Lederhosen - I like the original Willi skin. It's a combination of Paracelsus and Hollywood. Willi is a true gentleman and sportsman, letting Oliver live as he did. If they both survive the war, Oliver is buying. Willi's new CO, on the other hand, is a bit of a pill to put it politely.

MFair - Ainslie is like the Honey Badger.. If you don't know the rest of that, Youtube is your Huckleberry. Love the crossover with young Lindley.

Fullofit - Toby continues his reign of terror. Gott help Germany if he ever gets into a Bristol fighter.

Lou - Finally Swanny has a squadron. Congrats! Long overdue. Will he find that having is the same as wanting? Enquiring minds, etc.

MFair - Goodness man! Those enormous holes in the Earth, seek and avoid. Yikes! Glad Ainslie came through without any knocks. Touch and go there.

Carrick - Francois' time to kill ratio is top of the mark! As for his uncanny knack for finding friendly mademoiselles, he remains in a class of his own.

All - Oliver and his human driver have each been quite reckless of late. This can't continue. Zeus of the Aegis will only weigh a man's soul so many times before it comes up wanting.
___________________________



1 May 1917 cont’d
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

Writing this at 0300 so it’s technically May 2nd. Awoke just now, strangely alert after a mere 90 minutes sleep. Parker will be in shortly to wake the others. I think I’ll keep them company in the mess, then have a lazy morning. Major Horn was right to take me off this morning’s show. It’s a relief, to be honest. I need some time. If I flew today, I’d probably get myself or someone else killed.



2 May 1917
Somewhere in France

When Parker came to wake the others for morning patrol, I had him bring me some tea and biscuits as well. While they met with Major Horn for the mission briefing, I dressed then joined them in the mess for a boiled egg and some toast.

Hadrill, Cole and Grevelink all looked at me askance.

Cole finally broke the silence. “You’re an odd one, Winningstad. First day in two weeks you get to sleep in and you’re awake before the rooster.”

“C’est la Guerre, my dear Monty.” I took another bite of toast.

Theirs was the only patrol going out until the afternoon and the mess was deserted, the pilots of 54 Squadron were all snugly abed.
“What’s the morning fare?” I asked.
“Airfield,” said Hadrill between bites. “Fontaine-Uterte. Early start. Hit them at first light while they’re still in bed dreaming of the frauleins.”

Wing thought that up all by themselves. Unbelievable. F-U was an advanced landing ground. No value at all and no Jastas based there. What were the Brass Hat imbeciles thinking? Airfield attack with a single Vickers. This was a bomber job, at least until they gave us proper weapons. The problem was that the Pup was too light to carry any real ordnance. At least they weren’t flying Nieuports.

No sign of Pixley. I looked at the clock. He was cutting it rather fine and that wasn’t like him at all.

I walked down to the flight line with the three of them. Eos, rosy fingered, stirred in the East, illuminating the low fleecy clouds over Hunland. It was still cool, but I could feel a change in the air. The glass was rising. Today would be warm if I was any judge of weather. Pixley was there standing by his plane. Even with his flight helmet on I could see he wasn’t well. He looked almost green and rested a hand on the fuselage to steady himself.

“Come to see us off, have you? I’m touched,” he said.

“It’s the least I could do after dragging you out of bed for the dawn patrol.”

“Someone has to keep the wings on,” he replied with a smile.

I’m never going to live this down. If I live, that is.

Pixley removed his map and took a step toward the four of us. He wobbled, his eyes briefly rolled back in his head, then he recovered his balance, dropped his empty hand to his knee and vomited profusely. I rushed forward and grabbed his arm before he fell. Hadrill had his other arm and we walked him back toward the hangar where his rigger and mechanic took hold of him and sat him down on the grass. He looked up at me and handed me the map.
“Up all night. Something I ate. You take them.” he said. Then he fainted dead away into the arms of his mechanic.

Oh Bloody Hell.

“Well that’s torn it,” said Hadrill.

“No it hasn’t. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Sprinting to our hut, I grabbed my leather flight jacket, gloves, helmet, and goggles, then raced back to the flight line. I arrived gasping for breath.

You’re in deplorable condition, Oliver. Time to begin training again.

“Gods, man! You look almost as bad as Pixley.” exclaimed Gravelink

“Very funny. The sun will be up soon. We need to go.”

“You don’t have your Fugs, you’ll freeze,” he said.

“We’re going in low. I’ll manage.”

I was halfway into the cockpit when I noticed something was off. This wasn’t Pixley’s usual Number 12 with his initials RGHP on the fuselage. Foot still in the metal step I leaned back to look at the tail number. B1712, the dreaded spare. Not an encouraging sign. As I plunked down in the seat, I found myself sitting half a head above the windscreen. The rudder bar felt awkwardly close. It took me a moment to understand. Pixley stood 5'6" to my 6'0". No time to change things now.

Archie barked at us like a small yapping dog as we crossed the mud at 5000 ft. My feet were cold, but constant wiggling of my toes kept the blood moving just enough to prevent them going numb. I led us down from the northwest, past the field, then we reversed and started down to attack. Archie continued his yapping.

#%&*$# #%&*$#! A hot blast exploded in my left ear, staggering the Pup. The anger of an unexpected blow sheeted my mind in red. Something jabbed the left side of my upper back, in the thick muscle below the shoulder. It was like being hit full-force with one of Mr. Fairbairn’s training sticks – a sharp slapping sting of excruciating pain that spread from the point of impact like a blast wave and then was as quickly swept aside by overwhelming rage.



Feeling returned to my left arm and my hand still worked on the throttle and mixture levers. I continued down to the target.



We made one pass then I turned toward the lines and home. I was inexplicably alone. Where were the other three? My le Rhone clanked ominously, and it was only then that I smelled the petrol leaking out in a trail behind me. 30 seconds later the engine coughed and quit. This is not happening! I hammered my fist against the windscreen coaming in impotent fury. Stop your d*mn bawling, Oliver. Think !

I could see the layout as I glided down. I’d never looked closely at the Hindenburg Line before. The primary defenses appeared completely impenetrable. Three huge wire belts fronted two layers of reinforced trenches, strong points, and MG nests beyond count. Two thousand yards behind this main line of resistance was a third line of trenches and artillery emplacements protected by yet more wire belts. The forward observation outposts comprising the first line were set 600-1000 yards in advance of the main defenses, connected by a single communications trench.



Down the length of this forward line, which sat along a low ridge, clumps of earthworks stood 300 yards apart, just behind a long, thin stretch of wire. Were those the forward observation posts? There was no long fighting trench along the ridge, just a few tendrils of connecting trench here and there. Were there passages underground? From the air it was obvious that this most forward line was either in an unfinished state or it wasn’t meant to stop an advance. It looked freshly shelled and parts of the trench appeared to be in rough shape. I wondered at that. This was supposed to be a quiet sector of the front. Maybe this zone’s sole purpose was to maintain watch on British lines and keep any patrols away from the defenses 1000 yards to the rear.



I’d cleared the main lines now, but I didn’t have enough altitude or airspeed. I wouldn’t reach No Man’s Land. Holding the Pup on the edge of a stall I crawled as close to the forward trenches as possible, then released her into a shallow glide and set down near a short ribbon of frontline trench about halfway between the mounded earthworks. She slid between two shell holes then spun all the way around to a stop as the undercarriage bit deeper into the earth.

I popped the watch out of the instrument panel, stuffed my maps into my jacket and climbed out of B1712. There was an ugly jagged tear right behind the left side of the cockpit. Wood bits were poking out of the hole and it felt like one was in my back. The machine stank of petrol and oil. I had splashes on my leather flight jacket but not enough to worry me. Duty required that I should burn the Pup, but I hadn’t seen any Huns yet. Were they sleeping? Where were they? It can’t end like this! I could run for that shell hole and hide. Don’t be an idiot, Oliver. They’re going to find you. Burn the Pup. I stooped down and fumbled in my pocket for the matches.

“Halt!!”

Looking up I saw a hunched down German soldier, Mauser leveled from the hip and pointed directly at me. He looked at me, then the match I was holding and shook his head.

Nein! Nein!

He was crouching down being out of his trench and silhouetted on the ridge. I slowly extended my right arm and let the match fall out of my hand. Hands rising in the air I stared at him and tried to smile. He looked scrawny, nervous, and terribly young. His dirty face couldn’t conceal the fact that he wasn’t yet shaving. Who knew what I looked like?

Raus!

He gestured with his rifle for me to stand clear of the Pup. Easy now, don’t give him a reason to shoot you. I slowly stood up and moved toward him. We were at the top of a low ridge. Off to my right the slope ran gently down toward no man’s land and British lines.
My young captor seemed very eager to get both of us into cover, exposed as he was. He gestured urgently toward a partially collapsed comms trench where an older German waited.

“Kommen sie hier,” said the older man calmly, gesturing with his hand.

I hopped down into the trench, wincing as my flight jacket tugged at the bit of Pup stuck in my back.
The two searched me, confiscating my clock, and maps. The older one examined my notebook. He was 40, perhaps older, with a craggy face, twirled handlebar mustache, and piercing pale blue eyes that looked out from the surrounding crows’ feet. The Iron Cross adorned the left side of his heavily muscled torso. This one was an ancient campaigner, and bore watching.

“Tagebuch,” I said as he flipped through it. He hadn’t noticed the tiny pencil slipped down the spine

“Hmmf,” he snorted then handed the notebook back to me.

“For you, ze var ist over,” he said. At least that’s what it sounded like.

The two Huns marched me south toward the main communication trench that would take me to the rear and the end of my war. This forward sector looked thinly held, almost deserted, unless all the Boche were snug in their underground shelters. Walking past a dugout entrance, I caught a whiff of tobacco, garlic and what smelled like cooking meat. Some yards past the dugout, I saw what appeared to be a ramp cut right up through the face of the outer trench wall. Wood framed the opening and earth covered over the top of it. No doubt it was invisible from the air. Extending beyond the opening looked to be some kind of low passage under the wire, just large enough for a man to snake through on his belly. A sally port for patrols?

I was playing the role of defeated prisoner but my mind was racing wild. I might have a chance. The younger man was easy meat but the old veteran would be a different story. I needed time to think. I stumbled and made an exaggerated groan as I reached for the wound in my back. I fell to one knee and affected nausea. Looking up I saw the Old One’s eyes suddenly go wide, then he was gone, racing with astonishing speed for the dugout. He was through the entrance just as the shells landed. The blast knocked me off my feet and a whirring piece of metal tore past my head. At this hour? Morning hate? No, they were shooting at the Pup!

The youngster crouched down by the trench wall, arms wrapped almost protectively around his rifle. Seeing the look on my face as I rose to my feet and charged, he tried to bring his weapon to bear but I arrived too quickly. My right hand deflected the weapon aside as it discharged. My left palm smashed into his nose. Like a bullfrog jumping I drove into him and slipped around to his back. Legs wrapped around his waist and my heels driving into his groin, I had the Japanese strangle on him. I’d never practiced this full force. Mr. Fairbairn forbade it, insisting it was too dangerous. My left arm in a triangular choke squeezed his neck and my left hand held tight to the right arm driving from behind. I counted to 5 after he went limp, then set him down as gently as I could. I grabbed the Mauser, hurled it out of the trench, then sprinted for the ramp opening.

The sally port was a half-round trough cut under the bottom part of the wire barrier. I wormed my way through as quickly as I dared praying that it wasn’t a dead end. Past a second turn in the passage my leather flight jacket snagged Oh my God I’m stuck. I’m a dead man if I get hung up here. Fighting the rising panic I slid my hand down to the offending pocket and worked the flap free of the wire barb. No Man's Land was just ahead. I squeezed out of the worm-tunnel and ran. Machine guns barked at me from off to my right. As a rabbit in flight through the tall grass reveals itself only at the top of each bound, so I bounced on, shell hole to shell hole, while the morning hate rained down. I fled blindly, expecting at any moment to be shot in the back or torn apart by a shell. Neither happened. The MG bullets whined around me but that was all. When the shelling stopped a short while later, I was well into NML but had no idea how far. I dared not rise up for a look for fear of revealing my position and catching a bullet in the head.

Now what? Wait until nightfall and pray they don’t find me. The mad rush of excitement had passed and my back started to throb. I rolled onto my right side trying to get comfortable and keep and it out of the mud. Something was definitely stuck in there. My left ear continued ringing. A column of black smoke rose to the east. B1712’s funeral pyre. The artillerymen had done their work well. The perfidious machine was destroyed at last and that was some consolation.

As predicted the day was hot. The sun rose higher above the hole and I grew parched. The pool of green water at the bottom of the hole stank, taunting me. Nothing to do but wait until nightfall. Would they send a patrol out tonight? I took out the notebook and recorded the events of the day. I made a sketch as best I could of the frontline where I’d been held. Fading in and out of consciousness, my mind was trapped on a feverish carousel. I’ll never see her again. I’d be safe now if I’d turned for home. They will catch me. It’s my own fault. I’ll die a prisoner. They will kill me. I’ll never see Eliza again.

The lurking fear, so conspicuously absent after I’d landed both wingless Pups, I found I’d merely postponed. It arrived as a mature hurricane, fed now by my desperate plight. Thankfully, nobody was there to see me unmanned and shaking in my hole, trying desperately to calm my unquiet mind, and failing utterly.

I woke to the sound of her voice. “Come back to me, Oliver.” It was dark. A flare exploded off to my left and began its slow descent. How long had I been asleep? Were Huns stalking me now? Time to move. I poked my head above the lip of the shell hole and saw nothing. I probably wouldn’t see them until they were on me. Just go Oliver. I was in one of the wider stretches between the lines. I had long way to travel so I started crawling hole to hole. Exhausted, mind addled from fear and lack of water, I crawled on, seeing in every shadow or dip in the terrain, a Boche patrol come to murder me. It was nearly 0200 when I approached what I believed to be British lines. I could see a line of sandbags, maybe 20-30 yards away.

“Ew the ewl is that?” A voice hissed

“It’s me.” I replied hoarsely.

“Ah Ah. Fritz is a funny man. ‘ave wittle wuv from ‘o Mr. Miwls.”

Mews? Mills? Caesar’s Ghost! A bomb! I curled into a small ball and burrowed like a manic rat against the side of the shell hole. Three simultaneous blasts erupted near me but not so close as to spray me with splinters.

“You must be the cheeky bugger from that Kite pwaying hide and seek with the Boche.”

“Who’s the cheeky bugger now? What are you about tossing a bomb in my ear?” I rasped at my tormentor.

Keep your knickers on, I’m just pwayin’ Father Christmas to any Boche might be about. You’re my new best mate, Yank. You be winnin’ me a Fiver when aws said and done. Nobody thought you’d make it.”

“How’d you know I’m a Yank?” I croaked.

"Wewl, you ain’t speaking in received pronunciation are you? You don’t sound wike the Boche so you ain’t South African. No ewongated pre-rhotic vowews wike a Canuck, so you can say ‘about’ properwy. There’s naught for tensing before a nasaw consonant ‘an you don’t bugger up the monothongs wike an Aussie or Kiwi might, so as Mr. Sherwock ‘Olmes says, I ewiminated the impossibiwl ‘an took what’s weft: Yank Q.E.D."

Who is this man? His voice kept coming from slightly different spots.

“More wuv from Miwlsy coming up. When the bombs go off you grab your bowwocks an rabbit your arse in ‘ere at the doubwle quick. Savvy?”

“I understand.”

The Mills bombs exploding were like a starter’s pistol. I was out of my hole and running to the trench line. I leapt in heedless of where I would land and crashed against the far wall of the trench, collapsing in a heap on the duckboards.

“Bwoddy Marvewous.” said a familiar voice. I looked up and there stood an absolute giant of a man, grinning from ear to ear. He extended a massive hand. I took it and with no effort of my own I was pulled immediately upright.

I held his grip. “My name’s Winningstad. Oliver Winningstad. I’m obliged to you, Sergeant…”

“Prewett. Sergeant Thomas Prewett, second of the sixth Gwosters at your service.” he said, still grinning.

“Thank you, Sergeant Thomas Prewett. I think you may have saved my life. Might I ask your help removing this jacket, please?”

The big man held my flight jacket as I wriggled out of it. Whatever was sticking into my back, caught most painfully on the leather for a moment then I was free.

Prewett saw my shoulder pips and was suddenly taken aback. “I didn’t know you were an officer, sir. I was just ‘avin some sport with you out there amongst the ‘uns. They been creepin’ up to our wines makin’ a nuisance of ‘emsewlves. Rather enjoy the game. Begiuwles the tedium. Quiet part of the wines ‘ere, sir.”

“Not to worry. You’re a linguist I take it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir, but I do know my dipthongs from my fricatives, as any proper speaker of the King’s Engwish must, if you take my meaning…”

He suddenly put his finger to his lips and signaled me to stay where I was, then slipped off down the trench. In a short while he waved for me to join him.

“Visitors” he whispered, pointing toward the blackness of NML. “Can you give a heave to a Miwls bomb or two, sir? If we ‘it ‘em together it’wl be such fun and we’wl send ‘em packing right quick. See the dead tree there? The ‘Boche are just weft of it. I’wl shade off down our trench then on my signal wet fwy. Savvy… sir?”

I gave him a smile and thumbs up. Prewett left me with three of his Mills bombs then moved quickly down the trench to my left. I hefted the Mills bomb. It weighed maybe a pound, not much more. I peeked over the parapet at the target hole by the tree. It was a long throw, but I felt I could make it. Three in succession would be a test but I looked down at Prewett and gave him another thumbs up. He peered over for a long time then gave me a hand signal counting down with his fingers 4-3 2-1. I pulled the pin on the bomb and threw. My shoulder squawked in protest. I sent the other two bombs down range as quickly as I could then ducked down into the trench. I could hear multiple explosions in the distance, Prewett’s and my own. I thought I heard voices shouting. The only word I could make out was “Scheisse!”

My giant friend returned. “Oh that was a cracking innings, sir! Did you hear them griping?” he asked with a quiet laugh.
“You look right knackered, sir. What say we get you a biwlet and you can meet the CO in the morning?”