Major Gunn sat comfortably on the plush leather upholstery of the first class carriage watching the rolling fields of England flowing past the open window like a green river. The train rattled and swayed, the rythmic sound of the wheels on the tracks hollowing as it passed over a smartly engineered stone bridge, then swayed again as it followed the line around curve of a valley; he could just make out the engine puffing and labouring cheerfully a hundred yards or so ahead. The man sitting opposite looked familiar; he hadn't been there before, and Gunn supposed he must have entered quietly while he was looking out the window. He just sat there staring at Gunn in that curious manner some folk adopt when travelling with strangers. He was wearing flying kit... suddenly Gunn recognised the man. A Fokker pilot he'd shot down a long time ago.....one of the flamers. He could see the terrible burns. Gunn looked into the mans' eyes. He felt infinite guilt and sorrow....and shame. A loud clattering as the train rocked over some points startled him, shifting his attention back outside. It was a nice long train. He wasn't quite sure where it was going but he enjoyed seeing the countryside like this; it was like flying low but without the need for effort on his part. The motion of the carriage rocked him back and forth, back and forth gently, reassuringly. The motion became more violent, more urgent. He slipped into that impossible fleeting moment between dream and reality, strangely aware he was watching the dreamscape through closed eyelids as he lay half awake, heavy limbed on the lumpy mattress of a sagging cot, someone shaking him by the shoulder. "Sir..... Major Gunn! It's four thirty Sir."
Reluctantly he opened his eyes, the dream vista replaced like a picture slide show by the rather more vulgar art of a small dark room with rising damp and Hardwicks' face looking down on him bathed in the light of a storm lantern. He sat up, rubbing the cold from the tops of his thighs.
"What?"
Hardwick told him the time again and held out a mug of hot black tea, vapour dancing in the flickering light as it rose up like a spirit from the tomb. The Major was ever a poor riser, but he had never struck out like some of the other officers. Take your life in your hands, disturbing men asleep with the nightmares these pilots had. Hardwick handed over the mug and turned to the washbasin, half filled it with hot water from a jug and laid out the Majors' wash kit.
Gunn sat there for awhile sipping the hot tea cautiously, beginning to feel better. Thanking the batman he placed the half drained mug carefully on the side table, tapped a cigarette from a packet of Woodbines, fumbled it between his lips and lit a match, his hands rock steady as he set the tip glowing. His first pull on the precious weed felt like those moments after his wheels left the grass; the familiar release as the drug smoothed the edges. He was flying today, in less than an hour he'd be over the lines on a dawn patrol, 'boosting morale' on his fifth squadron since the whistle stop tour began two weeks ago. Not that anyone was buying the story, he thought; especially not this Australian unit. Rumours abounded regarding the real reason for his presence, with the current favourite being that he was under orders to shoot down anyone who hesitated in the face of the enemy. At any rate, whilst he'd been welcomed respectfully by each squadron in turn, there was clearly discomfort amongst them at having him in their midst. That and his own doubts aside, he was getting some useful ideas from the more vocal pilots, and by flying on various patrols and missions along the front he hoped to see how the current tactics were holding up. He finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in the spotless ashtray; Hardwick had been busy again, God bless him. He rose and made himself ready, unsure what the day would bring but content to let it unfold free of his own petty expectations.
Colonel Lightman wanted his recommendations by the end of the month. The obvious tactic of simply matching the Hun machine for machine had been tried and found wanting. Part of that failure was due to the excellence of the new Fokker and Albatross, and this was being addressed with an increased supply of SE5's and Camels. But a larger problem lay in the level of training of the RFC pilots. The sad fact was that the German replacements were better trained; the result was that more RFC pilots were shot down, more replacements were needed and trainees were rushed through the system to fill the gaps, standards dropping further in order to keep the wheels turning. 'Bloody April' had torn the heart out of the RFC....and it was expected to fight on while they tried to put it back. The flow of replacements trickled almost to a stop as the brass hats woke up and began training the new men more thoroughly.
The other concern was tactics. The RFC were unlikely to match the Hun numbers with equally experienced pilots for months to come. In the meantime they needed new tactics for tackling the enemy with what was already available.... an assortment of old and new aircraft, and a mix of experienced pilots and fledgelings. This then was the current concern of Major T. Gunn.
He was working his way south but as yet hadn't gone very far. This newly formed Australian squadron was based at Estree-Blanche just a few miles down the road from St. Omer, the location of the Royal Flying Corps Field HQ and main transit camp for squadrons arriving from England. Home to a growing number of military hospitals, Gunn had spent a few days there on his way back to Blighty just a few months before. This morning, in contrast, he was fighting fit. His nervous relapse after Second Lieutenant Rolands' propeller nearly chewed off his tail was almost forgotten; he'd had no further qualms, surprising himself as he calmly set out on several patrols (which had proved uneventful, but he'd no way of knowing this at the outset) and had even cut back on his drinking. He stepped out of the billet onto the duckboards and made his way through the darkness to the flight line, arriving there to find a small group of pilots in flying kit standing around chatting quietly and smoking. Captain Finn, 'B' Flight Leader, turned and waved him a casual salute.
"Major Gunn Sir. Glad to have you with us." His face was expressionless but Gunn suspected the man couldn't have cared less if he joined them or not. "I expect you'll want to tag along behind as before?" The major had flown a 'stinger' position high astern on a previous patrol. It was a dangerous gambit, he'd be on his own if attacked from the rear, without wingmen close by to cover his tail. But it gave him a better overall view of proceedings and raised his stock with these hardened men who were not easily impressed. Gunn nodded and Finn, checking his pocketwatch, had the others stamping on cigarettes and moving out to their Camels with a cheerful "Righto then." Finn watched as the Major walked over to his SE5a, stopping to speak quietly with the erks before clambering into the c0ckpit. There was a large tusk painted along each side of the nose, curving upwards aggressively much like a bull elephant. There was a Maltese cross for each of his victories, three ranks of five and two more. Further back on the sides of the fuselage, just aft of the wings, a large grinning skull with red eyes. He was a flashy bastard, no mistake; as the first hint of dawn caught his eye Finn dismissed the thought and turned towards his own machine.
Gunn could barely see the line of six Sopwiths as they climbed out in front and turned to the east. There were flashes, sporadic, seemingly random; monstrous cannon spitting death at an unseen enemy. The fireworks display ran away north and south, Hells' compass. Further north the third battle of Ypres was under way, the tortured sky above the horizon flickering like lightning in a distant storm. Men were dying there by the thousand in Haigs' final attempt to gain advantage by attrition. Gradually the sky ahead brightened, almost imperceptibly, but when they turned south down the lines he took the high six position and had difficulty following them against the ground below, hidden still in darkness. He scanned the sky all around. Nothing ahead, above or behind. East, clear. To the west, some specks climbing up. Friendly. A lone BE2 crossing low underneath, Archie bursting around him almost apologetically. Ahead again, still clear. Second nature this; if not he'd be dead long ago. It was good to be here. Somehow right, as if the Universe had deemed it. He'd thought that feeling lost forever.
It was cold. He'd had to throttle back, the Camels were struggling a little at this altitude but his SE5 was just coming into its' own. The fastest machine at the front, at least for now, the turn rate could not match a Camel (or more worryingly, a Fokker Triplane) but in all other respects this was a fine, arguably superior aircraft. Easy to fly, it had not killed near so many new pilots as the temperamental little Sopwith. Gunn loved them both, but the turn of speed an SE5 lent him was hard to ignore. You could chase down any foe, and just as easily outrun him. Speed was the key, he believed, to allowing one the luxury of either accepting or declining combat. On those terms the RFC could simply fight when the odds were favourable. It sounded good but Gunn knew there was a fatal flaw; these days the odds were rarely favourable, and nobody in the RFC liked running away from a fight.
The Flight of Camels shimmered, and Gunn looked sharply around for the cause of the disarray. A dozen or so Tripes to the southeast, maybe 500 feet higher and moving across their front from left to right. They stayed on course, probably unable to spot the RFC machines against the darkness below. He watched, almost detached, waiting to see what Finn would do. For his own part the Australian Captain was cursing his luck. The Camels, flying at 12,000 feet, were already feeling the effects of the thinner air. They could go higher but were at their best lower down. He might pull off an attack with the advantage of surprise, but they would be fighting superior numbers above their favoured fighting altitude. It was a dilemma.
Gunn realised he was closing on 'B' Flight and instantly knew Finns' intentions. The six Camels had slowed in the climb; he dipped the SE5's nose and set the throttle wide open, picking up speed rapidly as he flew beneath them. The SE5a had been strengthened specifically for high speed dives after one of the designers lost a wing and died testing a prototype. Gunn had done his homework and was about to put the theory into practise. Easing the now hurtling machine over to the right, he c0cked both weapons and levelled out, controls firm with the pressure of a 200 miles per hour gale. Glancing over his left shoulder he could see 'B' Flight several hundred yards back and about 400 feet higher. At his 10 o'clock high the Triplanes sailed on, still unable to spot the RFC machines below. He had a familiar buzzing feeling growing in his chest now, as if some urgent news was spreading quickly to his every cell. A wry smile; no matter what the mind believed, the animal deep inside performed to its' own agenda. Gun eased the stick back, swooping into a vertical climb, rolling slightly to keep sight of the enemy. When his speed dropped to 80 he rolled the underside of his machine towards them, pulled over into an inverted shallow dive and rolling upright stabbed the firing button with his thumb, muzzles flashing as he banked gently around to the right emptying his magazines into thin air. 'B' Flight clawed their way up towards the Fokkers, desperately aware of the rapidly approaching dawn. The light had increased enough to pick out some features on the ground, and they could see each other well enough for hand signals. Gunns' SE5 roared past below and drew quickly away, leaving Finn cursing profusely - what in blazes was that drongo up to? But he held his climb, watching the Tripes intently and keeping one eye on the Major as he swooped up and over just ahead of the German Jasta. At the very moment the SE5's machine guns spoke he realised the strategy and a few short moments later the DR1's turned and dove in unison after Gunns' machine. He quickly gave the 'level out' signal and 'B' Flight gently banked around, picking up speed and easing into a high attack position behind the diving Tripes.
Gunn looked back to see the DR1's in hot pursuit, probably unsure of their prey but keen to make good use of their height advantage. He could dive away to safety any time but hoped to drag them down far enough for 'B' Flight to drop in behind. The first Tripe fired a burst, then three or four of them were at it, but the range was long and the shells passed harmlessly nearby. Another quick glance confirmed the Camels diving in from the Fokkers' 4 o'clock, and as the first pair of Vickers machine guns stuttered he rolled on his back and with a firm heave on the stick dropped away from the fight vertically, wind screaming through the wires. Three of the Tripes tried to follow, oblivious of the carnage behind them; Gunn drew them out, teasing them with a gentle turn as he flew level, slowing more as he started to climb. They were strung out in line astern, and he led them around to fly right back under the Australians. Awareness finally upon them, they dived away to the east as the sun slipped into view on the distant horizon. 'B' Flight despatched 3 enemy aircraft and sent 2 pilots home with wounds for the loss of one pilot, who crash landed his aircraft near an Australian artillery unit and died of his injuries on the way to St. Omer. Gunn did not score; he thought that with the vast number of troops amassed along the front he must have hit someone, but as he had no way of knowing if they were friend or foe he decided not to claim.
Last Updated Wednesday, March 31 2010 @ 07:45 PM MDT|106 Hits 