconds, I saw more than enough to last a lifetime. A lifetime of nightmares.

Our Colonel was shouting something incoherent.

I don't really remember going there, but I found myself with a half a dozen other men in a field, shooting into the flank of the German advance. Huge clogs, bulky gobs of mud made it hard to run. My feet felt like lead. My heart pounded in my throat. It was hard to get enough air. Fear almost overwhelmed me. I had no thoughts but one.

The sheer horror of the unknown.

No one knew how to die from gas.

No one had ever done it before.

I have no idea how I survived that day. The gas must have been thinner near us. I only gagged once or twice, feeling the sharp tang in my throat. Holding my breath, I just tried to sidestep around the wispy patches as they passed through our little clump of men, busy loading and firing, loading and firing. Some guy beside me, hoarse with fear.

A man I had never seen before, but wearing my unit's patches, falling down.

Writhing in agony, again the tearing at the throat.

The look, as he stares into my eyes. He reached out in desperation with a clutching hand. He wants me to help him, help him, and there was nothing I could do, just load and fire, load and fire. A cloud enveloped us, and I staggered out of it, eyes running with tears, nose and mouth burning...I puked. It was all over me. I don't think it was so much the gas. It was sheer horror, the fear of breathing.

I have never known anything like it, before or since.

Cursing, as my shaking hand rams another clip into place...my left arm was so tired the rifle kept lowering itself against my will.

Firing down into Germans...must have been another little piece of high ground, this time about twenty of us. Load and fire, load and fire...the Boche scream and shout and we just ignore the pleas and keep on firing...it wasn't hatred. It's just what we were doing that day.

I have no idea of how I survived that day.

I have no idea why they gave me that fucking medal.

But I will say this. Don't use our pain to justify your modern Canadian moral degeneracy. Don't defile our graves with your peacock posturing, and don't use our sacrifice to back up your lying, mealy-mouthed fucking hypocrisy.

I heard a man say once, 'The press takes a photo of a burning village, and it gives 'destruction' a bad name...'

The press is not entirely useless, it seems.

Some men led me to a rear area. They pried the gun out of my hands.

They cut the clothes from my body, led me to a field shower, and scrubbed me with rough brushes in the bitterly cold water. There was pain as the dried shit pulled off some of the hair on my legs. Then they put me on a stretcher. Someone gave me an injection. I was asleep before he pulled the needle out.

I guess I'd had enough for one day.

Chapter Forty-Two

A gorgeous day

'Twas a gorgeous fine day, as we cruised at 20,000 feet, heading east.

A brief scuffle with a squadron of the enemy. Light bombers, on their way to Arras to stem the tide. A hopeless task. They tried, and they died. They didn't know they were beaten. They just didn't get it.

A few got away. Several jettisoned their load of bombs; scurrying like cockroaches before our guns.

One for me, two for you.

Eenie, meenie, minie, mo! Look at them little fuckers go!

A couple of the Biffs have had a rough time of it, as they re-formed, and the whole squadron began to turn left, in a 180-degree turn for home. The Camels above them turned in the opposite direction, tight as can be; maintaining their relative position.

They were covering our butts. Good job. The Camel Jock in the sun.

We turned left, along with the Angels. There are only eight, where were the others?

We turned in the other direction, and quickly the entire group was going west. At that point I was cheered to see a pair of SE's coming up from behind. My heart was thudding from the heady wine of adrenaline, shock, trauma and triumph. My mind was busy trying to count smoke columns on the shaggy green carpet that was the land below us.

Who's still missing? Just then, one of the strangest, most unusual, and bizarre, I can't even come up with enough hyperbole; to describe what happened next. It was a strange sight.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I bellowed into the nothingness of blue sky as he passed over me, less than thirty yards from my head.

It was a plane, upside down, slowly rolling, rolling right. There was a man beside the plane.

Oh, God no!

He was hanging on to something! German? One of ours! Oh, my God, I thought, now I have to watch one of my boys die! My heart almost shot out of my mouth. A twitch caused by sheer nervous shock, almost caused a snap-roll!

That was a selfish thought, but the man, one of my guys, he was kicking, and turning, and kicking, and one arm kept shooting out to try to find something. I was following him down by now, just an instantaneous reaction. I had no idea where my winger was.

Probably gave him a nasty scare.

The man's legs kicked up, and then the plane rolled a little more upright, even as it dove ground-wards. Closer now, he was holding onto the butt of the Lewis.

The plane rolled upright, as he bounced off the wing, clutching, clutching, the bloody plane flipped over again. I thought he was gone, but still he hung on.

The Lewis...his other hand grabbed the gun's mounting rail. I had no idea who it was. I was almost afraid, in fact I didn't even think to look at the plane's number, but they were right there in front of me.

It's Snotty! Oh, Jesus Christ! One more kick. One foot vaguely grabbed with toe and instep at the cockpit's rim. The foot slipped off. The backdrop of blue sky and white clouds skittered by, around and around some more; and we were climbing again.

"Come on Snotty," I yelled at his back and now I was probably fifty yards away.

To get much closer would be to endanger my own aircraft, possibly him as well.

The last thing I wanted was for Snotty to fly through my prop, and so I hovered off to the left. His next kick missed. Snotty's legs were flailing, his body bucking left and right in the slipstream.

Try again, please, Snotty. Nothing but blue sky...two dark blobs, one big, one small.

Snotty tried again. All the while he was spinning, and flipping, and gyrating, and I was sure his fucking hands, his wrists, couldn't take much more of this. He tried again, and suddenly he had a toe!

Snotty has a toe. With a start, I remembered to check the altimeter.

There were several Camels buzzing around, the Biffs were coming up...

We were at about 11,800 feet, or thereabouts, and now Snotty had one toe in!

Suddenly another foot caught the rim, and in a jiffy too quick to believe, Snotty was in the plane. The plane leveled out pretty sharply, and I throttled back and tried to stay with him.

Snotty's white-rimmed, terrified eyes looked directly into mine from less than twenty yards.

He pointed to the west.

I nodded, vigorously, trying to catch my own breath, which I badly needed.

We just stayed at that level, and flew a nice, straight and level course for home. I saw Snotty working in the cockpit, trying to do up his safety straps.

A brief moment of what could only be considered hysteria. It was a good thing as CO that no one else saw or heard it. It took a moment to shake that one off. I won't repeat what I said. It's too dirty...too long.

"Oh, my God! Well, that will teach him," was about all I could say that's printable.

It was among the worst nervous shocks I have ever encountered. In the shortest possible time, I might add in qualification, without being wounded or almost killed myself.

The funny thing was, I had seen good friends die before.

But on that day it dawned on me that fate, luck, chance, fortune, whatever, plays a mighty strong role in what happens to a man.

Missing...who else was missing?

Nothing but blue sky do I see. The rest of the formation coming along behind us...aborted the patrol on their own initiative. Finally we were all back together again. The last fifteen minutes were so oddly peaceful. Even the ground-fire was quite benign. A few dozen lazy black puffs and then, it too was over.

A gorgeous, fine day.

'Twas indeed a good day to die.

We just got lucky.

***

As luck would have it, we were just de-briefing Snotty in the quiet of my private office, which seemed to be the least I could do; when a motorcycle-sidecar combination sputtered to a halt outside.

"Who the hell is that?" groaned Howard-Smythe, his curiousity tickled by the men's excited jabber.

He went to the door, and then came back.

"We have yet another visitor," he grunted, then went out.

Snotty sat there in our one really good stolen armchair. His knees were still knocking, his hands shook, and he just stared at the rug, a drink untouched beside him.

"Take a deep breath and relax, son," I told him with a big, happy grin. "I'll bet your arm hurts."

Let him take his time, as I glanced through some papers.

Finally he drained the glass in one big gulp, after knocking it around on his front teeth and lips first. He swallowed, and came up for air. Murmuring could be heard in the outer room, but it wasn't my problem. Not yet.

"Are you going to be all right, Snotty?" I chuckled.

I poured him another good shot of rum; about the only thing the Navy does well.

They know what rum is, and what it's good for.

Suddenly his shoulders slumped.

"I really fucked up there, didn't I boss?" he sighed.

"You did great," I said firmly.

"At some point there were a couple of Boche planes following me," he said. "Any idea what happened to them?"

"Probably died laughing," I murmured.

At first he was stunned, perhaps; by the callousness of that remark. Then he smiled.

Ruefully.

"Howard-Smythe will put it in the book. Two 'probables,' as it were."

"Yes, sir. I suppose so," and it appeared that his shaking had settled down some.

He snorted the second drink in one gulp, and so I poured him another.

"What were you thinking up there, Snotty?" I asked gently.

"I don't know, sir. That was the longest two or three minutes of my life," he added, in a ponderous kind of profundity.

Snotty was having a hard time talking. I practically had to pull the words out of him. It was like each word was dragged out on the end of a string. Two or three minutes. Holy fuck.

He sipped at the rum, and I could see that he was very, very tired, and so I read a few more papers.

Finally he asked, "Can I go now, sir?"

"No. Snotty, you are always the last one to show up for a briefing. Your shoes are always untied. You forgot to check the oil last week and burned up an engine."

"Yes, sir," the poor guy could barely be heard.

"You could really use a shave and a haircut once in a while," I added while the going was good. "You lost your map, you lose your goggles every fuckin' day, at least once."

"Yes, sir."

What else could the poor little guy say?

"There are no accidents, Snotty. Things are caused to happen," and then I dismissed him, making sure to give him a pat on the back as he went out.

"I want you to fly again tomorrow, and then I'll send you and a few other boys on leave," I said kindly. "You've earned it, after all."

"Yes, sir," he replied, cheered up only a little at this news.

One subdued individual, our Snotty.

As I went into the larger, outer office area, Howard-Smythe was beckoning. A rather diminutive Asian man in a Guards uniform stood stiffly at his side, preparing to give, or was it receive? A salute.

I glanced at the papers, an envelope with a big official seal on it.

Shit! I sensed trouble.

Of course, trouble is my business.

"This is Prince Sakahaji," said my aide-de-camp, in a formal tone that indicated he wasn't kidding.

"Ding hao," I said, and bowed low at the waist.

"That means, 'very good,' Howard-Smythe," I intoned majestically.

Patting myself on the sternum with my right palm, I told the man, 'Ko-dali,' which as I'm sure the reader will remember means, 'the tall one,' in Mongolian.

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance," he responded in a cultured Cambridge accent, with the surly Rugby School sulkiness that always comes across so well in the nobility.

I've never heard a future head-of-state drawl so well.

"Will's a great kidder," gasped Howard-Smythe, who seemed a bit flabbergasted by our new problem, oops, I mean, 'guest.'

"Well, that makes two, 'Sacks,' around here," I told Howard-Smythe, who paled and wilted just a little.

"Please don't feel like a gaijin. You are an honoured guest when you are among us," I told the Prince, holding my hands in a formal prayer-like position with finger tips touching.

"That means outsider," I told Howard-Smythe. "You Englishmen probably aren't capable of understanding the whole sempai-kohai relationship between a fatherly older man and the eager young apprentice."

"I brought a bottle of rather excellent Dom Perignon, '05," smiled the Prince. "It's not exactly rot-gut, but it will have to do."

His eyes took in the bottles of rum visible as Howard-Smythe rummaged in a drawer for some suitable booze holders. We weren't all that squeamish, but the man was a freakin' prince after all.

The Prince wasn't such a bad guy, once we got to know him.

Soon we were sipping our champagne and swapping bullshit. Turns out he was a qualified pilot, with experience. A half-dozen flights, in twin-engine bombers, and a few flights in a combat zone. He flew in the back end of a two-seater reconnaissance craft several times.

I'm not sure why he was even doing it. Perhaps some mistaken idea that a king or whatever should be some kind of warrior-god. He was, in fact, a demi-god in his own home town, which must have been a rough way to grow up. The man was a frickin' divinity.

It takes work, commitment, and focus to become a pilot. He had that much going for him. Even I could see that. Why not put the arrogant little shit to work?

"It would be a great honour if you would be gracious enough to fly with us," I suggested.

Of course he wants to fly with us. We're the best.

Sakahaji smiled and bowed ever so humbly.

"We name all our planes, by the way," said Howard-Smythe, filling in the brief conversational gap.

"Yes, I noticed some of the artwork," said the Prince, eyes alight with an inner fire.

"We could name a plane for you," I added. "Fly a couple of missions with us, and we'll give you the plane as a gift in honour of the people of your great and ancient land."

"Oh, I couldn't, really," the Prince protested.

Bullshit. Bullshit. It's why he's here after all.

"If I might suggest, 'hayabusa," that's peregrine falcon," I told Howard-Smythe. "Or perhaps something more poetic, such as, 'hana-saku, hana-saku.'"

"That sounds very nice," the Prince agreed.

"What does that mean?" asked Howard-Smythe, perturbed by my cunning linguistic abilities.

"Flowers abloom, flowers abloom," I translated. "We could give him Kowalski, as gunner, or better yet, Saul."

Howard-Smythe's eyebrows rose at that one.

It was an allegory of death. The bright red flowers that bloom when men die. The bright red flowers that bloom when men are torn apart by shells, and bullets, and missiles.

The Prince, I could tell he liked it, as we raised our glasses in toast.

"Et muratori re salute," the Prince intoned dramatically, in his deep and cultured voice.

His Latin wasn't that good, but he had an amazing voice. Surprisingly deep and sonorous for such a small man.

We who are about to die salute you.

Nice touch.

***

We were very drunk. But then, the future always looks rosier out of the bottom of a glass.

Soon the musical instruments came out. There was a bunch of us in the big briefing tent. Bernie, or, 'Hell-curees,' as he was really called, according to the Prince, dragged out his violin. He scraped away mournfully at it in the corner. Poor old Sakahaji had a banjo-like thingy and he plucked away in a bluegrass-with-an-oriental-twist fashion. He was finger-picking, and rubbing the strings with a little metal pocket knife, in some kind of contrapuntal mode.

Sherlock Holmes played the violin, 'rather badly, according to that Watson guy,' and Bernie wanted to be, 'les detectif.' That was his ambition in life. Well, you have to have a goal, right? Model yourself after someone successful, right?

I heard that somewhere.

Would that work with a fictional character?

"I used to play in a band," I told the gathering, as Kowalski was tuning up his clarinet.

"Oh, really?" Kowalski asked, no doubt impressed. "What instrument do you play?"

"The triangle," I said innocently enough, and the whole damned crowd burst out in laughter.

"I did," I insisted, unaware of what all the fuss was about. "It was in Miss Pribble's class, in a little one-room schoolhouse. Back in Enniskillen Township."

They all rocked in hysterical laughter.

"I remember waiting and waiting, as the piece was being played, and every so often holding up two fingers and the teacher just ignored me."

The were holding their sides in pain.

"I had to crap something fierce," I noted for their benefit.

They were stomping their feet now, out of control.

Doubled up on the floor, in the case of Kowalski.

"In any case, finally it was my time, and I rang the fucking triangle, and then bolted for the door."

I went running full-tilt out to the outhouse behind the school, holding my ass with both hands.

"Was it a little red shithouse?" they all yelled.

Somebody has to let me in on that effing joke, as I felt the first tint of anger in my cheeks.

"Yeah, with a little red schoolhouse out front," I bellowed, a little louder now.

How much have I had to drink? Probably enough, I reckoned, but I'm not taking their shit. I'm the fuckin' CO around here.

Attempting to be serious, Kowalski asked, "What grade were you in?" but choked up and burst out in an apoplectic paroxysm of further merriment.

They all did.

"Bastards," I told them. "I was in grade five...and I was good..."

I told them but they just kept on laughing. Even the Prince, who wasn't such a bad guy, once you got to know him.

"We got an, 'A,' for it," I insisted, and they all broke up again.

Hell, you should have been there.

***

A couple of planes roared overhead, circling for a little height after a night-time takeoff. A spoon rattled softly in the lamplight.

"I can't let you fly at night," I told the Prince. "Let me see you fly, and then we'll go from there."

He nodded, intent on some peculiar passage of Bernie's, 'Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor,' or something like that.

"Bernie's got a German bomber, stashed at St. Omer," offered Howard-Smythe.

Who, luckily for him, was stone-deaf.

"Perhaps you might like to have a look at it?" he added.

Sakahaji nodded sage-like and owl-wise and just kept on scratching and picking away.

And I think that's where the beginnings of an idea began to tickle my subconscious.

Something cold on the back of my neck. I swear to God there's oxygen seeping into this room from somewhere. Looking around, craning my neck, and there by the door was a figure, standing beside some big suitcases.

He opened up his mouth and Russian poured out.

"Yuck shia-mush," he said with an impish grin, pulling off a pair of gloves even though it was getting on for early summer.

Rocking a little on the two back legs of my chair, startled recognition dawned.

I had my feet up on the desk, to ease the strain some. It's one of my favourite positions.

Then came a stream of other languages, for example, 'Com' es state,' that's Italian for, 'what do you got to say?' and, 'Besa me dupa,' which I think means 'kiss my ass,' in Hungarian.

"Bert!" I yelled, then my chair went over backwards, with my arms and legs all akimbo.

***

Bert was an old acquaintance.

Once I got over the indignity of going ass over tea-kettle, we got the man a drink and made introductions. Bert was something of a world traveler. Quite frankly, poor old Bert has caused a bit of a problem for historians. He flew for both the Bulgarians and the Serbs in the First Balkan War. Then he went on to fly for the Turks against the Brits, before the U.S. entered the war in 1917. Bert was an American citizen. He flew with the Greeks, and something called, 'Smyert Spionam,' a 'nascent underground movement of worker-council members and their affiliates, seeking peaceful democratic change.'

No one quite knew what to do with Bert after he joined the French Armee de le Air.

Out of sight, out of mind. At least he was on our side now, right?

It was quite bizarre, to take him in. He wore a Bulgarian colonel's jacket, tall fur kepi, rows and rows of medals, from about seven different and even mutually-hostile countries, yet he wore hob-nailed boots, and grey gabardine trousers! With stripes!

One couldn't help but note Bernie's twinkling green eyes studying the man. Yes, I wondered what the Belgian, known far and wide, and even on the next block for his sartorial splendour, would make of this.

"Are you seeking employment, Monsieur Hall?" he asked conspiratorially.

Bernie must have had a pretty good buzz on, but he wasn't slurring too badly.

Bert just shrugged.

"I'm always open to offers," he said, and tipped up a short glass of schnapps, having brought his own.

The thoughtful type, Bert was something of a loner, and no one quite knew what to make of him. A mercenary, he knew everyone by name. He had many acquaintances, in surprising places, in all walks of life, and at all levels of society. Poor old Bert had no true friends.

"What brings you up this way, Mr. Hall?" asked Corporal Whittington, who was supervising a bit of a clean-up operation.

Some of the boys were bringing in food, and steaming urns of coffee. The mess crew were unobtrusively clearing up bottles, emptying ash trays, and when they could squeeze in amongst the officers, taking a swipe at the table with wet rags.

Whittington was only paying half attention to his own question, prodding his minions to greater and hopefully quicker, efforts.

"I was in the neighbourhood," Bert murmured in a calm, cool, collected and neutral tone.

I played cards with Bert once or twice. He's a lot easier to beat than he thinks he is, but oddly enough the man can fly pretty well.

"You have twin-engine experience?" I asked Bert.

His eyes lit up, then he got it under control and regained that heavy-lidded, dozy look.

"Yeah! Sure!" he assured us.

"We're always looking for pilots, Bert," I acknowledged.

Bert was in the Lafayette Escadrille, he was in the Escadrille Americain, which preceded it, yet if he caused problems for historians, he also caused a few other problems, and diplomatic headaches, along the way. Armies, governments, countries, all would like to speak with Mr. Bert Hall.

If they could only get their hands on him.

Bert couldn't turn down a drink, nor could he neglect the opportunity to make a pass at a pretty girl. And he liked bombing and strafing things as well, especially when his pay-cheque was late. Bert Hall would make a pass at the Pope's daughter, if he had one, as someone once said. So we had one or two things in common.

Plying him with drink, we soon talked Bert into joining us for, 'a few test flights.' It took less than three minutes.

We munched on our snack. The boys in the cookhouse had a few left-over turkey pies, and they whipped up a dozen clubhouse sandwiches, with bacon, lettuce, tomato, 'et cetera.' I like mine toasted, with a little mayonnaise. The food was beginning to absorb and dull the alcohol, a lot of alcohol, in my belly.

Bert packed away a club house and a turkey pie. I waved him over to the sideboard for a second fill-up, which I was doing myself.

"I've been meaning to try the apple pie," I noted.

Chapter Forty-Three

Sakahaji

Sakahaji was flying number three with the Biffs. His winger, a good solid man. A good gunner, Johnny Strepp, volunteered as I knew he would when asked. Put him down in the report. Good man. Most of us prefer to stick with a pilot we know. In fact, I sort of wondered about his former pilot...?

Sakahaji, Andrew, Powell, Black and other pilots stood around the big briefing table, lit from above in the harsh glare. The tent smelled of a faint, musty odour. Wet canvas, they always smell like that when the sun hits them.

"Alrighty, then. The Biffs will approach the target in a wing formation, i.e. four groups of two airplanes strung out horizontally, like this," and I dotted in a quick sketch.

"This is Tucker's Notation," said Dawley, prodding Sakahaji gently with an elbow.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but the Prince was taking a real shine to Dawley. This was no big surprise. With Dawley being Intelligence Officer, and the Prince being the putative next of kin of a head of state; I guess you could say that old Sakahaji asked a lot of questions. Dawley could be relied on.

Earlier, I took Dawley aside and gently warned him not to go too far, without giving offense, or causing the Prince to 'lose face.'

Refer the Prince to me, a nice safe policy for junior officers.

"Now, when attacked by enemy aircraft from behind, you immediately go to this position," I told Sakahaji, as pretty much everyone else knew their job.

He watched my hands. Two fingers on the left hand climb, two on the right hand; dive.

"Since you're the pair on the left, you climb, the two on your right will dive a little, and the two outer planes squeeze in a little," I went on. "It's a diamond pattern when viewed by the enemy."

Dot-dot-dot-dot on the blackboard.

Simple gestures. He comprehends.

"Ah, so. The aircraft guns are well-placed for mutual support," he acknowledged. "The man on top has his belly covered by friends. The men on the sides cover each other, and the men above and below, who also can see under the flanking planes."

He nodded in approval.

"Now the beauty of this is when the enemy tries a kind of two-pronged attack. If you are attacked from the side, while being pursued from behind, simply turn into the threat and use the front guns while your observer continues to defend..."

"And it's still a diamond formation," he marveled.

"And; we always fly in pairs, staggered slightly back," I added. "It's like attacking a wall, with clear fields of fire for the four observer's guns...kind of."

"The elegance of simplicity," he nodded wisely. "I am very impressed."

"Now, I want you to imagine two pairs of aircraft, flying in line abreast, with each pair in our proper position. If someone attacks the right-hand pair, all they have to do is to turn towards their buddies, and then dive beneath them," I went on. "Or climb above, but it takes longer. Your buddies turn towards them, or you; and initiate a head-on attack."

The Prince drank it all in eagerly. If he remembered half of it, he was doing well.

"Two pairs of aircraft can take on a larger group, if properly handled, and the two-seaters are learning to roll inverted, so the gunner can engage targets under the tail."

A quick half-roll and a dive, with your winger right there with you—it worked often enough. The Prince was impressed. We hadn't shot anyone down yet using this method, but the enemy hated it. They could see the potential. As long as the gunners knew what to expect, they could anticipate the maneuver, and bring the gun to bear at the proper time.

"This is why you designed the stirrups in the back seat position?" he asked.

"Yes. That way the back-seater can stabilize the gun. After a plane takes a few hits to the fuselage, it's all too easy to kick a foot out the side or the bottom," I noted for his edification, "That's a bad scene, man. I've done it myself."

He nodded in all seriousness.

"Right now, we have the lowest casualty figures in the whole theatre," mentioned Howard-Smythe diffidently.

He was totally overwhelmed by the nobility, yet a sensible-enough man most of the time. He was hemming and hawing, clearing his throat, and very deferential.

"I've got a million of them," I told the regal gentleman. "Today's operation is pretty simple, but I'm honoured to give you some idea of what we have learned."

"I appreciate that," he said with a smile.

My diplomatic skills were improving somewhat; under the pressure of having royalty knocking about the 'drome.

Both Howard-Smythe and Bernie chided me on the subject once or twice, but oddly enough it was good old Sergeant Jaeckl who gave the best advice.

"Try shaking hands and grinning at them a little more. They're people too, you know."

Yes. And very, very dangerous.

Be that as it may, the whole wing was in the air within a half of an hour.

I liked Sakahaji. I just wanted to show him a good time; show him what we could do; hopefully without getting the man killed.

Ultimately a man's fate rests in his own hands. And we make the best we can out of what we've got.

***

And another one bites the dust.

Our mission was pretty simple. Drop some bombs, take a few pictures, sweep the sky of enemy fighters on the way home. It was just pure blind luck that the Boche drafted in some new squadrons to oppose us.

I surveyed the panorama laid out for our breakfast table. The Western Front. I felt like a very rich eagle choosing from the menu. And who should I see, but that nasty little prick Aristides, the Renegade Greek, the Oedipus Complex mother-fucker.

Even better, he was alone, below me, focused on the fray below. He didn't look up.

He probably thought it was the usual thing—one squadron on ground attack, one squadron for top cover. But we had four layers.

Aristides—he's the one who liked strafing hospitals, even civilian hospitals, the one who bombed that sick children's home, the home for terminally-ill kids.

The sick bastard. I had no pity as I rolled over, and totally forgot our mission.

His blue-fuselage and white winged-aircraft filled my gun-sights, but I wanted to get closer. Everything else in the world ceased to matter, as I peppered him with about forty rounds through the center section of the fuselage.

The plane started to burn, and as I pulled up and under and behind him, I could see the little fucking goof struggling in his cockpit.

"Don't jump! Ride her down, you motherfucker," I screamed into my facemask. "You fucking bastard."

Aristides was the source, and the cause, of all of life's woes. Put it all on him.

I wanted him to suffer. I didn't want it to be too quick for the man. If you call that a man. More rounds, this time into the pale, white underbelly of his aircraft. I honestly couldn't tell you what he was flying that day.

It might have been a Siemens-Schuckert D-1, a superior copy of the Nieuport 17.

Black, choking smoke whipped out and back from his plane as the fuel tank was fanned by the breeze of its passage. The vertical empennage is a little different, but that's a minor detail.

He looked over the rim of the cockpit, and he made a little waving motion. Face and eyes inscrutable, unknowable behind his goggles and mask.

"Get back? You want me to get back?" I cried, then he jumped out and I saw the white blossom of his parachute.

As he hung there, watching me circle, I never even thought about it. I blew his head off from about eighty yards. The raising of his hands in prayer, asking for mercy? Was he asking for forgiveness? Don't mean nothing to me, man.

I have become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.

"Talk to God, pally," I murmured as I gently and slowly squeezed the trigger.

What was left of Aristides hung limp in the straps of his chute.

On the way down, his blazing aircraft narrowly missed Sakahaji and his Biff by about five feet! I never thought of that! Cause and effect, cause and effect.

What could I have done differently? That plane had to go somewhere. Just the risk that came with the job.

Still, it wouldn't have done to lose the Prince too quickly, before he had time to earn a little glory. If there is such a thing.

I don't feel like a hero, and I don't feel like a monster.

It's just my job. It's nothing personal—just business. I don't get paid much and I've never asked for a raise.

Should I have let him go home, and come back to work the next day, and shoot down some more of our boys? I expected no mercy from them little creeps when they were on my tail. And I gave no mercy.

It's a shitty little world, sometimes. And down below, tens of thousands of men fought, and died, and were buried in the muck and filth.

Search the sky for more targets.

Lord, give us more targets.

This is what God created me for.

No one was more sure of that than I.

I was the right man, in the right place, and at the right time.

An abomination, just like all the rest.

I knew it, I accepted it, and my hands didn't even shake anymore when I killed.

Just another busy day.

And then on the target, we patrolled overhead, with me and a few of the boys just sitting it out. The Camel Jocks shot down four enemy planes that interfered with our operations. They damaged several others, and the Biffs got involved on the fringes. We stayed where we were. My boys had good discipline. Exactly what I wanted to see. They do what I tell them—no more and no less.

We're the best.

Many of our bombs went on the target, and the rest fell into empty fields.

I changed in those years, and everyone said I was a hero. They said it was a good thing, to be brave, and merciless. Why should I let him live? We had no parachutes.

When my guys caught fire, they would die, in agony, screaming for their mothers.

Did Aristides scream? I hope so. Scum like that don't deserve to live. And they don't deserve a nice, 'comfortable' death, either.

The French have a different attitude. But for an entire generation of Englishmen, 'The War,' was the greatest adventure of a lifetime. The Germans didn't fight on their own soil, and as a Canadian, there were times when I wondered what God-damned difference did it make?

The French suffered, and they couldn't even provide for their own refugees.

They were an unwanted burden, washed up on a thousand street-corners in every part of France. That's the fucking truth—their own people could not, or would not help them.

Everything went into the quest for 'Victory.'

What a shameful word.

The winners get to write the history books. Fifty years hence, if a German Imperial flag flew over the schoolhouse, or the courthouse, who among us could tell the difference?

The only thing we would know is what we were taught.

It might go something like this: 'The nasty, evil British were attempting to dominate the world in some kind of hegemony. But the good, God-fearing, Germanic peoples stood up for freedom and right.'

And they saved the world.

It's all in the eye of the beholder.

Of course, we know the truth about what happened. Don't we? Don't ever question it.

You might lose your faith, and that is a troubling thing.

A person can lose faith in God, and live with it. To lose faith in your own kind, that is a kind of living hell. Take my word for it—I've been there.

***

The Prince had a few questions.

"If you captured him, would you have killed him in cold blood?" Sakahaji asked.

Actually, I've shot a prisoner in the middle of no-man's land. At the time, I thought it was more merciful than dragging him home, having him interrogated, using none-too-gentle methods; then be left in the rain to die in shame and misery outside some field hospital.

We couldn't save everyone, or take everyone prisoner. We couldn't carry them all.

"Of course not," I retorted. "But then he wouldn't be coming back, either."

No, he would get to sit out the war in a nice, safe prison camp. Maybe I would have shot him...I just don't know.

"Anyway, it's all just rumours, that military intelligence," I pointed out.

"A man like that, I would have beheaded him in a heartbeat. And I would have had absolutely no regrets," the Prince informed me.

That's not much comfort. We all have to live with ourselves, after all.

And the culture he came from, with their Bushido, their Samurai tradition. They don't surrender and dishonour themselves. Chopping an enemy soldier's head off is just a normal part of doing business.

"Good work," Sakahaji said as he patted me on the shoulder.

"If you hadn't gotten him, perhaps he would have taken one of your men," he added.

Yeah, I guess that is a possibility. I didn't even hesitate—I just killed him. Without thought, or compunction, and with surprisingly little regret.

It was my own soul that I regretted. I was such a nice kid, before all this.

Yet it wasn't revenge, even though his squadron shot down a number of men I knew, and liked, and worked with.

It was a kind of prevention. Like bug spray. Kill 'em before they breed.

That's the only way. It's the only way, sometimes.

Maybe I should have let Aristides live. Let him live with himself. The memories, the thoughts, the images. Every so often I have a dream—a dream about a headless man, with a parachute, landing on my farm.

I guess I earned that.

To live with myself, inside of my own head, with the memories, the thoughts, the images. Truly a fate worse than death.

It is something that each and every one of us, those who survived, have to live with.

And we can never talk about it.

People just don't understand. They want heroes. They want glory. They wanted headlines. They wanted, 'Victory.'

They're content with their second-hand, unearned, vicarious honour.

May it bring you much joy.

Chapter Forty-Four

Stress is a Silent Killer

In retrospect, I think was really suffering back then. What with the project, and getting the whole thing off the ground, it took a toll. Training the men, and the constant, never-ending, unremitting work; I guess you could say the stress was beginning to show.

I was the last one to know.

As I turned away from Prince Sakahaji, who should be standing right there but good old Bert. His accusing eyes locked onto mine.

"What?" I asked.

Bert was my winger on the mission, and with a twinge of guilt I realized that I just sort of forgot all about him; just taking it for granted that I had a wingman at all.

"That was good shooting," he said, rather obliquely.

His eyes shifted around under my gaze, but then came right back.

"You almost took the nose off me when you turned," he grunted angrily.

"Sorry, Bert. I don't know what came over me," I said. "I did tell you to stay a few yards off."

His eyes had that look, the old disbelieving, 'Yeah, you fucking told me all right,' type of look.

"What do you want to hear, Bert? That I'm very disappointed in myself?"

Lord. Give me patience.

"Now I understand the rationale behind the formation design," he admitted. "But holy, fucking, Jesus!"

"Don't start," I suggested.

"They're going to shoot the first one of us that jumps out in a parachute," he blurted.

"Yes, they will. Would you like to know the truth? We've asked for parachutes, many times, and we have been refused," I told Bert.

Shoulders slumped, standing there in the heat of the sun, the dust, and the insects whizzing around us, Bert seemed pretty sad. Bert was quite a small man. A lonely man, a lost man. Balding at the front; a number of grey hairs at the temples. The thick but shapeless moustache. The grey-blue eyes, very tired and a little bloodshot. That funny little chip off the front tooth. An individual; unique in every aspect.

Some would have dismissed him. I listened very closely.

"I didn't know that," he said. "Sorry."

"It's okay, Bert. You're probably right," I acknowledged.

The price of a parachute was quite high, and the Brass thought we would jump out in a panic. They thought we were cowards. Never mind that no rational pilot jumps out of a plane without a good reason. You jump out in a 'chute that costs maybe a fifty pounds, and the plane goes into the dirt.

"Silk is expensive, and that's what parachutes are made of. Airplanes cost money. Life is cheap. Us working class people, we breed like flies. You know that."

"What can I say?" he muttered.

The Brass thought we would abandon our ships, when they were not too badly-damaged that they might have been recovered. Once again, they forgot that the pilot is the most important part of the machine. It takes tens of thousands of pounds to train a good pilot, and it takes months or even years to do it. All they thought of was money.

They were, 'responsible to the taxpayers.'

Like hell they were. They acted like a God unto themselves, sometimes.

The Brass, the politicians, were just incredibly stupid people, most of the time.

They simply didn't live in the real world.

They weren't like the rest of us.

***

Anger is a gift. It sustains a man when nothing else will.

Hatred is a way of rallying support, a way of recruiting, a way to become a hero.

Curiousity killed the cat.

No operation of war is moral.

I had a funny little idea about ships, and was hoping that curiousity didn't kill any of my men. When you get an idea, it's better to think on it for a while. Don't act too quickly. If it's too crazy, just forget about it. But if it's any good, you have to take responsibility. To let someone else try to carry it out, in a half-baked fashion, may doom them, and the idea, to an early grave.

A good, long, private chat with Dawley, resplendent in his brand-new Royal Air Force Major's outfit, and Bernie, helped to settle my mind.

"What do you think about bombing ships?" I asked Bernie.

"But can they not maneuver? Out of the way of the bombs?" he asked.

In order for a bomb to penetrate the deck of a battleship, they had to be released from high altitude. Most high-explosive bombs actually broke up on deck. Our bombs were meant for concentrations of men, artillery, buildings, roads, bridges, and et cetera. They were thin-walled bombs with a big charge inside. They weren't designed to penetrate four inches of upper-deck armour-plating.

"Torpedoes must be launched very low, within range of every ship-borne gun," Major Dawley reminded us.

"Can't use torpedoes," I acknowledged. "But what if the ships were in the harbour?"

They thought it over.

Bernie spoke first.

"That takes care of the speed of a moving target, and the maneuverability."

"Ships in harbour are notoriously unready for gunnery," I stated.

A ship is a long, skinny little target when viewed from altitude.

"Where and when do you want to do this?" asked Major Dawley. "We still need to thrash this out; but I can get any information we need."

"We have to be very, very discreet," I suggested.

Taking a deep breath, I let the cat out of the bag.

"I want to bomb Wilhelmshaven," and their eyes got a little bigger.

"A very stoutly-defended target," noted the Belgian.

"I want to use your Boche bomber," I told Bernie. "They won't be expecting that. Do they even know we have it?"

His jaw dropped with the simplicity of it all.

"Even if they know about that plane, and some of the others, they would never expect us to use them," Bernie mused thoughtfully. "It's too risky, from the point of view of conventional thinking."

"Damn conventional thinking, it just gets conventional results," noted Dawley in approval. "I'd like to fly on that one!"

"We'll see. No promises," I promised.

"So you want to go up to Heligoland Bight, and bomb the German High Seas Fleet, simply as an experiment?"

Dawley was astonished, but a quick word of explanation seemed to help.

"We're not allowed to attack our own fleet, after all. It would cause bad feelings."

The quick grin, the nod.

"Very audacious," Dawley murmured.

"Would not two planes be better than one?" asked Bernie.

"Absolutely," I agreed. "You have more than one?"

"Er, not exactly," he admitted.

"Spit it out, you dapper little Belgian, you!"

"Well?" added Dawley.

"The Government of the Netherlands has impounded a big bomber. I forget which type, but I know where it is."

The crew was under internment, pending repatriation.

With three good brains on the project, it didn't take too long to hatch our little scheme, and from my own perspective, it was a good thing they didn't squawk too much. Not to put too fine a point on it, we stood down, 'partially,' and moved our operations fifty miles from our past exploits. Half our men were sent on leave; half of the pilots, half the Army, half the ground personnel, and a good few of the officers and NCO's. A couple of weeks of routine missions. Show our new numbers, let the Boche get used to us. Start the game anew.

My big problem was to get away for a few days. The worry was; what if a big-shot Army General came along, and commandeered our train, or started assigning unsuitable missions? My deputy, whoever that might be on any given day; might not be able to stand up to them. Also; I didn't want to return from my own leave, which was becoming a matter of some importance; and find the formation decimated by our own command structure.

While I had the gift to be able to stand up to them and get away with it, I couldn't reasonably expect someone like Hastings, or Jaeckl, or Howard-Smythe to risk a career or even time in a military prison for us. Their life, perhaps, but not their career.

"I have an idea," proffered Dawley.

Never shy, his promotion to Major, and official transfer into the RAF, gave him increased stature. He was learning to make the most of it. His experience with our tactics and strategies was a real eye-opener. And he was a very sharp young man.

For someone in Intelligence, a little field experience, a little time spent with the troops, can give insights that just analyzing data couldn't provide. This one time, the enemy doubled the number of troops in a given location. Intelligence suggested an attack. I knew it wouldn't happen. And I was right, not that anyone listened. It was just that the enemy had no trains. They couldn't remove the men who needed to be relieved.

So they left them in the trench. Ultimately, I was proven right, just for the record.

Two days later, everything was back to normal. As an observer, no one trusted my conclusions!

"Bert, he can be a Bulgarian General," suggested Dawley.

"Ah. Now that's a smart-ah man," breathed Bernie in admiration. "Nom de Dieu! Brilliant."

"Yeah. I like that. He can be a Bulgarian General who speaks no French or English, and he can command the boys while we are away," Dawley outlined the plan. "No one will dare to steal any of our units, if they can't argue their case with him."

How can you browbeat a man who doesn't understand you? Good concept, keep it coming.

"In a crisis, he can turn his guns on the generals," the Major mused aloud.

I liked that idea well enough.

"I need Bert, if we can find another plane," I noted, and Bernie made a face.

"We can get the plane, but it may be tricky," he said.

"Tell me about that plane," I suggested. "Bert can lend his hat and jacket to our stand-in."

It turns out a German crew got lost and found themselves in a fog, low on fuel and unaware of their location. They were lucky not to get lost over the North Sea. The Dutch were neutral. When the Germans spotted lights down below, they had no choice but to search out an aerodrome, and bring the plane down.

They were locked up pending diplomatic maneuvers.

"Is it bombed up?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, no," he admitted.

"No, that's good! I want to drop one of those sixteen-hundred-fifty pound bombs. Two would be better. We'll send them a little message."

Thoughtful, pursing his lips, he gazed across the table.

"It is nothing but a problem to the Dutch authorities, and they will not give it back to the Boche," he assured us.

"Contact someone trustworthy up there. See what you can find out. We can help them to properly and safely dispose of it, if they would like that?" I asked Bernie.

"I am sure they will be delighted," he vowed with satisfaction. "They can see which way the wind is blowing."

"We have a couple of thousand pounds," I noted for the others. "In our unofficial little contingency fund. Bribe anyone who wants to be bribed."

"If we can't get it, we can contact Trenchard, and borrow a couple of his planes," mused Dawley.

"We'll have to get the bombs from him anyway," I noted. "That will save a lot of time and bullshit questions from the Ministry."

"Why don't we get on that, and let Bernie do his work," suggested Dawley; and that was it for another bull session.

Truth is, I didn't let them in on the whole plan. It would have been too much to swallow all at once. I'd let them in on the other half when the preparations were further along.

You are what you do.

I was turning into a manipulative bastard.

***

We got to work on the double switch-play, phase one.

Bombing German ships while they were still in the harbour was actually a pretty good idea, but still cooking in my mind, was another little idea. An idea too crazy to share with anyone. Sitting across from Hugh Trenchard, he seemed to be in a good mood, but then Hugh always liked me for some reason.

'Boom,' as everyone called him, (but not to his face,) took lessons at his own expense in 1912, sitting beside Tommy Sopwith. That plane must have been staggering all over the sky. Good old Boom was a big man. It was a fifty-horsepower Farman, a Longhorn.

"Hey, Boom," I said, then sat and waited patiently.

But it proved he was truly air-minded, not just some fuddy-duddy with the necessary rank and pull to get a glory job, which was what his Independent Bombing Force was. Of course, just like the rest of us, he began with nothing.

The press and the populace, they just loved the idea of taking the fight to the German heartland. Trenchard's boys weren't particularly effective. I would never tell him that. Over time, they might be built into something greater, but in my opinion, strategic bombing couldn't win a war if they couldn't hit anything. You needed to put bombs on targets, the best targets. As for bombing at night, it just scattered bombs all over the place. More of a terror weapon, really, to be used against civilians in cities. We don't like to talk about it much. I didn't bring up my criticisms at this time, it being impolite to do so.

Germany is an industrial nation because the people didn't have much to do, so they built lots and lots of factories. I wouldn't have a problem with bombing, if we went after refineries, transportation networks, or command and control. But they kept trying to hit irrelevant targets, like shipyards, Krupp's at Essen, and other armaments factories. I would hit economic targets of high value. I didn't have time to argue with Boom.

The enemy aircraft industry seemed beyond their ken, and beyond their reach. If they simply focused on the enemy air forces, then their own, 'bomb-effectiveness,' would go up markedly. Enemy fighter pilots would be in short supply.

Hugh Trenchard once said, 'I like the way you keep going to the net, even when you don't have the puck.'

The rest of that particular inter-services hockey team was mostly, 'all show and no go,' and he didn't like to lose. I would have bombed their training fields. The enemy's training fields. Not the hockey guys.

"How have you been, Tucker?" he asked, after signing about fifty documents.

"Several days ago, was the first day of the rest of my life," I told him drily.

"That good, eh?" he snorted. "Better than road kill? What's up?"

"This project is so secret; even I don't know what I'm doing half the time," I admitted ruefully to his twinkling eyes.

Boom stared across the desk. You couldn't put too much over with him. It had to be plausible. Funny thing was, he didn't even ask.

"You're shitting me," he said, and gave a belly-shaking laugh.

Hugh was in a fairly good mood.

"Join the club," he said, which concluded his opening statements.

On the plus side, Boom wasn't one of those guys whose opinion is always the same as whoever spoke to them last. Carl Jung related the driving force, the will to live with creativity. Jung also said, 'War is not instinctive, it is a learned response.' I'll take his fucking word for it; but the point is that Boom would have had his own ideas and stuck with them. His will to live complemented his creativity.

"I just need to borrow a couple of planes for the weekend," I requested politely.

"I can't spare any pilots," he said in a no-nonsense tone.

"Not a problem, sir. I just need two planes, and a half a dozen big bombs," and I kept it short. "In case we need to go back."

Boom didn't know there were five-ton lorries waiting around the corner.

"I'll need a bomb-dolly to go with that, and, a teensy little bit of radio equipment."

My boys were just down the road, waiting for me to tip them the nod. I was prepared to steal the planes. A sign of my increasing cynicism. I was under a lot of stress, and had ceased to care by this point. But we could have waited until later and high-jacked them.

Nothing, and no one, was going to stand in my way.

"I want something from you," he said.

"What would you like? Within reason, of course?" I asked.

"We're just having a hell of a time getting any decent beer around here," he grieved!

"How much do you want?"

He grinned, showing a fine set of teeth, which caused me a moment of envy, having grown up in poverty. While my general state of physical health is usually pretty good, my teeth have been a real cross to bear at times.

"As much as we can get, within reason," he said with a certain emphasis.

"I'll make you proud," I promised. "Hell, I'll put it in my will."

"How soon do you need them?" he asked. "Knowing you, immediately?"

"Well..."

He nodded and grinned.

"Go on. Don't hold anything back," he said encouragingly.

"Okay. I need a half a dozen of your block-busting cookies, the sixteen-fifty pounders, I'll need at least two planes," I pretended to think. "Fuel, and a couple of other minor items."

He thought briefly.

"Here," he said, standing up, and I jumped up and followed him into the outer office, where staff were busy typing, making calls, and studying reports.

He led me over to a big blackboard. After a quick moment of study; he turned to regard me.

"Jesus H. Christ," he muttered irritably. "You are the only man I ever met; who makes me feel short."

Hugh Trenchard was about six-four. He wasn't used to it. That's for sure. I mean, I found him intimidating, but then I'm not used to it either. A world filled with short people, and we're used to towering over them. We take it for granted, we really do.

Shit or get off the pot, for Christ's sake.

"You are short," I told him affably.

His staff took a collective deep breath.

"Hah!" he said with a grin.

The staff let out their collective breath.

He pointed at the board.

"Take oh-nineteen, and oh-twenty-one," he offered. "They're available, but we don't have the crews up to snuff yet. The planes are in good shape, though."

"May I use your radio?" I asked.

"Yes, but keep it tight," he agreed. "The Fritzies would love to locate us, if they could."

"Thanks, sir."

And he turned and strode into his office. Usually a polite and courteous gentleman, he must have had a lot on his plate. A tough row to hoe, as the saying goes.

"Right this way, sir," a spit-and-polished corporal led me to another tent.

Very impressive. They had the whole rig going, where our experiments with radios, wireless, Morse, were somewhat lackadaisical. I should have asked Boom for a couple of good radio technicians. Maybe next time. Mental note to bring a lot of beer.

I'll just commandeer it. It's not like I can afford it on my own.

"Send this. The freak is on there as well," I asked the technician, and handed over a note.

"I don't understand," he queried.

"It's a private code," I said. "'Fall Gelb,' that's German. It means, 'Case Yellow.' If they overhear it, they'll think it's one of their own spies, using a different code-book."

"Very well, sir."

His fingers began to spin the knobs, searching out a frequency.

He tapped it out with speed and confidence. All of a sudden he grimaced, and winced; and grabbed a knob, and quickly turned it anti-clockwise. The volume control.

I wished I knew more about radios, but simply hadn't found the time to read the stuff provided.

"Fuck! They must be in the next tent," he blurted. "Sorry sir! Anyhow, the answer is 'yes.'"

"That's okay, son; I've heard people cuss before," and he grinned in appreciation.

He looked to be about forty-five, whereas I was still stuck there at the age of twenty...

and a half. But I was very mature for my age. Less than ten minutes later, men were spilling out of the trucks, and swarming all over the planes, while several other lorries and a crew went looking for the bomb dump.

A vehicle pulled up, a window rolled down and a deep, commanding voice called out.

"I admire your confidence, young man," and then Boom rolled away.

The last impression I had was of a big, happy grin.

Yes, Boom liked me, for some reason. I'll bet he could taste that beer already.

A good judge of character.

An hour later, I took off in, 'oh-nineteen,' a Handley-Page 0-400 bomber, fully fueled-up and with a big crew of men in the fuselage. Mechanics playing at gunners. I could see our little truck convoy rolling down the road. Six big, I mean really big mother-fricking bombs were tightly strapped-down in the beds.

They were going by road to St. Omer, where we planned to rendezvous with the rest of the team. Our own fields were just too small to get these big planes in and out of.

The 0-400 was a vast improvement over its predecessor, the 0-100, and we had a few ideas on how to get more out of them. Instead of the full bomb-load, we would just use one bomb. Get rid of useless equipment, carry minimal defensive arms and ammo; minimal fuel load. All the gunners were skinny little men, hand-picked for the job.

Surprisingly easy to handle, it was just a big kite. Obviously not a fighter. She wasn't too maneuverable. When I put generous amounts of aileron into it, she hesitated, made up her mind about it; then slowly and gently began to roll. You really had to think ahead with this machine. Yet it was stable, calm and reassuring after our nimble little fighters. The biggest surprise was just how much effort it took to turn it, and the effort required to hold the control surfaces against the forces of the slipstream.

Still, it was manageable, even relaxing.

"Roll in, pull back, she'll go," I told Dawley.

We cruised along at 2,500 feet.

"The nitrous bottle should help," he observed non-committally.

Some of our ideas might be unworkable. You just never know. You have to try them out. The cockpit area was roomy. While not exactly the bridge of a ship, there were some surprising similarities. A big wooden steering wheel, multiple throttles, rows of gauges and instruments, a leather-padded seat, nice touch; that honking great windscreen out front.

The compass was huge, compared to the ones in our scouts. The bigger compasses are usually more accurate. Bombers are expensive, and not so expendable, not meant to be disposed-of in constant plane-to-plane combats.

They have longer missions, navigation-wise. It was like sitting in an office, after our tight little cockpits. I reveled in the luxury of being able to stretch, and to move around, with the map in a clip-board off to one side, and with Dawley to engage in conversation if I got bored.

"What would you do if German fighters came along?" he bellowed over the roar of the big motors, mounted right behind our heads.

"Die," I called back.

That's why they used the bombers at night. The guns were mostly for show, especially as our mechanics weren't particularly well-trained in aerial gunnery.

Nodding, he called back, "I suspect you're right."

After some discussion; we picked on Captain Howard-Smythe to play the role of the Bulgarian General. He couldn't fly, while Bert could. Bert had an amazing resume, when you think about it.

Craning his neck around, Dawley found Bert and our other plane, up, behind and to our right, just under the cloud base of approximately 6,500 feet. He waved, a little gingerly, as the propellers were literally right there.

"Jesus! I sure wouldn't like to jump out of this thing in a hurry," he observed.

"The pilot is supposed to switch off the motors," I told him, wondering how many men, in the heat of the moment, a moment of panic, went right through those spinning props.

While our boys didn't have parachutes, the Fritzies did.

He shook his head.

About an hour and a half later, St. Omer hove into view. Now came the tricky part.

Bert had multi-engine experience. I had none. I swear to God, Bert flew them giant four-engine Sikorski planes in Russia! He had a lot of experience.

Bert's plane began to lose altitude. We stayed in a position where we could watch, observe his technique, and learn.

"Right over that big stone barn," Dawley reported.

"I see it," I concurred.

Bert was at about a hundred and fifty feet, and a good half a mile out from the 'drome.

Is he going to make it?

But without a bomb-load, and low on fuel, the plane seemed to glide forever. It had a huge wing area, after all...Bert made it. We circled around while he taxied out of our way.

"Still glad you came?" I asked Dawley, who remained silent, or 'muet.'

Right about now, I'll bet he wished he had a parachute.

"You're looking good," he suddenly responded. "Just relax, we're doing fine. Here it comes."

The barn passed underneath, and the field loomed up in our vision.

Someone on the ground launched a green flare. I chopped throttles and a few moments later our wheels touched terra firma.

"Holy shit! That was awesome," Dawley allowed.

Sometimes I impress myself. Honestly, all you have to do is throttle back. If the speed drops off, push the nose down, and holy fuck, stand on the rudder!

"Over there," Dawley pointed.

"I see him!" I grunted in acknowledgement. "Jesus friggin' Christ!"

The thing was hard to taxi.

My leg ached, especially the knee, after standing on the rudder pedals for a while.

Ramming full throttle on one side, and pulling back on the other only had limited effectiveness. Finally the hulking brute was parked beside Bert's plane, and right next to him was Bernie's AEG. The clump of men beside it visibly relaxed, and tried to catch their breaths, after my hair-raising taxi-tour of the 'drome.

"The boys needed a good run anyway," I quipped, shutting her down abruptly.

The sudden silence was deafening. Ringing in the ears. I noted the time in my log book while Dawley clambered out and down. Standing beside him in the wan sunlight, we looked around.

"Where's Bernie?" I asked, but got nothing but shrugs.

As the boys spilled out and stretched the legs, Jaeckl came out of an office door on the front of a hangar.

"Holy shit! What happened to you?" asked Dawley.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant Jaeckl. How does it feel to join the despised officer class?" I joked.

"A little strange," he admitted. "Still, Mrs. Jaeckl will be pleased with her new social status, and a slight increase in the old pay-packet can't hurt."

"Are you planning to stay in after the war?" Dawley asked.

"Not for all the fewking tea in China," came the response.

We chuckled at that, as we waited for Bernie to show up. Can't say as I blamed him.

He would likely be busted back to private anyway, after the need for good men was gone.

***

According to a lot of historians who weren't there, the second battle of the Marne marked the turning point of the war. It lasted from about July 15 to August 4. Following the plan as conceived by General Ludendorf, the Boche attacked east and west of Rheims. While successful in crossing the Marne, they subsequently made little progress.

On July 18, the Allies under General Ferdinand Foch counter-attacked with forces that included several American divisions. One of the fiercest fights occurred at Chateau-Thierry. It was here that the Americans won their first victory, and a decisive one at that.

The German armies were forced to withdraw across the Marne. This counterattack destroyed Ludendorf's plan for a massive stroke in Flanders, meant to split the Allies.

Now the Allies held the initiative.

Putting down the paper, musing on this subject, one could hear a faint droning in the distance. This war can't last forever.

A person rushed in the door, and said, "They're here!"

The glare in the doorway revealed a familiar profile. Pete, my pet mechanic.

Rising, I made my way outside to where a little clump of men stood watching a speck in the serene, distant sky.

"Holy, schmoley," someone muttered.

"It's the real thing," Dawley agreed. "I don't know how he does it."

"Friends in low places," Jaeckl quipped, and nods of approval went the rounds.

They were a competent crew. The AEG bomber entered the glide-path and made a very professional-looking landing. With a minimum of fuss and bother, they brought it to a halt. Right behind them, came a couple of our Brisfits on escort duties.

The gang's all here.

"All right! Let's get this dog and pony show on the road," yelled Jaeckl, who still hadn't gotten into the habit of being an incompetent lieutenant.

There was in fact, no point in bringing along Corporals Carson or Whittington.

Jaeckl had my full confidence.

Two pilots, men with hard-bitten faces and cold, tired eyes. Then Bernie clambered out as well. They strolled over, along with a proud-looking Bernie; and accepted an envelope from my own hand. They got into a waiting car. It sped off with a guilty-sounding squeal of the tires. The civilian driver hadn't gotten out, not even for a pee or a smoke, or anything. He wouldn't talk to us at all.

Bernie looked as pleased as punch.

"Are those Germans?" gasped Dawley.

"Don't ask, don't tell," quipped Jaeckl with a funny little gleam in his eyes.

Some kind of professionals, I suspected. Don't talk to anyone, that's the way. For all I know, they might have been Germans! Bernie knew what he was doing, no doubt about that. People who could keep their mouth shut, is what I figured.

They didn't wave or look back.

"Nice work, Bernie. I promise not to ask too many questions, and the same goes for the rest of you guys," raising my voice to the assembly of men and officers.

"Any man who talks about this, will be put up against a wall and shot," I added. "As far as you know, there were two AEG's when we arrived, and two when we left. It's just some little oversight by a clerk doing paperwork."

Not that they needed reminding. We needed to get the planes ready. We put our noses to the grindstone and went to work with a common purpose. St. Omer was a strange place and it had some strange stories to tell, no doubt.

"Jaeckl!" I called.

"Yes, sir!" he snapped to attention in front of me.

"Take the batteries out, clean the connections, test them and charge them. Check everything, okay?"

The planes were readied; fueled, checked over thoroughly, bombed up and armed, tires checked, oil checked, coolant checked, and a few other odds and ends, including a couple of cases of squid; and a few hundred weight of cabbages. Those all-essential little details that say, 'Je suis un artiste.'

Those flying on the mission retired to a hangar. We closed it up as tight as a drum; with a guard on the door. Time for a briefing.

"Tell me about this little tid-bit of information," I asked Bernie.

Bernie had a little surprise up his sleeve. I knew; but no one else did. I wanted to watch the looks on their faces.

"Originally, we were planning to bomb ships at Wilhelmshaven," Bernie began, which caused quite a stir.

He stood at the front of the room, and we all looked at him, and the map.

"We have obtained information that the Kaiser is attending a map-exercise..."

"Yay! Yay!" voices rose in a colossal hubbub as they intuitively guessed what was coming next. "Yay! Yippee!"

They just wouldn't stop talking.

Finally I took charge with a big, loud, 'Simmer down!'

Even then, it took some time but they did get quieter after a while. What the hell.

They're all volunteers. Cut them some slack. We had a few hours. Not that most of us couldn't use the time to catch up on some badly-needed sleep.

***

"Snotty, you bomb outside the castle, while Owens, you drop the cabbages as close as you can. Try and drop them right down the fuckin' chimney," I began.

All around, nods and grins of approval. It's like they don't understand the danger.

We studied the map, a little town.

"It's called Baden-Baden," Bernie put in. "It's a spa town, a watering hole for the high and mighty."

He pointed to the map. We fly to a certain airfield, refuel, and launch from there. It's very dangerous to attempt a landing with a bomb onboard, but it can't be helped. At night, it's even harder. I guess. No one seemed to catch on, but we could have shipped the bombs there, and armed up there.

"The plan is to launch from here, and then to fly behind our own lines as far as possible," he told the boys. "Then we cut over and drop our cookies on this castle here."

He produced another map, drawn to another scale. It showed the town, mountains, hills, rivers, elevations, the whole shebang.

Waiting expectantly, their eyes were all lit up. No morale problem here.

Here comes the kicker.

"And then we fly on to Switzerland; and then we all jump out in the parachutes provided to us, courtesy of the Government of Belgium."

There was a lot of commentary then, let me tell you! But I could tell they liked the plan.

"Colonel Tucker has personally supervised the packing of the chutes, and he will be wearing one himself," he assured them.

Tipping me a wink, he went on with the briefing, as all the men looked and listened eagerly.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker and Prince Sakahaji tested the parachutes last Saturday, as I'm sure all of you are aware. We have full confidence in the parachutes, and you have all seen the Boche use them successfully."

"Wait a minute," asked Bert. "Doesn't Trenchard expect his planes back?"

"You let me worry about that," I told him. "We can always stay in Switzerland. It's really beautiful this time of year. And, if we escape internment, it will really look good on our resumes!"

He nodded thoughtfully, eyes boring into my own.

"In any case, the two German bombers will carry out the attack. Hopefully they will be seen, identified, and be taken for a sign perhaps, of a general mutiny among the troops," explained Bernie. "We also have two Handley-Page bombers. They will accompany us to the border, in case of mechanical failure. But really, they are just a precautionary, back-up element."

If all went according to plan, they could jettison their bombs, and return to base.

"And they're also a kind of decoy, a kind of long-range escort," he added. "With Tucker on board, we cannot allow them to overfly enemy territory, except in dire need."

I'm too valuable, was the implication, and I studied my fingernails for a moment. You know me. I always try to remain humble in front of the men under my command.

The plan was to have Bert in the lead plane to navigate, and my two planes would turn back at the point of commitment—not a good idea to call it, 'the point of no return.'

Anyway, the boys seemed to buy it.

Owens and Dexter were the other pilots. The crews, some of my more mature, steady, sober and reliable men. Good pilots, they would give the man in command of the plane additional confidence. They studied everything that was known about the AEG's and the 0-400's. One could sit in the co-pilot's seat and read the manual in case of an unexpected problem.

The gunners, real ones this time, were the best we had. Three per plane.

"Interestingly enough, if fighters from either side turned up, they won't know who to attack," grinned Bernie in conclusion. "They might even provide an escort!"

Now the reader is probably thinking, 'That's a bullshit plan.'

Sure it is. But it gets a heck of a lot better. You can trust me on that.

***

It was the good old double-whammy.

As luck would have it, neither of our hard-won AEG's would start! Some kind of electrical problems. Our suspicion was that the Boche electrical systems, knock-off copies of a government-subsidized British design by Lucas Systems, were at fault.

And then Bert's new 0-400 bomber wouldn't start! Possibly a bum fuel system.

The engines were starving. No fuel, no start. A quick consultation, and then I had to revise the crew arrangements, with guys hurriedly jumping in and out of planes. Some got to go and some had to stay home. As simple as that. Confusion reigned, and it was with some sense of relief and gratitude that I finally decided to roll out and take off.

"Do your best," were my last words.

Pete dropped back out of the cockpit and a moment later, I saw him in front of the plane. I throttled up and began to move forward. Pete seemed disconsolate, but that's just the price you have to pay. At least he was smart enough to step aside.

Seven-thirty, on one of those long summer evenings. At this latitude, sunset seems to last forever. Our mission would go on. Bernie was riding along with us.

As we beat our way to the west, gaining as much altitude as we could, Dawley was in the fuselage. We had a pair of gunners along as well. Aweemowep and this other guy; an American in the RAF; whose name has been withheld. (Davies.) I figured all these men would disperse to their homes after the war, and might never see each other again. They would never get together and compare notes.

The story was unbelievable, and unverifiable. All going according to schedule. Watch the gauges, check the instruments in a kind of circular scan. There are three to five gauges you should watch in any plane.

Bernie sat beside me.

The land below was washed in a golden glow.

It was pretty, and peaceful behind the lines.

Bernie grabbed my arm.

"We can turn now," he indicated.

"Right-oh!" I said.

I leaned into it, and slowly she responded. The earth below began to rotate just like a compass needle in an electrical storm. Slowly, the land and the horizon slid around. I lined her up on north. While we leaned, it seemed like the plane was standing still and the Earth moved. The big Rolls-Royce engines thundering away was all that could be heard.

Almost reassuring. Almost peaceful.

The air was crystal clear. Visibility must have been a hundred miles. Off to the east, a long line of cloud tops, flickering from time to time and lighting up as a late season thunderstorm washed the stench of death from the Western Front. Darker over there, where night was falling. To the west, it was still a kind of luminous royal blue.

We flew north, still gaining altitude, which takes forever in one of these babies. Bernie tapped the clock on the dash, catching my attention.

"Seventy-two hundred," I noted for Bernie's benefit.

He nodded, and wrote it in the little book he kept in his breast pocket, and continued to study the map.

"We are now over Belgium," his voice came crisp in my ears.

Accustomed to the noise of the props and motors, your hearing adapts, oddly enough.

"Meulebeke," he confirmed.

"Turn to a course of thirty-two and a half degrees, and hold it for one hour," he said after a while.

The sky grew ever darker, and then we saw them, a string of heavy bombers, slightly below and directly ahead. A light flickered from one of them, going across our bow, from left to right.

"Ignore it," I told Bernie.

Just about then, Dawley came out of the fuselage, and stood there, balancing with a hand on the back of each of our seats.

"Holy shit!" he laughed. "Where did they come from?"

I had no answer, peering to the left for more traffic.

"Why are they headed east at this time of night?" asked Bernie, barely audible, yet voice clear and thin.

There was very little static, but maybe his microphone was caught up in the scarf.

"Maybe they aborted a mission," I suggested.

We turned in behind one of them, and slowly began drifting back in the stream. I snatched the microphone and pushed the button, as Bernie watched. Then he beckoned and I handed him the microphone—it was too hard to fly that plane with one hand.

"Aweemowep! Aweemowep! Can you hear me?" he queried, holding one hand over his ear phones.

"Yes, sir!" came the voice in our ears.

Bernie held the thing up in front of my face, two inches from my mouth.

"Do you see anything back there?" I called.

"There are two airplanes behind and below us, one of them is getting very close," he reported.

I gently eased in some left rudder and drifted out of the stream.

His voice came in my ears again.

"They are passing us by now, and flashing a light."

As they pulled out in front, they were a thousand feet below. Their gunners wouldn't be able to hit much, even if they wanted to.

"Ignore it," I ordered the crew.

We were obviously experiencing technical difficulties. At least that was the theory.

We sat and watched the last two planes slowly drift ahead.

Finally, there was comfort in turning left again. Bernie pointed at the map, nodding at the left side of the plane. He wanted me to confirm his calculations.

A quick look confirmed the town below. He shrugged, and peered over the side. A penny for your thoughts. Belgium, quite near his hometown. He should know his own neighbourhood.

"Very good," I acknowledged.

Altitude, 7,600 feet. Speed, eighty-four miles an hour.

Bernie kept silent, made more notes. Theoretically the 0-400 could go about eighty-five, but this newer model was actually rated at ninety-seven, 'and a half,' miles per hour.

I would like to see that, but so far no good. She's just working too hard. Still climbing, though.

"Report, Major Dawley," I asked the man standing there patiently.

He keyed his own microphone button, now plugged into an auxiliary jack behind the seats.

"It will take Pete hours to figure out the problem," he replied. "They're following procedure."

It was awesome to have a radio on board. His response, two clicks, would hardly be enough for anyone to direction-locate us. We were also a moving target.

Our boys were talking from St. Omer, and if the Fritzies wanted to bomb that, it was 'very well-defended.'

"Good," I said. "Excellent."

What this meant, was that the bombs would be removed from the planes, after a quick examination revealed that there was no quick and easy fix. Then the problems would be painstakingly traced to their solutions. It could take all night. And with Pete on the case; it could take forever. Good old Jaeckl was well-briefed, with several more tricks up the old sleeve. We were on our own, which was just what I wanted.

That looks familiar, even in the darkness which was now complete.

The glare which now became visible; or glimmer might be a better word, was the pewter shine of the Zuider Zee. That was the Netherlands down there. The shapes of the bays, the inlets and the rivers dumping into it were unmistakable. Navigating at night isn't too bad if you can see things. No worse than daylight, if you can see things.

"Major, break out the rations," I requested.

"Right, Dawley out."

"What a gorgeous night," Bernie told the crew through our newly-invented intercom system.

A couple of us sat down, read a book on electricity, and then we invented the thing.

Dawley went back to the radio set-up inside, where he had his little office.

Then he brought everyone a drink. This was a bit of a climb-around in the fuselage, with the huge bomb, slung inside a cut-out section of the belly; and a tiny little tunnel to crawl through to the tail gunner. It took a lot of courage to do that at night, where a man's imagination can work overtime. A funny little bump of turbulence, and you think the plane is going down. Like walking through a pitch-dark room at night. It can be very odd, and it's quite difficult to keep your balance. There's nothing to refer to visually, other than the walls. Presumably he had a torch with him in there. It wouldn't do to put a foot through the fabric! That could scare the shit out of any man.

(It would scare the shit out of me.)

A real panic attack, in the dark, and no one would even know if you were having a problem.

He came back, and Bernie reached for our bottle, which he then held between his legs in the classic, 'drinking and driving position.' He wrestled with the top.

"Skoal," quoth Major Dawley, who now had our cups ready.

Dawley labouriously managed to get some in the cups, without breaking the neck off the bottle. Only a little light turbulence, but it was probably enough.

"Prosit," responded Bernie.

We raised our tin cups in unison. A toast to the world we lived in, as crazy as it was.

"Here's looking at you, kid," I told the boys, in a lisping, wise-guy accent.

"When you get to the North Sea, turn right," bellowed little Bernie, then he tipped her back and sucked it down.

"Git 'er done, boys," he proposed, in a tolerable Texas accent.

Dawley and I complied. With alacrity. It was quite a balmy summer night as we climbed through the 8,000 mark. Then the chill in the eighty-plus mile per hour air-blast coming in around the sides of the wind screen became apparent.

The air is made up of layers.

Snuggle down into the collar a little more. Settle in the seat and feel the burn of the booze warm my viscera. Below us the land began to end, even as I marveled at the beauty of smoke-grey clouds and the shadows they cast away in the incipient moonlight.

If we played it right, all those witnesses, all those eye-witnesses on the ground, would swear that nothing happened, leaving enough confusion to fill up any official inquiry's notebooks.

The fog of war is well-known. The art of confusion, is the art of scattering facts all over the place, and then allowing them to contradict each other.

The gibbous moon lay behind our right shoulders, but at night the land is black, the sky quite light, and whatever colour the sky is; that is the colour reflected back by the sea.

Tiny rows of even, serried waves made abstract and ever-changing patterns. Then there was a fog bank down there. Black as wrought iron in places, glistening like a diamond necklace in other places, and that ever-constant roar of motors. Hours passed.

At the appointed time, I gave the order to open up the valves and adjust the regulators. I carefully watched the new gauges our mechanics had installed.

"Just a dribble, Bernie," I said, and he made a check of the time, the speed, and the altitude.

Just another research flight.

Let routine be your guide and your comfort, yet now came a little of the fear. This was the first time we ever tried nitrous oxide. Hopefully we don't break Boom's plane. Listen to the motors. They sounded fine, in fact better. The air gets thinner up here. Motors need air.

Her best speed was achieved at 6,500 feet, according to the book.

"The sea, my friend," Bernie announced.

I turned, holding it as best I could, and slowly she came about. The North Sea was on our left.

"Nine thousand, three hundred," I reported.

The compass settled between eighty-eight and eighty-nine degrees, but I could see the coastline just fine.

"Hard-a-starboard, laddie! Steady as she goes!" called my erstwhile companion.

Old Bernie was in a strange mood tonight.

I wondered about re-incarnation, and who, or what, Bernie might have been in a previous life. The fuel tank was still almost three-quarters full. Some power-mad Roman tyrant? A Venetian galley slave in the middle ages?

A freaking head waiter, in the not-too distant future? Who can say. The little bugger might even get his wish to be a private detective.

You never can tell. Maybe we've all read too many dime-store novels.

Now we're back in enemy territory, and this is defended airspace, even at night. The enemy has felt the sting of our raids, conducted by airships, bombers, torpedo planes and even 'Ship's Camels,' which sometimes operated at night. They shot down a couple of airships someplace around here. Cuxhaven, they have a lot of big airship hangars there.

"Listen up everybody," I called through the intercom. "Look sharp and keep your eyes peeled. Check in by the numbers from the tail."

"Number four, where's my whore?" came from Aweemowep in the tail.

Predictable.

"Number three, I have to pee," put in the left side gunner, Davies.

Who shall remain nameless by request.

"Dawley," came the next voice. "I'll go relieve number three, so number three can relieve himself. Aw, hell, you know what I mean."

Bernie looked at me, then pushed his button.

"Number two, targets for you, ten more minutes," he said.

Cute. He's a poet, and he's not even aware of it. I'll work on that one.

"Number one, strap down your bum," I buzzed, and there were answering laughs in the headphones.

Good. We're ready to meet destiny.

Dawley came back, tapping me on the shoulder.

"Dawley is back. Strapping in. Cabbages all set to go," and then he retired to his jump seat behind our driving positions.

We had no nose gunner. I wanted to see out the front with no obstructions. Dawley could get there petty quick in the unlikely event of a night-time encounter. At night, head-on attacks were pretty rare. Although they would be very effective. Dawley was our 'floater,' with a number of different job assignments.

"Next time we do this, I want to lash the gun pointing forward, and set up a remote firing mechanism," I called to Bernie.

"I'll make a note," he reported back.

Reaching for his pen, top left pocket, I was looking east, west, north and south now, and hope everyone else is too.

One word, clearly visible in the moonlight: 'gun,' underlined three times. He wouldn't forget. It is absolutely true, when a pilot tells you, 'the moon was so bright you could read a book by it.' I ain't bullshitting you. The sky was clear above us, with clouds to the south, and fog over the sea. If you know where to look, Mars looked on, inscrutable in his red mask of war.

"Watch for fighters, and use your call numbers when you talk to me," I told all the men. "Bernie! Open up the regulators!"

His hands went to work. The surge of power was almost frightening. Would she hold together? As the speed increased, I began to pull back, gently.

"Calm, cool, and collected, like a cucumber," Bernie's familiar voice soothed.

There it was.

Bernie made intermittent notations, time, altitude, heading, speed.

"Two minutes. Steady on the cabbages. The squid goes ten seconds later," I told Dawley and the rest of the crew.

My voice was taut in my ears.

"Climbing past 10,000," I informed them.

A sense of relief, almost palpable. The higher the better. Airships might attack at 20,000 feet, heavy bombers fully loaded, 6,000 to 8,000 feet. I honestly didn't believe the guns would find us. That's what I told the boys during the briefing.

"What does it profit a man, if he gaineth the whole world, and loseth his very soul?"

I felt Bernie's eyes in silent scrutiny, assessing me. Wondering.

Good question, Bernie.

But a moment like this can be very satisfying.

The south side of the docks were directly ahead. Ships, ships, ships.

"Ready with the squid?"

Dawley's voice, disembodied; yet right inside my head, came back loud and clear.

"Ready. Squid ready."

"Hold...hold...hold...let them cabbages rip," I ordered, speaking firmly, and as usual; counting in my head, because the target was now below us and out of my line of vision.

And then Dawley said, "Fore!"

A little golf humour there.

There came a barely perceptible lift to the plane, as I told Dawley, "Let the squid go...now!"

She lifted again, as I watched. The altimeter went up to just over 10,300 feet.

It's like being on an escalator.

We waited an awful long time. Someone down there must be awake.

'Boom!'

A big white flash dazzled us.

"Shut off the nitrous, Bernie!"

His hands shot out, spinning valves, just blurs.

"Put your head down, boys," I called, and focused on the flying instruments.

Throttle back.

'Boom!'

The enemy were firing really big shells, but they were ahead, to the right, and at least 2,000 feet below.

'Boom! Boom!'

Half a mile away.

The next one should be along...'Boom!'...right about now, and I pushed the nose over. We descended at about a five degree angle, watching our speed.

As the thudding, crackling popcorn noise rose to a crescendo, there was no time for talk.

"Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five!" she still won't do a hundred.

Ease off, and fly by the speedo. Push left rudder, watch the slip. Push down the nose, always tending left. There's a good target! Another row of ships, lit by the moonlight. Now the moon was well off to our left. We're not silhouetted against it. All part of the plan. That's why we flew over the south shore, the angle of the moon's glare was above us. Luckily the sky wasn't too milky or we would look like a big black insect up there.

You have to think of everything.

We were diving, in a full hundred and eighty degree sweeping turn, holding a little under a hundred miles per hour...waiting. Diving out of the east now.

'Boom! Boom! Boom!' all around and about the place, the sky lit up with flash after flash, yet they were just illuminating themselves.

Quite a spectacle.

They were firing through a fog bank, one which reached up to about 1,000 or 1,500 feet. It was a light, thin fog.

Boom boom boom boom...

"Hang on boys," I called over the microphone, with Bernie's steady hand holding it.

The top of the fog reached for our wheels.

"Thank you, Bernie," I nodded.

Reach for the handle.

Three ships, tied together side-by-side. I was approaching from the back end. One good yank, and she lifted up on her own again, relieved of her burdensome cargo.

Man! The back end of the aircraft lifted five or six feet when she went off with a helluva dull, 'thud,' one which put the Fritzie's piddly little firecrackers in perspective.

The mother of all bombs.

"Holy, cow!" came the voice of Aweemowep. "You hit something!"

He shouted in glee.

"Shit! A destroyer! You vapourized it!" we heard.

"Sacre bleu," added Bernie. "Merde!"

"Tabernac," I threw in for good measure.

Out over the sea again. Behind us, searchlights lit up the sky, with 'Archie' going 'bang-bang' all over the bloody place. Too little, too late. An impressive display, to say the least. Glad I didn't have to fly through that. Fritzie had about a million searchlights going by this time. I wished I had about another fifty planes.

Maybe Trenchard knew what he was doing after all! You have to admit, it was fun.

The noise receded. They slackened fire noticeably, as I kept the shoreline on our left on the way out. At seven minutes after nautical dawn, we arrived over St. Omer, complete with two Biffs for escort.

The landing, uneventful. The round trip, well over seven and three-quarter hours.

Chapter Forty-Five

A Solid Eight Hours in the Sack

After a solid eight hours in the sack, I moseyed around, lazed in the shower, shaved up as best I could, and futzed around in general. Being away from our normal base, there were few routine chores. Basically we were just killing time.

Reluctantly; I toyed with some food, but sooner or later I had to get back to work. I have to admit to a kind of bone-weary fatigue, though.

About six o'clock, the bunch of us rendezvoused in the empty hangar reserved for our briefings. It was our office and command facility here at St. Omer aerodrome.

Minimalist, to say the least.

"Have a coffee, sir?" Jaeckl offered, reaching for the cups lined up by the urn.

I nodded.

"Major Dawley, bring us up to speed, please?" I asked.

The assembly quieted down a little, although they were pretty subdued to begin with.

Everyone was dead tired by this time, after working on the AEG's all night long.

Poor guys could barely think straight.

"All righty, then. Gentlemen, listen up please," he began, standing by the blackboard.

"So far, the two Handley-Pages are in running condition, and Pete is working on the AEG's."

"So. Last night was a bit of a non-starter, but Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker decided to drop his bomb over the North Sea, rather than try to land with it. But that's good, actually, as we have now confirmed that the dropping mechanism works just fine, if nothing else."

"We enjoyed the flight, burned off fuel, and just cruised around in general," I reported, and the boys all nodded and smiled.

"We had a blast!" quipped Bernie, eyes all bloodshot. He looked kind of hung-over.

"Pete thinks he has the problem cured, and assures us the Handley-Page airplanes are top-notch," the Major continued. "Referring to the AEG's, we just don't know yet. But it is still early. The basic plan is to try again. We take off at the same time, and proceed to the target with as many planes as we have. The weather is good for tonight, as far as we can safely predict."

Down south, there was a chance of thundershowers.

'If possible these should be avoided.'

Agents were again waiting at our jump point in Switzerland. The men checked their notes from the previous day and made new ones. I prayed that something would go wrong. I was hoping to get caught, but so far no one had even inquired as to our business here at St. Omer.

"When you take off, circle for height, but no more than half an hour. Then steer an initial course of one-hundred-eighty degrees for one hour, then turn to one-hundred- twenty degrees and look for the markers. Keep your route description handy. Land at field 'B' and refuel. This is a long trip. At Nancy, turn to approximately eighty-seven degrees, fly to the town of Strasbourg. From there, a course of approximately forty-three degrees takes you more or less to Baden-Baden."

"The sketches you have are fairly good. In the final analysis, use your own judgment. If necessary, jettison the bomb over enemy territory, and return to field, 'B.'"

Details, details, so many details, but it allowed time to think and study the map.

The beauty lies in the details.

We heard engines fire up outside, and a ragged cheer.

Rumble, rumble, rumble...they kept going. One of the AEG's. Two foreign engines were running.

We looked at each other, many with eyebrows raised.

Someone knocked eagerly at the door. It opened with a thud as Taffy lurched in, wearing an expectant and happy grin.

He was just about to speak, when the engine notes went flat, first one, then the other.

He stood there shaking his head.

Finally, he came out with it.

"Whale...oil...beef...hooked," he said, or something like that, then turned and in a dejected fashion began to shuffle off to the door.

"Aw, Pete," he muttered as the door slammed behind him.

A few grimaces, a few grins.

"Sounds like he's getting closer," said Major Dawley, a little tongue in cheek jab at yours truly.

Jaeckl wouldn't let it get out of hand. He was just screwing with us.

The teletype machine clattered. Dawley and Hastings, who was also there to help out, consulted. They muttered between themselves while we waited.

"Doesn't look good," Hastings said; beckoning me over.

And there you have it. We had to stand them down again. The effing weather had socked in the southern end of our course for a day at least. More like three or four, judging by the maps and the data provided. Privately, I was relieved. Those AEG's flew in here. Those motors just had to run, sooner or later. Good old Howard-Smythe sent my coded telegram right on schedule. And he had been bribed to forget well.

"Why not do a big beer run?" I suggested. "It might be good navigation practice."

"The weather down south looks bad for three for four days," put in Dawley.

The boys sat around scratching their heads.

"All right, take the damned bombs off the Handley-Pages," I ordered to a few muffled groans and gripes.

It would be a dry run to Farnborough, perhaps even with two AEG's...as we heard them up and roar again...maybe Pete was learning his trade, finally, and the two bombers of Trenchard's.

"Why don't we just lock up here and take the whole damned crew?" queried Hastings.

"You could send half of them on a pass, for a day or two."

I told you Hastings was smart. We made our way across the pavement to the line-up of aircraft, all four with little clumps of men working on them.

"Good idea. But first we have to get there," I acknowledged. "Let's have a look at these ruddy Hun bombers."

Tipping the wink to Jaeckl, he went to the rear of the cockpit and sat there looking innocent.

"Try her out," I suggested to poor old Pete, and gave it a big whack on the cowling beside the firewall with the flat of my hand.

Pete stood there, looking apprehensive, but the plane's twin engines fired right up this time. Pete looked fit to be tied. He was one stressed-out individual.

He just about died when I made the other plane start up, too. Poor Pete. I'll never forget it. He was groaning, and cursing, and pulling clumps of his thinning blonde hair right out of his head.

"Well, that makes two AEGS and two H-P's," Jaeckl joked. "For now, anyways."

"Put a bomb on mine," I noted for Jaeckl's benefit, as he moved away. "I want to try something."

His eyebrows rose, but he just saluted.

"I want to find out if we can land safely with a bomb on, at night. Those things are expensive, and the Ministry wants to know."

It was our excuse for being experimental, after all.

"Who will I be riding with?" he asked over his shoulder. "Someone else, hopefully?"

So Bert Hall flew one AEG, Owens flew another. Dexter flew the other Handley-Page, and mine was the second, number, 'oh-twenty-one.' Soon we were over the channel.

Because of the relative lack of experience we all had; except Bert, the officers were scattered amongst four planes, and the ground crew was divided into two groups. Some were going on leave in Paris, no hardship for them, and the rest were flying with us.

My plane had a somewhat smaller crew because of the big bomb in the belly. I must say, it was an impressive sight, with the two Fritzie planes up front and down below; with Dexter in, 'oh-nineteen,' and myself in, 'oh-twenty-one,' up top.

At this time of night, it was safer to fly southwest down the Channel, then approach from the south. Bert's navigation was impeccable. He might have done this sort of thing before. A smuggler's route.

We landed at Farnborough in the middle of the night, but a quick radio call ahead by Dawley made certain of our welcome. They even used the beer trucks to help light up the fricking runway! That Dawley, he was always coming up with a new twist.

I guess it goes without saying that I didn't pooch the landing.

And then; a batch of mechanics were sent on leave, to take effect the minute our wheels cleared ground. We left the AEG's in England; so I sent Owens and Dexter on leave as well.

We kept exactly two mechanics, (not Pete,) and landed back at St. Omer about nine o'clock in the morning. All we had to do was unload, and have a nap, and think up our next stunt.

It's too bad, really. I wouldn't have minded a crack at old Kaiser Willy, and no doubt Bert would have bombed the War Office, Winnie's place, or even Windsor Castle.

'If the price was right.'

We had the motive, we had the intent, we had the means. We simply didn't get the opportunity. Timing is everything, eh?

It might have done some good; to let the gentry know they can be held accountable.

***

While home in London, Jennifer had agreed to marry me. But I don't want to get into the mushy stuff too deeply, for this is my future wife after all. For that reason, I have deliberately not fantasized, nor mentally soliloquized about her.

Hopefully the reader will just accept this. It was déjà vu and surreal at the same time.

Sitting there, back inside our old command tent, flushed with the vacation, I spent some time reading all the reports of the last week's activities. The boys were doing very well, with only two minor casualties.

The Rittmeester Gunter von Fluebl, and Oberstleutnant Heinz Smiltz, 'bit the dust.'

Thirteen enemy planes shot down! And two minor aces. Simply awesome.

About then the witch doctor, the head-shrinker, Doctor Scolz came in. It was his last day with us. He appeared to be very drunk. Not a happy drunk, either. The surly kind.

"So, I'll say goodbye then," I murmured, still reading.

He stood in front of the desk. He saluted, and clicked his heels. Very formal. He rocked back and forth ever so slightly. A veritable stew of breath came out of him, and wafted its way across. The doctor had been drinking heavily for some days now.

Over the last two or three weeks, the poor fellow had taken to talking to himself. Beginning to lose the personal grooming. Perhaps we'd been a too little hard on him.

"Incidentally, I have just turned in all your psychological assessments," he said with a certain relish.

He seemed to expect some kind of response.

"That's okay Doc. We all have our little role to play. By any chance do I fit the profile of an asshole?" and I just kept on reading.

Poor guy didn't laugh. He just turned and headed for the door. Don't go away mad, Doc...just go away. I didn't laugh either. But that was about as close to an apology as he was ever going to get.

As the flap of the tent swished closed behind his sorry ass, Howard-Smythe turned aside from the tele-printer machine.

"You would have to be some kind of anal retentive to want his job," he allowed.

In some way this put the final polish on what had been, from the onset; a pretty bad scene.

***

One fine day it was all over. We stood there, unable to comprehend, or to believe. We muttered, and loitered. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day. An armistice.

It was unbelievable.

Why?

I mean, why stop now?

Yet it is in writing. We have it in writing. It's an order. Hard to believe. Accepting it is difficult. The sense of relief...overwhelming...a curiously subdued bunch of guys.

It was surreal.

The land is oddly silent. The air is strangely clear. The sound of the guns peter away, down to nothing.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Andrew, who only yesterday was totally flushed with the pride of a double victory.

"I honestly didn't think I would live to see it," I admonished the boys nearest. "I just stopped thinking about it."

Now my knees, my whole body went slack. All I wanted to do was to sit down. Those guys broke out a bottle, and music began to play.

My thoughts were haunted with a vision of Jennifer, pale and ghostly, hanging in the sky. All I had to do was to go home...it was over. It was all over with—and I lived.

I lived. I lived.

Holy, Jesus Fucking Christ...I lived.

***

For some reason, I wanted one last flight. Just one! It didn't seem fair, to have such a beautiful plane. I spent weeks tuning it. Many hours of hard work went into all the little tweaks, and for what? It was all so useless.

I experienced a moment of real anger, a kind of narcissistic rage, thinking about that.

Our orders were to stand down and preserve our machines for later analysis.

It was time to get ready for the next war.

So I took off alone, and headed for the Western Front. It was about ten-thirty or twenty to eleven or so. I took it up sunwards, climbing through 10,500 feet, and then opened up the throttle. Just to see what she could do. My SE was holding at about a hundred and sixty-five at 10,500 feet...beautiful. Just beautiful. Just think of what we could have done, given a little more time.

That's when I saw him, off to the south and about 2,000 feet higher.

The black nose, the familiar wings. A Fokker D-VII. They don't give those out to just anybody. He saw me. I could tell because he re-aligned the plane.

My guns were already cocked.

The clock said, 'five to eleven,' and I grinned in ferocious, blood-thirsty mirth.

"I'll be fucking damned," I oathed in fury. "I know thee, sir..."

For the rest of the quote the reader will have to consult Shakespeare's, 'King Lear.'

It's pretty offensive.

I must say I was impressed.

Something about a, 'son of a mongrel bitch,' as I recall, but he was diving onto me and all there was to do was line up the sights, a little in front of old Herman, and let him have a burst right in the kisser.

Hah! Gotcha, you motherfucker.

He flew right into that one.

"Who the hell do you fucking think you're dealing with here?" I bellowed as he went by.

He pulled right, and I pulled right, and we entered the good old, 'kurvenkampf,' as taught by von Richtofen, and Boelcke, and a hundred dead men before and since.

Herman Goering shot down Duzek, Elmer Duzek, only three weeks before. Did Elmer want to be the last man to die? One of the last? Only another three weeks, and he would have made it. He had a mother and a sister.

The red and black D-VII suddenly reversed his turn, but of course I anticipated this move, having seen it before. Pulled the throttle back to about half. Patience is a virtue, and I knew he would dive below me...sure enough, and I flipped over, following him down to the clouds...the clouds were about 8,000 feet and I figured he'd go east. No; he'll go south, sunwards, and sure enough there he was!

Pulling out now, he pulls up and over, and now I turned and fishtailed to keep him in front of my guns...and still he was out of range. His loop did him no good. But he's out of range.

He must recognize me as well. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

Eleven o'clock, and yet neither one of us can break off safely. Who knows what his intentions are now? I wasn't too sure what mine were. But I was open to suggestion.

We made a head-on pass. A little burst of smoke from his guns was enough to confirm his intentions; as my own finger gently squeezed the trigger. Through the smoke and vibration, I'm sure I got hits...and got hit...something thwacked through some part of my airframe.

He made a couple of strange moves, and I just watched him.

I had all day.

The sun behind me, lots of fuel.

We're all alone up here, buddy...and it suddenly clicked in.

He was no longer trying to shoot me down, but only trying to avoid my guns.

Now I get it. This calls for...a snap roll.

Fuck! Sure enough, he does a snap roll too!

And then he looks over, as if to say, 'Big deal.'

Suddenly he was edging up beside my plane. Waving; both hands in the air, he points and shrugs.

Face impassive, it is the bland-looking, fat-faced man. Not wearing a face mask, he gave me a big, happy smile! All I could do was to show him the big thumbs-up.

He saluted, and bowed his head.

His guns were jammed. I fired a short burst, because mine weren't.

And again, he shrugged. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he began to turn off to the east.

I watched the tail end of that plane, for a long, long time, let me tell you.

I don't know why. There is no rhyme or reason for it.

Decided to let the cocksucker live.

It was eleven minutes and eleven seconds past eleven, and I don't get paid for this.

So I turned it for home.

I let him live.

My thought was, "Enough, already, Herman."

What do I care if the man's a transvestite? Lord knows; we shot down enough of his goofy little buddies.

Epilogue

A Splendid Wedding

Standing there blinking in the sun, on the steps of the church. People took pictures and threw rice. A gaggle of Jennifer's girlfriends waved and cried, and carried on something awful.

Her mom cried.

Her dad beamed and called me, 'son.'

He slipped me an envelope absolutely jammed with cash, when no one was looking.

Jolly nice of him.

We got in the back of a big car and someone drove us away, a young male relative of my wife's.

Jennifer's folks, Mr. and Mrs. Bolteman; threw us an absolutely splendid wedding.

After demobilization things flashed by in a blur.

I was in a profound state of shock for a long time, but I remember little snatches of it.

We found ourselves on the fantail of a ship.

Standing there, with my wife, my love and my life, we watched the green hills of England receding over the horizon.

I was afraid my legs would begin shaking.

Entwined with each other, we kissed long and deep. I squeezed her. I didn't want to let go.

"Well, old girl," I murmured, face buried in her hair. "What do you think?"

"It will be fine," she told me dreamily. "As long as we have each other."

I just kept my face in her hair and bawled my eyes out.

It was all so beautiful.

The End

Louis Shalako began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time.

http://shalakopublishing.weebly.com/

