Good stuff, Carrick. Cool picture of all the bunkers at the front!


2nd. Lt. Evan C. Easom,
No. 48 Squadron RFC.

March 26th, 1917.

Evan woke the next morning with a terrific pounding in his head. The sound of Rast splashing water in the wash-basin was a vicious needle being bored into his ears, the distant rumble of a machine’s engine being tested was a cacophonous assault on the senses. With a groan, he reluctantly pulled himself from his cot, stumbling to his feet and searching around for his uniform. “Dammit...Ackerman, have you seen my uniform?” he asked, and was answered by a pair of trousers being carelessly thrown into his chest. With a great sigh he pulled on the trousers, retrieving his socks which he kept tucked into his leather shoes by the door and slipping them on also. As he searched for his tunic, there was a brief knock at the door and Porter, the bespectacled Orderly, poked his head in the door. “Sorry to disturb you, sirs,” he began in his quiet, wistful tone. Rast beckoned him in, and the door swung fully open. Evan was eternally grateful to see that Porter had come equipped with three mugs of murky brown coffee, which he set on the writing desk. As Evan greedily snatched up his coffee, taking a long sip, Porter cleared his throat. “Captain Robinson has asked that all pilots and observers convene in the Officers’ Mess in fifteen minutes”. The three pilots thanked him, and with a pious bow of the head the Orderly retreated back out through the door, pulling it gently closed behind him.

Evan’s tunic and undershirt were eventually discovered underneath Rast’s cot, and after hastily dressing he joined his two companions in heading to the Mess, where they found the majority of the Squadron’s aircrew, lounging around in chairs or leaning against the thick oak support beams in the centre of the little wooden building. Holliday was stoking the fire with an iron poker, disinterestedly turning his back to the gathering of airmen. Two Sergeant Pilots, whom Evan had not yet been introduced to, gazed wondrously around at the furnishings of the Officers’ mess, speaking in hushed tones to one-another, no doubt comparing it to their own mess, which was situated beside the row of Bessonneaux on the aerodrome. After a few minutes, the last of the aircrew arrived, and Captain Robinson cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen! I got the word from H.Q. after our little show over the lines yesterday. Number 48 is now officially operational. Now, you all know about the big push coming in April. Well, we’ll be up in the air when it comes - so it’s time for us, says H.Q, to get some proper experience over the front! I’ve spoken to some of the other Squadrons in our sector and asked what we can expect to run into over the front. They tell me that the Hun in our sector is as tough as they are devious. They fly the Albatros, and some of their Squadrons have the new Vee-Strutter. Remember! If you see enemy scouts, you hold your formation so that your observers can catch them in a crossfire!”. The room hung on his words, stone-faced, and Evan could almost taste the strange combination of anticipation and anxiety that permeated the air.

“Now, for today’s assignments,” Robinson continued, unfolding a telegram from his pocket. Just as he had cleared his throat and had started to read, there was a sudden, chilling ghostly wail from outside, low at first, and sweeping up in pitch to a frantic screech - a siren! There was an instant of confusion, before realisation flickered in Robinson’s eyes. “Out! Everybody!” he cried, and the room sprunk into life as the pilots shot out of their seats, scrambling for the exit and spilling out onto the aerodrome. For the second morning, the WHOMP, WHOMP, of the Archie started up. Another screech sounded out - but it was different. In fact, it was more of a whistle. A moment later, the ground shook as a violent explosion kicked up dust in the centre of the aerodrome. A second bomb exploded a few hundred feet from the gathered pilots, sending a bell tent cartwheeling in rags through the air. Evan looked up and saw four Rolands triumphantly circling overhead. He felt somebody grab his arm, and looked down dumbly into Wickham’s enraged face. “Well? Let’s get up there!” He cried. Evan nodded, and the two airmen took off running towards the hangars. “Get our machine out!” Wickham cried to the cowering Mechanics, and immediately they sprung into life. Several other pilots cottoned on, and as the bombs continued to drop intermittently, kicking up towering sprays of mud, the Mechanics pulled out as many machines as they could.

The first machine to get off the ground was Tidmarsh’s, followed closely by Evan’s. Behind them, three more machines clawed their way off the ground. Staring upwards, Evan saw the four Rolands circling like birds of prey - but at the sight of the Bristols getting off the ground, they immediately turned East. An Archie burst went off right beside one machine, and suddenly it started to spiral down. Evan cried out in triumph as the German machine spiralled towards earth...but his exultation was immediately replaced by horror as he realised, the Hun hadn’t been hit...instead he was spiralling down onto the tail of a Bristol! Immediately Evan threw his machine into a turn and started towards the descending Roland. In one curving sweep it pulled out of its dive and swung around onto the six of the Bristol ahead of it - but before the German could open fire Evan pressed down on the trigger of his Vickers. Bullets raked the fuselage of the German machine, and with a shudder it raised its nose for a moment, before flopping over and flying head-first into the ground, smashing to splinters as Evan flew overhead.

Within a minute, the raid was over, the three surviving Rolands having faded into the clouds and disappeared to the East. One by one, the five airborne Bristols slowly drifted down to land. As Evan and Wickham were climbing from their machine, they watched as Tidmarsh’s machine rolled over a fresh bomb crater in the centre of the aerodrome, bringing their machine to a sudden and violent stop as it tipped onto its nose. Thankfully, both airmen scrambled out of the machine uninjured.

“Damned cowards!” Robinson growled, as the pilots gathered around the bomb crater in the centre of the aerodrome. Sergeant Taylor, Robinson’s Clerk, then arrived at the scene, shakily smoking a cigarette and attempting to brush the dirt from his uniform where he’d, evidently, dove into the mud to avoid the bombing. “Casualties?” Robinson asked him, a venom scarcely hidden in his voice. “None, Sir” Taylor replied, and the Captain seemed to deflate in relief. He then turned back to the crater. “Get this damned mess sorted right away. I want us to be able to use this field by six O’Clock tomorrow”. Taylor flicked his cigarette. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir”.

The few pilots that had got off the ground were asked to submit reports. Later, in the early evening, Taylor arrived in the Officer’s mess and requested that Evan make haste to the Captain’s office. Confusedly, Evan left the warmth of the mess out into the chill night, cursing as he nearly tripped and fell into one of the brand-new craters that dotted La Bellevue. Entering Robinson’s office, he found both the Captain and a young Private, who was grinning ear to ear, awaiting him. Evan stood to attention.

“You asked to see me, sir?”
“At ease, Easom”.
“Sir”.
“It says in your report that one of the Rolands came down and attacked a Bristol, and that he then crashed after you fired at him?”.
“Yes, sir”.

Immediately the Private shot to his feet, his grin replaced by a mask of outrage. “What! But we hit him! I saw him fall!” he cried out. Anger flashed in Robinson’s eyes. “Sit down, Private!” he roared, and the private sunk back into his seat. Robinson turned back to Evan. “Private Farmer here claims that it was his artillery battery that hit the Hun. He says that he landed a near-direct hit, and the Hun fell down in a spiral to crash”. Robinson looked at Evan expectantly. Surprised, and slightly annoyed, Evan glanced over at the Private. “Well, yes, I saw the archie burst go off near him, but he spiralled down to attack one of our machines! He came down just three fields away, you’ll see the bullet holes in the wreck!”. Robinson sighed. “We did check. The wreck’s burnt to a crisp. Tell me, Evan, if you did shoot down this Hun, how come none of the four other Pilots or their Observers saw this?”. Evan reddened. “Well, I assume they were preoccupied by trying to chase the other Huns…” he said, weakly. Robinson’s tone quietened, somehow more intimidating than his previous outburst.

“I won’t have glory-hunters in my squadron. Much less liars. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”.
“But, sir, I’m--”
“Do I make myself clear, #%&*$# you?” Robinson bellowed, slamming a hand on his desk.

Weakly, Evan replied “Yes, sir”. As he was dismissed, he caught a glimpse of Private Farmer’s smug smirk.

Golly. You'd think dropping a Hun right on top of your C.O's head would be enough for confirmation, eh?