There was no time to react. Not even the well honed reflexes of the young Lieutenant were fast enough to avoid the tall pine tree jutting from the hillside where the Sopwith had emerged from cloud. It hurled itself at him, impacting the outer leading edges of the starboard wings with a sickening crack, tearing the little aircraft in two and hurling the spinning wreckage earthward. There was no slow motion, no merciful blackout; he simply sat there watching the scenery tumbling and whirling madly, thrown about like a rag doll, hearing every snapped spar and feeling every jolt. Mercifully the crash only lasted a few seconds, after which he found himself lying on his side entangled in the wreckage, the engine ticking and torn canvas popping as drops of rain fell from the overcast sky. At first he didn't think anything, content to simply lie there oblivious of injury or further peril. But the aviators' natural fear of fire eventually had him pushing and wriggling out of the smashed wood and tangled wire cage that entrapped him. There was no panic in his movements, he would not allow it; but the chill wind of terror that stirred panic in the minds of lesser men swept through him like a gale.
Free now and scrambling away from the wreckage, he felt himself go weak with relief. From a distance of several yards he turned and sank backwards, collapsing into the tall wet grass legs splayed and leaning back, supported on his elbows and breathing heavily. With the exception of the aeroplane, nothing appeared broken although there were a few cuts and some nasty bruises coming up, his jaw ached and he had a metallic taste in his mouth. Another moment of alarm quickly passed when he found the cause, a split lip. As his breathing slowed and he regained some strength, he looked around to see where he'd come down. Our side of the lines please God! He'd had enough trouble for one day. He was definitely going to start smoking. A babble of excited voices came to his ears and he turned to see a small group of farm labourers approaching up the hill from his left. There were at least two pretty girls among them, but the older man (probably the farmer himself) spoke first.
"Mon dieu! Aide moi mes amis! Ce brave pilote est blessé!"
Willing hands, two of them belonging to a redheaded girl with a pleasant freckled face, forced him gently back into the grass while the older dark haired girl (who seemed to have some medical knowledge) quickly examined his more obvious injuries. She looked into each of his eyes in turn then in broken English asked him his name. He had the good sense to forget it, at least for the time being.
There was an element of desperation in the obligatory merriment of the Officers Mess that evening. Chin up, old boy. It had been another bad day with two men missing, one of the new replacements in hospital with cracked ribs (misadventure on takeoff) and potentially three machines written off, although one or both of the missing pilots might fly in tomorrow unscathed, having simply lost their way in cloud or been forced down somewhere through malfunction. The Doc placed his empty glass on the bar, where an expressionless steward deftly refilled it, and watching the antics of his men as they played a round of Colonel Puff, absently refilled his pipe.
Captain Fips was Master of Ceremonies, and from his lofty position atop a chair at the far end of the big dining table, was watching one of the new lads, Second Lieutenant Gosling, like a hawk. Gosling was on finals and looked set to pull off a perfect three pointer. He'd completed his base leg, shifting his grip on the glass to three fingers and thumb.
"I drink to the health of Colonel Puff Puff Puff for the third and final time"; he took 3 swigs of ale (draining the glass with the last), then tapped the glass on the table three times. Then with three fingers of his left hand he tapped the top of the table three times, and again with three fingers of his right hand. Concentrating like a man landing with half a wing on a windy day, he stamped his left foot three times then with a bewildered look on his face aborted proceedings as the group of men erupted in a howl of protest. Fips raised an imperious arm in the direction of the miscreant.
"You have sullied the name of Colonel Puff, a great and wise man and our finest airman!" (there was a chorus of disapproval from the rest of the men)."Steward, refill the glass please, this miserable excuse for a pilot will attempt the toast again!" Another roar of laughter as Whiskers shook his head sadly and tapped an imaginary table thrice with three fingers from the underside, Goslings' face falling in disappointment as he realised his failure. He quickly regained his composure and resumed his previous air of concentration.
"I drink to the health of Colonel Puff for the first time".......
The Captains' pipe was chugging away nicely as he contemplated the squadrons' plight. He looked around the walls of the Mess, adorned with propellers, various parts of Hun aircraft and news clippings, photographs and other memorabilia all tracing the history of the squadron since the early days back in 1915. There was a skeleton seated in one corner, 'Old Bones', presumably stolen from some French medical institute (apparently no-one could remember from whence it came) adorned with helmet and goggles, beer in hand and cigarette protruding from between its' teeth. He felt, not for the first time, a heavy sense of responsibility. These men depended on him for their survival. As did the squadron itself. The men were the squadron, but he knew deep down that many would come and go - had indeed already done so - yet the squadron remained; and so it must remain. It was up to him to preserve it, and what it represented.
The last few months had been shocking. They were down to seven serviceable aircraft and eleven active pilots, not counting todays' possible losses. The machines were old, outdated Sopwith Pups, and the men were tired. They desperately needed new machines, Camels or SE5a's preferably. And more pilots. The latest crop were coming over well able to handle their machines, and they knew what was expected of them, but even Gunns' new training regime couldn't prepare a man for the shock of actual combat. There was another roar of mock outrage as the now well oiled 2nd Lieutenant missed his approach yet again. The door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind with a light sprinkle of rain, and Captain Sherlock entered. The men gave a cheer, raising their glasses to the bedraggled pilot who smiled broadly and took a stage bow, but seeing Docs' raised hand they went back to their game. Shaking himself like a dog and removing his greatcoat with the aid of a steward, he moved across to the bar. The Doc had already ordered his drink, so after they shook hands he pulled out a packet of Woodbines and accepted the light offered by his C.O.
"Hello Casper, good to have you back. Congratulations on the promotion. How was your leave?" Docs' own promotion and confirmation as C.O. hadn't come through yet, but was expected any day. Not that anyone would argue the point, he was one of those rare officers that men followed gladly.
"Fine thank you Sir.... errr Doc." Doc smiled. "Weather turned miserable towards the end but I was indoors mostly." He shot Doc a wicked grin. "Dropped in on our old friend at Catswood, he sends his regards." With all the losses amongst the newer pilots the unit was now top heavy, but most of those remaining were hardened veterans and not easy prey for the Hun, even with their superiority over the Pups.
Doc took a sip of his drink and asked "Any luck with that name I gave you?" His voice was quiet, as if some secret were on his lips. Sherlock didn't know the full story and hadn't asked. Doc would tell him in good time if he had a mind; but the name he'd been given had certainly suprised him. The Doc moved in very high circles, it seemed.
"Yes. A dozen Camels, brand spanking new....130 horsepower Clerget engines. Should arrive by the end of the week. And a truckload of spares." Sherlock looked pleased with himself.
"What about pilots?" Doc tapped the bowl of his pipe on an ashtray, emptying the charred contents before stowing it in his top pocket.
"Not so good I'm afraid; he said equipment is one thing, personnel another. We'll just have to wait in line."
Doc grunted, draining the last of his drink. "Hopefully with Camels we won't need so many replacements. On that note, there's some more bad news I'm afraid." He told him about the two missing men, and they both stood there quietly for a moment each lost in his own thoughts. Then he thanked him for completing his little side mission in Blighty, and clapping his shoulder he turned to the others and shouted "The drinks are on Casper!" It didn't do to dwell on losses, much less unconfirmed losses, when your own number could come up at any time. Sherlock smiled convincingly as the men cheered and rushed the bar to welcome him home. The new lad Gosling stayed behind, slumped over the table mumbling incoherently. Colonel Puff, it seemed, would have to wait for his salutation.
Gunn sat stiffly on a wooden chair in the outer office of Colonel P.Lightman, remembering his early days with the Skeleton Crew when the Colonel, then a Major, had been C.O. of the squadron. A patient and skillful hunter, he'd been the first Allied pilot to reach twenty victories, and Gunn had been in awe of him. Now, he wondered how much the man had changed, and whether his firm but genial leadership had survived nearly two years of war and brass hat politics. At length the door opened and the Colonel appeared, hand outstretched and smiling with genuine pleasure at his old wingman.
"Teddy! Wonderful to see you again!" They shook hands warmly and moved into the office where the Colonel produced a bottle of old scotch and two glasses. Before long they were reminiscing wistfully, occassionally laughing together over some remembered incident, or sharing a moments' silence at the mention of a lost friend. The Colonel questioned Gunn hungrily for squadron news subsequent to his promotion and posting to H.Q. While he now had many squadrons under his guardianship, it was clear he still held a soft spot for his old unit. After nearly an hour had passed in this manner he reluctantly turned the conversation to business.
"As you know only too well we're getting a bit of a pasting lately. The Hun has the advantage of fighting in his own territory... he rarely ventures over our side these days; the wind is usually in his favour." The westerly airflow common to the region left many an Allied pilot miles behind enemy lines after a lengthy engagement. "At the moment he has the edge in terms of machines, although we're getting more SE5's and Camels out to the front each day. But even if we re-equip every squadron we still won't gain superiority by that means alone. The Hun machines are generally as good, and his tactics are faultless. I need someone on the ground, or rather in the air," he shot Gunn a wry smile, "able to evaluate our own tactics and report back to me with recommendations for meeting the Hun on equal terms, and giving him a black eye."
He looked straight at Gunn with an intensity remembered from long ago; there was going to be no denying the Colonel, whatever he asked of him. "I'd like you to take it on, I think you'll be just the ticket. You'll have a free hand, but I want you to visit as many squadrons as possible and talk to the men, not just the Commanding Officers. As a bonus, I think that your presence will be a shot in the arm for them. Indeed that is your cover story; the walls have ears, so your official orders will state that the purpose of your tour is simply to boost morale." Gunn looked unconvinced on that score. The Colonel smiled to himself. His old wingman, his shield and second sword, once so proud and self confident, had been hammered mercilessly on the anvil of war. He was scratched, dented and probably didn't know his own worth any more. The pilots would open up to that. Just the ticket. "Never underestimate the power of success, eh?"
Last Updated Tuesday, March 30 2010 @ 09:51 PM MDT|90 Hits 