The three Spads of 'B' Flight took off into a sullen grey afternoon sky with Williams, Raymond and Watts at their helms, Williams leading. Ten minutes later the six Camels of 'A' Flight followed, climbing up over the lines and heading north, encroaching on enemy territory by a margin of several miles. Archie was making an appearance as usual, but the deadly flowers of smoke and hot shrapnel which seemed to appear out of thin air fully grown were largely off the mark. Captain Sherlock glanced back to see Whiskers and Gosling flying loose on his starboard, with the two new lads in similar positions to port, Snake keeping an eye on them from his slot at the rear. The blanket of cloud below topped out at around 3,000 feet, above it was bright blue sky and a deadly bright winter sun glaring across from the Allied side of the front. Somewhere up there in the harsh glare 'B' Flight lay hidden, watching the six Sopwiths, waiting to pounce. For the trap to work the Hun must not see the three Spads, it was unlikely the squadron would equal the enemy in number; surprise was essential.
It was bitterly cold at 12,000 feet. Williams wriggled his icy feet inside the fleece lined flying boots, but could no longer feel his toes against the upper leathers. Temporarily holding the stick with his left hand he tried warming the right under his armpit, to little effect. Looking down at the Camels a thousand feet lower and away off to his right, something caught his eye. They were moving into line astern and Archie had fallen silent. He signalled Raymond and Watts, and all three strained their eyes to the east. The Camels turned west, moving to line abreast and diving gently to pick up speed. Behind them, their lozenge camouflage blending remarkably well with the cloud below, more than a dozen Albatross were dropping fast onto their tails, hungry for blood. Williams didn't bother to signal, the others would know his mind. Things had already gone too far along. Without further ado he flung the Spad around to the right, pushed the nose down and headed in over the top of the two merging formations.
Sherlock felt the Camel vibrating as the speed came up, the others more or less alongside him in the shallow dive. The Hun were nearly on them, one of the new men, 2nd Lieutenant Webb, was falling behind, slipping sideways - probably had a bootful of rudder as he craned his neck to see the fast approaching 'V' strutters. Sherlock cursed loudly. He would have to break early, two of the enemy machines were nearly close enough to open fire on the lad. Once the Camels turned, the advantage held by 'B' Flight would diminish. A gaggle of hard banking Hun would be no easy target for the diving Spads. Any second now......
The Spad XIII was fairly shivering with speed. Williams pulled out of the vertical right behind the hunting jasta, thinking he might actually pull the wings off, but the little machine was up to it. He sagged under the centrifugal force of his swoop, as if he was suddenly several times heavier. When you fought like this, the constant assault on your body tended to focus your mind. Those unused to the ways of the air would likely plead for release at this point; Williams was just getting started. He lined the rearmost Albatross up in his sights, eased the nearly rigid stick back almost imperceptibly, drifting the crosshairs slightly ahead of the Hun. He was at maximum range but closing fast. The Albatross were in a shallow dive but the near vertical descent of the three Spads had them overtaking rapidly. A gentle touch on the firing button. Twin Vickers chattered out their harsh chorus and the Albatross rolled, falling away below with the pilot dead at the controls. He switched his aim to the next machine, the merest press on the left rudder bar, a hint of left stick and he fired again, now so close and closing so fast that it seemed they must collide. The target was breaking formation, the chattering of the Spads' machine guns alerting the whole jasta, too late for some. His second victim spewed flame and reared up as the man recoiled in terror, disappearing close over Williams' left shoulder leaving a trail of black smoke in its' wake. Then he was firmly pulling back on the stick again, zooming up, converting his speed back to altitude, looking down to select his next hapless victim.
Watts scored a few hits on the port wing of his target, and was through too fast for much else. Bad shooting he thought, but when he looked back his Hun was spinning down like a shot bird, the port lower wing weakened and torn away by the rush of its' shallow dive. He had no way of knowing that the elegant machine had a flaw; the lower wings were weak and vulnerable to failure at speed. His shells had taken their toll on an already overloaded structure. Loopy Raymond came out of the swoop cursing bitterly, without firing a shot; unused to the high rate of closure he'd been unable to reach a firing solution.
Captain Sherlock rolled his Camel through 120 degrees to starboard and pulled hard, blipping the motor to avoid overspeed, just as 'B' Flight attacked. The rest of 'A' Flight, watching expectantly for his manoeuvre followed suit, the men to his left rolling to port, splitting his Flight like the horns of a bull. Coming under and back, presenting the worst possible targets for the diving jasta, they came up under the tails of the five Hun who had not broken off when 'B' Flight blasted rudely through them. No shots were fired, the diving Albatross were already pulling away out of range, but the Spads were through and going high so they kept diving straight ahead, aware that they no longer held the advantage. They would no doubt return but not before gaining height to match the Spads. Those that broke off were circling the Camels only slightly higher, having washed off much of their energy in frantic defensive turns. They had one eye on the Spads above, and seemed unsure of their next move.
'A' Flight, for their part, were itching for a fight. Clawing their way up towards the Albatross they presented a different picture to the one their erstwhile attackers had in mind prior to the start of the action. Williams had repositioned his Flight and all three machines were on their way down for the second time when the rest of the jasta faltered, diving steeply away to the east. Regretfully sticking to Sherlocks' briefing Williams broke off the pursuit and took his Spads up to a covering position for the cold journey home. The squadron was suddenly alone again, the sky empty but for the six Sopwiths in V formation below and Williams' wingmen to port and starboard. Watts eased his machine out to a safe distance and executed a perfect barrel roll. The Skeleton Crew was back in the fight.
Gunn was shivering more frequently now, the SE5a wallowing and skidding in the rarified air as he pushed her up through 18,500 feet. He had been periodically leaning the fuel mixture, the Hispano-Suiza snorting and coughing but bravely pressing on. He had a headache, and some difficulty drawing breath. This was the highest he'd ever flown. If there had been a map of the sky like the old sea charts, these dizzying heights would be marked 'Here be Monsters'. Not many had ventured this far aloft, and useful information from those who had was scarce. His SE5a had a service ceiling of 17,000 feet, but he intended to find out what she could do. The engine spluttered briefly and he leaned it out a little more, had a careful look all around, then settled back down for the slow ascent.
He contemplated the air war and his small part in it. He couldn't bear to think about the struggle below anymore; it was the work of madmen. Up here, at least, there was a primal correctness, a natural order not dissimilar to the merciless brutality he'd seen as a boy on the wild plains of Africa. There was an element of random chance also; he'd struggled with that when he first realised it. But now he accepted it, reasoned that survival in nature was just as tenuous and could slip beyond reach at the turn of a card. Luck and skill, the essence of any game. He was a high stakes gambler, but the neat rows of chips meant nothing to him, their value anulled by the certainty of their loss. If the gambler knows he must soon lose he can play on stony faced, disdainful of the risk.
Such was Gunns' mind now. He would fight on, not through any hatred of the enemy; these Hun were airmen like himself, facing the same peril and adversity. He had come to respect them, like old friends. But now he could have no friends. The time would come when a card would turn and his game would end. Until then he would brook no further pain. He dropped his gloved hand to the service revolver holstered at his side, and felt comfort at the touch. Neither would he burn.
19,400 feet. Crawling upward now, almost drunkenly, hardly making height at all. It was all so new and wonderful, this journey to the top of the sky. He wondered if he would get used to it, then it would lose this flavour. That was the problem with growing up; the child saw the world in a myriad of novel parts, the newness and complexity overwhelming; focussing on one part, relishing the fresh intensity of its' unfamiliarity, then moving on to another part, and another, bathed in an ever changing stream of revelation. Then adulthood, the stream running dry. Nothing new, no revelation; just grey familiarity and a growing awareness of mortality.
His head was aching badly now and he felt quite sick. 19,500 feet. Mixture lever almost fully lean. If they had designed it to turn around further perhaps he could have flown higher. Less and less fuel to fly higher and higher. Perhaps a little way up above you could fly on forever with no fuel at all. He was so high, maybe the highest man in the world. He looked down over the side. Not much to see, mostly cloud. Flying alone high over the north pole, white below, blue above. Was he still heading north? That wasn't right, he should be heading south. A gifted pilot like the venerable Major Gunn doesn't fly the wrong way. Was he gifted? Someone had said it. He supposed he was, in the literal meaning. It was certainly none of his own doing, this knack he had of handling a machine as if born to it. He took no pleasure in that, only the pleasure of flying itself. But now..... the engine choked and spluttered again, and he looked stupidly at the levers; which one? And which way? Why couldn't he remember? He chose one and moved it but the engine backfired and cut. Wrong one. He moved another but nothing happened. He wasn't sure what to do, it was all too complicated, so he looked outside and realised there was a popping sound from somewhere. He looked around and saw nothing. There it was again, coming from behind, getting louder. And now something tapping on his wing. As he turned in his seat the SE5a shuddered, dropped a wing and fell spiralling out of the thin upper air like a falling leaf. Gunn sat there astonished, pushed into a corner trying to make sense of this madly spinning white-blue world and the holes that kept appearing all around him as he sagged there, mind and body whirling in confusion.
With some effort Gunn managed to stop retching and found himself staring at the altimeter. The needle had passed through 16,000 feet and was unwinding towards 15. He wasn't sure what had happened but felt like a man regaining consciousness after an accident. There was vomit all around the cockpit, he remembered some of that but the rest was unclear. He was spinning, his engine was dead, the propeller milling slowly in the turbulence. Without conscious thought he kicked the rudder and put the nose down, recovering from the spin and diving to pick up speed. The prop spun up, he reset the throttle and mixture and restarted the engine. There were bullet holes everywhere. He pulled up sharply, full throttle now and banking hard to port, looking around quickly for signs of his enemy. An Albatross, coming at him from above, 2 o'clock. He threw the machine around to the right, diving then climbing obliquely across the path of the 'V' strutter, presenting a difficult target, coming up and back around to the left early to fall in behind as the German pilot cursed and went high. Gunns' nose was down, picking up speed again after the manoeuvre, watching the Albatross pull away. There was barely a moment, a fleeting chance at one point in space and time and one point only where Gunn might raise his nose with enough speed to shoot at the departing Hun while still in range; he pulled gently back on the stick and flying his aircraft into that point he pressed the firing button. After two seconds the SE5a stalled again, but this time he caught the wing drop with rudder and lowered the nose, picking up speed once more and turning west for the lines. Behind him a trail of smoke hung in the air where a patient and skillful pilot, although sadly for him neither gifted nor lucky, had given his life for his country.
By the time Gunn landed his fuel gauge was showing nearly empty and his head felt as if he'd been struck with something heavy. A Captain approached as he climbed down gingerly, his cheerful greeting ignored as Gunn steadied himself against the fuselage and removed his flying helmet. The Captain was an Oxford type, very well spoken and accomplished in the casual art of understatement.
"I say, quite a few holes you've picked up there. Are you alright Sir?"
Gunn thought he was far from alright, but he presumed he would live. The Captain came closer to inspect the damage and stopped in his tracks with a cautious sniff, removing himself artfully to the tail of the aircraft, ostensibly to check for more bullet holes. A small team of erks had arrived, saluted, and were moving around the machine either ignoring the odour or immune to it. The Captain came back over and introduced himself formally once Gunn stepped a safe distance from the aircraft to light a cigarette.
"Did you bag one Sir?"
Gunn looked him over, sucking smoke out of the Woodbine with the same hunger as a diver surfacing for air.
"No." He didn't want any of this in a report. As far as the RFC was concerned he was a tactical liaison officer, and so it must seem.
"I'd appreciate it if your men could patch up those holes and paint over the skull motif." He'd meant to arrange that before leaving Blighty. A Corporal of middle age appeared with a bucket of water and some rags.
"Leave that please, Corporal." Gunn wasn't about to let some poor erk clean up his mess. "I'll see to it myself." Surprisingly the Corporal turned and marched up to him, saluting crisply.
"If I may, Sir." he spoke quietly, almost insistently. "It's the least I can do. It would be a pleasure Sir."
The Captain was watching with a trace of amusement in his eyes. Gunn was taken aback by having his clear orders questioned, but there was no anger in him, just humility. If this obviously decent old fellow knew how bloody stupid he'd been, he might not be so keen. Finally Gunn nodded, and the Corporal thanked him, saluted again and turned smartly about, apparently content to tackle the nauseating task.
Gunn was miserably transfixed, uncomfortable watching the ageing Corporal work, unable to turn away and leave him to it. The Captain spoke again. Thankfully he switched his attention to the well spoken young officer.
"We were expecting you earlier Sir. Unusual for the Hun to come so far over this side of the lines. May I ask you what happened?" The Captain would have expected him to fly straight over. He'd be writing it up next as some sort of intelligence coup.
"I took a small detour; wanted to have a look at the front. Nothing unusual, drifted a little too far east I suspect. No harm done." And that was that. "I'd like to meet your C.O. now please, Captain."
The young officer looked slightly bewildered as he told Gunn his C.O. was dead. Killed early this morning on the dawn patrol. A flamer..... poor show.
"There's a lot of that going around." Gunn barely allowed a respectable silence of more than a few seconds before moving on to the tactical considerations he had come to discuss. The men of the Royal Flying Corps were nothing if not resilient.
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