Christmas Day 1917 along the Western Front began like so many days before it; cold and wet. The P.B.I. were up to their knees in mud and water, with more than sixty percent of all recent casualties caused by illness due to the dreadful conditions. The situation was somewhat better for the aviation branches of both sides, even those under canvas were spared the horrifying filth and slime of the trenches. For the men of the Skeleton Crew at Soussons, the reduced flying hours due to bad weather combined with the comforts of a well equipped chateau supplied with a reasonable amount and diversity of food and drink created a brief respite of sorts. There was even a modicum of festive spirit, an attempt having been made to decorate the Mess and inject some Christmas cheer into the proceedings.
Captain Fips had returned fully recovered from his wounds to find Sherlock settled in as C.O. and promoted to Major (acting). The Snakeman had likewise stepped into the breach as X.O, promoted to Captain. Whiskers and Williams were also made Captains, with Gosling promoted Lieutenant. It didn't seem so long ago that Gosling, the new boy, was wet behind the ears. Now he was one of the veterans with several kills to his credit. Fips joked that he'd gone on a spot of leave to come back and find his job taken end everyone outranking him. In reality he was relieved (and surprised) to find most of them still alive.
With the dawn patrol cancelled due to bad weather, the pilots gathered in the Mess and sat around the enormous open fireplace, chatting, drinking hot tea and feasting on the Christmas cakes and other delights sent over by their families. The war was not forgotten and those that survived it would never forget, but for now it was merely a background to their cameraderie. Sherlock had his eye on them as he selected another record from their growing collection. They had certainly earned a rest day. He finally settled on one of the latest additions to their collection, 'John McCormack sings Keep the Home Fires Burning', and placed it on the Decca gramophone turntable. Winding the crank handle with some vigour and placing the needle with care he stepped back and cocked his head to one side, listening with pleasure to the stirring melody. It looked like turning into a long enjoyable day and he considered allowing the bar to open early.
Fips sat quietly smoking, temporarily disengaged from conversation and just enjoying being back with the squadron. He watched Sherlock as he stood up and moved over to the gramophone, which had finished playing 'Over There' and was now popping and crackling rythmically on the end track. Fips thought the Major made a damn fine C.O. and knew Doc would have been proud of him. Sherlock bent over the machine and ground the handle, then straightened and started tapping his foot as the next song filled the big room with its' shrill tones. The duty Corporal came through the main double doors at the other end of the room and marched smartly up to the C.O. with a look on his face that set a butterfly loose in Fips' stomach. The two spoke quietly then Sherlock glanced quickly at the men around the fireplace, catching Fips' eye before following the Corporal back out through the doors. The men cheered loudly as Whiskers opened a package to reveal a pair of knitted woollen mittens, matching socks and an enormous scarf. Fips sat deep in thought for a while longer then rose and headed over to the gramophone as the final bars of the song rang out. He had a bad feeling that the Christmas revelry would have to be postponed for a few hours.
The X.O. was just replacing the telephone handset on the cradle when the Duty Corporal arrived back with the C.O. in tow. Sherlock noted the grim look on Pritchards' face and asked what was up.
"They want someone to fry a sausage that's popped up a few miles southwest of Chambry. Apparently it's causing all manner of trouble with the festivities along that part of the line, some very accurate fire dropping on one of the French divisions. We're it I'm afraid." The Snakeman was expressionless as he conveyed the bad news.
"What's the cloud situation? The ceiling can't be more than a thousand feet!" Sherlock was seriously concerned; if they had to go after a balloon at that height they'd be cut to ribbons.
"The locals say fifteen hundred. Total cover, no holes. And coming down in buckets."
The C.O. had a plan ready, expecting another balloon job at some point. But the weather rendered it useless. Some cloud was a good thing, but this.... who knew how thick the cloud layer was? It might reach up for thousands of feet. He thought of asking someone to go up and take a look, but he knew he would never see them alive again. He would just have to adapt the plan for a low level attack. Sweet Jesus.... Merry Christmas Skeleton Crew Squadron; they'd be lucky if half survived to Boxing Day.
They had one thing in their favour. It was raining heavily, which reduced visibility and obscured the sound of their engines. That said, it was a terrible day to go flying, let alone fly through a concentrated area of anti-aircraft fire at low level. The C.O. had them all gathered around the map, time was short and he hadn't yet decided who was to fly and who would stay behind. The plan was developing as he spoke, some of the ideas for modification to the original coming from the pilots themselves. Lieutenant Gosling had flown a quick ceiling sortie, coming back with a figure of 1,200 feet, which took a little more wind out of their already sagging sails. Success would depend on timing and navigation, and of course luck. Fortunately (perhaps a good omen?) the target was not very far from where they stood. All knew the area well, which would make navigation easier. He could rely on them all for precision in the timing of it, one of the unique strengths of the squadron had always been their ability to work in concert.
Sherlock decided that if they were unable to avoid Archie by flying high due to cloud, they would fly under his minimum effective shooting altitude. This raised two other problems. First and foremost, the sausage was probably at 1,000 feet. Second, they would be flying into a hail of small arms fire from the ground. He reasoned that they must get the Hun to lower the balloon - that was easy enough, at first sight of trouble they would winch the damn thing down in a matter of seconds. Hopefully they could trigger this without scaring the observer enough to cause him to jump. If some of his men were going to die, the C.O. wanted at least to catch the observer in his basket.
As for the ground fire, they would just have to fly fast and low, pray, and hope that the rain gave them some element of surprise. He outlined the modified plan, emphasizing again the need for precision. Asking for volunteers he was inundated by a show of hands. It would seem he must play God after all. With a sinking heart he chose his pilots, wondering if he was effectively sending each one to the gallows.
Gunn lowered himself onto the bunk and extracted a cigarette from the crumpled packet. Checking his pockets he remembered using his last match, and cursing softly looked about the room. There was a storm lantern beside the cot on the side table, and he opened the small drawer in the hope of finding a box of matches. Apparently whoever had cleared out the previous occupants' personal effects had forgotten to check the drawer as it contained several items of value. Gunn regularly slept in quarters recently vacated by the maimed and deceased. He looked idly through the assortment of pens, a pocket watch, opened letters and various other knick knacks and recovered a brass flint lighter. He turned the thing in his hand, admiring it. There was an inscription: 'Sticky, toujours, Adrienne'. He sparked the end of his cigarette, drawing on it until it glowed, and inhaling the smoke thankfully he replaced the lighter, closing the drawer. He would have to see about getting himself one of those.
He could hear the sounds of merriment drifting across from the Officers Mess. This squadron had recently re-equipped with the new Bristol fighters and were in high spirits, Christmas celebrations starting early in the day due to inclement weather. The party was well under way but Gunn preferred not to partake, and would have moved on but for the miserable conditions outside. Pouring himself a stiff drink he spared a quick thought for his batman Hardwick, who had been following him across France these last weeks by road, carrying with him the bulk of the Majors' effects. Hardwick was beside himself, rarely arriving before his charge had flown on, but the delay here had allowed him to catch up and replace Gunns' soiled uniform with a fresh one, and provide some basic home comforts. Gunn had told him to take the rest of the day off, and he hoped the man was away enjoying himself with the other ranks, if indeed they were allowed such luxury here.
As he swung his legs up onto the cot his thoughts turned to his current disposition. He had considered himself lucky to receive this roving commission; apart from not having anyone else to worry about, at first he believed that fighting on his own terms would relieve his general discomfort with the war and allow him to operate much like the ideal, a true 'knight of the sky'. But over the following weeks, each time he pressed the firing button he became more acutely aware that he was simply engaged in the act of murder. His encounters with the Hun had become ever more dangerous as he attempted to redress the balance of his abilities against those of his often hapless foe. Eventually he had resorted to attacking head-on, but he could see inequity even in this method. The fact remained that whichever pilot survived the duel did so by virtue either of superior ability, machine or tactical position, or else by random chance. Gunn suspected that none of these were suitable conditions under which one man should shoot another to death.
Eventually he gave up and simply murdered each Hun he encountered. Not for him to question the rights and wrongs of warfare; if the man in his sights was struggling with a jammed round, damaged already from some earlier encounter, or just flying along oblivious to his presence, Gunn was unmoved. He did his best to dispatch them quickly, he was not sadistic, merely thorough. He would have been quite happy for someone to change the rules, perhaps he could fire a warning shot from behind, then the pilot so warned would drop down, land and set fire to his machine; go home and raise a family. A bloodless war. Maybe one day, a hundred years from now, civilisation might evolve to the point where wars would be fought this way. But for now his duty was clear, and he flew on, Mssrs Vickers and Lewis at the ready.
He had hoped to encounter the infamous 'Red Knight', who had by this time claimed more than sixty Allied aircraft destroyed. He felt sure he could beat the man in single combat; but by all accounts he was not one to engage unless he held the advantage. At the head of his circus, moving from one part of the front to another, and with the current state of the RFC (which was improving but still lagged behind), that meant he could more or less engage at will. Gunn knew that on those terms he was probably lucky not to run into him. At any rate, he had his own policy; never attack more than two enemy machines together without a significant height advantage. He'd once jumped three from below, and considered himself fortunate to survive the ensuing melee.
This then was the current disposition of the man who had chosen deliberately not to engage himself either socially or professionally with his comrades in arms. Christmas Day 1917. Gunn had known enough pain to have no problem differentiating one from another. As the thrumming of the heavy rain on the roof temporarily abated and the joyous tones of men singing Christmas carols drifted across from the Mess, he lay back and tried to convince himself that this new discomfort welling up slowly these last few weeks was not mere loneliness.
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