It just hadn't occurred to Gunn that he'd end up anywhere but the Western Front. His own squadron perhaps, or at least a posting to one of the new SE5a or Camel squadrons. Instead they gave him a promotion and an Operational Training Unit. He was the Chief Flying Instructor and had a completely free hand in designing the program. The RFC was suffering at the hands of the new circus type units the Hun was fielding, and the brass had been impressed with Gunns' survival during the Bloody April debacle. The intial procurement order for the squadron was for twenty of the early SE5's with 150 horsepower motors. They had proved less than effective against the fast climbing Hun machines and had quickly been replaced by the SE5a with 200 horsepower. Engine troubles still haunted the aircraft, but rumours of a new Wolseley Viper unit which apparently ran like a Swiss watch had the RFC pilots watering at the mouth. Gunn told the brass that he'd take the job if they came up with twenty SE5a's, else he'd rather take his chances at the front. They weren't too happy about it but conceded in the end, and Gunn set about formulating a program to prepare the barely proficient pilots coming out of basic flight training for aerial combat. His nature dictated a maximum effort in whatever preparations he could make for them, he'd seen too many boys slaughtered before they even had a chance to learn the ropes. At first the work consumed him, gave him a new direction. For the most part he put his recent troubles behind him, and just got on with the job. But the wounds were still fresh, and like everyone else he was only ever a few short steps away from the edge of the Abyss; the difference was that he knew it. The training regime, when finally brought to reality, was like nothing before it. Gunn knew that to fight in the air, a pilot must first know his machine and all of its' strengths and foibles. At the same time, he must work as part of a close-knit team, serving the needs of the group as well as his own. Finally, and only when these first requirements are met, he should be skilled in the use of his mount against an aggressive and determined enemy, who may very possibly outnumber his own forces with superior machines. And Gunn had just a few short weeks with each pupil to drive these lessons home.
His Instructors were an interesting bunch, veterans all, decorated to varying degrees and each carrying his own unique baggage. Gunn took an SE5a up for his first flight on type and took great pleasure in its' power and manoeuvrability. He then took each Instructor up in turn for evaluation, delegating two for aerial maoeuvre training and three more for advanced flight training, sending the last one back to HQ. Three months in and they were turning out half decent fighting pilots, thought Gunn. He'd had to make some changes to the program, and ask for a replacement for one of the advanced flying Instructors who broke his arm (and nose) on a dead stick landing after yet another engine failure. The course now included an engine-out element, where trainees had to land safely in a small field ringed by poplar trees west of the aerodrome. It terrified everyone that attempted it, but Gunn knew that at the end of the day, every trained pilot would go on to operational flying with the confidence that apart from Hun bullets and Archie, all other dangers were known and mastered.
Archie, Gunn had pondered, could be arranged.... no, that was too risky.... too unpredictable. He wouldn't risk unnecessary losses. Still, perhaps something could be managed down at the firing range - some live fire crackling overhead might be worthwhile - particularly if the students weren't aware they were safe. He allowed himself an evil grin. Hardwick, Gunns' batman, looked up from his labours, one hand thrust deeply into a mirror polished boot, and thought that things were indeed looking up. Mr Gunn seemed quite his old self these days. He had resumed his buffing with renewed and cheerful gusto.
That was three days ago. Now Gunn sat at his desk, flask in trembling hand, staring once again into the Abyss. That was a close call with Roland. He'd thought his fear defeated, but here it was again, its' boney claws all over him. A relapse. He'd conquered nothing. The flask was empty. He sat there for some time, deliberating. What choice did he have? If he couldn't defeat fear, he could at least learn to live with it. Like everyone else. Stoicism. There was a knock at the door.
The Duty Corporal stuck his head through and said there was an officer to see him....a Captain Sherlock Sir... yes Sir right away. A coincidence, he supposed. Still, it brought back that memory. Not what he needed just now. He heard the DC ushering the Captain in. Gunn looked up then jumped to his feet, astonished. It must be a ghost! The apparition spoke.
"Hello Skipper!" The Captain snapped off a pantomime salute then grinned and extended his right hand. Gunn grasped it, almost reverently at first, disbelievingly, then shook it very hard. It was a firm grip each way. Gunn had a sudden peculiar turn, some sort of prescient deja vu, where he felt with certainty that some day the two of them would share a similar moment. He shook the strange vision aside, but it left him unsettled.
"Fireproof, me." he laughed that old familiar laugh. But Gunn could see the livid scars on his face, neck and wrist. "The quack says they'll disappear in time." Gunns' own face reddened briefly. He suggested they take a turn around the field in the fresh air, but he hadn't noticed the drizzling rain outside. Instead, they walked across to the Officers Mess. It was empty, even the stewards were elsewhere at this early hour. Reaching behind the bar Gunn produced a bottle and two glasses, and they made themselves comfortable at one of the tables. Sherlock checked the time on his pocket watch.
"I only have a few hours old boy, I'm back across the channel tomorrow. I say, any chance you'll be joining us? Not that I'd blame you, this looks a wizard posting." He shot the Major a mischievous look. Gunn stared into his glass, sluicing the contents while he considered his answer.
"If I'd known you were still alive I'd have requested you here as an Instructor." Sherlock was a damn fine pilot and brilliant tactician.
Gunn was so absorbed in his new project that the idea of going back to war was far from his mind, and furthermore it was obvious. The young Captain was genuinely suprised. The Gunn he knew wouldn't tolerate being so far from the action for long. He was obviously doing good work here, but he'd expected to find him chafing at the bit. He offered Gunn a cigarette and changed the subject.
"You wouldn't recognise the Squadron these days, except for a handful of old timers.... Fips and Williams; Snakeman..... Whiskers; a few others. Oh, and Doc, he's the C.O. now, he runs the show better than you ever did." He grinned at Gunn from behind a stream of cigarette smoke and raised his glass in mock salutation. Gunn took the backhanded compliment and returned the salute with a wry smile. Doc was a steady pilot, a fearless and protective wingman, and a natural leader. The jibe was Sherlocks' way of saying the Squadron was still in good hands.
"We've alot of new faces.... young faces." His normally cheerful visage changed to one of sorrow. "Most of them don't last long. The latest batch came through here I think, not sure how they held up; I was home on leave before Doc let them loose on the poor old Hun." He clearly never expected to see any of them again. Gunn wondered how they would shape up. He'd done all he could for them, but felt somehow responsible. He flicked an inch of grey ash expertly into a chipped china ashtray emblazoned with the letters 'RFC' and shot the young Captain one of his friendly 'do my bidding or else' stares.
"Drop me a line when you get back, will you, and let me know how they settle in."
The Skipper was back on his hobby horse, Sherlock realised. He was about to say something along the lines of sending Gunn their personal effects, when he suddenly realised what the Old Man was on about. Looking around the Mess he noted the training posters and charts, model aircraft, some on sticks; and outside he'd seen a couple of bicycles adorned with stubby wings. He'd presumed this was a temporary sidestep for Gunn, a necessary evil. Now he realised the Old Man was deadly serious about his new job. Of course he was. Sherlock had never seen him do anything by halves. He supposed this was a good school for new pilots, with Gunn in command. Bad luck for them then. But something wasn't right. Gunn was edgy, somehow not as big as he remembered.
"Sure thing Skipper." The statement lacked conviction. There was a pregnant pause. Gunn attacked with his usual ferocity.
"Spit it out, man. Something's on your mind." The Captain squirmed in his seat, stretching an ear lobe absently. Then he braced up and looked his old friend in the eye.
"One of my spies at HQ heard a whisper. He says they're sending you back out." Gunn's face gave nothing away. "Something to do with morale at the front. They need high profile leaders for the response to the Huns' circus tactic." Still nothing.
"How soon?" Gunn placed his glass carefully on the table. He kept his hand on it.
"Next week." There it was!
Captain Casper Sherlock MC, DFC boarded the train for London a worried man. Some things are set in stone; you can depend on them. They give your soul purchase when all else falls apart. Sunrise and sunset. The tides. Day and night. The striking of Big Ben. And the fearless fighting spirit of Major T. Gunn MC, DFC and bar, Croix de Guerre. But the Captain had just seen something which made his heart sink and his world move just a little....
The Skipper had a nervous tick. He was bloody terrified of going back to war.
Last Updated Tuesday, March 30 2010 @ 07:56 PM MDT|102 Hits 