Carrick - good stuff. Wonder what No.3's fate was....safe, I hope...
Fullofit - Quirks escorted by Fees. Dear god. I hope Mulberry gets as many of those damned hun raiders as possible. I have a feeling they'll be back at La Bellevue before long...
MFair - Aha, Herr Ganz has recovered just in time to enjoy the month from the 'right' side of things!



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

April 5th, 1917.

The night of the 4th, in the Bell tent with Ackerman in another drunken, silent daze, was atrociously cold, despite the slowly-warming spring weather. Evan had managed a cap of brandy to warm himself before Ackerman had drained the bottle, murmuring an undirected curse under his breath and slumping over, still in uniform. Evan only removed his tunic to sleep, throwing his thick wool cover over himself and shivering in the almost vacuum-like chill. From one of the Sergeants put on the AA guns he’d bartered, using cigarettes, a pair of the man’s puttees, which he now wrapped around his double-socked feet in a vain attempt to stave off the painful chill.

In the morning, the pilots made their way lethargically to the Mess, the bitterness of the raid and lost comrades still lingering in the air. Capt. Robinson was awaiting them patiently beside the Operations board with its freshly chalked-in sorties. Once all the Squadron pilots had arrived, he called for attention. “Gentlemen, from now on we will be taking a bigger role in this war. The big infantry push is four days away, no doubt you’ve heard the preliminary artillery over the past few days, so expect us to be doing more reconnaissance work. I also want at least one machine and crew on standby at all times, in case those damned huns come back to raid us again. Crews on alert will be posted on this board, and will rotate each hour and a half”. The room was silent, save for the odd sipping sound of a pilot taking a gulp of tea, or coffee.

“We will be operating in and around Arras, reconnoitring the Hun trenches. I want you all to look out for artillery positions and any unusually large troop concentrations. One crew from each flight will be detailed for aerial photography”. A batman passed a cup of tea to the Captain, and he uttered a quiet thank-you. As he took a sip, Evan thought that he looked very tired. “‘B’ Flight will be on the first show, over Arras. I’ll lead the flight myself. I want every airman to be on the lookout for Vee-Strutters. Remember, if we are attacked, keep formation and catch them in the crossfire!”.

Evan endeavoured to secure himself a cup of coffee and breakfast before he had to get ready. As he sat down to eat, Ackerman entered the mess, rubbing at his reddened eyes, and slumped down into the seat next to Evan. “Morning, Ackerman,” Evan tried, tentatively. His room-mate made no reply.

At 11 O’Clock, the pilots of ‘B’ flight climbed into their machines, and promptly Robinson’s Bristol shot forwards, followed by Holliday’s, and then the five remaining Bristols. One by one, they slowly turned off to the East before slowly forming into a ‘V’. Scarcely ten minutes after they had taken off, the engine of Evan’s Bristol suddenly groaned unnaturally, and began to cough thin, grey smoke. Panic immediately set in - Fire! As he switched off and glided down, hastily firing a signal flare to inform Robinson of his trouble, he realised with great relief that, no, the engine wasn’t on fire. But, something was definitely wrong with it, and so he curved down in a wide ‘C’ to return to La Bellevue, coming down two or three fields short. With a great sigh, he heaved himself from the cockpit. “Bit of a bust, that, eh?” Wickham said behind him, and he scoffed. “Typical. That big speech from the Captain this morning and we have a dud engine”. Evan sighed. “I think we’ll be awfully in shape by the end of this war, if we keep having to walk everywhere,” he replied, and the two airmen set off back towards La Bellevue.

Bitterly, as they arrived back on the aerodrome, Evan motioned over one of the Ack-Emmas. “We came down just South of here, a couple fields over. That’s where the machine is. Do you think you could fetch it for us, Corporal?”. The mechanic, a Corporal by the name of Blair, gave Evan an unimpressed look. “Well, oi s’pose I’d better ‘ad, Sir” he replied.

It was around lunchtime when Evan heard the telltale rumble of Bristols returning to the field. As he lounged back in one of the armchairs beside the fireplace, he listened to the engine of the first Bristol, humming louder as it came in to land. Then, here came the second. He heard it through the thin Mess walls as it taxied and switched off. With a twinge of confusion, he realised that he couldn’t hear any other machines. These two must have returned early. He lit a cigarette, deeply inhaling and allowing himself to sink further into the armchair, when suddenly the door to the mess swung open, rattling viciously against the outer wall and startling Evan and the two ‘A’ flight pilots that also occupied the mess. The invader was Ackerman, who stormed across the mess, still in full flying gear and with his face oil-blackened, and slammed his hand down on the bartop. “Whiskey!” He demanded of the gobsmacked bartender, who quickly produced a glass and uncorked a bottle. “The Bottle, curse you!” Ackerman roared, snatching the bottle from the table and swigging greedily from it.

“What the bloody hell is all this about, Chris?” one of the ‘A’ flight pilots shouted over, and Ackerman swung around on his heel with a wild, animal look in his eyes. “We ran into them, didn’t we? The damned Richthofen Circus! They tore us to pieces!” The words reverberated off the walls, as the ‘A’ pilot fell silent. Swaying like a lunatic on his feet, Ackerman aggressively drank once more from the bottle, before seeming to go into a numb, vacant state, wandering off in a daze and slumping down at the mess table. Holliday then appeared in the doorway, he, too, in full flying gear. Shakily he removed his helmet, quietly approaching the Batman who stood dutifully in the far corner, doing his best not to show any surprise at Ackerman’s outburst. “Sergeant Davis,” Holliday said, almost in a whisper. “Fetch all the aircrew”.

Within fifteen minutes every pilot and observer, even Shaw, the Sergeant-Pilot from ‘A’ flight, had been assembled in the Officers’ mess, sitting or leaning in lines before Holliday, who stood with a glass of port in his hand. The aircrew pretended not to notice the ripples in the liquid, as the glass quivered slightly in his hand. Ackerman remained at the mess table, still in his daze.

After a pause, in which the energy in the room became charged with sinister anticipation, the men fell into silence and looked expectantly at Holliday. He took a long sip of his port, and then he spoke. “Captain Roberts is gone. Adams, Cooper, Leckler and their observers, too. All dead”. The room stirred. Hushed disbelief echoed among the men. “...Which makes me acting C.O”. The mess stagnated unnervingly. Evan’s thoughts raced. ‘The Richthofen Circus’, Ackerman had said. Evan knew of them. Manfred von Richthofen, the top living German Ace, who flew a red aeroplane. He’d read about him in the newspapers.

Evan thought about what would have happened had his engine not failed earlier that day.