by Peter Albano
“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused.
“Barton flies with me and Winter, you’re teamed with Captain David A. Reed—my best man.”
For the first time, the flight lieutenants brightened. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”
“And listen to me, watch me, and watch Reed. We’ll try to give you a condensed course in aerial warfare. But we don’t have time.” He had pounded the desk with a clenched fist. “Time! The front has bloody well exploded.” Randolph gestured to squadron clerk corporal Longacre, who was at his table, listening to every word while pretending to be engrossed in a report. “Corporal Longacre will show you to your quarters,” Randolph said. “I’ll see you at a meeting of all the pilots in the mess hall tomorrow morning at zero seven hundred. Be in flight kit. You’ll make your first patrol tomorrow morning with me and Captain Reed. Carry on.”
And now the two new young faces were there with the other nine bright young faces, staring eagerly at the squadron leader. “All of you have met our new chums,” he began, nodding at Barton and Winter, who were in flying kit. The two new pilots squirmed uneasily. “I know you older pilots have heard this a dozen times, but I want to discuss the new German scout, which Fritz calls a fighter, because it is our most dangerous opponent.” Picking up a piece of chalk, he wrote “Albatross D-1” on the board.
The older pilots nodded knowingly. David A. Reed shouted, “Hear! Hear!”
“The Fokker Eindecker was easy meat for us,” Higgins said, moving his eyes over the faces. “And a lot of us ran up our kills. But now”—he tapped the board—”this new aircraft has changed things.” His eyes moved to Barton and Winter. “The Albatross is a sturdy machine, covered by preformed slabs of plywood screwed to a skeleton of hardwood ‘O’ formers and light wooden stringers. Also, it is powerful with a new one-hundred-sixty-horsepower in-line Mercedes engine and the first Kraut pursuit armed with two Spandaus. It’s seven hundred pounds heavier than a Nieuport and can take a tremendous weight of shot before it’s disabled.”
“Sir,” Barton said, waving a hand. “How do you know all this?”
Randolph waved at David A. Reed, who now wore captain’s patches on his flying jacket. “Captain Reed shot one down at the end of our runway. We went over it from spinner to skid.” Reed smiled back with his usual slow grin. “Remember,” Randolph continued, “the D-One is faster and heavier than a Nieuport—can outdive us. But nothing can dogfight the Seventeen. Nothing can turn with us. They’ll try to dive through us and only turn to fight if they outnumber us.”
“Sir,” Barton said suddenly. “The D-One must have other weaknesses.”
Randolph was pleased by the boy’s perceptiveness and deferred to Reed with a nod. As Reed came to his feet, Randolph realized he not only respected the young captain, but also he regarded him with the same affection he reserved for his family. They had flown together since the squadron had been formed a year earlier and were the only survivors of the original twelve. At first, Randolph had mistaken the preoccupied, distant look in Reed’s eyes as the conceit of a snobbish aesthete who preferred isolation to the company of inferiors. But common danger, slaughter, terror, and triumph tested both in the eyes of the other and found neither wanting. Quickly, a bond of comradeship grew, ripening into friendship, which deepened into respect and love that bonded stronger than blood. A deadly shot with skill that was sharpened hunting windblown grouse on his family’s estates in Lancashire, David could take deflection instantly like a machine and was the only pilot besides Randolph who could make a full deflection shot good. Both realized neither would be alive without the other. No closer tie could exist.
Half smiling, Reed spoke with his usual precise cultured enunciation. “Our commanding officer has already mentioned the fact we can outmaneuver the D-One.” The dreamy blue eyes moved around the room, stopping on Barton. “But, yes, there are other weaknesses or I wouldn’t be here.” A nervous titter swept the room. “Actually, it has beastly visibility forward. The cabane struts are in the pilot’s way and the upper wing is poorly slotted. In fact, the German I scragged bloody well never saw me.” Reed nodded at Randolph. “He was diving on the major, who led him directly into my sights.” He held up his hands simulating two aircraft in the classic manner of the pursuit pilot. “I attacked from here.” One hand dove on the other. “From the front where his visibility was poor and his other weakness killed him—his radiator is mounted on the upper wing directly above the cockpit. A half dozen rounds of ball there and a boiled Kraut copped it at the end of the runway—boiled like a cabbage in his own coolant.” A hand peeled off and crashed into the tabletop with splayed fingers. More nervous laughter as Reed returned to his chair.
“Thank you, Captain Reed,” Randolph said. He moved his eyes over the faces. “Remember the captain’s words and remember we worked as a team to make the kill.” He turned to the board and began to write as he spoke. “And burn into your minds my rules for remaining alive on the Western Front—no more lone wolf heroics, always remain in your elements of two; keep the sun behind you; always carry through an attack when you’ve started it; fire only at close range and only when your enemy’s wingspan fills both rings of your sights; fire short bursts so that your Vickers will not be held open too long, overheat, and jam; keep your eye on your opponent and never let him deceive you by ruses; attack from behind and preferably from a blind spot, every plane has one; do not dive if your enemy dives on you, instead, fly to meet him; when over enemy lines, never forget your line of retreat and the prevailing westerly winds that work against you; and always, always remember altitude is your most precious commodity. It can always be traded for speed.”
He drank from his cup while two batmen circulated, filling cups and glasses. Remembering Southby’s useless death, Randolph pressed on. “Inspect your aircraft—every detail—before taking off. We lost one of our best pilots, Lieutenant Freddie Southby, two weeks ago in an accident that might have been prevented by a careful preflight inspection. Load your own ammunition and oil each round. If you’re careless about your aircraft, your mechanics might bloody well emulate you.” His eyes swept the white, intent faces. “Your life hangs on that prop, not theirs. And remember, each Nieuport Seventeen costs the Crown seven hundred pounds.”
Waving a hand and receiving an assenting nod from the squadron commander, Winter said, “Shall we use the ‘bird test,’ sir?” A rumble of laughter swept the room and Randolph remembered the absurd story of pilots who supposedly released birds in the maze of stays and wires holding the old Vickers gun buses, Voisins, and Caudrons together. If the bird escaped, the pilots knew the airplane was not properly rigged.
“No. No,” Randolph said through his chuckles. “I’m pleased with your concern, but a close eyeball inspection for leaks, loose bolts, poorly patched canvas—a tug or two on stays and wires will be sufficient.”
“Yes, sir,” Winter sputtered, his face the color of the sunrise.
Randolph finished his coffee and his demeanor became serious. “Captain Reed and I will take our new chums on the morning patrol.” He looked from one expectant face to another. His gaze stopped on Lieutenant Leefe Hendon, a Canadian who had grown up in the forests of northern British Columbia. Trained with hundreds of other Canadians, he had completed his primary training at Kelly Field in Texas and his advanced training at the famous French aerodrome at Issoudun. He was thoroughly schooled in acrobatics, flying, and gunnery, and could fly almost any type of aircraft. Incongruously baby-faced with a pudgy round visage of vanilla pudding, he had grown up in the forests where he began to hunt as soon as he was big enough to carry a gun. The broad expanse of pudding was placid, usually as expressionless as a Michelangelo statuary. But his eyes—his most striking aspect—flashed with strength, with an edgy nervous watchfulness—a strange hunger that was the look you expected to see in the eyes of a wild animal, a stalking pitiless predator, but never in the eyes of a human. A deadly shot, he was an intelligent
fighter and ruthless killer who often fired on his targets from as close as thirty feet. In fact, once he had shredded the rudder of a Halberstadt D-2 with his propeller, sending it crashing into the English reserve trenches while he glided to a dead stick landing in a pasture. He had run up a score of six kills in only five weeks. The Canadian had a brilliant future.
Nodding at the Canadian, Randolph said, “Lieutenant Hendon will lead our noon patrol consisting of himself, Lieutenant Smith, and flight officers Cowdry and Anderson over our usual sector between Mametz and Hamel, one element at fifteen thousand feet, the other at eight thousand. Division is concerned about Kraut artillery spotters and be alert—watch for the Hun in the sun.” His gaze moved to a group of four pilots seated together at the far end of one of the tables. “Flight Lieutenants Gaskell, Morris, and Jillings will be under the command of Lieutenant McDonald in the ready alert tent.” The four pilots groaned.
“Not again, sir,” McDonald said with a strong Scottish accent. He gestured. “Sure an’ these clods canna beat a Scotsman at whist, sir.” Everyone laughed.
“Well, sure an’ they’ll get their chance today,” Randolph said, mimicking the Scotsman. More chuckles. And then seriously, he said, “You are dismissed to your duties.” With sighs and a scraping of chairs on bare wood, the pilots came to brief attention and then filed through the door. Winter, Barton, and Reed remained with Randolph.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” Randolph said. The three flyers sat. The subalterns lighted cigarettes. Randolph felt frustrated—there was too much to learn. He punched a palm with a closed fist and stared at the new flyers with hooded eyes. “The Hun loves the sun and if you want to live, remain alert. A good pilot never rests his neck unless he wants to rest in peace. Move your head in short, jerky movements and never concentrate too long on one spot. Look to the side of an object—often, your peripheral vision serves better than a direct stare.” He reviewed his system of hand signals, which were mandatory with aircraft incapable of carrying clumsy, eighty-pound wireless. “And watch for a waggle of wings from either Captain Reed or myself. This will mean something’s amiss.” The subalterns nodded.
“We patrol defensively today. That is, we are not escorting. Instead, you understand, we will stay on our side of the lines and search for Boche reconnaissance aircraft. The Fourth and Eleventh reconnaissance squadrons are opposite us. They fly Rumplers.” He gestured to the top display of a series of black silhouettes tacked to the wall behind him. “Understand.” The boys nodded.
The squadron commander pinched the bridge of his nose. Strange he should feel tired so early in the morning. He moved on. “If you attack a Rumpler—a diving attack, he will automatically bank to give his gunner a better shot. Otherwise, he might shoot off his own rudder. Don’t bank with him.” The flight lieutenants raised their eyebrows. “He will expect you to be directly under his tail, which would give you your best killing angle, but you’ll be giving him his best killing angle, too. I’ve lost four pilots this way. So make a maximum bank away from him and then turn back after diving at least two hundred feet below his belly.”
Winter spoke up. “He may keep on banking, sir.”
“Right-oh. But that’s what we want. Nothing can turn with the Nieuport.” The new pilots nodded.
“Another thing, you may see no aircraft at all. Even during a big battle like this one we can go for days without sighting another aeroplane. But then, again, the skies can rain Huns and we may sight other RFC aircraft—the Nieuports of Number Twelve Squadron to the north, Sopwith one-and-a-half strutters of Number Sixteen Squadron also to the north, and the FE-two-bs of Number Twenty-six Squadron to the south.” Randolph leaned forward on the table, tapped his fingers restlessly. “Questions?”
“Yes, sir,” Barton said, fixing his commanding officer with his steady stare. “Anything of Boelcke’s Jasta Two?”
“No. Intelligence reports they’re moving into our front, but we haven’t sighted them.”
Winter spoke, his high, raspy voice tight with excitement. “They’re the best in the German Air Service, sir?”
“Quite so,” Randolph said. “And easy to sight—each aircraft is brightly painted according to the fancy of its pilot.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s time, chaps. Chop, chop.” He turned to the door.
The four pursuits were lined up on the edge of the tarmac with the mechanics and armorers making last-minute checks. Fortunately, the sun had burned away the early morning mist and there was promise of a clear bright sky with the exception of a few high-cruising cumulus to the north and a milky scum of cirrus to the south and east. Looking like a green tent in his stained green overalls, chief mechanic Cochran greeted Randolph with the usual elfin grin. “She’s ready for you, sir. Like a bride on her wedding night—an’ that she truly is.” There was pride in his voice.
Randolph chuckled as he began his inspection, the chief mechanic close on his heels. He patted the cowling while staring at the radiation fins on the nine cylinders, looking for loose spark plug wires, petrol or oil leaks, or anything out of sorts; tugged at a drag wire rigged from a landing gear strut to a V strut; kicked both tires and inspected the bungee springs; removed the inspection plate just behind the cowling, which had been unscrewed by Cochran, and checked the petrol and castor oil tanks and lines for leaks; pulled on an aileron, looking for slack in the operating horn and control wire; tested stagger wires connecting the cabane struts to the V struts and grunted with approval at the strong tension; pushed hard on the fragile lower wing inspecting the doped canvas carefully for wrinkles and minute tears; moved to the tail plane running a palm over four black patches covering bullet holes and pushed and pulled on the rudder and elevator and found no slack. “Very good. Very good,” Randolph said as he walked toward the cockpit, pulling on his otter-skin gauntlets. A signal from Cochran and an assistant screwed the inspection plate back into place.
Carefully, Higgins placed a foot into the stirrup beneath the cockpit and helped by Cochran, stepped up onto the wing. Then he flung a leg stiffened by layered flying clothes over the padded coaming and lowered himself into the tiny cockpit, the wicker seat creaking under his weight. Carefully, he locked his safety harness and palmed his flare gun and oxygen bottle, assuring himself they were both charged and firmly locked in their racks. A quick glance at his five instruments—fuel and oil gauges, altimeter, rev counter, and compass—told him their needles gave correct readings. He pushed hard on the rudder bar and watched the rudder in his rearview mirror answer his commands. Quick movements of the stick told him ailerons and elevators answered precisely.
Cochran took his position in front of the Nieuport while two of his men held the wingtips and two more grasped ropes attached to the chocks. Randolph was ready. And so were Winter and Barton. But something was wrong with Reed’s plane. His chief mechanic had removed an inspection plate and was working furiously on some lines.
“Petrol leak!” the captain shouted from his cockpit, shrugging helplessly.
Randolph cursed. Ordinarily, Reed would have been left behind. But with two new chums, it would have been unthinkable to leave the veteran. They would wait.
Throwing his head back in frustration, Randolph’s skull struck the padded headrest and suddenly familiar faces swam before his eyes. Brenda was there, enigmatic and distant—almost ethereal in her loss and illness. Would he ever tell her he loved her? Could he ever bring himself to this face-to-face with his brother’s memory? And Cynthia Boswell had written him and, surprisingly, the letter had reached him despite the lack of the eleven-digit number that identified the squadron’s location. Memories of that fierce night with the stunning widow had chased Nicole from his dreams and fantasies. Cynthia had claimed she loved him and would wait for him. Randolph snorted. War compressed your life—no doubt about that. But love? After one night together? She loved majors. RFC majors. And he was convinced she would continue to haunt the Empire searching for duplicates
of her dead husband. There had been a hint of madness in her eyes, a birdlike glint like light reflecting from a hollow crystal. Randolph knew he would soon be out of her mind.
He squirmed uneasily and looked at Reed’s plane where a team of mechanics worked furiously on the defective fuel line. Cursing, Randolph punched the instrument panel so hard the needles jumped. In his mind’s eye he could see his mother’s stricken face. Grief and worry were destroying her. Fortunately, she had Nathan and Rodney. Without them, he was convinced, she would have withered into her grave by now. Walter was another source of anxiety. The old man and Brenda were on a collision course. There would be an explosion. Brenda’s strong will would see to it. He could see it in the baleful glances she and Walter threw at each other; the acid exchanges. He had always been convinced the old lecher had been attracted to Brenda. Perhaps that was the seat of it.
There was a shout from Reed’s plane and the captain was stabbing a finger skyward and the mechanic replaced the inspection panel and strode clear of the aircraft. Sighing with relief, Randolph circled a single finger over his head and immediately Reed, Winter, and Barton repeated the signal. The major stared down at Cochran, who had placed both hands on the propeller and stared back expectantly. Randolph and Cochran had trained together at Pan when the squadron picked up the new Nieuports. Taught by French officers, they still relied on French commands in the starting ritual. In fact, they enjoyed the foreign banter—an inside thing that brought a minute moment of intimacy and pleasure. The major gave the mechanic a brief two-finger salute.
After returning the salute and nodding at the men at the chocks and the men holding the wingtips, the heavyset Irishman grinned up at Randolph and shouted in ruptured French, “Monsieur Commandant! Coupez—plein gaz!”
Randolph pushed the throttle forward, put the mixture on full rich, and checked to be certain the ignition switch was turned to “Off.” Quickly, he turned the handle of the fuel pump a half turn and pumped it until he felt the pressure build up in the tank. Locking the fuel pump handle down, he repeated the command. The beefy mechanic raised one leg, hesitated a moment to adjust his balance, and then heaved down hard with all of his two hundred pounds. With the ignition off, the engine gasped and wheezed as it rotated a half turn, sucking petrol and air into its carburetor and cylinder heads. Down the line, Randolph could hear shouted commands and gasping engines as the other members of the patrol proceeded through the same ritual. Cochran wiped his hands on his overalls and again stepped to the propeller. “Monsieur Commandant! Contact—reduisez!” he shouted, raising his leg.
