Still scrambling to catch up! I just can't seem to find the time. You'd think I could, being locked in the house and all

Raine - Sorry about the new man - and after such a fantastic introduction, too. It makes a chilling juxtaposition to Collins' long and illustrious career...

2nd. Lt. Evan C. Easom,
No. 48 Squadron R.F.C

April 8th - April 10th, 1917.

Bloody April. The words had hung like a storm in the minds of the pilots of Number 48 Squadron R.F.C. since their utterance in the mess the previous evening. The wind seemed to whisper the phrase as the aircrew had stood, semicircular, around the funeral proceedings for Mason, Tidmarsh’s observer, as he was laid into a hastily-dug grave. At the end of the ceremony, Evan had craned his neck upwards at the faraway drone of an aircraft engine, and had spotted a B.E.2 flying Eastwards. Bloody April, indeed. What hope did a B.E.2 have against the Vee-Strutters of Richthofen’s Circus?

Breakfast passed quietly in the mess. Early on, word of two more official confirmations came in for Evan, over the two Albatri at Rumbeke. This had earned him celebrity among his Brother Officers. “Four in as many days!” Baker had said, a grin spread across his face. “You’ll go bankrupt!”. When Evan had asked what he meant, he laughed heartily. “What? You thought you were going to get out of buying a round for the mess?”

Looming over the curious mix of bravado and melancholia that now encapsulated the mess, always, was the operations board. As per usual, ‘B’ flight was on the morning show, and at 7 O’Clock the pilots methodically went through the motions of returning to their billetts, lethargically pulling on their flying gear and, for the quicker among them, returning to the mess for a last cup of coffee before assembling on the flight line, where their Bristols, all with fresh bullet patches from yesterday’s exploits, silently awaited. As Evan had walked from his Bell Tent to the flight line, he took note of two new Nissen Huts that had been freshly erected. One stood in the spot of his old hut. Both huts were without occupants, but he assumed that he and Ackerman, as well as the five newer additions to the Squadron, would be ‘moved in’ before long.

As Evan smoked a cigarette and chatted idly with Tidmarsh and Wilkie, the thin shape of Aldridge appeared from behind a Bessoneau. Gone was yesterday’s indifferent, bored expression. Instead, the man now looked on edge and alert. Evan thought he could detect a hint of fear in the man’s posture and mannerisms as Holliday gave the order to board the machines. The two didn’t exchange any words, and Evan tried to decide whether or not he trusted his life to a man he knew nothing about. He resolved that a couple of tall whiskeys shared in the mess later would give him a better idea.

No. 48’s first show of the day was a patrol at Gonnelieu, East past Bapaume and into Hunland. As the Bristols lifted into the air, Evan felt nervous anticipation building. From the pilots returning from ‘night raids’ into Doullens came whispers from the other Squadrons of increasingly heavy activity of ‘Vee-Strutters’. He was snapped out of his daydreaming by a great flash behind him. Turning around in surprise, he saw two hangars on fire, a thick plume of smoke rising from them as the mechanics tried to wheel the machines away. A second bomb exploded - but this one went wide of the aerodrome. Looking up in shocked outrage, he saw the orange-green shape of a Roland - its whale-fuselage unmistakeable - crazily spiralling down from out of the sun, directly towards the flight. Immediately he banked to meet the German, as did Holliday. The next few moments were a whirl of confusion, as Evan and Holliday climbed to meet their attacker and the other Bristols wildly broke formation.

The defiant German dove through the centre of the formation, aiming a burst at Evan who swung his Bristol clear. In a flash Holliday was behind him, his forward Vickers spitting hatred at the raider. Evan joined the pursuit as the German observer swung his gun around, firing a burst that sent Holliday looping away. Evan closed in for the kill, but a second burst from the rear-facing machine gun sparked across the metal cowling of his machine and shattered the windshield. At the same time, Evan felt a dull thud in his left arm, followed by a deep, hot throb. Oil spattered the fragmented remains of the windshield and burning hot splatters got onto his face. With a yelp he wiped them away and, as the engine began to vibrate viciously, he quickly looped back down onto La Bellevue. As he attempted to lift himself from his machine, a horrible pain seemed to shoot the length of his arm, and with a cry he dropped back into the wicker seat. Behind him, Aldridge moaned in pain, clutching at his side. “I’ve been shot!” he managed, his face white as a ghost as he removed his goggles. Evan turned to face him fully - and again the shooting pain coursed through his arm. He pressed his hand to it and it came away scarlet. “God, I think I have been as well,” he said, more dumbfounded than anything. As Evan saw a gaggle of pilots and NCOs running towards his machine, he remembered to switch off. A Sergeant appeared by his side. “Blimey! You alright?” he asked, wide-eyed, as he noticed the blood that was now flowing from Evan’s arm. “We’re both hit. I might need a hand getting out,” Evan replied, with a weak smile.

Both men were helped from the machine and rushed to the medical tent which, mercifully, had remained unscathed in the raid. The Squadron’s Doctor, whom had the unfortunate name ‘Graves’, methodically helped the two men to remove their gear and tunics, before slipping on a pair of half-moon spectacles and examining their wounds. As he did so, he chuckled to himself. “Well, boys, you’ll have identical scars! Why, I daresay that the same bullet grazed you both”. Evan raised an eyebrow. “Grazed?” he asked, looking down at his injury. Sure enough, the bullet had simply carved a neat, shallow semicircular line from the side of his arm. “Yes. You’re both lucky, you know. Five or six inches to the right and it would have been your heart. But, no matter. It’ll hurt for a little while, but you’ll live. I expect you’ll be flying again in two or three days”.

Dr. Graves bandaged their wounds, put their arms in identical slings, and sent them on their way. In the mess, some of the pilots made jokes at Evan’s expense - but all sounded relieved to see him reasonably well. It was only after lunch that Evan suddenly felt a wave of nauseating shock come over him. He had been shot. Five or six inches to the right and he would have been killed. For a moment he wanted to cry out in terror - but, with a deep, shaky breath he kept his composure, and the sudden fear slowly boiled over. That night, the mess celebrated the killing of the ‘Roland Raider’, who had eventually crashed under Holliday’s guns.

The next three days passed in frustrating boredom. In the morning Evan would come to see off the pilots of ‘B’ flight as they headed out on patrol, all the while feeling exactly like a coward for not being up there with them. Rumours of the losses the R.F.C had been suffering had been growing in frequency, and on April 8th the machines came back with their canvas perforated and their wires severed, having been attacked by a gang of ‘Vee-Strutters’. Despite the sorry look of the machines, however, Tidmarsh jumped out of his cockpit gaily, with a wide grin on his face, and happily shouted to whoever cared to listen “I got one! I bagged a Vee-Strutter!”. Sure enough, the confirmation was made later that day, and there was another celebration in the mess that night. “Finally you buy me a drink, Mary!” Evan joked, as Tidmarsh handed him a double brandy. “Well, don’t get used to it, dear boy” he responded, with a wink.

As predicted, Evan was moved into one of the newly-built Nissens, along with three other men. The first was a new arrival to the Squadron - a Welshman named Alwin. Evan was surprised to learn that he was intended to be Evan’s new observer - once he was fit for flight. “New observer?” Evan had asked, as he helped Alwin move his things in on the evening of the 8th, “What am I getting another new observer for?”. Alwin shot Evan a sideways look. “What happened to the last one?”. “Nothing! Well, not nothing, we were both shot in a scrap, but it was only a graze!”. Alwin squinted, letting out a low ‘hmm’. Once he had helped Alwin move in, and secured a cigarette off the lanky Welshman for his trouble, he headed to Holliday’s office, rapping gently on the door. “Come in,” replied the occupant, and Evan entered, standing to attention in front of Holliday.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, tiredly. “I was wondering why I’ve been assigned another new observer, sir?” Evan inquired. Holliday pursed his lips. “Poor Aldridge is in a bit of a funk after your incident, if you get my meaning. I think he’ll need a little more rest. You will fly with Mr. Alwin for now. Anything else?”. Evan looked at him for a moment, considering this. He recalled the nervous look in Aldridge’s eyes before their last sortie. “No, sir. Thank you”.

The other occupants of Evan’s Nissen were also new arrivals. He recognised Benny Isby, the enthusiastic new arrival that had come on the 5th, but something about the face told Evan that his initial bravado had been washed away by the experience of his first few days at the front. Indeed, Evan had only been at the front himself for 15 days, and already he felt like an old hand. The last man was Larry Audley - a short, muscular red-haired Scotsman, who seemed constantly lost in some impenetrable, deep thought. Evan noticed he carried a small notebook with him, and at random intervals he seemed to frantically write something down, before staring at it for a short while and returning it to his breast pocket.

The morning of the 9th saw La Bellevue come to life in a way Evan hadn’t experienced before. Each airman was woken at 4 A.M to assemble in the mess, where Holliday patiently awaited them. “Gentlemen. Today is the day. Our boys are making the push”. There was a great uproar of cheers from the aircrew. “A, B and C will be flying intermittent patrols all day to cover our reconnaissance friends. The idea is that we keep the skies clear of any air-huns for them. Now, we may be flying two-seat machines, but I want you to forget what you’ve learned up to this point. From now on, we’ll take the fight to the Hun. If you’re attacked, don’t keep formation. Get on the bastards’ tails and shoot them to hell!”. The second round of cheers was ear-splitting. With an eager grin, Evan checked the operations board - but his name was not on it. “Sir?” he asked Holliday, who gave him a sideways glance. “My name isn’t here. There must be a mistake”. The temporary C.O. sighed slightly. “No mistake, Easom. You’re still wounded. I can’t risk you and your machine yet. I’m sorry”. Evan reddened. “But that’s not fair! Today’s the big push, and--” “That’s Final, Easom”.

Bitterly, Evan watched the aircraft as they took off and returned throughout the day. At one point, ‘C’ flight returned with their machines shot-up, but thankfully with no airmen injured. As the day grew old, Evan, defeated, turned in early for the night, saying a quick Hullo to Audley, who was sitting by the writing-desk, quietly scribbling in his notebook. The Scotsman grunted a quiet response.

On the 10th, Evan revisited Dr. Graves, desperate to be cleared for flying again. To his dismay, the Doctor shook his head. “Give it one more day. You can have the sling off now, though”. The frustration was not so bad as it was yesterday- although Evan was still very bitter about missing out on the ‘big push’ (“You should have seen the tracers and the shelling! Like Fireworks!” Isby had reported back to him) - and in the mess that night he buzzed with anticipation of returning to flying duties. The spirits in the mess were higher than they had been in recent days - until Wilkie entered, his face solemn. Immediately Tidmarsh cottoned on. “What’s happened?” he asked, and some of the nearby pilots paused their conversations to listen in. “I went into town today for lunch, and met a pilot from Number 19”. “They’re those Spad drivers, right?” Letts then chimed in. Wilkinson ignored him. “Captain Collins was killed yesterday”. A morbid silence fell over the pilots within earshot. The newspapers, of course, didn’t report on the British Aces - not since Hawker’s death - but they all knew of Captain Collins, VC, the Zeppelin-killer. The man had become legendary on the home front for his exploits. Grimly, Letts sighed and raised his drink. “To Captain Collins”. The pilots toasted.

Bloody April. The words hung like smoke in Evan’s thoughts.