Unfortunately, I had blipped the engine off just before pausing, which meant he wound up gliding and then spinning into some trees. Poor kid apologized a zillion times, saying he didn't know how to start the engine. Too bad, really, as I had shot down two and forced down another (we were both out of ammo and his engine was shot) by flying directly above him, making him dive away again and again until he crashed. I'm going to try it again in a future mission, as it was simply too cool. But it killed the campaign, so I just started over.
The dates matched up to the narrative, so I just went with the flow:
Unexpected Wingmen 12 July, 1917
FranceRene woke me with the ringing of a cow bell, using one of the few English words he knew in a loud voice as he did so.
"Up, up!"
I rubbed my eyes and instantly regretted it. I had been sorting machinegun rounds until late in the evening, and the odd grime of brass was now making me blink hard and weep against the sunlight coming into the hangar.
Sunlight! Judging by the shadows, it had to be nearly nine in the morning, and briefings were usually held then! Putting on the clean shirt Rene handed me, I pushed my boots on, threw on my hat, and nearly ran to the briefing area as I wrestled on my jacket. I arrived just before it began, slipping into a chair at the back. The mission would take me to a familiar spot:
I studied the map intently, as I had brought neither my own or a pad of paper on which to take notes.
Afterwards, I approached the small table where there was an urn of coffee, my fellow pilots making room for me as if I had some sort of disease, dispersing to the outside of the hangar to smoke cigarettes without so much as a Good Morning. I poured myself a much needed cup, made much too strong, and brushed past them to where the mechanics were pushing out the aeroplanes in readiness. My spirits rose at the sight of my own, now with proper French roundels.
I smiled at them as I approached, and they greeted me with so much comraderie that it warmed me much more than the beverage in my hand. My flight gear had been brought out as well, placed on the lower wing, and I started what seemed like a ritual of putting it all on. Shirt collar slack, silk scarf wrapped carefully to cover all of my neck, ends tucked in to keep it secure, shirt buttoned back up, wool sweater on, thick pants for a second layer on my legs, overcoat, helmet and goggles, with the mittens held in my hand for later. I peeked into the cockpit to see my map case and a grease pencil were on the seat, so I pulled it out and made annotations while the mission waypoints were still fresh in my head.
The mechanics did shoot each other conspiratorial looks while they worked, though, and I was getting curious as they started the engines to ensure it would run and be warm for when I had to take off.
I was also getting curious that the number four plane's pilot had walked out in full gear and had performed the pre-flight checks and engine warming himself. The other pilots seemed to only arrive ten minutes before launch, walking around their aeroplanes in a perfunctory manner and going through the minimums of control checks, as if such things were best left to their juniors who were stuck on the ground. Before I could contemplate it further, Rene stepped forward, holding something behind his back.
"For you," he said in French, and presented me what looked like a bundle of woolen socks.
Seeing my look of confusion, he rolled the top of it down to reveal a rather large metal flask hidden within.
"Coffee," he said, "Socks to keep it warm."
"Magnificent," I replied in French, meaning it, and they acted more delighted than I was at the prospect of having something warm to drink while in the air!
With that, I climbed into the cockpit at seeing my hesitant comrades walking across the grass to their aeroplanes, and ran through the controls. Rudder, elevator, ailerons. Gun charged. Map case and coffee secured. All pilots in aeroplanes, and the lead started his engine as they pulled away the chocks. My own started immediately, and I blipped the engine in a steady thrum to keep it running but not moving forward, smiling to myself at the power of the motor pushing the wings left to the ground as it powered up, rocking them back as it relaxed.
I glanced over at the number four pilot, but he was concentrating on the leader of the flight:
In short order we were in the air and formed up, making a grand sight!
The landmarks were familiar, and I was beginning to relax and enjoy the sensation of flying when in the distance I saw a familiar but disconcerting sight:
We made for the melee, trying to count and make out planes as we approached.
Fellow Nieuport 17's in trouble! This would not stand!
As we entered the combat, two Huns made to my left in front of me.
The trailing plane dove to the right, and I made to put him in my gunsight:
Rather than directly pursue, I slipped slightly as I turned, catching him as he climbed to make a more sharp turn. I was learning!
Raking my sights across his aeroplane, I fired a long burst:
To my suprise, his upper left wing failed him, flying up and over the right one!
For a sickening instant his plane seemed to hang in the air, as if deciding what to do, and then plummeted to the ground..
There was no time for basking in the victory, as I scanned wildly around me and made for the bee swarm some six hundred yards away. Six planes, I quickly counted, knowing it was too many. The closest planes were friendly, however:
But they were seeing somethin I wasn't, and a glance backwards confirmed my fears. Turning about quickly, I was glad that the Hun hadn't been much closer!
The Jerry charged at me, head on, scaring me so badly that I failed to fire my guns.
He flashed under my aeroplane with a whisker to spare from colliding with me, and I looked back even as I made the controls to turn about.
And so it went, turn and face each other, as if we were knights jousting, turn and face each other, three deadly circuits in which neither of us could score a hit, until finally I tried a desperate measure. On his next pass I pulled high even as he approached, twisting my aircraft about like a dancer, and reversing in an instant. He gained ground on me, but my dive soon put my airspeed equal and better than his.
I had found his tail!
He quickly saw my move and turned underneath me, and I made to perform the same trick again...
...only to discover he, too, had it in mind. By sheer luck I found him in front of my gun, hanging in the air, waiting to drop his nose on me.
I saw the bullets enter his craft's fuselage behind the engine and the sudden jerk of the pilot that immediately become a slump. There was no need to pursue any further.
Once again whipping my head around, there to my right was a German flying towards me with two of my flight curling in after him!
Seeing the Nieuport to the right extending away, I blipped the engine, turned hard left, started it back up again, and took aim.
Tracers whizzed beneath my aeroplane, and I begged off of Jerry's tail in order to save my own! Slipping left and looking back, I saw no aeroplanes. I slapped my head forward to see that it was one of my own that had been over eager! Worse, he had lost the track of his flight and nearly spun into the ground!
I cursed as I was forced to catch up with the enemy. Their damnable planes were just so fast!
I thought I had him as he turned right and left, but in my haste I had made to turn too quickly and had to blip the engine off for fear of having the wings fly off on their own!
He took advantage of the respite, diving away and then turning back on me:
I turned right with him, blessing the rotary for twisting my about in the sky.
He was so fast, though, and my maneuver had slowed me so much, that I could do little but watch him fly away from me.
In fact, he moved so quickly that I tracked him by his shadow on the ground, and made to take advantage of his reverse.
This time, however, I would make a gentle turn, shaped like a U, and hold my altitude, hoping he would turn about and climb much in the shape of a fish hook.
It worked!
I fired as he rolled his plane from a right turn to a left, ripping into his upper wing!
He dove away, but we would not let him escape!
I was back on him in a split moment, as he made the mistake of climbing.
I pressed the trigger, letting a long stream of hand picked machinegun rounds find their mark:
Looking about, I found myself alone in the air. What convention of madness has aeroplanes thick around one for one moment, roar and tracer, and then none around to be seen the next, as if they had never existed but in the imagination?
I made for home, scanning the skies for friend or foe, but seeing only a train puffing its way up the line:
It reminded me of the coffee Rene had sent with me, and I pulled off a mitten in order to make off the top and have some. It was no longer hot, but it certainly wasn't frozen, either. I drank it greedily, finding that even its slight warmth felt good in my mouth and down my throat.
I spotted the rest of the flight - four planes, meaning we hadn't lost anyone - approaching the field, readying to land, and I took my turn, running my plane right up to the hangars and signalling to Rene, who had positioned himself on the other side of the aerodrome, that all was well with his aeroplane.
My jaunty wave belied an exhaustion that I did not realize until I made to get out, and it was with Rene's help that my foot found its mark on the side of the fuselage, and his strong hand on my back kept me from falling to the ground. I sat on the grass and then let myself lay on my back, arms at my side. There was no looks of worry, though, as I was smiling. A moment later I accepted the hand up and walked arm and arm with him into the hangar, where he helped me remove my flight gear.
I was amazed to see my clock showed it only at half past twelve. I would have sworn it had been six hours passed in the air, not two and a quarter! I made out my log and penned a short summary of the flight for later translation, handing them to Rene to deliver to the Executive Officer. I took a meal of bread and cheese right there, and fell asleep without bothering to wash up first.
1800 hours, Officer's MessI arrived as ordered, washed and in a clean uniform, quite uncertain as to what I was summoned for. The tables had been moved from their typical columns to a U shape, with the head table standing off from the others. The other pilots of the Escadrille were waiting, including three from the morning's flight, all looking anxious and eager, but with a menacing gleam in their eyes. The Executive Officer sat behind the table, papers in front of him, and I noticed that behind me as I walked in there was a military policeman.
"Is this your sworn statement on what happened in the air today?" he began, in a serious tone that spelled trouble.
"Yes it is," I responded, with some chuckles and gasps coming from the assembled audience.
"You claim three Germans downed by your gun?"
"I do," I said, anger welling up inside me.
"You claim you single handedly engaged and destroyed two German scouts within a few minutes, and then downed a third shortly thereafter?"
"He did," said a loud voice from the right side of the room, the speaker obscured by a line of aviators that had pressed forward to get a better look at my undoing. They parted immediately, revealing the Escadrille Commander.
"Sir, I thought you had gone to Division today..." the Exec started, and then trailed off at the stare he was being given. He gathered himself and began again, "The pilots in his flight said -"
"I was a pilot in his flight, taking Rendell's place," he stated, flat of emotion, but with force, "and Rendell took mine in delivering reports to Division."
He walked to the center of the tables as I moved quickly towards the open end of them, closest to the door.
"And as a member of his flight, I can attest to his statement and probably add much to it, as three short paragraphs do little justice to his bravery and skill shown today," and with that transpired into French. I can't much say exactly what he said, but it sounded much better than what happened; then again, everything sounds much better than it happened in French. The remaining three pilots of my flight were soon looking down at the ground, with the flight leader finding a chair to sit down in, as he had gone pale.
The looks of the other pilots went from shock to suprise and then very serious as they began to stare at me. I was seriously contemplating running for the door when the Commander drew himself to attention and called my name in a loud, official sounding voice.
"Step forward, you idiot," the Executive Officer hissed.
And Sergeant Martin Miller, who a few days earlier had been a fugitive impersonating a mechanic, became a decorated hero of France.
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