Afternoon, Gents! Been a while! Real life caught up with me, but I'm hoping to get back into it now that things are simmering down a little. Allow me to introduce the new chap - Sergent William Denton Grey of Escadrille SPA.31!

A Sky Torn Asunder: The Memoirs of William Denton Grey.

Part 1: Arrival.


It was late on the evening of December 2nd that I arrived in the sleepy town of Chateau-Thierry and was greeted on the cold station platform by Pierre, the stocky, dark-haired chauffeur of Spad 31. I had been pleasantly surprised when, upon recognising me as an American as we introduced ourselves, the little Chauffeur had seamlessly transitioned into speaking English. “We had an Americain like yourself before, you know,” he had told me as we stepped into a rusted and dented Fiat. “Is that right?” I responded hopefully. My French was poor at best, and I had longed to hear another American voice since my arrival into the country. “Oui, mon ami”, he replied, “but he was killed in 1916. It was a shame, he was well liked”. My spirits sank.

Pierre liked to talk. During a fast and reckless drive through the French countryside, which, even as a newly-brevetted Chasse pilot made my stomach turn, he incessantly questioned me about where I was from, how long I had been a Pilot, if I had been in my first air fight, and so forth. Through politeness I did my utmost to answer his barrage of questions. Eventually we arrived at the aerodrome near Fere-en-Tardenois, the home of Groupe de Combat 11.

“And here we are, Mon ami!” Pierre stated as the car groaned and jolted onto the aerodrome. “Notre Maison! I’ll show you to your quarters”. As we stepped out of the car I lit a cigarette, the heat of the match offering some minute comfort against the December night chill. “Shouldn't I report to the Capitane?” I asked. Pierre waved the question away with a chuckle. “Certainly not! Capitane Dupoy has long since gone to bed, and you’ll not be in his good books if you wake him! But, he knows you were to arrive today or tomorrow, so I'm sure you will meet soon”.

I followed Pierre past the gently-rippling Bessoneaux towards the dark silhouettes of the typical Adrian barracks, which seemed to decorate every camp short of the frontlines across the whole of France. As we walked, he explained that Escadrille 31 shared the aerodrome with the three other Escadrilles of Groupe de Combat 11. With some ninety or so men per Escadrille, it made for quite the community. “That’s the pilot's barracks of Escadrille 57 over there. The next one after that belongs to Escadrille 12. And this one here is where you’ll be staying” Pierre explained, coming to a halt. “Now, keep your voice down when we go in. Les Pilotes have had a long day”. Carefully, Pierre swung the barracks door open and we stepped into a low-ceilinged room, dimly lit by an oil lantern which gently swung above a mess table in the centre. Against the far wall stood a small stove, and dotted here and there were various chairs and stools. Beside the door, a figure stirred in a military cot and slowly heaved itself up.

“Est-ce vous, Pierre?” a voice asked quietly in the dimness. “Oui. Je suis avec le nouveau pilote” answered the chauffeur, before turning to me. “This is Georges, your Orderly” he explained. As the blanket slipped to reveal the figure rising beneath it, I saw that he was perhaps forty, with faint laugh-lines around his coarse face. Despite his kindly, aged appearance, his ice-blue eyes had retained a fierce youth. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair before slowly bringing himself to stand. As he did, Pierre patted me on the back. “Welcome to Escadrille 31. Georges will take care of you from here, I’m going to go and get some sleep”. I thanked the Chauffeur, who gave me a wink before slipping out into the night.

Georges led me through a doorway at the side of the mess hall, and into a long, narrow corridor that ran down the side of the barracks. Even through the darkness I could see that he walked with a harsh limp. I wondered if he had been a Poilu. After passing two doors, Georges stepped into a small room, taking much care to open the door as quietly as possible whilst motioning with a finger pressed against his lips for me to remain silent. The room was small, with two military cots pressed close together, separated only by a small washbasin. A figure stirred in the leftmost cot, but the rightmost one remained empty. “This is where you will stay,” Georges whispered. “The Pilotes get up at 6 A.M”. I thanked the orderly, who nodded once before limping out the room and pulling the door shut with a faint ‘click’ behind him. Undressing, I stored my duffle bag underneath the empty cot and slid into it, pulling the covers over my head. My mind was racing at the prospect of finally going out over the front for the first time, and buzzing with thoughts of aerial battles atop the clouds.

Eventually, in the early hours of morning, I sunk into sleep.




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Part 2: A Day of Firsts.

The next day I was abruptly shaken awake by a hand gripping tight to my shoulder. Groaning slightly, I pulled the covers from over my head and peered up into the youthful, rouged face of a pilot, the faint hints of an attempted moustache shadowing his lip. “Là! Là! Essayez-vous de dormir pendant la guerre?” he asked me with an amused smirk on his face. Bleary-eyed, I sat up. “Oh, er, Désolé, mon français..c’est n'est pas très bon.” I mumbled, and the pilot looked at me, bewildered. “You are not French?” he asked in a heavily accented English. I shook my head. “American”. The pilot’s face lit up. “Ah! Well, American, you need to get out of bed, or we will be late for patrol!”.

I rushed to pull on my uniform, as my room-mate lit a cigarette and patiently waited. Once I was ready, we stepped out into the hallway and went towards the mess. “I’m Davet, by the way. Davet Amette”. We shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Davet. I'm Bill Grey,”. We stepped into the mess, which was now filled with blue-clad pilots, smoking and chattering around the mess table. As we shuffled into view, the pilots glanced our way. At the head of the table was an older-looking pilot, his cap failing to mask a receding hairline. His deep-set gaze swept over me with faint curiosity.

“Est-il le nouveau pilote?” he asked Davet.
“Oui. Un Americain”.

The older pilot nodded. “Tu parles français?” he then asked me. “Un peu” I answered honestly. The older pilot smiled slightly. I was relieved when he continued the conversation in English.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Grey. Bill Grey”.

“Well, Monsieur Grey, Le Capitaine has asked me to show you around the neighbourhood today. We’re going up at nine O’Clock. Have you been in your first scrap yet?”

“Uh, no. I haven’t been over the front yet”.

The pilot’s eyes widened. “Lá! Lá! They sent you straight here from the schools? In that case, I want you to stay close when we’re in the air! If we get into a fight and you get into trouble, dive away. Our Coucous are much faster in a dive than the Bosche ones”.

I was invited to sit down at the mess table, and over a hastily-eaten breakfast I got to know the pilots of my new Escadrille. The older pilot at the head of the table was Adjutant Georges Ortoli, who had been with the Escadrille since 1915 and had officially brought down eleven Bosches - the most of any of the Escadrille's pilots. Another old hand was Sergent Chartoire, who had been a Poilu since 1914 before eventually transferring to the Air Service. He’d arrived just three months prior to me.

Caporal Blanc was altogether the opposite of what comes to mind when you think of an air fighter. The portly, overweight pilot looked more of an aristocrat than a soldier as he lounged backwards in his chair, his legs crossed and a cigarette clasped in his large, ring-adorned hands. An air fighter he was, though, and he had five Bosches to prove it, as he was eager to tell me.

Beside Blanc sat Adjutant Leguene, another slightly older pilot who seemed perpetually lost in some faraway memory. Our introductions were brief. Caporal Bordage, an incredibly youthful-looking pilot with brilliant Gallic red hair and freckles underneath his almond-eyes, headed the opposite end of the table. Bordage seemed, both in appearance and mannerism, less mature than the others, and frighteningly fragile. I wondered if he, too, had recently arrived from the schools, but I thought it would be impolite to ask.

After finishing breakfast, Davet approached me again. “So, then! Would you like to see your machine? The mechanics will be readying it on the field”. Eagerly I accepted, and we stepped out into a perfectly crisp, chill December morning. As I followed Davet towards Escadrille 31’s hangars he would offer the occasional greeting to pilots of other Escadrilles, and I would briefly be introduced: “Ceci est notre nouveau pilote. Il est américain!”. On the aerodrome sat four beautifully sleek machines, their light cream fuselages and wings glowing in the sun. They were Spads - two of the older 180 Horsepower type, and two of the new type with 200 Horsepower and two machine-guns. I felt a sudden pride as Davet pointed out my machine to me (it was the older type), and a rush of excitement as I saw the Vickers machine gun resting quietly atop the engine deck. On its side, the striking image of a Greek Archer, its bow drawn taught and facing forwards, was painted in bold black. This was the insignia of Escadrille 31, and all the machines of the Escadrille bore it.

“Ortoli picked this one out for you last week. He always gets us the best Coucous in the depot. This one has a Hispano-Hispano!” Davet told me, grinning. During my Spad training at the G.D.E I had learned that, owing to the great demand of these machines, many different companies built Spad airframes and the Hispano engines that powered them, but it was favourable to have an airframe from the Spad factory or an engine from the Hispano factory, as these were thought to be of the best quality. If a pilot was exceptionally lucky, they might even get their hands on a ‘Hispano-Hispano Spad-Spad’ - the rarest and most reliable machine a pilot could have.

As I marveled at my new machine, Davet waved to a mechanic as he emerged from the Bessoneau. “Morning, Souris! Care to meet your new pilote?”. The mechanic looked over at me, lazily. Like Bordage, he was shockingly young and frail looking. Despite this, Davet told me that the boy was my Chief Mechanic, that there was no finer aeroplane mechanic in all of France and that he’d been with the Escadrille since 1916. This seemed incredible to me, as Souris seemed not a day older than sixteen. I was also introduced to my First Assistant, Felix. I hid my amusement at the fact that the man appeared at least five years the senior of the boy he was ‘assisting’. Both of the mechanics grunted a hello, warned me not to damage their Spad, and promptly turned back to their work.

Finally the time came for our patrol, and I felt another surge of pride as I saw my Spad awaiting me. The machines at Avord and the G.D.E had been shared between every pupil, but here was a ship which was mines alone. Ortoli gathered us - the other pilots on patrol being Covin and Bordage, and gave us our instructions.

“We’re going to take it easy today, and only go over to Cramaille so that Grey can see the landmarks”. I tried to hide my disappointment, which the Adjutant picked up on, flashing me a knowing grin. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll visit Germany. There’s no rush, mon ami”.

With that we were into our machines, and I couldn’t help but grin at the sound of my Hispano-Hispano purring over smoothly. Ortoli gave the signal and then shot out ahead down the field. The other Spads followed one by one, and soon the ground was rushing beneath me, and falling away as I climbed up towards the sky.

Our Spads shimmered in the sunlight as we danced among the clouds, keeping a loose, easy formation and not climbing too high. Between glancing at Ortoli’s and Bordage’s Spads, I scanned the ground and tried to commit the shape of the fields and forests to memory. It didn’t take us long to reach Cramaille, over which we made one pass before curving around to return home. It was then that Ortoli rocked his wings, and gestured for us to climb. Puzzled, I followed as our four Spads ascended, slowly corkscrewing ever-upwards. Without any warning, Ortoli suddenly flicked his Spad onto its back and dove straight down at an incredible speed. At the same time, Bordage turned sharply to the right, and Covin followed. Confused, I turned with them, but in a flash they were gone, and I suddenly couldn’t see another machine in the sky.

When I next saw my fellow pilots, they were dancing and looping some distance below me. I was impressed by their stunting. Perhaps this is a tradition of theirs to have some fun at the end of a patrol, I mused. I flew along, peering down at the display, before glancing to my right. Flying beside me was an aeroplane, but not a Spad. Its fuselage was cigar-like, and wooden. Suddenly I spotted, in bold black on the fuselage side, an Iron Cross. A Bosche! For a moment I was simply stunned, as the enemy aeroplane continued on, quite as unaware of me as I had been of it, but then I snapped to my senses. Cautiously I backed off the throttle and slid behind the German, slowly and carefully lining up my sights. To my amazement, the Bosche remained unaware. I edged closer - and then pressed down on the trigger, firing a long burst and watching as the wooden fuselage of the enemy plane splintered and cracked. Almost as if slowly waking from a sleep, the German plane slowly pulled up before rolling onto its side and beginning a lazy spiral towards earth. I followed, but before I could get my sights on the Bosche again there was a sudden flash and the machine was instantaneously swallowed by flames. I watched as the German aeroplane’s spiral became more severe - and then its wings folded and it fell, burning like a comet, to the cold earth below.

I returned to the aerodrome, both stunned and greatly excited by the experience. As I entered the mess, I found my fellow pilots chattering feverishly with wild excitement of their own.

“...But I have never seen Bosches so far into our side!”
“They must have been protecting those Biplaces!”
“Did you see me get that Albatros? I swear to you I saw him crash!”

Bemused, I sat down at the end of the table. “What Bosches? I only saw one” I asked. Ortoli seemed almost surprised at the statement. “Merde, Grey! I’d forgotten you were with us! We were attacked by a gang of Albatroses, but we gave them a rough time!”. It suddenly clicked that the ‘stunting' I had witnessed had been my fellow pilots, locked in aerial battle! “I didn’t even realise,” I said, feeling quite the fool for my ignorance, “but I caught the Bosche I saw by surprise. I shot him and he caught fire and crashed”. Bordage’s eyes widened. “Lá! That was you? I saw that Albatros catch fire! But, you must claim him, Grey! A Bosche in your very first flight! C’est incroyable!”

At once I was rushed by the pilots to write my report, which I nervously took to Capitane Dupont’s office, which sat in a wooden hut beside the Escadrille’s barracks. After knocking and being given permission to enter, I stepped into a cozy, well-furnished office, warmed by the low embers of a fireplace. Behind an ornate oak desk sat the Capitane. His face was sharp and serious. A thin, violently-trimmed moustache sat below his curved nose, upon which was a pair of perfectly rounded spectacles. Behind the glint of the lenses two deep brown eyes pierced through me. “Yes?” the Capitane barked, and nervously I saluted, before handing him my combat report. He took it and laid it flat on the desk. “You’re the new pilot?” he asked. I nodded. “Oui, Capitane”. He raised an eyebrow as I spoke. “Americain” he stated to himself under his breath, before turning back to the report. “A Bosche Monoplace shot down in flames, you say? Only just East of Cramaille, no less? I understand you’ve come to us straight from the Schools”. He paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Tell me, am I really to believe this claim?”.

I was taken aback and somewhat offended, but I had the sense not to retaliate. “Sir, it was seen by Caporal Bordage” I answered, and the Capitane’s expression hardened. “And he’ll confirm that?” he asked testily. I replied yes. “Hm. Well, get him to hand in a report, and if that is the case then I will see if I can find out where your Bosche landed”. I thanked the Capitane and saluted again before being dismissed.

Later that evening, I felt complete exhaustion. The day had seemed like one long, surreal dream. I was disheartened when Georges informed me that night that my Bosche could not be confirmed, but my spirits were lifted by my fellow pilots, who told me over dinner that this was the case more often than not.

Again that night I found myself restless, unable to fall asleep.