Captain Beard sat fiddling nervously with the throttle and fuel mixture in the cockpit of the Spad as they warmed up in readiness for takeoff. The rain was like a wall of water all around them and he hoped they wouldn't come unstuck - or more appropriately would - when they attempted to roll across the muddy field. Williams had complained bitterly when Sherlock told him his services were not required on this mission after all. But Whiskers had taken the young Major aside, pointing out that it was militarily unsound to risk the life of their best shot attacking a target the size of a Hun sausage. The C.O. had agreed, rather mournefully he thought, and accepted his offer to replace the Canadian. As for himself, Sherlock felt he must go on this one, but allowed Fips to talk him out of flying one of the Spads because of the potential repurcussions for the squadron if he were shot down. Like Williams, in spite of the logic he was nevertheless unhappy with his final decision.
The two Camels bellowed and began their takeoff run, gathering momentum slowly at first as the mud sucked at their narrow wheels, then picking up speed they were off, circling around to the south. Whiskers looked over at Snake and Gosling, nodded, and gunned his own engine. The Spad skidded and slewed across the field, and he held the stick back longer and further than usual to make sure the little French machine didn't fall forward onto its' nose. Ten minutes later they were turning south at the bend in the river they all knew so well, heading in line-astern just below the cloud ceiling, down the map towards the balloons' position. He checked the time. Sherlock and Taiters should be likewise turning east, and with two miles less to travel, even at their slower speed they ought to reach the outer ring of the balloon defences first.
Sherlock peered away to his 10 o'clock through the rain; he could see nothing yet, just fields and the occassional road or farmhouse. Visibility was appalling. He should have sighted the damn thing by now. Suddenly Archie appeared away to his right, and shortly thereafter a series of deep cracking thuds assaulted his ears. They must be close. Taiters pulled ahead and waggled his wings. He was pointing back to his 8 o'clock. The rain was so bad they'd flown well into the defensive circle before sighting the sausage. He flashed Gosling a quick thimbs-up and they both turned and dived gently away to the southeast, hoping their interjection would be enough to frighten the Hun but not panic him.
Whiskers was alternately glancing from the clock, to the airspeed indicator and the compass on his panel, hoping he had his navigation squared away. No point in looking out there for help; a sudden downpour was limiting visibility to less than a mile and the ground below was almost featureless. Time! He'd been holding his left arm up these last thirty seconds for the others flying behind him in line-astern. Now he dropped it and turned to starboard, nosing the Spad over in a gentle dive, picking up speed all the way down through the thousand foot descent until they were fifty feet above the ground in line abreast and going like bats out of Hell. He strained his eyes forward.... this was crazy, they'd never get within a mile of the thing like this, and if they didn't he was sure they wouldn't even see it. Now he could hear small arms fire going off behind them; the Spads were spaced far enough apart to confound the gunners, not so far as to offer themselves to a wider range. They were so low and fast that as targets they were less viable than a speeding clay skeet, and there had been no warning. Looking, looking... over there at 11 o'clock, just a few hundred yards away! The sausage was almost fully withdrawn, only another 200 feet or so to go. He kicked in a little left rudder as he banked around to race straight at the winch truck. The air around them was fairly cracking with machine gun fire, but old Archie was silent of course, they were too low.
As all three climbed in the last hundred yards so that Whiskers could bring his sights to bear, a huddled figure plunged from the basket, a fluttering sheet trailing behind him unopened as he accelerated quickly to the ground below. A second man peered out at him, terrified, but could not bring himself to jump. Whiskers pointed his machine at the almost obscene wrinkled bag ahead, fired all the way in to fifty yards, and lifted over the explosion he'd created, his aircraft rocking as the hot blast hit the underside of his wings. Then they were nosing over again, back down to fifty feet, forty, some speed lost but still going strong as the Hun gunners, furious at this brazen attack fired everything they had in their general direction. Moments later they were clear and already heading for home, climbing back up to just under the cloud ceiling, disbelief and sheer joy showing on each of their faces.
"Not even a single bullet hole!" Whiskers sounded insulted as he walked around the Spad. The rain had eased to a light drizzle, and the entire squadron was gathering at the flight line to inspect the aircraft involved in the recent mission.
"We were extremely lucky." Sherlock was referring more to the Spad pilots than himself and Lieutenant Taiters. As the full impact of their incredible luck struck home, the mood changed from astonishment to excited relief. Even the ground crews joined in, and for a while they all stood around together talking the mission through as if reliving it. Fips drew the C.O. to one side.
"You know what this means?" He spoke quietly. He was loathe to break the Skippers' mood, but it had to be said sometime. Sherlock was about to ask when he realised the implication. His face fell.
"We're going to get more of these, I'd imagine." The Major accepted a cigarette from Fips' offered packet, and he cupped it under his hand away from the rain as they both lit up. "I don't suppose we could send in a false report. 2nd Lieutenants Pip and Squeak sadly lost... we could set light to a couple of the kites." It was black humour, but too heartfelt to be funny. Fips smiled anyway.
"If you emphasise the effect of the weather; perhaps the brass will see it as a one off." Fips knew it was probably hopeless even as he said it. The brass hats were merciless in their use of any unit which demonstrated a particular ability against the enemy. The men were starting to notice their absence from the main group. He shot the C.O. a look. Sherlock straightened himself and turned to his squadron, announced that the bar was now open and the drinks were on him. They cheered heartily and started up the path towards the chateau, chattering like children on a school outing. Amazingly, it seemed, the squadron would still enjoy a happy Christmas.
Gunn reached his lowest point - or rather, his soul did - a few days into the new year. It was one of those crisp bright winter days, blue sky with enough scattered cumulous at various levels to provide refuge for both hunter and hunted. As the morning went on the air became pregnant with hostility as hordes of machines rose up from both sides to take advantage of the good conditions. From 16,000 feet Gunn could look down on most of it, small specks in the distance like midges over a summer pond, climbing up from below in their race for altitude, that ever precious coin of air combat. Here and there a lonely pair or threesome, reconnaisance sorties most likely, bravely pressing on in the face of appalling odds should they encounter the enemy. It was a morning charged with the very essence of war; murder and comradeship; a surreal medium for the airmans' art.
There were no single machines other than his own, but below at his 2 o'clock he could see an RE8 escorted by two SE5a's heading north about 4,000 feet under his own altitude. He was at least ten miles east of the lines, well into Hun territory, and heading south. As he flew over the friendly formation he wondered at the courage of the 'Harry Tate' crew, aloft behind enemy lines in what was essentially an obsolete aircraft. As he watched, the two escorts twitched and turned hard to the east. The RE8 flew on briefly then turned west, diving as fast as it could manage for the lines. Gunn swung around and held his gloved hand against the morning sun.... there, an entire jasta pouring down onto the SE5's out of the sun like tea leaves from a teapot. He watched in horror as the first of the Albatross merged with the escorts, the SE5's turning sharply in an attempt to tie up the overwhelming wave of enemy fighters while the RE8 dashed for home. It was no use. Four of the Hun engaged the escort, four more dived after the retreating reconnaisance machine, and the rest circled lazily over the action, their arrogance and disdain for the little machine above them only too apparent.
Gunn watched as the two SE5a pilots died, first one then the other. One of them managed a good hit on a 'V' Strutter, which belched smoke but didn't catch fire, slipping away below to the east. It felt like something was dying inside Gunn also. The two lead Albatross had caught up to the RE8, and despite a fury of Lewis gun fire from the observer it was very quickly dispatched, flames and thick smoke belching back from a ruptured fuel tank. He flew on south, feeling sick. If he lived for a hundred more years he would have to tell himself every day that there was nothing he could have done. Whatever action he took would not have altered the outcome, other than increase the losses to both sides, theirs perhaps by one or two, his own most definitely by one. But he felt as if he should have done something. Deeply shocked and humbled, he knew he had just witnessed the deaths of four men far superior to himself.
He'd flown on for some time before noticing the lone 'V' Strutter climbing up slowly under his tail. One of the Hun from the jasta involved in the slaughter earlier, no doubt; probably a Flight Leader, or whatever they called themselves, to have come on alone like that in such a long tail chase. Gunn supposed he was confident, else why would he follow? The Hun was reaching co-altitude. It was time to attack, or make a run for the lines. There was no choice really, and while he hadn't felt less like engaging in combat since his illness the previous year, at least he could balance the score somewhat for those men on the recon sortie. He c0cked both weapons and banked around to face his pursuer.
A head-on merge is a dangerous opening for both combatants. Gunns' usual tactic was to swerve across the front of his opponent, snaking one way then the other and changing height to confound his aim, then pulling up high, always early, to drop in behind for the kill or at least gain some advantage in the Huns' ensuing manoeuvre. The trick of it was to attack, not defend; Gunn had always fought as the aggressor. He used his height advantage to gain speed, snaking into the merge. The Huns' Spandau remained silent. As he hauled back on the stick early the German pilot did likewise, and momentarily the two aircraft were climbing vertically together, separated by no more than fifty feet. Gunns' speed would give him the advantage. He held the climb, but as the Albatross fell behind he saw it roll and heard a loud chattering as holes appeared close by on his port lower wing root. He skidded a little to starboard, as much as he dare, and fell over the top of the climb in a wallowing Immelman, rolling right side up as his nose dropped in pursuit of the Albatross, hanging below him with its' energy now surely spent.
As he closed again his adversary somehow found enough air under his wings to turn out of his sights; Gunn cursed, angry now, and pulled up yet again, simultaneously hauling his machine around onto the Huns' tail. But the enemy had slipped away again, just outside the angle off his nose where Gunn might just manage to turn and bring his weapons to bear. His SE5a was the superior machine in almost every way; he had the advantage in a turn and could outstrip the 'V' Strutter either level or in a dive. Possibly the man across from him was flying some new variant, but Gunn could see no reason why his own aircraft should be bested. As they probed and darted, climbed and turned, he realised that finally he had met his match. As the strength flowed out of him into the little fighter to no avail, he began to think perhaps that he was also outclassed.
Gunn was overcome slowly by a state akin to shock. He felt as if he was in some horrible slow motion accident, the outcome of which he knew only too well. The monster that lived in his gut came suddenly alive. He had lulled it to sleep months before; occassionally it had stirred, only to nod off again as he practised his own home spun philosophy. Laying awake long into those tortured nights had brought him to a workable logical conclusion; something to hold near as he moved ever closer to his final sortie. War, Gunn reasoned, was just a warped extention of life itself. The hospitals would not empty, nor the graveyards lay unused, even if peace reigned for a thousand years. As horrific as the effects of combat were, concentrated into such a short time and so localised a place, the fact remained that mortality is a natural condition. He saw his own end, and those of his friends and foe alike, as inevitable. Not in the way of the non-combatant, like some distant event, acknowledged but rarely considered. Gunn had been cloaked in Death, looked into its' dark eyes.... and he finally saw the truth of Now. That all things happen not one day, not eventually; reality happens in the Now. Otherwise it is something that has happened, or will happen, and neither of those things exist, except in the minds' eye. He saw time as a trick of the mind, a human construct. And he knew better than most that when Death came for him, it would come in the Now. He was damned if he'd be shocked by its' appearance again. He wouldn't give it that satisfaction.
Gunn knew he could not win. This man was a better pilot. Until now he couldn't have imagined it. The classic trap of the human intellect, stuck forever below the ceiling of its' own imagination. Now Reality had crashed in on his universe. Death had arrived. Now. As he relaxed and gave in to the inevitable, so the monster in his belly withdrew and he felt calm. The fire went out of him, out of his flying; like a chicken on the block, his hands and feet lay useless on the controls. He drifted out of a tight turn and flew smoothly through the sights of his adversary. Looking ahead he remembered some of the people, some of the times, that had made his life unique. When the sadness came he stopped thinking. But there was no death blow. Slowly he turned his head to look back. The Hun sat there at his 6 o'clock, no more than fifty feet behind, weaving slightly in Gunns' turbulence. A brief thought of jammed weapons crossed his mind and was immediately discounted. The German pilot hadn't moved, just stared ahead through his sights like some nemesis. Perhaps he was out of ammunition. Gunn looked to his front again. It was out of his hands anyway. He flew along for some moments, not thinking, not feeling.
The note of the Huns' engine changed and Gunn looked across to his right, bewildered as the enemy pilot moved his machine alongside. Gunn stared at him. The man was smiling. He saluted. Gunn just sat there. The mans' smile disappeared to be replaced by a pantomime look of confusion. He pointed at his machineguns, shook his head slowly and fired a short burst. Plenty of ammunition then. He smiled again, more of a grin this time, and saluted for the second time, more deliberately, more persuasively. Still Gunn just sat there, staring, expressionless. The smile vanished, the German pilot shook his head, a quick dismissive gesture, and dived away to the east.
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