Captain Horace 'Horse' Macdonald, the squadron Recording Officer, sat quietly next to Old Bones sipping his gin and tonic while studying the antics of the pilots. Some wag had moved the skeleton up to one of the small tables and strategically placed cards around as though a game were in progress, going to the trouble of posing the hideous thing with a winning hand. The Captain liked to keep an eye on 'his' pilots, as he liked to consider them; in his early thirties when war broke out, and being an experienced horseman, he had joined the cavalry only to find himself afoot in the muddy trenches like everyone else. A transfer to the RFC resulted in his receiving the Observers' half-wing brevet and after a brief introduction to an NCO pilot (considered little more than a chauffeur in those early days) and a BE2 which looked, as he had pointed out at the time, unsuitable for perambulation let alone aviation, he found himself at several thousand feet over the lines taking fire and praying with all sincerity for a quick end.
While his fear of flight never fully retreated he nevertheless completed several dozen sorties before the inevitable crash, his injuries severe enough to keep him on the ground and his determination keeping him in the service. He had been a valuable (and valued) member of the squadron since its' inception, working largely behind the scenes with his small administration staff to keep things running smoothly. The pilots saw him as a welcome fatherly presence, his flying experience and obvious courage bonding him to them as if he were one of their own. He had taken the combat reports for nearly every sortie the squadron had flown, and with his experience as an Observer had the knack of winkling out the last drop of intelligence from the weary pilots, often information that they were unaware they had retained.
Some of the most recent reports had chilled him. Since the first foray, the squadron had flown four more balloon busting missions in just two weeks, mostly without loss (in no small part due to the brilliant tactical contrivances of the C.O.) but one of the men, 2nd Lieutenant Gortell, had been wounded quite badly. Sadly, he doubted that they would see him again. By all accounts the anti-aircraft fire coming up from around the sausages was prolific and accurate. If the brass hats continued to use the squadron in this way, he felt sure it must soon end in tears.
One of the new American melodies rose up out of the gramophone. He didn't recognise it, but quickly realised it would be a popular selection. Webb and the new lad, Hudson-York, had come back from a weekend furlough bearing several records purchased from a recent arrival from across the Altlantic. The Americans were arriving in strength now and the RFC had regained much of its' earlier prowess, with better machines and well trained pilots beginning to flow through to the squadrons again.
Pilots. The R.O. shook his head almost imperceptibly and chuckled as Loopy Raymond tried to walk under a broomstick held at chest height by Watts and Webb with a full glass of ale balanced on his head. Not for the first time he wondered that so many fine young men should be brought together under one roof. Having read Psychology for a year at Cambridge before deciding on Literature, he had some grasp of the personality type common amongst the airmen of the RFC. He was not surprised that many of them were musicians, artists and philosophers. This complimented a practical, often pragmatic engineering talent. He had known a few who, possessing one aspect but lacking the other had usually not lasted long. Indeed the two types seemed diametrically opposed, in his experience the majority of the species fell into one category or the other. But here was balance; the mechanical intellect to operate the aircraft, the artistic flair to fly it. He had never attempted to control a machine himself, flying as an Observer had unmanned him so completely he knew from the very first moment that the attributes one required were beyond his reach. Just as clear to him was the emergence of a new breed.
He watched as Williams, the Canadian woodsman and hunter, sauntered over to the bar for a round of drinks. Horse noted he walked like one of those wild west gunslingers he'd seen in the film shows. In fact they all walked like that now that he thought about it. Not swaggering, or affected; just a relaxed purposeful gait, taking their own time. Almost as if encased in a bubble where normal time was distorted, subordinate to their will. He had noticed how most men often looked as if they were struggling to keep up with time. These men somehow subdued it. He supposed it had something to do with terror, and the control of it. The birthright of every animal, an instinct, not a force to be controlled. Yet up there, and he knew this only too well from his own experience, there was no room for it. A drowning man may thrash and scream, but the airman must keep his fear in check in the face of imminent death, and somehow they did. It was a rare flight that didn't threaten disaster at some point. Clearly they brought this unnatural calm back down with them, wore it like a cloak, almost undetectable but to the sharp eye, as they moved about amongst their earthbound cousins.
Even the new lads, he could see them growing into the men they would be all too soon, as each day brought new challenges and terrors. Men like these could rule the world, but he knew that they never would. They lacked the ugly hunger that the brass hats and politicians showed for self advancement. No, these men already had everything they wanted. But perhaps there was another destiny for them. As one of the dreamers and philosophers himself, he believed that one day the human race might rise above this illogical desire for slaughter and might even attain the knowledge to fly to the stars. Anything seemed possible. Only a few short years ago there were no flying machines apart from balloons. What was there to stop them now, from rising up above the earth to visit the moon, the planets; the stars? It seemed to him it was just a matter of time. If so, he was certain that men such as these would lead the way... providing we don't kill them all off, he thought sadly. A roar of laughter reached his ears as Gosling, who had been taking his turn under the broom, collapsed backwards, clutching at the handle and bringing Watts and Webb crashing down with him. The irony was not lost on the R.O, who turned to Old Bones with a broad smile and said "God help us all."
Colonel Lightman had arrived in St. Omer eager to get to grips with his new responsibilities. As the Officer Commanding Special Air Operations he would be in his element; as far as the world at large was concerned this unit did not even exist. Subterfuge and secrecy had been evident in his fighting style during his flying days as he confounded the enemy with his tactics, and he relished the opportunity to dish out more of the same, albeit vicariously. When a report crossed his desk outlining the recent involvement of his old squadron in several balloon attacks, mainly in support of the French infantry, he felt it was time to step in. The French could do their own dirty work. A meeting with the Brigadier General saw the Skeleton Crew immediately reassigned under his command. Trenchard had taken scant interest; a quick check of the squadrons' status showed it to be badly undermanned and a likely candidate for disbandment, as the Colonel had feared. He had some unfinished business from his previous post. He decided to kill two birds with one stone, and sent for Major Gunn.
The next day Gunn sat once more opposite his old C.O, who had apparently finished debriefing him on the recent liaison tour. The Major had made his special request and could do nothing but wait while the Colonel considered. Reaching under his desk he produced a bottle of malt whisky and poured them both a drink, then sat back thoughtfully mouthing his pipe which had gone out some time ago. He looked at Gunn askance.
"How many Hun have you shot down?" He had been hearing some interesting stories.
Gunn tried to remain expressionless. "Seventeen, Sir."
The Colonel stared hard at him for several seconds. "You're a damn liar." It was spoken quietly. "You don't even know, do you?"
Gunn considered for a moment."No Sir. I suppose it must be up around twenty or so."
"Bollocks." The Colonels' eyes bored into his own. "So let me get this straight, you want to stop flying because there's a Hun up there who can outfly you?"
Gunn felt ridiculous. He hadn't thought this through at all.
"I feel at this time that I no longer possess the skills or stamina necessary to effectively carry out my duty as a front line pilot." It sounded lame, even to Gunn.
"I've got news for you Major; there's probably at least a dozen Hun who could outfly you." Gunn looked even more crestfallen. The Colonel softened his attack. "Now. That's as maybe. I know you're tired. So are most of the men on active duty. More significantly I suspect you are tired of killing. Again....". He let the word hang in the air. "I want to keep you alive. This country will need men like you when the next war starts." Gunn was nonplussed at the Colonels' remark. Then he realised he must be joking. "Men like yourself and Major Sherlock. Fine tactician. Anyway, can't have you flying around on your own, too damn dangerous. What do you think squadrons are for, hmmm? I want you to go down to Soussons where the two of you can keep an eye on each other. I've appropriated the squadron for special duties, all very hush-hush; you'll enjoy it. Like the old days, eh? Go and have a good time. You've earned it."
"Major Sherlock is a fine C.O. Sir," Gunn didn't want to userp anyone, especially his old friend. "I don't see an opening for me there."
"You will be my liaison in the field. We have some very important work ahead of us. Dropping off agents and materiel; pinpoint strikes, assassinations even. We've got this Red Knight in our sights; 64 of our men lost, all down to one Hun." He looked outraged. "Did you know he has a silver cup made to commemorate each victory? Damned cheek! And a damned poor show." The Colonel was running out of expletives, Gunn noticed. It did smack of hubris, if it were true.
"Anyway that's another matter. But I want you to realise the importance of this work. We all need to pull together for final victory." The Colonel was clearly not asking. "Now go, and stop arsing around killing Huns and get on with the blasted war! What?"
They looked at each other momentarily as the Colonels' words sank in, and the meeting ended with both men barely able to contain their laughter.
The afternoon was uncommonly sunny for January, although the air was still bitterly cold. A fresh bracing day which made Gunn feel alive, and glad of it. He flew over the flightline to check the windsock, then moved downwind of the field and turned about, engine backfiring and growling, sideslipping the SE5a back into the wind for a three point landing. Parking at the nearly deserted flight line, he climbed down to be greeted by Horse, the R.O, who had come trotting down the path on hearing his engine. They saluted, then shook hands and headed back up to the chateau, Macdonald explaining that Sherlock had the entire squadron (what was left of it) out on a training exercise. Almost involuntarily the two officers suddenly found themselves standing at the open double doors of the Mess, and without much resistance gave in to temptation and moved inside, the R.O. ordering drinks from a steward who had been cleaning glasses and making early preparations for the evening ahead.
Gunn held out a packet of Woodbines to the R.O, who refused and produced a pipe from inside his tunic. He was still filling the thing long after the Major disappeared briefly behind a cloud of thick smoke. They chatted amiably as the whisky warmed their insides, but the Captain could see that his old C.O. was distracted. He looked at his pocketwatch, and raising an eyebrow made the excuse of a report long overdue, finished his drink and departed. Gunn appreciated the ruse, but felt guilty; he should have been more conjenial. Horace Macdonald was one of his favourite people. But he was on edge; unsure how the squadron would receive him following his rude abandonment of them when they needed him most.
He stubbed out the cigarette, nodding to the steward who had been hovering in anticipation, ready to refill his glass. He turned drink in hand surveying the familiar room, his eyes drawn first to Old Bones, slumped over one of the small tables, apparently sleeping it off. A small photograph on the wall opposite drew his attention. It looked familiar somehow, and moving closer he saw the image of himself, along with some pilots of the Australian squadron, standing in front of his SE5a. There was a caption, some nonsense about heroic exploits; he hadn't fired a shot in that action, at least not in anger. But the newspaper clipping surprised him, not so much because he had never seen it before, more that he would not have expected to see it here. Even after his virtual desertion, his old squadron had maintained an interest in him. The knowledge humbled him. He was beginning to realise he'd been wrong about quite a few things.
He heard the distant drone of approaching aircraft. He felt some apprehension as he moved outside to watch their arrival. It seemed clear he would still be welcome, ungenerous of him to presume otherwise. But largely he felt a growing warmth that he had not known for some time. These were his true comrades in arms, he could depend on them, had always done so in the past and they had never let him down. Perhaps after a time they would see that they could depend on him also.
The Camels and Spads of the Skeleton Crew were popping and coughing their way down and around into the wind, the pilots leaning out of their c0ckpits as they looked ahead around the raised noses of their machines. The first of them flared and bounced lightly onto the grass, the rest following in expertly spaced echelon formation. Gunn felt a surge of pride as he watched; whatever the future held in store, he knew he could face it with them. He believed and hoped he had finally earned his place amongst them. As they taxied up and parked along the flight line, the crackling chorus of ten engines still cleaving the cold air of the early evening, he realised how very lucky he was to be standing here. He doubted very much, once this damnable war was over, whether anyone would ever see their likes again. But for now, if he had to fight and perhaps die, there was nowhere else he would rather be, and no other company he would rather keep. The Skeleton Crew was his, and he theirs if they would have him. It had just taken him some time to realise it.
The field fell silent as the last machine shut down, the pilots clambering stiffly out onto the grass. The usual post flight huddle formed, cigarettes lit as they relaxed, reflecting on the mission. At length they recognised the lone figure walking down the path to meet them. The sun was slipping toward the western treeline, casting a ruddy glow onto the Majors' face such that he grimaced in the harsh glare of it. They gathered around as one to welcome him home.
The End
EPILOGUE
As the memoirs become unintelligable beyond this point so the story must end, for now. The squadron was flying towards new horizons, clandestine operations with little or no official records being kept. A substantial amount of material remains, albeit concealed behind some sort of personal code. If this code is ever broken perhaps there will be more to add to this brief and somewhat condensed history of the Skeleton Crew squadron.
In memory of our good friend 'Doc' Hoover, who flew with us as 'SC-Mutt'.
Last Updated Wednesday, March 31 2010 @ 08:14 PM MDT|91 Hits 