Brigadier-General Hugh Trenchard, Officer Commanding the Royal Flying Corps, ran his eyes over the generous proportions of the map on the wall of his Operations room. Bristling with miniature flags the map allowed him to review at a glance the disposition of his own forces as well as those of the enemy, including the current strength of each of his squadrons. What he saw displeased him greatly. In just a few short months the RFC had lost well over a thousand aircraft, and almost that number of pilots. Enemy losses during the same period were significantly less. He could tolerate this if his forces remained effective but clearly they would not if this continued. The supply of replacement pilots and machines could simply not keep up with demand. Losses were too high, and there were ever more demands on his limited resources; long range bombing by night was the latest initiative, and while this didn't affect his fighter squadrons it was a distraction from his primary concern, the aggressive support of the infantry from the air.
Trenchard pondered the problem, deciding at length that fifty squadrons at full strength were better than a hundred at half strength. He would limit supply to those squadrons most depleted, redirecting the bulk of replacements to the units most readily brought to full strength. He became briefly conscious of the wings on his chest as he imagined the consequences for the pilots, but his hand had been forced. A list was drawn up, stamped Most Secret, of the squadrons henceforth denied further replacements. The battle weary squadron at Soussons was on it.
Captain Sherlock picked up the letter from the man he had visited in London on Docs' behalf. Having had such a good response from that visit, it was an obvious step to have contacted the man again regarding the squadrons' latest dilema. He read the letter again:
MY DEAR CAPTAIN SHERLOCK, I was deeply saddened to hear of the loss of our mutual friend, and your late Commanding Officer. We must count ourselves fortunate in this harsh enterprise, to have welcomed some two hundred volunteer airmen from the United States of America, prior to that young nations' entry into the war. His part in the facilitation of that most generous assistance, at a time when pilots were so desperately short in supply, and his subsequent final sacrifice, shall not be forgotten.
With regard to your request, let me say that you are quite correct in the assumption that your squadron, along with many others in similar circumstances, should not expect, in the immediate future, any significant increase in the current flow of replacements. Your thoughts on tactics for squadrons thus depleted, I have passed on to the relevant Office. I have also made the necessary arrangements for the immediate supply of equipment, as requested, to your squadron, to enable your further investigations into the efficacy of those tactics.
I wish you, and your men, the greatest good fortune in this new adventure.
Yours sincerely, WINSTON S. CHURCHILL
Sherlock folded the letter from the Minister of Munitions and returning it to the envelope, picked up the second document his clerk had brought in earlier. It was Docs' promotion to Major and confirmation as C.O. Typical red tape, he thought; Doc would be laughing at that one. The young Captain poured himself a stiff drink and quietly toasted his late Commanding Officer. He wondered if Williams or maybe Whiskers would do the same for him, one day soon.
Like Sherlock, Gunn was also concerning himself with tactics, on several levels. Seated once again in the office of Colonel P. Lightman, he smoked a cigarette as he watched the man read through his final report, wondering if the Colonel would swallow his next line. At length, Lightman looked up and nodded thoughtfully.
"Excellent. Your idea certainly has merit. The trick of it, of course, will be to marshal an appropriate number of machines into the area on such short notice. The squadrons will need to liaise closely. But I think we have to attempt it. I don't believe we have an alternative."
Gunn agreed. Then he played his trump card, and mentally crossed his fingers. The Colonel surprised him by consenting immediately. Gunn would have a roving commision, free to travel the western front briefing the various squadron commanders on the new tactics and flying at his own discretion in order to assess the results.
"I was going to give you back your.... our, old squadron; but I see now that you would be better employed in this new role. I imagine you would rather be with the Skeleton Crew, especially in these difficult times; but I am duty bound to place you where you can do the most good, and I thank you for making that clear to me." Gunn looked suitably regretful, and gave thanks to the Gods of War for smiling on his simple ruse. The two men talked for another half hour, detailing the implementation of the plan, with an arrangement to review the situation at the end of the following month.
As Gunn left the building the biting winds of the fast approaching winter chilled him to the bone. He shrunk down deeper into his greatcoat and stepped out determinedly. It was going to be a cold one. But the bitter chill of the wind was nothing compared to the chill that had permeated his soul. He had what he wanted. Moving up and down the front, flying whenever and wherever he chose; no attachments, no soft underbelly of friendship to bring him undone when Death took its' inevitable toll.
Watts, Williams and Loopy Raymond were out of their c0ckpits and pulling off flying helmets, stepping away from the aircraft to smoke. The rest of the squadron were walking around the new Spads, running hands along wings and fuselages, admiring their stout robust lines. Williams had been wandering around the chateau for days, his sling now discarded, bored and itching to get airborne again, protesting that he was fine and ready for active duty. Sherlock had finally relented and allowed him to accompany Watts and Loopy, ferrying the three Spad XIII's across from Abbeville.
Lieutenant Taiters was still in hospital, due for release within the week. Fips was recovering but would not return until well after Christmas. Several replacements had filtered through, but the squadron was nowhere near full strength. Ruefully Sherlock thought, not for the first time, that the Skeleton Crew was aptly named. But the Minister of Munitions was as good as his word. The young Acting C.O. felt guilty about going outside the usual military channels, but he knew those channels would have either proved fruitless or taken too long. Doc had shown him the way when they re-equipped with Camels, and he was not a slow learner.
"First impressions?" It was Snake, who had stepped over to talk to the three ferry pilots. Sherlock saw that he was smoking now, the Lieutenant producing a pipe from his tunic, tapping it against his boot heel. Having not noticed before he made a mental note to pay more attention.
"Glides like a brick and turns like a drunken sailor." This comment from Watts, who was grinning wickedly, relishing his position as one of the first to fly the machine.
"But she dives like a hawk. That's the fastest I've ever done, by far; and she's smooth as silk, even at speed.... a perfect gun platform." WIlliams had a wistful look on his face. He would be deadly in this machine, Sherlock thought.
"Righto! Tactics." Sherlock gathered them around and moved over to the chalkboard a corporal mechanic had just erected by the nose of one of the Spads. They stood in a half circle listening intently as he outlined the plan, occassional questions breaking his rythm.
Gunn sat alone at a small corner table at the back of the restaurant, washing the mediocre fillet mignon down with an equally unremarkable wine. It had apparently started raining outside, a small group of diners just in had wet overcoats, the women laughing and the men fussing over them. His eyes moved again to an attractive young French woman two tables away, who was also alone but appeared to be waiting for someone. He'd known even before he overheard her talking to the waiter that she was French; she had a special way about her, something unique to the women of France; there was a word for it, what was it.....? She was coquettish. Not in a cheap sort of way, although there were plenty of that kind around, especially in Paris. Gunn had no interest in such women. His level of evolution engendered a more sophisticated taste. He would no sooner pursue a coarse liaison than consume raw meat or beat a man with his fists for the animal pleasure of it. Chewing distastefully on a particularly tough portion of steak he finally surrendered, and placing the cutlery on his plate he swallowed the offending fatty morsel with some difficulty, draining his glass in the process.
The quality he saw in the French women was more an awareness of their own femininity, more so than perhaps English women, who had their own unique charm. The head waiter stepped over flicking his fingers at one of the junior waiters, who scurried across and removed the half eaten meal. He seemed concerned but Gunn reassured him, not wanting to cause a scene or be offered a second meal. He accepted the man's offer to refill his glass, and sat back enjoying a cigarette as he watched the woman, who was likewise engaged. The rendezvous apparently undone beyond some point of no return, her demeanour changed from mild irritation to resignation. She looked about idly and caught his eye. Gunn had a moment of panic, as if his motor had stopped unexpectedly on takeoff. She knew he'd been watching her, he could see it in her amused smile. There was a depth, an intelligence behind those eyes, a complex playful female personality that Gunn instinctively knew he would like. She was still smiling, quizzically now, challenging him to make some sort of approach. The moment drew on, the two of them seemingly suspended in frozen time; a door in Gunns' world opened on to another gentler place.
No RFC pilot on furlough in France, or anywhere else for that matter, was a stranger to the magnetic effect of the RFC wings on his chest. Another deception of nature, thought Gunn, that women should find the men who wore them so interesting; as if standing in a muddy trench waiting for the whistle to blow was any less the making of a man. But this was different. She was clearly amused by him, rather than impressed by his uniform.
Then Gunn saw the sleight of hand, the magicians' trick. That world slaved under the same irrevocable laws as his own. Death and suffering, loss and grief; here was Mother Nature extending a hand of kindness, all the while the sharp blade of mortality held secretly behind her back, concealed but ready to strike the inevitable terrible final blow. There was nothing but pain through the open door, more pain than he could bear, either for himself or for this intriguing young woman. Gunns' eyes went hard. He looked away, drained the wine in one swift movement, and signalled the head waiter for his bill. It was time to go back to work.
The C.O. of the Nieuport squadron was listening intently, occassionally nodding his head in cautious agreement as Gunn explained the theory behind the new tactical orders. His X.O. and the other Flight Leaders remained silent, probably skeptical. It was Gunns' task to bring them around. Orders were one thing, but giving the commanders an opportunity to ask questions and realise the new strategy face to face with its' creator was a key purpose to his roving commission.
RFC squadrons would work in support of each other, flying whenever possible at times and along routes that would facilitate rapid reinforcement in the event of an encounter with a large number of enemy machines. The plan was not so much to match Hun numbers, but rather arrange what forces they had so that an enemy circus already engaged could be attacked from above, utilising the element of suprise and advantage of height to even the odds. This tactic had worked well on the return from the bombing of Busigny, and it was felt that until the enemy recognised it for what it was, the RFC might snatch back the initiative. Once the Hun began to expect it, their only option would be to seperate their jasta, keeping a number of machines at altitude to cover those involved in any attack. This would reduce their concentration of force, effectively easing the situation and allowing the RFC the time it needed to get back up to full strength.
For the scheme to work, the squadron first engaged must attempt to draw down the Hun, losing altitude in the fight so that supporting units could join the battle from above. Furthermore, squadrons operating within each sector should keep sight of each other at all times, not an easy task especially with the winter weather promising to be the worst of the war. Fortunately this would restrict the amount of flying on both sides, further reducing the opportunities for the enemy to exploit his current superiority. The Nieuport C.O. nodded again; it was important that each commander understood exactly what was required, and that ostensibly was Gunns' mission. Certainly it was his duty, and he fully intended to carry it out. But the opportunity it opened for him, the freedom to hunt alone, was his secret desire.
The men before him were no fools and had grasped the essentials quickly. Flying these outdated French fighters, this squadron would have no easy time of it. But with luck and good tactics some of them might even survive the war. Gunn was sure that he himself would not. But that was another matter. There was nothing for it but to press on and play his part until the bitter end.
After some further discussion the two Majors shook hands and Gunn moved on to the next squadron, taking a small detour across the lines, flying high. He felt it was time to start earning his pay.
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