Maj Collin Sitwell
43 Sqn RAF
28 Victories
11 Nov 1918

I sat at the desk. The sun had already come up, but I made no move to the door and the morning Pilots Briefing. I could see the lads heading over to the briefing tent now. I looked at my watch; 0810 hrs. I glanced back at the paper in my hands.

The dispatch was simple. Just words on paper. But the words gave it power.

With a long, deep, drawn breath I rose from the desk. I felt strange as I crossed the distance to the office door. Floating, everything strangely muted. Nothing felt real. I had made it. I was still alive.

I crossed the grass between my office and the briefing tent. I took a moment to compose myself and walked through the door. At once all chatter stopped and the aged eyes on all those young faces turned to me to await the word on todays mission. Some faces looked gaunt and strained. Too many close calls. Too many friends lost. Some of the newer chaps still held a hint of innocence. Just barely, bit still there.

All looked to me as I struggled to find the right words to mark this occaison.

I looked around the room, catching the eyes as I went. "Gentlemen, Orders."

I raised the paper and read:

Hostilities will cease at 11.00 today. No operations should be undertaken which cannot be completed by that time and no machines will cross the lines after that hour. Patrols will be maintained but should not operate further forward than the line of our balloons.

The room was silent. Finally, after what seemed like hours a single voice arose thick with emotion, "Sir, is it really over?"

I looked at the young boy, a lump forming in my throat, "Yes son. It's over."