The fiesty looking little Camels seemed eager for release as the deafening chorus of ten Clerget engines popping and growling ehoed across the airfield. The early morning sun cast long shadows under the shiny new Sopwiths as their pilots prepared for takeoff. Control surfaces waggled all along the line as final checks were completed, the men settled themselves in and all eyes turned to the C.O's machine. The autumn mornings were colder now, and nobody at the front expected the winter of 1917 to be any less brutal than previous years. It would be Captain Randolf Fips' third under fire. The X.O. shivered, partly due to the cold but also at the memory of his two previous winters. Temperatures aloft were always much lower than on the ground, falling several degrees with every thousand feet of altitude. Add the wind chill factor of a one hundred mile an hour gale, throw in some driving rain; two hours or more obliged to stay seated, unable to move about sufficiently to aid circulation and stave off frozen limbs; such was the way men took to the air intent on mortal combat. A pilot need only embark on his first patrol to join the ranks of the aerial warriors. Too many had done just that and failed to return for it to be otherwise. This was still the dawn of aviation; to the family of a young man joining the RFC he might just as well set out on an Arctic exploration by canoe. Until the war few people had even seen a flying machine, much less climbed into one. Flying still seemed dangerous and counter-intuitive to most, going to war aloft suicidal. Reality was close to the impression. The men who volunteered were a special breed, likened so often then and since to knights of old..... but in medieval times the horse was common transport. These modern knights of the sky shared experiences so surreal as to move them forever beyond common understanding. There was little for comparison, before or since. The flower of yet more generations would fly into combat but they would do so partially removed from it, mostly enclosed within relatively comfortable cockpits; an awareness of flight absorbed into the common experience since childhood. They would face yet more challenges, but none quite so visceral as this.
The C.O. turned his head to look down the line, and with a cavalry style flourish waved 'A' Flight forward. His machine howled as it wobbled away, accelerating fast, his four wingmen in pursuit. At the head of 'B' Flight the X.O. glanced to his right, nodded at Williams, and gunned his own engine. He worked the rudder to keep the run true as the little aeroplane jolted across the grass, then he was up, enveloped in sound; the growl of the motor, the continuous tearing crackle of the propeller tips shredding the air, and the rush of the wind. A quick look back confirmed the rest of his own Flight airborne, Williams already moving up on his starboard, with the Snake likewise on Williams. 2nd Lieutenant Gosling and Lieutenant Raymond were still some way back as the two Flights climbed north-east in loose echelon right formations. Snakeman and Loopy would keep an eye on the new lad, but if they found trouble he'd have to take his chances with everyone else.
This was a maximum effort, every available pilot called on to escort a squadron of DH4's on a raid to Busigny, about 35 miles north and 40 east of the lines (the front snaked approximately north west then turned directly north not far from Soussons). The bombers, based near Amiens, had orders to bomb a suspected fuel depot. Flying at twelve thousand feet they would likely have a clear run on the way in, but were expecting trouble on the way home. They would meet up with a squadron of SE5a's, the Arabian Knights, out of Villers-Bretonneux and after circling for height would make their way east to the target. After dropping their bombs they would egress south to rendezvous with the Skeleton Crew for the slightly shorter dash back across the lines. The Knights were a good unit, the two squadrons had flown together before. They had just returned from three months on Home Defence in Blighty newly outfitted with SE5a's, and were able to field 18 machines less any last minute malfunctions or accidents. The DH4 was a fast and capable light bomber with a respectable sting in its' tail. But working this far behind the lines anything could happen.
The two Flights of Sopwiths reached 12,000 feet and levelled off in two bobbing lines one slightly above and behind, each man scanning the haze for signs of trouble. There was some scattered cloud, but nothing too close so they would have plenty of time to spot the enemy if he came up. They flew on for awhile, each lost in his own thoughts. Williams watched the coloured streamers attached to his Flight Leaders' outer struts snapping in the wind, and prompted by some inner instinct c0cked both his Vickers guns and fired a short test burst. There was a round of sporadic chattering as the rest of the squadron did likewise. He looked to his right to see Snake bob his head down, fiddling about deep in his cockpit, then reappear in mock alarm holding what was clearly a couple of stuffed socks tied together, waggling the ridiculous device as though it were a snake, and hurling it into the void. Williams shook his head and smiled back, happy to have the mischievous fellow Canadian back on his wing. He smiled again, remembering Snakes' account of his crash and 'rescue'. At least somebody was enjoying the war.
Lieutenant B. Williams had heard about it when he visited a remote mining town for supplies between hunting trips in the high country. He volunteered without hesitation. An expert marksman and horseman, he attracted the attention of an unusually perceptive recruiting sergeant who managed to dissuade him from joining the cavalry, and instead had him try out for the RFC. The rudimentary questions and aptitude tests behind him, he went on to fly solo in record time. Since arriving at the front he continued to astound everyone with his uncanny ability to kill practically every Hun who had the misfortune to fly in front of him. Older than the average pilot, he had little interest in promotion or glory; but a strong desire to help finish the war at the earliest opportunity and return to his mountain home. His hunters eyes caught something ahead and below. He leaned out to get a better look, then waggled his wings to catch Fips' attention. 'B' Flight rippled untidily as each man strained to see the cloud of tiny specks out ahead. Fips fired a flare and soon 'A' Flight performed their own little dance. There was nothing to do except fly on and hold their altitude; they were high but not excessively so, if trouble was coming they would be well positioned to face it.
As they drew near they saw a gaggle of wildly turning machines, black trails of smoke flowing out and down like evil serpents, and in the centre of it all the DH4's, nine of them still flying, one falling slightly behind and losing height. The escorting SE5's were too busy to count, and the pack of brightly coloured Hun fighters too many. The Skeleton Crew shifted nervously in their seats, each willing his mount on, almost frantic to engage the enemy who had somehow intercepted the Allied raiders apparently en-masse. Fips looked out at the swirling machines grimly realising there were several Jastas working together. He looked across at the C.O's machine and waited for the signal. Williams thumbed his firing button almost lovingly and glanced at the Snakeman, who's jocular demeanor had vanished for the time being; he was leaning out and patting the side of his fuselage. Gosling just sat there in anxious confusion, not knowing what to expect. Something in his lower abdomen demanded urgent attention, but he was too busy staring at the spectacle below. Maybe they would fly on over the mass of snarling machines, but he knew what must surely happen next. A sudden quick stutter of machine guns had him twisting in his seat..... Loopy Raymond waved and gave him a thumbs-up; he returned the affirmation and looked back at the terrifying scene passing underneath him, a warm flood of cameraderie holding back the chill tide of fear of the previous moments. He knew he was not alone.
Doc saw his number 2 waggle his wings out of the corner of his eye and looked across at the Australian. Sherlock gave the 'contact' signal and pointed at the specks ahead. A flare rose up from Fips aircraft at the head of 'B' Flight and soared out to one side, falling away below as it lost momentum. The C.O. peered around each side of the Camels' nose but could see nothing. Kicking the rudder first left then right he repeated the search, but still nothing. He looked back at Sherlock who pointed forward again and raised his gloved hand to show five fingers, then pointed straight down. Five miles ahead and low. He kicked the rudder again and had another look; they were there, right on the edge of his vision. He stared hard. The spots were moving about like flies in a glass bowl. A dogfight then. Too many for good news. Presumably the raiders had run into trouble on their way home. He looked back at 'A' Flight, then glanced rearward at 'B' Flight. A quick check around. All in order. Another look ahead, he could see it all now. Straight over and down onto them, he decided. Not much choice. One final option though, and here he stalled mentally, chewing his lower lip. He could release them like hounds to fall on their chosen prey, or signal a defensive melee and keep them together protecting each others' tails. The large number of Hun machines suggested the latter; the plight of the bombers and SE5's demanded the former. There was nothing for it. With a deep sense of foreboding he released a green flare from the rack and loaded his Very pistol. Someone well behind him fired a short burst, too short to be fired in anger. He didn't look back. As they flew over the outer edges of the scrap a mere 500 feet below, he raised the pistol and carefully judging the right moment, squeezed the trigger.
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