Francis Meyrick

Ch.16

Sainte-Breuve-sur-Pont
Feb. 25th, 1917

Dear Pater and Mater,

Just a quick note to say I am still alive. And kicking.
Got my second hun! Shot the little basket down in flames, and watched him jump out. Serves him right. Frizzled all the way down.
I’m fine.
The only bad news is that we lost a chap named Digsby, who I hardly knew, and Baines. I’ll miss him, but I got told off for talking about him.
That’s the way it goes.

Love to everyone,
Yours,

Jeremy

* * *

Mr Armstrong was thrilled to bits.
He swiped the letter at the first opportunity, and touted it around everywhere. The gentlemen at the club were hugely impressed, and suggested framing it and hanging it on the club wall. Mr Armstrong was flattered, but wondered how he would persuade Mrs Armstrong. The more he thought about it, the more his mood of euphoria waned. She would never agree.
He debated ‘losing it’ for some time. Perhaps…

Mrs Armstrong was mystified at the disappointingly short letter. She didn’t recognize her son in the reference to the German who ‘frizzled all the way down’. She cried over Digsby and Baines, especially that wonderful man Baines, but puzzled and fretted over what was happening to her only son. It seemed to her a callous letter. Her husband’s undisguised joy had angered her, and they had gone unusually cold on each other.

Sarah Armstrong had told Rex that her brother had shot down his second, and he had looked hurt. He was sensitive about not being at the front. Over sensitive. He unnecessarily launched into the old spiel about his father requiring him in their family business. A great contribution to the war effort, et cetera. Sarah got bored. She had heard it once too often. Just because Rex’s father business supplied jam to the troops…
She debated going out with a soldier. Rex was beginning to be tedious. He kissed messily, and groped endlessly, and that was about it. Maybe he was just a wimp.
Sarah fancied falling madly in love with a soldier. Maybe an airman, with lots more victories than Jeremy…

* * *

Emmy opened the letter with trembling fingers, and noticed herself how her heart was in her mouth. She was amazed at the untidy scrawl, and the state of the envelope. It looked as if it had been dropped in the mud, and cursorily wiped.

Sainte-Breuve-sur-Pont
Feb.26th 1917

Dear Emmy,

I wrote the biggest load of cock and bull home yesterday, and I know it. I’m drunk as a skunk (hic!) at the moment, and I don’t care. What a stupid bloody crazy war.
I got my second. Shot him down in flames. He jumped out.
(He was on fire himself). Don’t blame him.
I’ve pretended to the folks it was a jolly good laugh.
I think I said he’d ‘frizzled all the way down’.
Father will love all that. He wrote me a sterling lecture on ‘keeping my chin up’, ‘remember the family name’ and all that rubbish.
It’s not true. I didn’t enjoy killing him. Not really.
Savagely, yes. Great. One back for Baines. Oh, he’s dead by the way. Burned, by the way. (hic!) Cheers, Baines old boy! Musn’t go on about him though. Gets frowned upon. Once they’re dead, that’s it, they’re gone. Terrific! So when I cop it, they might even say: “What a good fellow “, but after that – you’re just forgotten as quickly as possible.
War. Glory. Absurdity. Just trying to stay alive.
I’m no hero, Emmy. Do you mind? I hate the whole blasted thing.
Don’t know why I’m writing to you like this. Suppose I miss you. Our conversations I mean.
Not you. Just friends. God this wine is funny stuff. They supply it by the gallon here dead cheap.
So there. Sorry I shatter all your illusions. It’ll be women next. Nice French lass. Trouble I don’t speak froggie very well.
Well, what the hell.

(hic!) Jeremy

Emmy re-read the letter over and over again. Then she sat and thought for a long time. She had always kept him at arm’s length. So close, but no closer. Did the letter contain a hint?
“Don’t know why I’m writing to you like this. Suppose I miss you. Our conversations I mean. Not you. Just friends… “
Was he asking her how she felt? The reference to a ‘nice French lass’. Was he asking her?
She wondered… and gazed deeply into the fire.

How did she really feel about Jeremy Armstrong?
Jeremy the non-christian. Jeremy, passionate, caring, wild.
Lover of poetry.
She thought of Robert. Poor Robert, whose eyes followed her like a little dog sometimes. Asthmatic Robert, pale, thin, who had been to every recruiting station within thirty miles, desperate to do his bit in the war effort.
Who now, in between his law studies, helped out at the hospital. Who would love to go out seriously with Emmy, if she would respond to his feeble little hints.
Robert the Christian.
A gentle, nice man.
Jeremy the fighter.
A passionate man.

The fire burned and smoked, the embers glowed.
It was a calm night, and without a wind the chimney struggled with its task.
A slight smoke screen began to form.
She rose to open the window, and the draft instantly worked magic.
The symbolism did not escape her.
If only it were that easy…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.15

The muffled ‘kerrump’ as the fuel tank exploded reached Jeremy’s ears. It should have registered in his brain immediately, but there was a time lag. During which he was picked up by an invisible, red hot hand, carried bodily through the air, and smacked hard and painfully onto the ground. This winded him, and he groaned and gasped painfully for air. For several seconds he experienced that peculiar hiatus of panic and breathlessness, during which the fear of asphyxiation reigns supreme. Then his shocked system managed to restore some semblance of order, and organize the first shallow drafts of oxygen to his beleaguered body.
Now he became aware of other sensations. Intense pain from his face, and a smell of something burning.
He stood up unsteadily, and realized that his face was burned badly, and swelling up noticeably. His eyelashes appeared to have been singed behind his goggles. For if he half closed his eyes, he could see the burnt hairs as a fuzzy black residue. He took his gloves off slowly, and with trembling fingers he explored. His eyebrows were gone, and when he tried to smooth the remains of his eyelashes straight, he could feel gritty little pieces of carbon coming away as well. When he blinked, his vision was now clearer. He turned his attention to the hideous inferno that contained his friend. He knew straight away.
No man could survive that.

Great columns of black smoke and heat were now billowing across the ground, and beginning to envelop his own machine. He moved clear, and observed this. Then the thought registered that his own tanks might ignite with the heat soon. Half heartedly, his legs seemingly disjointed, with a will of their own, he stumbled back towards his machine. Absently, he noticed that even the paint was beginning to bubble and blister. He knew this was not a good thing, but puzzled why he couldn’t really get worked up about it. It was if he was in a heavy trance.
He shook his head vigorously.
“Come on lad… ”
The voice belonged to someone else.
“Better get a move on, old son “.
It sounded croaky and feeble, but it was definitely his own voice.
Then another sound commandeered his attention. Urgency registered now. He knew that sound. It brought horrible memories. With a surge of much needed adrenaline, he recognized the sound of machine gun fire. He looked up, his first nightmarish thought that he was about to be strafed on the ground again.
But no. It was another SE5. With green pennants flying.
Owen. He was shooting at something beyond a row of poplar trees. Odd. Which side of the lines were they on?

Oh, gawd. Oh, hell!

Awareness flooded back to him. He drew a deep breath, and dived into the billowing black smoke.

* * *

If Jeremy was talking to himself in a good natured way for encouragement, and to try and restore the workings of his mind, Owen’s language at two thousand feet was less temperate. His promises to himself what he would do to Jeremy if they -ever- got out of this mess, had graduated from a vicious kicking, via slow throttling, to brute machine-gunning against a wall. He could see a party of seven or eight German soldiers approaching across a field at a brisk trot. In the distance, approaching rapidly, he could see two Fokker D.V’s, presumably the survivors of the five ship formation they had previously encountered.
Also in the distance, much farther away, he could see three more dots approaching. Presumably everybody was attracted by the massive column of black smoke.
Meanwhile, Armstrong was sitting on the ground.
Owen’s brain reeled, and he debated the options.
One: cut and run.
In view of overwhelming odds approaching. In which case Armstrong would certainly be strafed on the ground.
Two: turn and fight the two Fokkers.
In which case, if Jeremy continued to hang around, he would be either strafed, shot, or captured.
Three: dive and have a quick burst at the foot soldiers, maybe kill a few, slow them down, warn Jeremy, and then climb to meet the attackers. In which case they would probably both be rubbed out. What a choice.
What a choice…
Rage welled up inside him, and at the top of his lungs he screamed:

“ARMSTRONG YOU BLOODY BASTAAAARRD!!!! “

But for the roar of his engine, and the howl of the slipstream, his voice would have echoed for miles…
Then he turned, dived screamingly at the foot soldiers, and opened fire…

* * *

Even as he slid in the cockpit and fumbled for the harness, Jeremy knew he was choking. He would never have time…
Coughing and spluttering, with tears pouring down his face, he taxied clear of the worst of the smoke, and then proceeded to don his harness. It took a bit of fiddling, and just as he was finishing, he looked up in time to see Owen attack two German aircraft head on. His eyes bulged in horror, and, without taxying back, he slammed the throttle open. Bumping and jolting, his machine careered off over the uneven terrain.
One main wheel dipped down a rabbit hole, and the resultant wobble brought the left wingtip down hard on a grassy knoll. It seemed impossible that the situation be reprieved, and Jeremy’s mind raced over the implications of a crash on take off. But somehow the machine bounced on, and now the tail was rising.
With the tail flying, Jeremy had his first proper look ahead. He groaned…
He would never make it. Ahead, in a crazily short distance, lay a row of trees, sticking up from a thick wild hedge. His eyes sought desperately for a gap, but there was none. Where was the lowest point?
Perhaps there? In between what looked like two birch trees stretched what seemed to be the lowest bit of hedge. He kicked the nose round in that direction, and exhorted his engine to produce more power. It was useless. He had one hundred yards where he needed two hundred. The thought of chopping the throttle and stopping, and taxying back for a longer take off run crossed his mind. But then he remembered the approaching enemy aircraft, and his ordeal in the ditch at the hands of the green and blue Albatros. It was too much to bear, and he pushed even harder on the throttle. It could go no further, but still he pushed harder, as if by his own physical effort he could propel the aircraft faster across the ground.
By now he was beyond the point of no return. There was no going back. Still the main wheels bounced heavily on the ground. With twenty yards to go, the wheels skipped more lightly, but that was all. With eight yards to go, he thought a prayer, and pulled back on the stick.
The nose of the aircraft rose up, and for a split second hope welled up like a fountain. The aircraft reached five or six feet…
Then the wings stalled. She mushed heavily, wallowed, and plunged downwards. There came a horrible crashing, cracking, tearing sound, and in seconds the machine was enveloped in a strange green whirling world of madly spinning leaves, twigs and branches.
Everywhere was noise, disaster, and visual confusion.
Jeremy’s brain stalled also, and instantly he became a passenger, wholly powerless to influence his fate.

* * *

Owen saw the ground ripped up in tufts, and two or three men fall awkwardly beneath his bullets. Their arms were thrown up unnaturally, their bodies writhing, and as he roared low overhead, he saw them sinking to their knees, still racked by spasms. The others had thrown themselves flat, and some were aiming rifles at him, but he neither knew nor cared where the bullets went.
He had built up useful speed in the dive, which he now converted into the steepest climb possible, turning to face the attack. Selecting the leader of the pair, he aimed to ram him, and opened fire at the last second. Tracer criss crossed, and he sensed bullets impacting around him. Then they hurtled past, the undercarriage of the Fokker so close he feared it would strike his top wing. He racked it round in a body punishing turn, and noticed one of the Fokkers peeling off and down. Guessing his target to be Jeremy, Owen side stepped the machine that drilled at him, and raced to cut off the other.
His thumb operated the guns, and a two second burst shredded the sky. The bullets abruptly stopped coming, and he squeezed the trigger as hard as he could.
Nothing.
Even as he darted a glance over his shoulder at the silhouette latching onto his tail, he knew he was lost.
His ammunition had run out, and he was fifteen miles behind German lines…

* * *

To Jeremy, the horror of events had slowed the world down to a virtual stop. He stared as if looking in from another world. His huge propeller hacked and chopped at the greenery with undiminished zest. The world he was looking into was small, with a radius measured in feet.
Only if he had been able to look up might he have seen a different color. It was all very odd. He wondered what was going to happen next. But in a detached way. He was only a passenger, and he would find out soon enough.
It was all very odd…
Abruptly, a different colour appeared through the propeller disc, and he could see –again, how odd– a hedge with trees in the distance…
Funny. What were those chaps doing?

With a roar the tortured SE5 piled through the hedge, with debris flying everywhere. The startled soldiers fell back, or threw themselves down. One unfortunate got the main undercarriage axle square in the temple. His neck snapped back, and was broken. Only two men thought of their rifles. One was slow, and missed by a mile. The other, younger and cooler, aimed well, and the bullet grazed Jeremy’s chin, stinging him and drawing blood.
The SE5 struggled on, accelerating once more from its near terminal encounter with the hedge.

Airborne at last, Jeremy searched and found the enemy first, and only then took in the damage with a quick glance. His heart sank. He seemed to be carrying half a forest with him. The lower port aileron was hanging by only one hinge, and, through the swaying foliage that had wrapped itself around the flying wires, he could just make out that there was a huge three foot rip in the under surface of the starboard upper wing. The edges of the damage fluttered merrily, and he wondered what effect the damaged controls would have on the handling.
He could see Owen twisting and turning, and, wearily, he turned to face an attacker. Two against two.
Not bad.
Then he saw the three Pfalz aircraft approaching, their black crosses catching the sun as they banked, and he wished he could just land again and give himself up.
He was going to die for sure this time.
Oh,well…
What the hell. It was overdue, really.
He didn’t care anymore.
He would sell himself as dear as possible, and then die.
Simple as that.

* * *

The visitor was sipping brandy, and McAllister was pretending to listen intently to a story of an old school cricket match. The speaker, Colonel Raymond Laurence Rimell, was a bigwig from Wing Headquarters. So if a cricket match was what the big man wanted to talk about, then that was fine with McAllister. He would have professed a burning interest in a collection of butterflies if that had seemed appropriate…

He looked up startled as Sergeant Brinklow entered abruptly without knocking. His initial irritation gave way to puzzlement, as the sergeant spoke.
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but I think you should come quickly, Sir. ”
There was no mistaking the look of urgency in the man’s eyes. Without a question, he got up quickly, grabbed his cap and baton, and followed the sergeant out of the building. Rimell followed behind.
Even before he turned the corner, he could hear the shouting match. Somebody, somewhere, was furious. Beside himself with anger, in fact. Not for a long time had he heard such rage.
The scene that met his eyes shocked him. A flying officer, Lieutenant Owen, was holding another officer, stretched on his back on the ground, by the throat. Surrounding them was a collection of shocked ground staff, staring in bewilderment. The man on the ground, wisely perhaps, was not moving.
McAllister approached the battleground, rage mixing with disbelief that this should happen on this of all days, with a V.I.P. from Wing H.Q. present.
Unbelievable. What would the man think of his squadron?

* * *

It was astonishing to be alive. Utterly amazing. Dully, Jeremy reflected on this, and wondered why he had been given a new lease of life. That assumed of course that Owen didn’t squeeze his windpipe any harder. He was beginning to choke.
He didn’t feel any anger towards Owen. The man had a point. More than anything else, Jeremy just wanted to go to his room, and be alone. Let Owen rant and rave on, he would finish eventually, and then Jeremy could go and maybe even sleep.
What ever else, he had to admit Owen gave a truly wonderful (if slightly repetitive) chewing out. Delivered at full volume, with arteries pumped full of blood, eyes staring madly, Owen was indeed a sight to behold.
“You stupid BASTARD!…
BASTARD!….BASTARD!…
YOU crazy blithering IMBECILE!…
you damn near killed the BOTH OF us…
YOU PRAT!…
and I hate getting killed…
I HATE IT!…
what a time to go and pick BLOODY DAISIES!… fifteen miles behind enemy lines, and you have to go for A STUPID BLOODY WALK…
and me, I’m the BIGGER FOOL for hanging about for you… BASTARD!..
if it hadn’t been for those Sopwiths turning up we’d have been DEAD MEAT!…
WILL YOU EVER THINK, ARMSTRONG, THINK, YOU STUPID BASTARD!!!

The voice that cut in would, in normal circumstances, have been a relief for Jeremy.
“Lieutenant Owen! Stop that this instant! ”
But it wasn’t…
Bloody McAllister! What does he know?
Slowly and stiffly, both men got up, covered in mud. Jeremy’s chin and neck were also covered in blood.
McAllister, painfully aware of Rimell observing all, tried to master the situation.
Standing stiffly, with his baton just so, he tried to bellow authoritatively.
“What the dickens is going on! Stand to attention! Lieutenant Owen, explain yourself! ”
Owen jutted his chin forward, refused to do anything else but slouch, spat some mud onto the ground, and answered evenly:
“Nothing going on, Sir. Just a private matter between my wingman and myself. ”
Jeremy nodded in absolute agreement.
McAllister, rapidly going puce in the face, shouted:
“I said: Stand to attention! I’ll ask you again. What the dickens is all this about? ”
Before Owen could say anything, McAllister rounded on the bystanders, and sent them scurrying. Then he turned to Owen again. He hoped and prayed for a civil reply.
Owen just glared. Jeremy, hacked off, couldn’t care less.
McAllister tried once more.
“Lieutenant Owen! For the last time… ”
He got no further.
With an irreverent “Aw, go to hell! “, Owen turned around and stomped off in the direction of the mess.
McAllister, all authority gone, could only stare in open mouthed amazement.
Jeremy decided to add his twopence.
“Yeah, good idea. Go to hell! ”
Then, he too, turned around and stomped off after Owen.
McAllister, making inarticulate noises, found speech impossible. A sound like a smothered snigger reached his ears from behind him. He whirled around, but Colonel Raymond Laurence Rimell, veteran of hand to hand combat in the Boer wars of South Africa, had already carefully wiped his face clear of any emotion.

* * *

The next day, the entire squadron was paraded in front of McAllister. Cleaned up, there remained little evidence of the previous day’s events. A careful bystander would have noticed that some of the eyes appeared more deeply sunken in their sockets. Some of the stares seemed vacant and disinterested. If they focussed on anything, the point was one thousand yards away.
Jeremy Armstrong sported a bandage on his chin, had no eyebrows, and seemed very red and puffy in the face.

McAllister was reading the riot act.
His usual lecture on the behavior of officers and gentlemen was now in the process of being delivered at a great deal of decibels, with much furious staring from six inches distance into impassive faces. He wandered up and down, seemingly addressing each pilot individually as well as collectively.
Nobody except the new men, O’Gormen, and a pale youth named Woodman, took the blindest bit of notice.
Up and down he marched, lecturing, haranguing, and even threatening.
It was a fine performance.
Then, after twenty minutes, he mellowed a little. Became more agreeable. Even implored.
He actually thought he was doing well. Maybe it was time to wind up, and deliver a final pep talk.
Yes, that was it.

“…so, in conclusion, Gentlemen. I want you to fight as British airmen. Steadfast, resolute, unflinching in the face of death. Remember the great historical contribution you are fortunate to find yourself in a position to be able to make. In decades to come, men will admire your deeds, and your spirit. Above all, your thirst for victory regardless of cost… will be admired. ”

Had he heard a quiet snigger? Surely not. Irritation set in, and he scanned the faces in front of him suspiciously.

“…I want to see us carry the battle to the enemy. No skulking on this side of the lines. Go for the jugular. In other words, I want to see AGGRESSIVE patrols… ”

There was that damn snigger again. Unbelievable. He had to stamp this out. If he let the rot continue…

Jeremy was thinking about all the death and destruction. Digsby. His funeral. Baines. The desperate plea. The huddled shape slumped forwards in the cockpit, surrounded by a wall of fire. Pinky’s death. Overwhelmed by the enemy, whilst McAllister made damn sure he was nowhere near the action… He guessed the rest of the old hands were all thinking similar thoughts. The voice of the Agitator had been ringing in his ears…

So you, kind Sir, believe the sacrifices made by our gallant men are in the most noble of causes? I see. You believe this is a war of principle, of purity, of evil versus good? I see.
(a pause, whilst his words sink in)
Can you then explain to us, kind Sir, why it is that the manufacturers of the guns and the bombs grow rich and fat upon the proceeds of this most noble cause?
(laughter)
Or would you, kind Sir, have us believe that the gentry who supply the war effort, who sell the guns, the bombs, the boots, the uniforms, the aeroplanes, the ships… would you, kind Sir, have us believe that the gentry supply these goods for free? For the sake of principle? (laughter) In a spirit of self sacrifice? (loud laughter)
Would you have us believe they do NOT make a fat profit out of the misery and blood of our boys in the trenches?
(laughter, fury, screams, shouts, pushing and jostling)

McAllister’s voice echoed through his mind.

“I want AGGRESSIVE patrols… ”

He felt a deep contempt at those words, and a muscle twitched disdainfully in his chin. The corner of his mouth dipped down momentarily, a fragment of his inner feelings bubbling to the surface.
Quick as light, McAllister was on top of him. His nose was six inches from Jeremy’s.
“Anything on your mind, Armstrong? ”
The answer came slow and even, and would have warned a more cautious man off.
“No. Sir. ”
McAllister was past caring, driven frantic by the sense of challenge to his authority.
“Well, speak man, speak! If you’ve anything to say, now’s your chance! Let’s all hear it!! ”
Slowly, Jeremy’s eyes refocused from a thousand yards away to the face in front of him.
McAllister, sensing a bubbling cauldron, would have done well to back off strategically. Still he came on, oblivious to the risks of getting scalded.
“Well…!! ”
The seconds ticked away. The man had said nothing, and, satisfied, McAllister turned away.
The voice that spoke then was quiet, and infinitely deadly.

“You did say offensive patrols, didn’t you, Sir? ”
McAllister whirled round.
A pin dropping would have shattered everybody’s nerves. Jeremy thought of Pinky, and his jaw set squarely and stubbornly.
“Well… ”
A pause.
“…you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Sir? ”

There had been no mistaking the deadly sarcasm.

* * *

The mess was oddly quiet. People smoked, read, and played billiards. Nobody talked. But, oddly, there was an air of grim satisfaction in the air. Quiet, unspoken satisfaction. Jeremy reflected that the airmen in that room were probably closer together now than ever before.
He thought of the reaction.
McAllister had gone white with rage. He had ranted and raved. Drops of spittle had rained on Jeremy’s face.
Who couldn’t have cared less.
Then McAllister had made another mistake. And shouted that if anybody else agreed with Armstrong, they should say so.
Instantly, Greenhall had stepped forward.
“I agree with Armstrong, Sir! ”
Perky. “I agree with Armstrong, Sir! ”
Porky. “I agree with Armstrong, Sir! ”
Owen. “I agree with Armstrong, Sir! ”
Patterson, a veteran after one week. “I agree with Armstrong, Sir! ”
Even O’Gormen, after hesitation, had stepped forward, saying nothing. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but he wasn’t going to be left out…
Only Woodman, thoroughly bewildered, mouth agape, had stared unbelievingly as his illusions of squadron life disappeared in a matter of seconds.
McAllister, almost hysterical, had waved his fist under Jeremy’s nose, and with a “This is your doing, Armstrong! I’ll be watching you! “, he had strutted off, furious.
Entering his office, he had slammed the door.
After a pause, Greenhall had dismissed the men.

Jeremy sank back in his chair, watching the cigarette smoke curl ominously up to the ceiling.

“I’ll be watching you… “

He shrugged his shoulders. In a mere three weeks at the front, he had aged twenty years. He was unrecognizable from the lad who had traveled hopefully.
He was also disillusioned, cynical, and hardened.

What the hell…
Stuff McAllister.

F.M.
(c)

Ch.14

Evening time at last. It had been a good supper.
Now he enjoyed a cigarette, watching the smoke curl lazily up to the ceiling. Bright blue smoke escaped mischievously from the tip as it lay, waiting dutifully, in an ashtray.
He picked up the patient servant, inhaled gloriously, and then fired the smoke out. It escaped across the room, and was of a slightly duller blue.
Interesting. He watched the invisible eddies swirl around within the cloud, and imagined he was a hunter.
He waited, until just the right moment, breathed in deeply, and then blasted a lung full of air right into the middle of the blue cloud. Satisfyingly, it panicked, and broke away in all directions.
He grinned, picked up his cigarette, and inhaled deeply.
Then he started the game again.

A knock came on the door, and a shyly grinning orderly entered on his command.
“Some more mail, Herr Baron! It seems the girls have read of your recent exploits! ”
A large shoe box, tied roughly with a tatty piece of string, landed on his table. Beside it, the orderly deposited two letters. Then he discreetly withdrew.

The Hunter took his time, and finished his cigarette.
Then he reached for the two letters, and selected the one with the coat of arms on the back.
From his mother… scolding him for not writing more regularly. He smiled. It made no difference what age he became. To him, she was still her little boy. She was always warm, caring, motherly. He still addressed her as: “Dear Mamma “, and adored her. He read and re-read her letter, and folded it away carefully.
Then he opened the second letter. It was from his younger brother, painfully anxious to join his big brother as a pilot before the war was over.
The Hunter smiled. There would be plenty of war left over for Gerhard…

He gazed up at the ceiling, and thought warmly of his kid brother. They were close. He remembered the enthusiastic light in Gerhard’s eyes when he had heard of his older brother’s decoration. Almost adoration. Such is the idealism of youth.
My little kid brother…
He remembered them playing as youngsters. Gerhard would cry when pushed over or sat on, but then he would be furious with himself. He would manfully bite his lower lip, and struggle against the tears.
Men never cried…
He blew hard, and scattered another unsuspecting blue cloud.

It was his father, of course. His father, the arch type Prussian nobleman, stern, austere, yet madly in love with his sons. Who taught them history, the way of the world, and showed them the future way of the Fatherland. Above all, he had given his sons self confidence.
The Hunter knew the purpose of his life, and never doubted.
To win was the purpose.
He was good at winning.

His eye fell on the large shoe box, and a slight frown furrowed his brow. Thank goodness the faithful Kramer always managed to separate the letters that mattered from the love letters.
This cult of the personality… his face appeared on postcards, match boxes, and playing cards. The blessed propaganda machine doing its worst. Why such an emphasis on individual fame? Did the British have the same system?

He picked up a pen and paper, and started to write…

Eleventh Combat squadron
Jan 27,1917

Dear Mamma,

I am certain you wonder at my silence. So much has happened in the meantime that I do not know where to start…

He grinned to himself. A lot had happened all right.
He looked at a piece of fabric mounted on the wall. It bore the serial number 5964. Major Lanoe Hawker’s aircraft. Ex-RFC. He thought of the machine gun which decorated the entrance to his door. A British Lewis. A trophy to be proud of. Won after a hard fought duel.
His combat report had been one of his usual brief claims.
But the memory was vivid. A letter had described his true feelings.

“…It did not take long before a British scout dived for me, trying to catch me from behind. After a burst of five shots, the cunning fellow had to stop, for I was already in a sharp left curve. The Englishman attempted to get behind me, while I attempted to get behind him. So it went, both of us flying like madmen in a circle, with engines running full out at three thousand metre altitude. First left, then right, each intent on getting above and behind the other. I was soon acutely aware that I was not dealing with a beginner, for he did not dream of breaking off the fight… ”

Yes, it had been quite a fight. 5964… The fellow had fought well. A worthy foe. A pleasing trophy…

“We went into circles again – fast and furious and as small as we could drive them. But always I kept above him and at times I could look down almost vertically into his cockpit and watch each movement of his head. If it had not been for his helmet and goggles, I could have seen what sort of face he had. ”

As it turned out later, the man’s face had been quite aristocratic. Even in death, it had maintained a certain composure, spoiled only by the blood that had trickled from his mouth and nostrils. The bullet through the back of the head had seen to that. Just like a shot rabbit…

“We were getting so close to the ground that he would soon have to decide whether he would land behind our lines or would break the circle and try to get back to his own side. ”

It had been an epic chase. The stuff that inspired pleasant memories in one’s old age. He would forever be able to sit around a fire and tell that story…

“The battle is now close to the ground. He is not a hundred yards above the earth. Our speed is terrific. He starts back for his front. He knows I am right behind him and close on his tail. He knows my gun barrel is trained on him. He starts to zigzag, making sudden darts right and left -left and right- confusing my aim and making it difficult for me to train my gun on him. But the moment is coming. I am fifty yards behind him. My machine gun is firing incessantly. We are hardly fifty yards above the ground – just skimming it. ”

The lines had been coming up. That sickening feeling the quarry was about to escape. That moment when the wounded rabbit escapes down the burrow. The deer reaches the safety of the bushes. So nearly, and yet…

“Now I am within thirty yards of him. He must fall. The gun pours out its stream of lead. Then it jams. Then it reopens fire. That jam almost saved his life. One bullet goes home. He is struck through the back of his head. His plane jumps and crashes down. It strikes the ground just as I swoop over… ”

He shut his eyes and relived that moment of triumph. That marvelous, glorious, supreme moment when one roars up into the sky, looking down on one’s enemy smashed to pieces on the ground.
Very, very gratifying.

“His machine gun rammed itself into the earth, and now it decorates the entrance over my door. He was a brave man, a sportsman and a fighter. ”

It had been close though. So close. The Englishman had hit the ground barely fifty yards from the first trenches. Seconds away. Just seconds. Maybe that was why this victory also pleased him so much. The sport had been excellent.

He chuckled quietly, and picked up his pen again.

Eleventh Combat squadron
January 27th, 1917

Dear Mamma,

I am certain you wonder at my silence. So much has happened in the meantime that I do not know where to start. I have been appointed commander of the Eleventh Combat Squadron stationed at Douai. I left the Boelcke squadron only very reluctantly. But no matter how hard I resisted I had to go. The Eleventh Squadron has been in existence as long as my former one, but so far it has no enemy to its credit, and the way they do things here is not very edifying….

He realized he was frowning. It was true. Morale had been low. The whole squadron had not had a single victory to its credit! Incredible! However, he had changed that.
He grinned again to himself. Oh yes…
Picking his pen up again, he continued his letter.

…I have twelve officers under my command. Luck has been with me. On the first time up with my new command, I brought down my seventeenth, and on the following day, number eighteen…

The faces of his men when he landed back! It was of paramount importance to lead by example. His own mentor, Boelcke, had lived by that rule. To show his new men so soon the killing way, that had suited him well. Their faces had mirrored elation and, also, some amazement.
Was shooting down the British really that easy?
That night in the mess he had lectured them, and poured out his ideas. Boelcke’s ideas. They had listened, in rapt attention.
Two damn good days. On the first day, the enemy pilot had obliged by falling out of his cockpit at a height of 500 meters, in full view of seven of Jasta Eleven’s other pilots. The aircraft had burned nicely, shooting up flames and black smoke. The only sour note had been the fact that it had crashed on the enemy’s side. That had been a pity. No trophies for the squadron walls. However, the next day had fixed that. Shooting down an F.E.2b, and forcing it to land near Vimy, he had been able to furnish some much needed tangible evidence of the vulnerability of the British. Although the crew had set fire to their machine, the two machine guns had been salvaged. The squadron had been able to hang up its first honors.
Two damn good days. Morale up. Two victories up.
A landing survived. Quite a landing.

…I was following my eighteenth victory down to make sure, when all of a sudden one of my wings broke at an altitude of 900 feet, and it was nothing short of a miracle that I reached the ground without a mishap.

Funny old business, those wing failures. The mechanics blamed it on the quality of the glue. It didn’t seem to penetrate the wood enough. He had seen samples where two pieces of wood had been glued together, and then later broken apart. Sometimes the glue joint held, and the wood splintered elsewhere. But, sadly, far too often the two pieces parted company exactly along the joint, as if the glue had simply failed. Odd.
He yawned. He would write a stinker of a letter to the manufacturers, Albatros Flugzeugwerke, and see what they could come up with. It didn’t do to have aeroplanes coming apart. It interfered with the hunt.

…On the same day my old Boelcke squadron lost three planes, among them dear little Immelmann – a thousand pities. It is quite possible that they met with a similar accident.

It was strange that his old squadron had suffered so grievously on the day that he had provided Jasta Eleven with their first trophies. If he had been still at his old squadron, would he have been able to prevent their losses?
He leaned back, and gazed up at the ceiling.
The fate of a squadron depended on leadership and team work. He had to lead by example. Maybe he could mould Jasta Eleven into a rival to the Boelcke squadron.
Yes, that would be something! To beat his old squadron.
He already had the Blue Max, Germany’s highest accolade for the airman. Now to make this squadron famous!

He yawned hugely. An answering yawn from somewhere near the floor made him chuckle. A huge head flopped onto his knee, and a pair of big eyes regarded him devotedly.
“Maurice, you old beggar! You sound as if you have had a hard day! ” He stroked the Great Dane’s head, and blessed the day he had acquired his pet.
Yes, a spot of leave would have been nice first. A rest, and a chance to show off his award.

…Unhappily, there is no chance of leave, and I would have liked to show you my Pour le Merite.

Too bad. The family celebrations would have to wait a while.
His eye fell on the shoe box again. Somewhere a door banged, and the occupant of the next room clattered about noisily. Maurice barked angrily. A smile spread across the face of the Hunter, and he kicked the wall, and banged it with his fist:
“Yo! Kurt! Come in here! ”
The clattering stopped, footsteps echoed in the corridor, and the door was opened a crack. A mischievous face appeared. “Herr Commandant! ”
The Hunter regarded him leisurely, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“You pervert! How is your love life these days!? ”
The mischievous face adopted a mock sad expression, and managed to do a passable imitation of a hangdog look.
“Not too well I’m afraid, Herr Commandant… the women do not seem to fall for us poor pilots with no victories. If only I could get my face on a box of matches! ”
The Hunter suppressed his chuckle. He liked Kurt Wolff. That man would go far. But for now…
He adopted a strict expression. “See that box!? Open it! ”
The airman obliged, raising his eyebrows in astonishment, as he studied the massed contents. A smell of perfume wafted up his nostrils, and he sniffed approvingly.

Mein lieber Gott! There had to be hundreds and hundreds of letters in there…

He turned to face his new Commandant, wondering how many of these letters the man had received already in his career. Lucky devil…
The eyes that studied him were cool and shrewd. Above all, cool.
The eyes of the Hunter.

The Baron snapped his order:
“Leutnant Wolff, you will see to it that these letters are distributed to the squadron! I hold you personally responsible for ensuring that they are all answered without fail! And… ”
He couldn’t stop a grin spreading across his face.
“…and DEALT with where necessary! If I receive ONE complaint from some unfortunate fraulein who has been overlooked… ” He wagged his finger expressively.
“I will have your guts for garters! ”
Kurt Wolff, a pilot with zero victories, destined to go on and secure fame in his own right, cracked his heels together, and saluted snappily.
“Jawohl, Herr Commandant! ”
Then he disappeared out the door in a blue streak. A few seconds later, a loud war whoop, receding in the distance, signaled his delight at this particular mission.
The Hunter looked up briefly, grinned, and went back to writing his letter to dearest Mamma.

F.M.
(c)

Ch.13

By the time Jeremy returned to flying duty, Digsby had been killed in a dogfight, flying wingman to Greenhall on only his second patrol. He had been at the squadron so briefly, that nobody had got to know him. He was replaced within twenty four hours by a fresh faced young man by the name of Robertson, whose square jaw and firm handshake gave everybody a good impression. In this way, the official policy of ‘no empty chairs’, meant to ensure morale was not affected more than could be helped, made it easier to forget the men who passed through. The messes were kept full; this requirement took priority over depth of training of new recruits.
Some of the old hands, like Greenhall and Owen, recognized the strategy for what it was.
“Old Mother Trenchard should come down and spend a week in a two seater taking pictures “, was Owen’s disrespectful observation about the RFC’s chief of staff.
Greenhall, quiet by nature, and rendered more and more taciturn as the war went on, agreed, but said nothing. His composed, laconic exterior hid a quiet despair that nobody noticed or even suspected.

Only Jeremy, who had been in a good position to observe the goings on of squadron life, queried the composed facade of the ‘old hands’. He wondered how such tragedy and slaughter could really just roll off a duck’s back. He watched and listened, and became wiser.
His experiences, his participation in combat, his narrow escape, had brought with it a spin-off he slowly recognized. He was now closer to the others, and after a day or two of being unnaturally quiet, he had slowly opened up again. The medical officer had tactfully diagnosed ‘severe concussion’, and this explanation suited everyone well.
It was the awkward newcomers who struggled to integrate now, and, in barely a week, Jeremy had become almost a veteran.
The irony of this was not lost on him.

Jeremy learned a lot from various conversations, and he was particularly surprised at the widespread bitterness against McAllister. It was generally felt that McAllister had lost his nerve, and hid the fact behind a careful, albeit transparently hypocritical facade. He flew as little as possible, and avoided combat where ever possible. At the same time, he thought nothing of bawling out pilots who flew in the thick of things. It was obvious to Jeremy that squadron morale was low, and had been for a long time. Pinky’s death had been another severe blow. Nobody talked about it, but it was obvious to Jeremy. It was actually hard to find out how many people had been killed in the previous months. Jeremy’s inquiries were met by blank faces. Nobody knew, or cared to tell him. It wasn’t until he visited the local churchyard to attend Digsby’s funeral, that he realized quite how many RFC pilots were buried there.

It had been drizzling steadily, with a low overcast.
An infectious cold had been doing the rounds, and as the coffin was carried through the gates of the overgrown church yard, Patterson, laboring as one of the pall bearers, exploded into a fit of sneezing, and stumbled badly. The coffin wobbled dangerously, and behind him, an enraged Porky hissed: “Steady up you fool! ”
Jeremy, standing amongst a motley arrangement of airmen, fitters and other personnel, observed the near disaster with bitter irony. In his mind, he applied a caption to the scene, imagining an artist painting the mishap in oil.

‘The newly dead about to fall…’

He reflected on a postscript to that.
‘owing to the nearly dead catching a cold…’
The bitterness in his heart surprised him. Was this the real Jeremy Armstrong? He looked around at the impassive faces around him. Maybe the caption for them could be:

‘The nearly dead about to fall…’

A verse from the Bible came to him. It belonged to his searching. His searching for the God he had never really found.

But truly as the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, there is but a step between me and death.

The coffin approached the hungry grave. He could see the freshly dug sides, the wet clay, with tufts of grass and weeds protruding irreverently into the void. Was that where Digsby would lie, for eternity?
Jeremy counted the graves. This whole section of the cemetery had been reserved for airmen. Presumably all from his squadron. Eighteen…

Eighteen? I didn’t know there was that many. Plus the ones killed over the other side of the lines, and buried there. Plus the ones burnt or blown to smithereens. Plus the wounded, the insane, and the promoted…

The promoted. He thought of McAllister, turned his head, and looked at the man. He alone seemed to enjoy the occasion. No, that was unfair. It was more that he alone carried himself with an air of… what? Importance? Pride? Or was it all a big show? A bizarre charade?
Where the hell do you think you are? On parade?

Shouted orders, and the coffin was rested on bars on top of the grave. McAllister spoke. A short piece of oratory, full of praise for Digsby’s ‘heroic contribution’ and his ‘steadfast pursuit of his duty’.
Jeremy scanned the faces of the others he could see. Empty, vacant faces. He sensed they all hated being there, and couldn’t wait to get away.

‘Heroic contribution’? The poor sod only got to fly one and a half patrols. ‘Steadfast pursuit of his duty’?
He was probably shit scared all the way.
Anyway, McAllister, what are you drivelling on about?
‘steadfast pursuit’??

An old priest came forward, and surprisingly, spoke his words in heavily accented English. He even quoted the Bible in English. His voice, heavy with emotion and sincerity, impressed Jeremy.

“I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works… “

“Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come into him, and will sup with him, and he with me. ”

Jeremy puzzled how a man, who did this sort of thing all the time, could still be moved. It contrasted sharply with McAllister’s brisk, formal, ‘King and Country’ speech.
The blessing over, the coffin was lowered into the grave with ropes. The one at the head end slipped, and the coffin contacted the ground unequally and awkwardly.
Jeremy observed it all coldly and cynically, wondering what Digsby thought of it all.
A volley of shots rang out, and soon everybody, relieved, started trooping away from the grave.
After a few minutes, only Jeremy was left. The rain started pouring down more heavily, and he realized he was getting soaked through. But somehow, he could not -yet- tear himself away. He was saying ‘goodbye’ to Digsby, a young man, in the flower of his youth, whom he had hardly known. Slowly, his eyes moved from the soaking coffin, with heavy drops spattering onto it, to the rivulets of water cascading down the sides. He studied the walls of the grave, the texture of the mud.
His eyes traveled along to the undug grass, and he found himself calculating how much room was left.
How many more RFC graves can they cram in here? Another dozen?
Will I lie here one day?
With everybody looking grim and formal? And wishing to hell they could get the business over with, and get away?
Will McAllister, that two faced swine, go through the motions for me as well?

Suddenly, he felt lonely. More lonely and sad than he had ever felt before in his life. He longed for Emmy’s company. Or to be home. This was no place to be…
Was this life?
This sad little rain soaked coffin, quickly deserted by everybody? Poor Digsby.
Poor sod.
Was he in heaven now? Hard to believe. Very hard.
It was easier to believe that he lay in that box, cold and damp, staring upwards with unseeing eyes, waiting for the worms and the maggots.
Nineteen years old…
What purpose had his death served?
It was all very well for the folk at home to cheer and shout, and wave flags, and make patriotic speeches.
They were alive, going about their business, and Digsby was dead. The cheering tradesmen, the professional classes, the rich and the wealthy, they were at this moment growing richer, and praising the heroism of the pilots in France. The pilot here lay dead.
In the same way they cheered the soldiers. How many soldiers lay dead?

He shook himself. This was the wrong way to view the war. It was the fight of Good against Evil.
The Albatros pilot, the young, blond haired kid who had been so desperate to make his kill, was he Evil?
Jeremy shut his eyes, and heard again the terrifying rattle of the guns, and saw the black shadow passing over him. He shuddered.

A voice spoke quietly by his side, and he jumped, rudely awoken from his reverie.
“Are you all right, my friend? ”
It was the little French priest, carrying an umbrella. Jeremy shrugged, saying nothing, but accepted the offer of shelter. The priest had to lift the umbrella higher to accommodate Jeremy’s frame.
“He was your friend, yes? ”
Jeremy pondered the question.
“No “, he said evenly, “I hardly knew him. He was only with us a few days. ”
The priest sighed deeply.
On an impulse, Jeremy asked:
“Do you really believe in God? “.

He was thinking of some of the men of the cloth he had met at home, who had always seemed anxious to discuss any subject under the sun. Except religion. And God.
The priest answered quietly:
“Yes, my son, I believe… ”
“And God is good? ”
“Yes, my son, God is good. ”
Jeremy snarled, pointing at the coffin:
“Then how do you explain that, Father! ”
He was almost taken aback at the ferocity of his own speech, but not sorry he had asked the question.
The priest raised his eyes to the tall aviator beside him, and wondered what experiences this pilot had undergone. He thought for a moment, and then said, softly:
“Mon ami, can I offer you a little cognac? ”

* * *

They were sitting in the priest’s study, gazing out the window at the lashing rain. A good brandy was pleasantly warming Jeremy, and he reflected on what the priest had told him. He realized he had never quite met anybody like this man. The kind eyes were sincere, and Jeremy envied the man his faith. It was the real thing all right. This man felt he had a personal relationship with Christ, and he was utterly at peace with his convictions. What was more, he welcomed Jeremy’s suspicious inquiries, seemed completely unoffended by his skepticism, and obviously was willing to go on discussing Jeremy’s doubts forever. He contrasted so much with some of the folk at home…
Who retreated behind slogans, quotes, platitudes; who seemed to Jeremy to fear his questioning. To fear it, because it forced them to face their own doubts?

The priest threw out all sorts of ideas, and asked questions to which he did not always supply the answers. Did Jeremy believe in the concept of ‘free choice’?
Yes.
Without free choice, was the value of the chosen belief as great?
Errr… no.
For there to be free choice, might there perhaps have to be doubt?
Yes, perhaps…
The priest smiled. Doubt? A necessary thing? A good thing?
Jeremy brooded about it.
The priest produced a Bible, and proceeded to show Jeremy various passages.

Seek, and you shall find.

…if thou seek him with all thy heart.

Those that seek me early shall find me.

Twenty verses later, Jeremy laughed. The Bible seemed full of exhortations to ‘seek’. He said so, and the old priest chuckled delightedly.
“Mais oui! You see! You must seek, all the time, seek! ”
Jeremy thought, and shook his head slowly.
“I have been seeking for years. I have not found. I cannot believe. It is too… far fetched a thing. ”
He sighed, and the priest regarded him with sympathy.
“Mon brave! It is good. You seek for years, that means you care. You question deeply, that is good. It is merveilleux that you question… ”
He clapped his hands excitedly. Jeremy smiled, but looked puzzled.
“I thought the idea was to have faith, not to doubt “, he commented ruefully. But the priest laughed again, waving his finger in mock anger.
“Seek, and you shall find! Knock, and it shall be opened unto you! If you don’t seek, you will never find. If you have doubts, it means you are seeking. Eh bien! That is good! The young people of today… so many do not seek! If only they would seek… ”
Jeremy grinned, and took his leave from his kind host.
They stood in the door, and the priest made him a present of the Bible they had been studying. Jeremy smiled his thanks, and wondered if he would ever read it.
He turned to go, and cast a farewell look at Digsby’s grave.
A thought crossed his mind, and he remarked wryly to the priest: “If this war carries on like this, I will probably develop my hate rather than my faith… ”
The priest shrugged. “That is war, my friend. But you know… great hate and great love… ”
Jeremy wondered what was coming.
“…they are, how you say, sometimes… ”
The priest waved his hands.
“…petals on the same flower… ”

* * *

10,000 feet…
Cold. Blue sky above. Lots of cloud about. Cumulus. Towers of it.
The burst of anti-aircraft fire was far enough away that he hardly took any notice. He had already grown blase about archie. If it got you, there was little you could do about it. If you saw the flashes, it meant they had missed. It was strange how quickly indifference and fatalism crept in. He ignored this particular string of flashes, until his brain assimilated the fact that the explosion had flashed a white burning core. German archie exploded in a ragged, black, vicious little crack. Oddly enough, it left a pungent smell as well.
The different type of ammunition used by each side had its occasional benefits for sleepy pilots.
His own side was trying to warn them…

He scanned the sky, puzzled how the men on the ground had spotted what he, Owen and Baines had missed.
There was a lot of cloud around. Typical ambush country. He glanced at Owen, and saw his head too craning around, searching everywhere. Where was the Hun?
They approached a large cumulus tower. The sun beat resplendent white on the outside, yet within, as Jeremy bitterly reflected, lay a strange, white, clammy world. Apart from the disorientation he had experienced, Owen had warned him of other dangers. Violent up and down drafts, turbulence, rain, even snow. It seemed odd that such a harmless looking, pretty picture could hide such horrors for the aviator.
Owen suddenly went into a steep climb, and Jeremy followed. Checking their position, he realized they had penetrated deeply behind enemy lines. They passed through 11000, 12000 feet.
Owen kept looking southwards. It was only as they passed through 14000 feet that Jeremy spotted movement in the sun. Somebody had been hiding! Jeremy realized Owen had been trying to lead them around and up to the enemy. His admiration for his section leader increased even further. How many aircraft were up there? He noticed it was getting harder to breath, and his engine was losing all its oomph. Were they going to fight at this altitude?

Suddenly, Owen fired his guns. Baines followed suit, and Jeremy knew they were warming their barrels. He did likewise, and strained his eyes, marveling how Owen could penetrate the blinding glare.
Then he spotted them: four biplanes, two thousand feet higher. Aware that they had been spotted, they obviously no longer worried about hiding against the sun.
They also seemed to be climbing. Jeremy wondered why.
As the altimeter wound its way past eighteen thousand feet, Jeremy marveled how much higher they were going.
He now recognized their opponents as Fokkers. What benefit could they possibly have in wanting to fight at such an altitude? He peered over the side of the cockpit, and butterflies stirred in his stomach. It was an awful long way down.
It was now becoming more difficult to hold formation.
His engine seemed to splutter as he jockeyed the throttle to stay close to Owen. His pulse was racing with excitement at the impending action, but for some reason he was feeling very tired.
Twenty thousand feet. He’d never been that high before.
But the enemy seemed only a thousand foot higher now.
They were circling slowly, and at times he could see them in good detail. Fokker D.V’s again…
Then, abruptly, they charged. With the benefit of height, they could dive, pick up speed, and dictate the opening round. Down they came, and Owen turned the formation to face the onslaught. Jeremy braced himself, and puzzled over his emotions. He actually felt oddly cheerful.
Almost euphoric in fact…
Tiny pinpricks of light started to dance around the noses of the diving aircraft, and mentally Jeremy picked his likely opponent. Seconds later, the Fokkers had swept past, and Jeremy was trying to turn as fast as he could.
To his surprise, his SE5 responded sluggishly, and then wallowed sickeningly. His altimeter unwound absurdly quickly, and by the time he had completed the turn, he had lost five hundred feet. Before he had time to really take stock, a Fokker dived at him, guns blazing, and he swung into another turn.
It was odd, fighting… in such a lofty place.
The ground seemed uncannily far away, and the idea of fighting so high up seemed ludicrous. Turning round and round with his adversary, Jeremy again noticed the altimeter unwinding at an extraordinary rate, but he had little time to ponder the reasons. Annoyingly, he realized there was no chance of him winning height relative to his opponent, and he was in fact losing the initiative.
Turning, turning, turning. The German was now at least a hundred feet higher in the turn. Jeremy decided to wait and see. A quick glance at the altimeter startled him: the twelve thousand feet mark had just slipped by. He looked back up, and gasped in surprise. The German had rolled inverted with a strangely abrupt whiplash manoeuvre, and was firing accurately at Jeremy. In fact, bullets were crashing through the woodwork with disconcerting accuracy. Jeremy’s brain stalled for a second, until, driven by desperation, he dived under the German, who promptly tried to latch onto Jeremy’s tail. Jeremy however hit the vertical, remembering to smash on full throttle. It took the German by surprise, and he tried to out climb Jeremy.
Jeremy reached the top of his vertical climb, kicked on full rudder, and then snapped the throttle shut. His nose whipped over quickly to point downwards, and he had time to realize he had a chance to attach himself to the German’s tail. His opponent panicked, and tried to dive away. Seconds later, Jeremy opened fire…

* * *

Owen had surprised himself with a lucky shot. A short burst at the leading Fokker had produced dramatic results. Hit in the lower spine, the pilot was rapidly losing consciousness. He dropped into a spin, and Owen turned his attention to the others. Baines was engaged in a turning battle, and that left two.
Closing on one of the remaining machines, Owen knew within seconds that he was dealing with a novice. The panicky reaction, and the sheepishly shallow turn, gave him away. For an old hand like Owen, it was the work of seconds to work himself around onto the beginner’s tail. He checked quickly for other aircraft -nothing about-, and then rapidly closed on his victim. He could see the terror stricken young face looking around at him, and noted for some reason that the youth was wearing a brown leather flying helmet and brown goggles.
Opening fire from point blank range, Owen felt no emotion as he watched his bullets inflict carnage. The youth’s goggles went spinning through the air, and amazingly passed between Owen’s upper and lower port wings. Owen continued firing, and knew the end had come when he saw the pilot’s head whip forwards, jerking spasmodically. The Fokker went into a screamingly steep dive, and Owen could no longer follow. He checked behind him, noted another SE5 now above him in a turning fight, and decided to pull out of his headlong dive. He took a last look at his foe, and was not surprised to see the upper wing detach and flutter away.
It was time to take stock. He was at seven thousand feet. Nobody near him. An SE5 was chasing another Fokker down over to his left. Looked good. Probably Baines. Where was Armstrong? He caught his breath as he saw three aircraft in a chain. A German, followed by an SE5, followed by another German.
Typical daisy chain!
It had to be Armstrong.
Fool! You’re about to get yourself killed!
Owen headed frantically for the scene, knowing he would never get there in time.

* * *

With the tracer guiding his shots, it was actually almost easy. The German weaved and twisted, dived and turned, but Jeremy followed him easily. The seconds stretched into hours. He seemed to have fired thousands of bullets.
It was quite incredible that any airframe could be capable of withstanding such a scything, withering, red hot rain of destruction.
This is a dream. Am I really here? Is this really happening? Must be a dream. I’m not really in France after all, at eight thousand feet, cold, shivering, calmly trying to kill a man.
No, it had to be a dream. He, Jeremy Armstrong, kill a man? No. Preposterous.

But… yes, that was him. The guy, sitting there, crouched, hosing lead across the sky. Did he care?
Or was he enjoying himself?
Strange, a cracking blue sky, a beautiful world, and death. Wanton death. Planned, deliberate death.

His thumb slid away from the button…
Confused thoughts. Hesitation.
He shook himself. Gritted his teeth. And fired.
Again. And again.

Black smoke erupted from the engine bay, and a spark ignited fuel gushing from the ruptured tanks. There was a bright flash, and flames enveloped the unfortunate pilot. He screamed, and tried to get away from the dancing flower that was cruel and vicious.
The searing pain drove him crazy, and he undid his harness, and stood up in the cockpit. His arms were flailing wildly, and his head rolled uncontrollably from side to side. His machine lurched suddenly, and he fell out into the cold air, long petals of flame clinging stubbornly to his clothes, hands, and face.

Behind and above him, Jeremy watched in stunned horror.

* * *

Owen wished he could go faster. He found himself mouthing unspoken messages across the sky. “Behind you, man, for God’s sake, behind you! ” The leading Fokker was going down at an ever steeper angle. The pursuing SE5a was still raking him with fire, when the second Fokker opened up. Owen could see the tracer bridge the short gap between the two aircraft. Instantly the SE5 pitched abruptly nose up. It climbed two hundred feet, before rolling inverted, and spinning off. The Fokker followed, still spitting flame. But now Owen was nearly within range, and opened up, hoping to distract the attacking Hun. It worked, and the German pilot dived away to the east.
Owen let him go, and hurtled after the SE5.
To his horror it continued to spin, down, down, down…
Passing through three thousand feet, the pilot appeared to make a half hearted recovery, and the left hand spin stopped for a second, before the nose yawed sickeningly to the right. Once again it spun, but not before Owen noted with a groan the damage to the tail. Most of the rudder and nearly all the elevators appeared to be shot away. A hideously gaping hole appeared in the fin. The aircraft was virtually uncontrollable. Even as Owen watched, helpless, a large piece of fabric and spruce whipped away, followed by smaller pieces.
One thousand feet. If the pilot didn’t control the spin quickly, it would be too late. Owen could sense him wrestling with the controls, desperation and fear making his eyes bulge in frenzied concentration.

For a brief moment the SE5 righted itself at 300 feet, and appeared to aim for a field. The approach was good, but as it passed through 50 feet, the nose dropped away, and the violence of the crash made Owen wince.
Was it survivable? Owen hoped and prayed. Then he saw a tiny wisp of smoke curl up, and groaned aloud.
A flash of movement close by caught his eye, and he wheeled around, heart pounding.
Another SE5 tore past, heading straight for the field.
It slowed down, and whipped into a vicious side slip.
Down it went, almost sideways, scrubbing off height and speed. It continued to almost ground level, and then kicked straight, hopped over the hedge, and landed heavily beside its smoking stable mate. Almost before it had stopped rolling, a figure jumped out, and ran madly.

Owen, staggered, raised his goggles, and gasped:
“Armstrong! You crazy fool! ”

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 21, 2008, 11:22 am

Sainte-Breuve-sur-Pont
24th February 1917

Dear Pater and Mater,

Not a very good few days. Feeling a bit better now, but I must admit I’ve spent four days grounded, trying to get my brain sorted out.
War! It certainly gets some people going.
Life’s different for me now, and the enormity of what has happened will take a long time to really sink in.

Feb 20th: Escort duty. One RE8 photographic two seater. And ten of us to protect him. We got into a dogfight. At the time, I thought I would never ever forget any of it, it was so terribly, horribly fascinating. But even now, I feel a lot of it slipping away. I just seem to have certain particular images and memories burned into my mind. I’ll give you a rundown:
1) The moment I knew we were going to fight, for the first time.
Two Albatri attacked the RE8. Owen took us down to attack.
Jeremy thinks: “Oh, hell… ”
I just knew Life would never be the same once I’d fought.
2) Losing Owen in the heat of it. With all the twisting and turning, and dodging Huns trying to fly through us, I ended up on my own. Jeremy thinks: “Oh, hell… ”
I knew I was scared, but I was so busy I didn’t have any time to dwell on it.
3) Feeling, hearing, seeing bullets rip through my aeroplane. They do an amazing amount of damage. A dull bursting sound as they smack through the fabric, and splintering noises as they demolish the woodwork.
Utterly dreamlike.
Thoughts: “Oi! Stop that! That’s bloody dangerous! ”
4) Ending up with this Albatros D.III chasing me for ages, blasting me to pieces. Couldn’t shake him off.
Terrifying. I was twisting and turning to avoid the bullets, but getting lower and lower. There comes a point you can’t turn anymore. When you go straight, he has you!
I had to do SOMETHING, so I just pulled up vertically. When I got to the top, I didn’t know what to do. Brain froze. The machine started to slide backwards! I pushed the stick forward, expecting the nose to pitch down, and to my amazement, I did some kind of backwards flip flop.
Baines (the genius) reckons the elevators worked in reverse because I was going backwards. Amazing.
Anyway, I found myself on the Hun’s tail. He had followed me up. Still shooting, by the way.
I nailed him there and then, and I could see I’d hit him. He smashed into the ground and disintegrated. One wheel just kind of broke free and went bouncing along on its own. Mixed thoughts: ” Serves you right, you bastard! “, and “Oh dear, sorry! ”
5) Flew back streaming smoke, engine rough as hell, and messed up my navigation. Got lost, really. Ended up several miles south of the airfield. Suddenly got another Hun on my tail! Albatros, blue and green.
He was trying to finish me off. My engine blew up completely, and I crashed into a field. Ended up in a ditch. Struggled out, got away, thought I’d lived to tell the tale. Blow me down if the Hun doesn’t start machine gunning me on the ground! These rows and rows of little fountains of dirt marching towards you, where his bullets are drilling into the ground…
6) I ended up in some state, not quite knowing what was happening. I was in a ditch, and he circled round and flew along the ditch to get me. At one stage he actually waved at me! Then…

Sorry, but I’m getting tired now. For some reason, writing this is tiring me out. Reliving it, I suppose.
It was horrible. Baines came out of the blue and nailed him for me. My hero Baines. He saved my life, and I’ll never forget that. He is a super fellow, says very little, but a real chum.
Anyway, that’s war. I feel empty really.
Thanks for the letters.
Love to everybody,
Yours,
Jeremy

* * *

Mrs Virginia Armstrong sat on the sofa and wept buckets. She was desperate to know more of his physical state, and suspected he was hiding the full truth. Why had her son been grounded? What did he mean with ‘trying to get my brain sorted out’. She felt desperately worried and concerned for him, and was horrified he’d killed a German. Her little boy killing! It was preposterous, and he should never have gone to war. She had known all along. She was inconsolable.

Mr Kenneth Armstrong was thrilled to bits. His son had finally nailed the Boche! He’d killed a Hun! Wait until he got to the club. Now he could mention it around – casually – and watch their faces. He debated taking the letter and showing it around, but there were two problems. First of all Mrs Armstrong, who clung to the letter like a limpet, weeping incessantly all over it. It wouldn’t do for somebody to comment on the tear stains, and ascribe them to Jeremy. In the second place, he disapproved of some of the paragraphs. Smacked a little of faint heartedness. It was a pity, because much of it was sterling stuff…

Miss Sarah Armstrong was secretly jealous of all the attention her brother was getting. She couldn’t wait for Rex to come and pick her up. They were going out for a walk and a secret cuddle. She couldn’t wait to get out of the house.

* * *

Mrs Hemke took the news of her son’s death stoically. Hans Joachim had died heroically in the service of the Fatherland, the telegram had stated. She could hold her head up high. She would accept the condolences from the other women of the town with dignity and pride. Her son would be remembered forever with reverence. Her son the pilot, who, aged only nineteen, had shot down two enemy aircraft, and had been last seen fighting against overwhelming odds…
She went to her bedroom, and looked out a black head dress. Then she posed in front of the mirror. Yes, that would be fine. It gave her a solemn dignity…

Mr Hemke, an ill, elderly man, was grief stricken, but hardly showed it. He retired to his greenhouse, and tended his plants. It was only when he was sure nobody could see him, that he allowed emotion to reign supreme.

Heidi Hemke, older sister to Hans, was devastated. With her father’s soft nature, she had doted on her little brother, mothered and fussed over him, and helped, unwittingly, to spoil him rotten. She ran to her bedroom, and lay on the bed, sobbing heart brokenly for hours.
She hardly slept for many nights. She had so loved her little brother, and now he was gone. Poor little Hans. He should never have gone to war.
The war. The war. The cruel, pointless war.

* * *

Genevieve had discovered a friendly cafe, where the patron had a daughter, Angelique, who also rode horses. The girl was shy and withdrawn, but Genevieve was glad to have at least an acquaintance, where she could go and visit.
She could tether Pecadillo at the back of the stables, and walk two hundred yards to the cafe, where, on a good day, the customers would sit about outside around small round tables.

Now, on a foggy February day, the white chairs were unoccupied, but faces appeared at the window as Pecadillo trotted up. She could just make out uniforms, and her pulse quickened.

Soldiers! Young men! A nice change from the usual old codgers!

Inside, her interest was exceeded by the three RFC pilots, who gawked delightedly at the elegant figure astride the gray.
“Cor Blimey! “,
the tall ginger head exclaimed drunkenly.
“Look at those knockers! “,
the curly spotty faced one murmured.
But the silent, dark one just looked. Hungrily. He felt an instant desire to undress her, and explore her body.
He said nothing. An erection arrived inconveniently, and he had to shuffle his pants and seating position to avoid agony.
What a woman…

The object of his lust walked in a few minutes later, smiling disarmingly sweetly. The tall ginger head held the door open with an exaggerated flourish, and with his open, honest face, he engaged her easily in conversation.
His charm flowed effortlessly, and soon she was sitting at their table, laughing and giggling at their attempts to speak French. She had studied English, and was quite reasonable at it. Between them they managed fine.
She sipped ladylike at a nice red wine, and pretended not to notice the way they kept filling it up. Worldly wise with men, she feigned the innocent, and meanwhile sussed them out. The tall ginger head was a charmer. She loved his refined accent. The curly spotty faced one was funny, but very drunk. He was harmless.
The dark, silent one made her nervous. He said little, but was not relaxed. He kept looking strangely at her.
His jollity was forced. Not natural. She didn’t like his eyes.
Something there…
But it was fun. When it was beginning to get dark, and high time for her to leave, they all groaned loud and long. Then they trooped round to the stables, and inspected Peccadillo. She trotted up the road past the cafe to loud cheers, and ringing au revoirs. The old clientele frowned at the noisy newcomers, and continued their enthralling game of dominoes.

The patron smiled, and hoped the pilots would frequent his establishment more often. They were good spenders…

* * *

Baines lay in bed, and wondered about Jeremy. Those eyes… Jeremy had simply stared at the dead German, and had appeared rooted to the spot. Poor sod! He’d obviously been through hell.
Shock? Concussion?
Those eyes… Big, round, sad, empty, staring, but never accusing. That was what always struck him. He had seen eyes like that before, so many times. They were shattered eyes, that spoke of devastating experiences, but they never contained a hint of accusation.

The eyes are the mirror of the soul…

Where had he heard that? It was true though.
He thought again of Jeremy, cowering in the ditch, curled up in a little ball. He had refused to look up, even though Baines had done three low passes. Then he had flown away, tasting, sensing, the terror gripping the man in the ditch.

Weird war… the German pilot had seen him too late, only as the first bullets ripped through his fuselage. He had looked around in horror, and Baines had seen his jaw sag open in amazement. For one brief second Baines had sensed there too the terror. The mind defeating, all conquering terror. But, in contrast to Jeremy’s case, he felt little pity. Contempt, more like it. Little basket. Served him right.
It was odd the way he had sensed trouble when he saw the Albatros dive in the distance. He hadn’t even recognized the type. Some instinct…
Then, when he peeled off, and went to investigate, it was as if he had felt something strange and frightening going on. When the Hun had been busy machine gunning the ground, despite the fact that the wreck was already blazing, he had known instantly there could be only one explanation…
But more than that, he had sensed Jeremy’s terror, even before his suspicions were confirmed. Odd…
No point talking it over with anybody. They’d think he was mad. Try and sleep… Dawn patrol tomorrow.

He slept badly, tormented by a strange nightmare.
A beautiful young girl was lying face down on a bed, sobbing.
Sobbing… He was moved, touched by pity, and went towards her. She wore a thin dress that clung to her body, and he felt his senses reeling from her femininity.
Her legs were beautiful…
He touched her gently on the shoulder, and she looked up… Her face was delicate. A porcelain beauty. Tear stained. She looked up at him, tears still trickling down her face. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.
Then… she recognized him, knew who he was. She backed away in terror, into the corner…
He was amazed. Her eyes… the deep, deep hurt there…

What have I done…?

She looked at him, a terrible accusation written deep within those pools of hurt…
He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, love her…
but he couldn’t.

What have I done…?

He woke up, screaming the words, became aware of where he was, and sank back exhaustedly.
A knock came at the door. Baines groaned to himself, and debated fumbling for his watch. There was no point. He knew it was the middle of the night.
“Come in… ”
How loud had he been screaming? Had he woken everybody up? It wasn’t going to do his ‘cool’ image any good, that was for sure.
A subdued Jeremy crept in.
“You all right, old son? ”
It was a kind inquiry, and Baines felt any irritation at being found out rapidly disappearing. Jeremy was a good chap. It was better it was him…
“Sorry, old boy “, he grimaced wryly. “Think I had a nightmare “.
It was an understatement. Jeremy said nothing.
“Always the same dream, you know “, Baines continued.
Jeremy wondered if he should speak. There was a long silence.
“Would it help if you told me about it? ”
Baines grimaced again, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well… “, he began feebly. He felt stupid. This was definitely spoiling his strong silent image. What the hell…
He liked Jeremy Armstrong.
“It’s a girl. This beautiful girl. She’s lying face down on a bed. Crying. Crying her eyes out… ”
He paused, wondering if he should continue. He studied Jeremy, looking for the faintest trace of condescension or disdain. Finding none, he lowered his gaze, and stared hard at the end of the bed. Out with it!
“It’s always the same. I move to go towards her, to comfort her. She hears me coming, looks around at me, and screams in terror. She backs into the corner, petrified.
I keep asking her what it is I’ve done… I end up shouting, pleading with her. ”
His voice trembled slightly. He steadied himself, and then continued in a firmer voice.
“Then, suddenly, I’m standing in a cemetery. She is bent forward, holding a bunch of red carnations, reading the inscription on a gravestone, as if she has only just discovered it. She’s crying. I know it’s her, although I’m looking at her from behind, and she’s wearing a headscarf. It has a floral pattern on it. She kneels down, and places the flowers on the grave. Her whole body is shaking with sobs. She searches for a handkerchief to wipe away her tears, but can’t find one. Then she slowly peels her headscarf off and dabs at her face with that.
I feel sorry for her, and I want to comfort her.
I want to put my arms around her. She hears me coming, looks around, and becomes terrified. She cowers away from me, in terror.
I want to comfort her, but I can’t… ”
He shivered, and tried to compose himself.
“Oh God, Jeremy, I’ve killed so many more people than I know of! ”

Jeremy, helpless, put his arm around the man’s shoulders, and was unable to find any words.

F.M.
(c)

Jeremy realized he was almost in a trance, circling the burning wreck, his gaze fixed in horrible fascination on the results of his action. Dismay and guilt was giving way partly to another emotion that shocked him in its growing intensity. A savage satisfaction. It was as if two voices were hammering through his brain. The first, full of sarcasm, was shouting at him. “Now look what you’ve done… pleased with yourself? You’ve killed a man. The great Jeremy Armstrong, selfless member of the human race, has popped off another member of the human species… Are you pleased? Eh? ”
The second voice was becoming more powerful, and Jeremy licked his lips as he wrestled with his feelings. The second voice was aimed at the dead pilot of the burning triplane. It was a taunting, cruel voice, which shocked Jeremy’s gentler nature.
“Roast, you bastard! “
Was this… what killing was all about?

He flew off westwards, low level, and started to search the sky. Nothing. He was on his own. Slowly he climbed, and surveyed the damage to his aircraft. It was worse than he thought. Everywhere there were great gouging holes torn in the fabric, and upturned edges fluttered in the slipstream. His starboard rear wing strut, a five foot length of polished spruce connecting the upper and lower wing, was all but severed by bullets. His upper starboard aileron was a tattered mess, and caused strange vibrations he could feel through the stick when he turned. Worst of all, his engine sounded progressively sicker, and its power seemed to be well down.
Still he climbed, hunting for the lines. ..
It seemed utterly strange to be alone in the sky now, after the chaos and fury of only a few minutes before. His engine was now beginning to stream smoke, and peculiar metallic noises, like one piece of engine battering another piece once every revolution, indicated that unwelcome events were taking place inside the Hispano Suiza.
On top of everything else, he was lost.
He failed to recognize any features at all. The problem was partly that he was wallowing along at just under eight hundred feet. A climb would afford him a better view. But with his engine getting sicker by the misfire, and smoke billowing out, it was obvious that a climb was a dangerous choice; total engine failure would be one consequence, the unwelcome attention of an opportunistic Hun another.
He tried hard to navigate, but nothing on the ground matched his map. He also found concentrating very difficult. His mind kept replaying the last dying seconds of the triplane pilot’s life; saw the impact, and the explosion. Saw, only seconds earlier, the strange spasmodic jerk in the pilot’s shoulders, as Jeremy’s bullets had struck him.
Wrestled, with his feelings; a sense of shock, of horror, and also a sense of vicious satisfaction.
That was it, that horrible satisfaction. Never before in his life had he felt that way…
What would Emmy say?

Her face floated in front of him, and he sensed her soft, caring voice. What would she say to the fact that he had just butchered a Hun? He knew there would be no elation in her eyes. Knew the look, that deep look of…

A small lake passed below, which he thought he recognized. He was approaching the lines! Simultaneously, archie opened up on him with a vengeance, and he was uncomfortably reminded of his low height. He was low enough to see, quite clearly, soldiers looking up at him, and men pointing. He noticed that some were pointing rifles, and he realized he was the target of small arms fire as well. A feeling of helplessness swept over him, coupled with a strange desire to be able to speak to the men on the ground, and beg them not to shoot at him. Part of him wanted to explain that he had a sick engine, and that he wanted to get home. That he had already been shot at, and that he had had enough.
A particularly loud explosion to his right deafened him, and he flinched in the cockpit. Something cut stingingly through his right cheek, and simultaneously he felt a vicious tug on his right trouser leg. Tears flooded his eyes, blood poured down his face, and he flew blindly on, his mind grappling with an avalanche of sensory information, and trying hard to keep control.

* * *

At twelve thousand feet, Hans Joachim Hemke noticed first the anti aircraft bursts, then the smoke trail, then the tiny dot crossing the lines. No German aircraft would cross the lines so low from east to west. It had to be an injured enemy limping home. Easy meat, probably.
He studied the massive dogfight going on to the north, and his leader and wingman speeding ahead.
Let them go and fight there…
He would polish off his discovery.
He half rolled the Albatros, and pulled away in a screaming dive.

* * *

By the time Jeremy’s eyes had cleared sufficiently to look around, he had crossed the lines. He gaped in amazement at a huge hole in the lower starboard wing, and a smaller one in the upper wing. Fabric fluttered freely from the bottom wing, and he could see one wingrib smashed, with most of the part rearwards of the spar missing, and another one exposed almost fully to view.
Something else was wrong too. He was applying almost full left stick to keep flying level. The SE5 wanted to turn right all the time. His face hurt, and he could feel blood trickling down past the corner of his mouth. His right knee hurt as well.

Sod this for a game of soldiers…

He groaned, and tried to map read again. He busied himself for a minute or two, until a small canal floated past, and he had to admit he was utterly lost.

A canal?? Where the hell am I?

The whole thing was taking on that dreamlike quality again. He wasn’t really flying an aeroplane. He hadn’t really just shot down and killed a Hun. He hadn’t really got a badly damaged aircraft underneath him.
He hadn’t really got shrapnel wounds. It was all in his imagination. Above all, he wasn’t really lost.

Suddenly, without surprise, he became aware of himself, flying along in a battered SE5. He observed himself, sitting in the cockpit, struggling with the damn map, looking over the side. He felt sorry for Jeremy Armstrong. He was obviously quite lost. That was a nasty cut on his right cheekbone. It was still bleeding, and the blood was congealing on his cheek, jaw, and collar.
The poor lad looked done in.
He observed the face, and the eyes. Yes, poor old Jeremy was in trouble all right…

Taca-taca-taca! Taca-taca-taca! Taca-taca-taca!

He was suddenly back inside the cockpit, reeling with shock. Bullets smashed through his windscreen, and his instrument panel. His compass dissolved in pieces, and the airspeed indicator disappeared.

What the hell!? Who’s shooting?

He instinctively pulled hard right, and darted a quick look over his shoulder. A silhouette, evil sparks dancing over the nose, was all he saw. It was enough. The sheer injustice of it made him want to scream.

NOOO! For crying out loud! I’m damaged, I’m injured, I’ve already been shot at. I’m lost. I’m over MY side of the lines. BUGGER OFF and leave me ALONE!!

His engine sounded as if it was gasping in terminal exhaustion, and he debated advancing the throttle. But he needed the power if he stood any chance of avoiding the bullets being hosed over him.

Taca-taca-taca!! Taca-taca-taca!!

There was nothing else for it, and he slammed the throttle forward. Immediately the engine note increased shrilly, there was a strange clanking sound, and then a series of metallic crashes, that reduced in frequency proportionately to the winding down of the propeller.
Jeremy gasped in horror.

His engine had quit.

* * *

Hans Joachim Hemke saw the propeller die, and realized the plight his enemy was in. From the steep turn, it was obvious that his foe was still alive, but it seemed a miracle. He had seen his bullets tear through the SE5a, and it seemed impossible they had missed the pilot.
But now his engine was gone…
Should he let him go? His commandant would. Werner Voss was a man of principle, who taught his pilots to respect crippled aircraft. But…
He looked over his shoulder. There was nobody else around. Here was a chance to add to his score.
His lips curled back from his teeth, and he opened fire again from point blank range…

* * *

On the way back, Baines had never ceased looking out for Jeremy. He was close to home, when, looking south, he saw an aircraft in a screaming dive. It was too far away to identify, but something in the way it was coming down like a ton of bricks made him wonder. He waggled his wings at Owen, and pointed urgently. Owen, tired and with a shot up aircraft, wanted only to limp home. He waved dismissively, with a gesture that implied ‘do as you like’. Immediately, Baines banked away, and headed for the area in which the dot had disappeared.

* * *

Slamming the controls over hard, Jeremy spotted a meadow, and side slipped down steeply. Full right rudder, left stick, and the aircraft descended as if sliding sideways down a rope. The manoeuvre took the Albatros by surprise, he overshot, and had to make a turn. This gave Jeremy a precious twenty seconds, which he put to good use.
He continued the side slip down to twenty feet, and then viciously kicked the machine straight. Heaving back on the stick, he managed to arrest the rate of descent, and the SE5 floated at six feet over the meadow, scattering terrified sheep in all directions. As he touched down, the Albatros lined up on him, five hundred yards away.
Hemke started firing before he was fully lined up, and watched with relish as earth and grass kicked up in a long line, overtaking the landing aircraft. He pulled up into a screaming right turn, and once through 180 degrees, he watched in deep satisfaction as the SE5 lay tipped up on its nose, bursting into flame, smoke billowing upwards.
Then, suddenly, he leaned forwards, cursing softly. A figure, stumbling madly, and jumping over obstacles, was running away from the wreckage.
Hemke pulled his machine around in a dive again, and thumbed the trigger.
This time, there would be no mistake.

* * *

Baines, closer now, recognized the Albatros for what it was. He saw the smoke from the wreck billow up, and feared the worst. Although he had full throttle applied, his machine seemed almost stationary. Then he saw the Albatros line up for another run in, and a puzzled frown crossed his face.
Odd… why was he shooting at a downed and blazing aircraft?
A horrible thought crossed his mind, and mentally he urged his machine on…

* * *

The crunch as the SE5 hit the ditch knocked the wind out of Jeremy, and he could only sit and stare in amazement as the nose dug in, and the tail lifted straight up into the air. But the thought of fire soon galvanized him into action, and he scrambled out of the cockpit in feverish haste. He let himself drop the eight feet to the ground, rolling over and over. He was barely on his feet, staggering drunkenly, when the petrol vapors ignited with a roaring whoosh, and the blast of hot air lifted him bodily for fifteen feet. He seemed to roll over and over, and got to his feet with his flying jacket on fire. He ripped the garment off, and, as more explosions indicated his ammunition exploding, he started to run again, stumbling and desperate.
A roaring sound filled the air, and he gazed up in stupefied amazement. A blue and green silhouette was approaching him fast and low, spitting flames. It took him an eternity to analyze the significance of the spurts of dirt ripping across the field towards him…

My God! He’s shooting at me!

He threw himself down, and, miraculously, the bullets ripped close by without touching him. He looked up as the machine swept overhead, and found himself staring up into a grinning face. A hand came up, and waved mockingly at him. The Albatros soared up into the sky, did a hard turn, and came in again, its purpose unmistakable.

Jeremy remembered the ditch he had crashed into, and started running back again, frantically…

* * *

Owen climbed out stiffly, and looked at Greenhall.
Greenhall, his face streaked and dirty, searched around the sky.
Behind him, Perky and Porky lit cigarettes.
“I lost Pinky “, Greenhall murmured quietly.
“I lost Armstrong “, Owen replied.
“And they got the RE8 “, he added as an afterthought.
There was a long silence.
“Where did Baines shoot off to? “, Perky asked.
Owen shrugged his shoulders.

McAllister marched across, and everybody stopped talking.
“Did the RE8 make it? ”
His voice was cool, poised. Nobody answered.
McAllister repeated his question, snappily.
“No, Sir “, Owen answered slowly.
There was a pause, during which everybody stared coldly at their commanding officer.
Owen continued pointedly:
“We got jumped by six Fokker D.V’s, which made the odds twelve against seven.
We lost Pinky and Armstrong as well. ”
He paused.
“…Sir “, he added, with a strange emphasis on the word.
“I see “, McAllister answered. He stared at the stone faced expressions of his men, started to say something, thought better of it, and turned around. He marched off stiffly, taking care to avoid any mud.

Behind him, one or two of the stone faces gave way to hate. McAllister was nearly out of earshot, when a stage whisper reached his ears.
“And where were you, Sir? ”
He stiffened, half looked around, and then marched on.

Perky snarled, mimicking McAllister’s accent:
“I was low on fuel, so I had to return to base “.
Porky added:
“I didn’t think my wingmen were ready yet “, and spat expressively on the ground.
Greenhall snapped:
“Knock it off, you guys! ”

* * *

With ten yards to go, it looked as if he wasn’t going to make it. The rattling of machine guns accompanied the sound of bullets ripping up the ground, drilling a path of death that threatened to overtake the fleeing man.
The sheer terror in Jeremy’s mind threatened his sanity, and he threw himself over the edge into the shallow, muddy water, with a sobbing groan. He buried his face into the muddy bank, and his shoulders racked convulsively. Bullets continued to whistle over the top of him, and then the Albatros roared past. Jeremy looked up, and watched the German swing around to line up his gunsight along the length of the ditch. Realizing the intention, Jeremy raced, splashing and falling, sobbing and gasping, around a slight bend, and once again flung himself down. More bullets ripped up the muddy water.
This time Jeremy buried his face in his hands, trembling in mortal terror, unable to look up.

He heard more machine gun fire, and tried to make himself as small as possible to avoid the bullets. Death loomed large and close, and he thought frantically and longingly back to home, his parents, and Emmy…

A colossal crump shook the ground nearby, and earth rained down upon Jeremy.

My God, dear God… he’s dropping bombs now…

The Albatros roared over low again… and again… and once more… Jeremy cowered in the mud, hands over his head.
Slowly a thought registered with him. The noise was fading… His hands slowly peeled away from his head, and he crouched, listening intently. The noise of the Albatros was fading…

Is it a trap? Is he…

The noise faded to a distant beat, and slowly, very slowly, the exhausted face of Jeremy Armstrong appeared above the edge of the ditch. His jaw sagged open, and he stared a full ten seconds in stupefied amazement.
Not fifteen yards away, another wreck lay burning furiously. From the tail, protruding up into the air at a crazy angle, a black German cross grinned ghoulishly at him…

He swiveled his head slowly, painfully, and dimly recognized the silhouette of an SE5 disappearing towards the horizon. Even as he watched, the wings rocked smoothly from side to side, in a surreal, dream-like, gesture of farewell.
He stared at it until it disappeared, his mind reeling from the force of events.

* * *

The old car battered its way along the twisty road, and bounced through the ruts. Inside, a group of airmen were hanging on for dear life. The vehicle stopped beside an ancient dry stone wall, and an airman leaped out, climbed up and peered over. He ran back to the car immediately.
“He’s over there, chaps! ” He pointed up the road. “Go through that gate! ”
They bumped their way through an old gate, and were met by a peasant woman, who flagged them down.
Owen wound down the window.
“Votre ami est la “, the woman said, pointing.
“Ask her if he’s hurt “, Baines suggested.
Owen obliged as best he could.
“Est ce que… est ce qu’il est blesse? ”
The woman, grief stricken, shook her head.
“Non, il n’est pas blesse, mais.. ”
She tapped her head with her forefingers.
“Il est fou… how you say… crazy… he talks with the dead… ”
Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she glanced fearfully over her shoulder.

The car bumped on, and headed for the smoke.
They could go no further, and piled out.
Nobody spoke. It was an uncanny scene…
The light was beginning to fade. On the other side of a ditch stood Jeremy, with his back towards them, motionless, silhouetted against a burning aircraft. At his feet lay… a body.
Owen started forward, but Baines held him by the sleeve.
“No, wait, let me deal with this… ”
He moved forward, jumped over the ditch, and walked up to Jeremy. He stood beside him, but still the airman didn’t move. Baines could hear only the wind, and the crackling and spitting of the flames. He stared at the face of the German pilot he had killed. A young face, eyes wide open, with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Then he looked at Jeremy, whose eyes seemed ghostly distant. Neither man spoke. The flames from the Albatros were oddly reflected on Jeremy’s face.

Baines placed his arm around Jeremy’s shoulders.
“Come on, old man “, he said softly. “It’s all over. ”

F.M.
(c)

The old farm was getting on her nerves.
How she missed Paris! The days were dragging by. She enjoyed her new horse, and called him ‘Pecadillo’, which means ‘small sin’. It seemed appropriate. Her father had chosen well, and Pecadillo was healthy, lively, good natured if a trifle unpredictable when the very occasional motorized vehicle rolled by.

He was all right if the vehicle approached head on. Then he would raise his head, the top of his ears twitching. But, apart from the odd quiver, he kept walking steadily on. It was when the odd sounding animal approached from behind, making those strange noises, that Pecadillo was loath to obey his mistress and amble on regardless. He wanted to see what that weird smelly animal was up to. To this end he would try and peer round, ( “whazzat animal up to behind me? “), receive a firm tug on the reins and a shout from his mistress, respond reluctantly, snort in a sort of horse’s sulk, ( “It’s alright for YOU, I want to know if he’s going to eat me. “), proceed onwards, listening furiously, and, provided the monster didn’t change gear, backfire, or pass by too fast, then the chances of a successful outcome were good. At the moment of passing, he would be rigid, his ears not quite fully erect. One eye would roll back and monitor the passing shape. ( “Just what do you think you’re up to… “). Then the beast would be ahead of him, and his head would bob up just another inch, the ears would point forward and lift up full stretch. ( “Good riddance to you too – but I’m still watching you. “) Of course, sometimes the dragon did change gear, backfire, or career past too quickly.
Then… the results were unpredictable. He never actually reared, but was well capable of ignoring the reins, deftly swinging his threatened hindquarters off the road and out of the way, and turning to face the enemy, ready to take further measures. When that happened, it was always a source of puzzlement that his mistress appeared to get angry, tugging on the reins, shouting, and kneeing him. ( “But…but… he’s trying to EAT me! “). With the danger past, he would settle down to obey the reins again, and snort furiously. ( “You’re bloody daft, mistress. He’s DANGEROUS. I’m not turning my back on them animals… “)
A good thing about Pecadillo was his affectionate nature. There is nothing as sad as a horse who has not been always well treated, and who has lost his liking for Man. Who looks up moodily when the would be rider approaches, thinks “Oh, bloody hell, not you again “, and decides to play “Catch me if you can “. This is a very simple game, which consists of ambling off and nonchalantly nibbling at a clump of grass. ( “I’m just an ordinary horse, nibbling at the grass, not even really aware you’re there… “). The would be rider approaches slowly with the bridle to within a few yards, and hey, hey, hey, “That looks like a jolly juicy bit over there… “. And so on. Pecadillo demonstrated none of these vices, and cantered up delightedly at the sound of Genevieve’s outrageous whistle. ( “Are we going out again? – Great! “). One of the many games they played was ‘find the carrot’, which Genevieve hid somewhere about her person. Pecadillo would search her pockets, sniffing excitedly, until he located the likely jackpot. Afterwards he would muzzle delightfully into her hand.
They soon became great friends.

The day she rode as far east as she could, she calculated being no more than thirty miles or so behind the front.
It was a quiet evening, and sound travelled far. She became aware of an unnatural irregular flashing just above the distant eastern horizon. The wind carried the sound, faintly… a dull, disembodied booming, like a very distant rumble of thunder. She stared and wondered.
The war… what did it mean? What was war?
Everything was so peaceful, so pleasant. Birds in the trees, rabbits scampering, Pecadillo’s breath steaming up lazily… War? People being killed?

A frown crossed her face. She thought of Charles Nungesser. He would have been able to tell her much. She discovered that she was curiously fascinated. What was it all about? War…

Another sound reached her ears, and she turned around in the saddle, listening attentively. A rhythmic droning. Engines of some kind. Pecadillo too had heard it, and he looked around, his ears swiveling, trying to tune in on the unusual noise.

There! In the sky! Aeroplanes! One… two… three… four… Four machines! Oh… marvellous!

Four biplanes droned over at a thousand feet. Her heart leaped in excitement. Oh, to fly! How lucky those men were!
To be up there, in the sky, amongst the clouds!
To be a pilot!

She sighed as they disappeared, and thought of Nungesser.
Were all pilots like him, brave and daring?

* * *

Mrs Armstrong was, unusually for her, in tears. She sat, distraught, clutching her only son’s latest letter.
Her husband stood staring out the window. He too had read the letter, but his thought processes were different.

Sainte Breuve-sur-Pont
February 17,1917

Dear Pater and Mater,

A lucky escape yesterday.
My fault. I wasn’t paying attention, and lost Lt Owen and Baines. Then I was so mesmerized by that, that I was spending all my effort looking around for them. Promptly went straight into a socking big cloud. Weird. Lost my bearings completely, and eventually sort of came out the bottom at a screaming speed, with the ground somewhere totally different to where I thought it was.
I should have closed the throttle, but I didn’t. This really damaged the engine, so it’s basically a write-off.
The top wing didn’t like the high airspeed either (in the cloud, I had no idea), and basically started to move.
What a struggle to fly the damn thing! Anyway, I was lost into the bargain, and some really wizard chap in a Sopwith Pup came along and guided me to his airfield.
Next Armstrong clanger, unfortunately: I was in such a tiz to get down, and I suppose unfamiliar with the airfield, that I forgot about the wind. It was blowing a gale, and I should have known better. Anyway, I landed with the wind behind instead of in front, and plowed straight into the far hedge. Made a right dog’s dinner of the SE5. Their chief, Captain Matherson (who guided me in), was really good about it, and didn’t shout. I think he just looked puzzled. His mechanics pulled the SE5 out of the hedge, and said they’d fix it in a couple of days. They entertained me really well for supper, and then got me a car home.
Needless to say I thought I was going to get hung when I got back, but McAllister was surprisingly quite civil. He actually went for Owen more than for me. I don’t think those two hit it off that well.
So I learned a lot of lessons. Flying in cloud is weird.
You’d think you’d be able to use your sense of balance. Forget it!
Apart from that, I’m okay. Thanks for the letter, and the warm socks. Need them.
I love and miss you all,

Yours,
Jeremy

Mrs Armstrong was horrified that the RFC were exposing her son to such dangers so soon. The people in charge were obviously reckless. She feared for his life.
Her horrified protests had been lost on her husband, who had angrily dismissed her threats to ‘write to somebody in authority’ with a sharp “Don’t be so bloody silly, woman, there’s a war on… ”

Mr Armstrong was annoyed that Jeremy was obviously making an idiot of himself, and wished he would hurry up and shoot down some Germans. He couldn’t wait to casually mention around the club that his boy, far from being a coward, had knocked off a few bloody Huns…

Sarah Armstrong, Jeremy’s haughtily elegant younger sister, who everybody said took after her father, sat on the sofa, manicuring her nails, bored and disinterested.
She fervently wished her mother wouldn’t go on so dreadfully boringly. The war was a nuisance anyway.
It interfered outrageously with her social life…

* * *

Emmy was now permanently attached to the hospital, and her horror of what the war meant only deepened as she dealt with the never ending flood of broken young men.
Many were not only physically broken, but were mentally destroyed. Some gibbered incoherently, crying and screaming during the night. Some just stared woodenly at the ceiling. A few were chatty, and tried the old act.
Her duties were now so demanding, that she was practically run off her feet. It was a shame not to be able to stay and chat. Some of the faces cried out for attention, kind words, reassurance that they were not going to be hopelessly unattractive to womenfolk for the rest of their lives.
Some of Emmy’s colleagues seemed remarkably insensitive to this fact, adopting unsmiling, brisk attitudes. Matron was a downright dragon, who terrorized everybody.

Once, Emmy had been discovered by her sitting on a blind, shell shocked patient’s bed, holding his hand, talking softly to him, trying to coax the man out of himself.
Matron’s strident “Miss Houghton! Let go off that man immediately and get back to work! ” had caused her to jump out of her skin. Her patient had sensed her shock, and retreated pathetically under the bedclothes. He had not spoken again, and died three days later. Emmy had wept by his bedside, earning another scolding from matron.
After that she had learned to control her emotions, and camouflage her feelings.

She thought often of Jeremy.

F.M.
(c)