Patrick insisted that Lindley file his report before going anywhere. After hurriedly going through events with Captain Pye, the pilots of C flight finally headed out to the crash site. This was about a quarter of a mile from Bruay in a wood near a village called Lapignuy. They weren’t the first on the site and even as they tripped over tree roots in their haste, C flight saw pilots from 40 squadron pulling at the white rudder.

The wings had been smashed to a mess of fabric and match wood and the impact had broken the fuselage in two. It struck Lindley that the break was in a strange box pattern, with straight lines and a rectangular projection forward that seemed to point at the empty cockpit of the fallen Albatros.

“Hi! That is property of twenty three squadron!” McGregor called out.
“I don’t see your name on it,” one of the Nieuport pilots replied. He stuck his finger through a hole in the fuselage. “Is this how you treat your things? We shan't get you another.”
“Which one of you got him?” Keen of 40 asked.
“I did,” Patrick declared as he inspected the scene. “Although he originally had me. Lindley here dived in and threw him off my tail. He definitely deserves a share.”

“Where is the pilot?” a pale looking Lindley asked.
“Under there,” ‘Badger' Harris pointed out a sheet of wing fabric that had been pulled over the body. A boot poked out accusingly. “You don’t have to look. His face is a bit of a mess. I reckon he died when he hit the ground. Real quick.”

A tall 2nd Lieutenant who looked a bit older than his fellow officers grimaced. “He was burning though. The flames got to the cockpit.” He looked across at the blackened parts of the wreck. ‘Sizzle, sizzle.” The final bizarre comment sounded almost happy. “Bloody Germans,” He explained. “Have you heard that they got Swanson?”

The Spad pilots were stunned.

“Swanson?” Patrick recovered. “I thought he was flying a desk?” He paused in thought. “I'll see if the old man will sanction a few drinks.”
“Squadron night?”
“Squadron night indeed. Since we’re sharing our mess, I imagine you lot are invited. Bring the rudder. It'll look good on the wall.


Earlier that day
There was a glow in the east that represented the promise of a fine summer day. Captain Patrick strolled over to the assembled pilots of C flight. The group were shuffling around and trying to check their flying kit while gulping hot mugs of tea.
“Right chaps, we are on ground attack,” groans came up from the more experienced pilots. “We are to hit Phalempin aerodrome. Intelligence has it that Jasta 30 are there. We are to ruin their morning. Strafe the hangars, maybe we can get lucky and hit something explosive. I'll see you on the line up at 05:30.”

Spads tore down toward the German aerodrome. As they closed in, Lindley spotted men pushing tiny dark aeroplanes into motion. He could imagine the urgency on the ground. He squeezed off a burst at one of the canvas hangars, but he had a new plan.

Sweeping over the aerodrome and disappearing behind the tree line, he pulled up and banked in a climbing turn.
Sweeping down behind the Albatros scouts, Lindley fired slashing bursts at the rear most aeroplanes as they climbed sluggishly into the morning sky. The German pilots ducked in their seats and pushed downward to hug the ground as they turned back for the protection of the aerodrome machine gunners.

Those gunners persuaded Lindley not to pursue them. Instead he continued down the line. The lead aircraft had enough flying speed now to turn to fight. But maybe not enough. Lindley shot at an Albatros and the pilot over corrected his turn. The black crossed machine toppled over and dived, too briefly, before smashing into the ground as if it was never meant to fly.

The next machine wasn’t just fighting Lindley. O'Grady’s Spad swept into view and Lindley watched as the Irishman poured scorning bullets into the hapless Albatros. After a short dose of this punishment, the Albatros dived at full speed into the ground.

“That’s good enough, I’d say" thought Lindley. He could see Spads heading west and so he gave the hangars of Phalempin a cursory glance and turned to follow.

Lindley was some distance behind the others even as they approached Bruay. Something caught his eye. Below and to the left, a yellow Spad was swirling in a tight turn.

It was no landing circle. As he peered down, Lindley could see an Albatros chasing the Spad. Lindley pushed the stick forward. As the Hispano engine raced, Lindley prayed that he would make it in time.

He did make it. The white tailed Albatros swerved sharply as Lindley fired at the German machine which had somehow followed the returning Spads all the way back to their own aerodrome. Lindley followed and got several good shots in.

Suddenly another Spad appeared between Lindley and his quarry. It was Patrick, C flight’s leader. His stripe-nosed Spad ducked and weaved behind the Albatros until flames flickered down the nose. The flames hadn’t got far before the German machine smashed into the trees.

One by one the Spads landed on the field at Bruay. Lindley was excited as the pilots assembled near the reporting office.

“Well done, lad,” Patrick congratulated Lindley. “That Hun nearly got me before you jumped in.”
“It didn’t crash far from here,” Lindley jabbered. “Can we go and have a look?”

Major Wilkinson was also aware of Swanson's death. He gave a green light to a squadron binge, on the condition that a 3 man flight was on notice for the dawn patrol. Lots were drawn and B flight lost.

“We will still have a toast to Swanson,” Warman of B flight vowed. “We just have to retire before it gets too messy.”

Trucks were sent out to look for extra supplies, particularly spirits, which the mess officer feared might be exhausted in the evening. 40 squadron were invited, as Patrick had predicted. Major Tilney accepted, but instructed the mess waiters to remove many of the better chairs.

Long before dinner, the rudder of the white Albatros was installed on the wall of the mess dining room. Patrick toasted it before the officers were called to sit.
“Brave man, to try to bounce us right after we bounced his aerodrome.” McGregor commented.
“Foolish more likely. He let his anger get the better of him.”
“His was a righteous anger,” declared Molesworth of 40 squadron. “It's unsporting to attack a fellow when he is taking off.”
“It's an excellent time,” Mannock replied. “They would do it to us if they could. Don't give the rotten Hun the chance.”
“Now, now Mick. If you were a real gentleman, then you might understand.”
“Gentlemen won't win this war,” Mannock growled. “Our job is to shoot them in the back before they know what hit them.”

40 squadron had an announcement of their own during the toasts. “Congratulations to our American volunteer,” declared Lt Keen. “Badger here, stand up Badger has got another confirmed victory. That's five now and we have a confirmed ace.”

2nd Lt Harris grinned and nodded at the cheering rows of men. “Thank you all,” he replied. “It's a fine thing to hear your applause. It makes me feel like I've come a long way from getting bawled out for sticking around when a fight broke out.”

After dinner was over, the drinking started in earnest. O'Grady and Patrick were competing to see who could down their drinks the fastest and Lindley was sitting it out. Harris came over to see what was wrong with him.

“Nothing at all, Badger. Just need to take a breather. These chaps are champions on the lash.”
Harris swirled a glass of lemonade in front of him. “Not really my sport either, Hoss. You don't have to drink with them.”
“C flight has a reputation to uphold you know.” Lindley looked around the room. “I say, they haven't moved the piano.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Oh, nothing. I play a bit you know. My mother had me take lessons. I wonder...”

Sitting at the battered upright piano, Lindley looked at the scatter of sheet music that had been left around. “Let's see. How about this one? I reckon that I can I can do this one. Maybe just the chords for starters.”

“The young aviator lay dying,
as on the aerodrome he lay..”

The piano playing wasn't brilliant, but drink and the cameraderie were forgiving. The by the time that the song called for the engine to be rebuilt, half of the pilots in the room were bellowing out the words as they sloshed more brandy into glasses and O'Grady opened a new bottle of whiskey for himself and swigged it directly.

“I'll be riding a cloud in the morning,
No engine before me to cuss.

“Shake the lead from your feet and get busy,
There's another lad needing this bus!”

“Hurrah! Play another one! Do you know Sister Susan?”
“Can't say I do. Is she pretty?”