Beginning, Previous Section, Section XXVII, Next Section

May 20th 1917-Berneville, France (cont.)

"I don't know." Miles gave a sigh as he glanced up at where Darcy stood.

"Sorry I gave you such a bunch of lemons." Darcy shook his head and then settled down on his heel to watch the work in silence. Yells echoed, whistles peeled, but once more the formation disintegrated.

"Sir." It was Major Dalgleish who abruptly came up the hill and saluted Miles briefly, Darcy had abruptly scrunched down even further on himself.

"Yes Major?" Miles straightened and stood up.

"The men are tired, may we not have a break."

"You are accustomed to breaks during parade drill?"

"Yes sir." There was a brief pause before the respectful answer came.

"Well I'm sorry Major, but out here we do not have breaks...least of all when they are failing the most simple manouevres!"

"Yes sir." Major Dalgleish's expression tightened and he retreated back down to where his company and Captain Roberts' waited. Once again the calls sounded and the whistles blew, and once again disorder reigned.

"A and B." It was an hour later when Darcy finally spoke again, by which time Miles had completely forgotten he was there and was feeling ripe to take a machinegun after the entire battalion. "Okay Miles, you're relieved from Duty, this is no longer your affair."

"Very good sir." Miles turned and walked quietly away. Darcy waited until Miles was nearly back to the HQ hut before he finally stirred and stood up. As Darcy slowly paced down the hill his eyes viewed the scene in front of him. Companies A and B, long familiar with Darcy's appearance hadn't twitched a toe from Parade formation, and Darcy was actually of the opinion that they wouldn't have moved even if they hadn't seen him, Miles had not dismissed the Battalion. On the other hand Companies C and D had fallen out and were already headed back to their tents. Darcy tapped a thought forefinger and then gave a slight nod.

The whistle which shrieked across the camp would have woken the dead, but since there were no dead nearby it merely woke up anyone who had been asleep and stopped all those who were awake in their tracks...with the exception of C and D companies.

"Brigade-Major!" Darcy pocketed his whistle and waited until Carrigan had extricated himself from the troops.

"Yes sir." Carrigan saluted.

"Send." Darcy responded with a salute. "Send two corporals and request the return of C and D companies from the 3rd Battalion to the main parade ground."

"Yes sir." Carrigan wheeled around and soon half a battalion watched impassively as two Corporals walked towards the smart grouping of tents at the far end of the field.

"Captain Moore, Captain Mannering." Darcy rubbed his chin and waited for those two worthies to arrive.

"Yes sir."

"How much more can the men take?"

"I don't think they can take much sir." Moore paused and rubbed his chin.

"Mannering?"

"I think they've got a couple more hours in them." Mannering nodded briefly.

"Moore?"

"Well they'll last a few more hours, but I'll give no guarantee of their condition tomorrow, they've been knocked up a fair bit of late."

"Moore I was asking about you in person."

"Me sir?" Moore looked startled. "I'll manage sir, I've little to do but blow a whistle."

"Okay." Darcy paused for a moment. "They know what's coming?"

"Yes, sir." The two officers responded simultaneously.

"Do you think they're up to it?"

"Yes, sir." There was a faint hesitation.

"I see." Darcy rubbed his chin, then glanced beyond to where C and D companies were straggling back across the field. "You can return to your places."

"Sir." Two stiff salutes and the two Captains retreated.

Darcy stood in ominous silence, watching as the two Companies somewhat loosely and slackly formed up. A and B companies still had not stirred and Darcy spared a moment to look over them all, and he had to admit that Moore and Mannering would be fairly trouncing the men to keep them going for two hours.

"A and B companies dismissed...Brigade-Major." Darcy rubbed the side of his nose and watched sharply as the two companies changed formation and then marched away, with the exception of Carrigan who had remained to stand just behind Darcy. Darcy calmly turned back and glanced briefly at C and D companies and then returned his gaze to the horizon, but his peripheral vision was focussed on the companies and even the slightest twitch brought his attention back.

"Excuse me Brigade-Major, but what is going on here?" Major Dalgleish once more climbed the slope to where the two impassive Officers stood.

"Sir?" Carrigan turned and looked up at Darcy.

"Major, I find the formation of your Company insupportable." Darcy didn't even glance down at Dalgleish as he spoke. There was a moment of silence and then Dalgleish retreated. Dalgleish exchanged a few words with the other Company Officer and immediately the two companies tightened up their formation. But Darcy continued to stare at the horizon, a blank disinterested stare, one might almost suspect that he had forgotten about the companies who stood at his feet.

"Sir?" Carrigan hesitantly drew Darcy's attention to the time, it was six in the evening.

"Thank you Carrigan, you are quite correct...indeed it is time to eat. Come." Darcy turned on his heel and marched back up the hill to the HQ where Miles was sitting, slumped by the desk. "Miles, in ten minutes I want you to go and take a look at the parade ground. Do not descend to it, do not speak to anyone, just take a look at it, note what is there and then report back."

"Yes sir." Miles voice was dull and devoid of life.

"And Miles, you are stuck with that Battalion so stop behaving like a thrashed school boy and eat." Darcy shoved across some food as he spoke. The other officers were slowly gathering into the building, eating and then returning to their quarters. "Miles." It took the single word, not even a look, and Miles had departed. Two minutes later Miles returned. "Well?" Darcy picked up a file.

"No one's there sir."

"I suspected as much." Darcy rubbed his chin, but remained silent until the last of the Officers had departed. "Carrie, will you please summon Captain Roberts and Major Dalgleish here please. No need to tell them why, just tell them to come and then return here immediately."

"Right." Carrigan gave a nod and hustled out of the building.

"Miles, you are excused and you may take Signals with you...I want this hut isolated."

"Right." Miles gave a nod, and having gathered together his small quantity of paperwork he retreated with the signallers on duty to the small tent a short distance from the headquarters. The tent was in fact Darcy's, but it was the only tent which the signals could take their stuff too without serious reordering of the system.

"You've cleared everyone out." Carrigan noted the feature without much surprise.

"Correct, but you will remain." Darcy handed Carrigan a folder. "Play with that."

"Thank you sir." Carrigan grimaced as he recognised the report folder. Ten minutes ticked slowly past during which no word was uttered.

"Carrie, what did you tell them?"

"That they were wanted at Battalion Headquarters."

"Why Battalion?"

"Because you did not specify which it was to be and this is primarily the Battalion Headquarters."

"Go take a look and see whether you can see anyone." Darcy picked up another file as Carrigan ducked out the door.

"Not a soul excepting the sentries."

"Dig Miles out of my tent, tell him to get offended and get those two company officers here immediately."

"Yes sir." Carrigan ducked out of the hut and dodged across to the small tent where he found Miles frowning darkly at the ceiling. "Miles."

"What's up?" Miles slipped out of the tent.

"The Major wants you to go cut up stiff with the two new company officers, they've kept him waiting ten minutes now."

"With pleasure." Miles smiled grimly and then slid into the darkness, Carrigan watched him go and returned with great speed to the hut.

"He gone?" Darcy didn't even look up from his notes.

"Yes." Carrigan paused. "I'm not certain he was the best person to send."

"I'm certain he was, those two officers were slack and Miles needs their respect if he's to do anything."

"Is that why you dismissed him this evening?"

"No, I did that because I wanted to see how bad things were." Darcy paused. "Quiet now." The silence was broken five minutes later by a soft knock.

"Enter." Carrigan gave the response after he received a nod from Darcy.

"Major Dalgleish and Captain Roberts." Miles came stiffly into the room and saluted.

"Let them enter." Once again Carrigan spoke and to his surprise he saw Miles discreetly shuffle two nervous looking officers into the room. Silence reigned in the small room, silence which was only ever punctuated by the occasional scratch of Darcy's pencil as he studied a file. The minutes ticked past and the two officers continued to shuffle with ever increasing discomfort.

"Do you mind?" Nearly twenty minutes had passed when Darcy finally lifted an arctic eye from his work. For a minute it looked like Dalgleish was going to retort, but then quite abruptly he seemed to wilt. Darcy returned to his files for a moment, and then laid them aside. "Lieutenant-Colonel Holloway, you are excused...as are you Carrigan." Darcy remained silent, staring without focus for several minutes while Miles and Carrigan exited the room and closed the door behind them. "And you gentlemen are?" Darcy finally brought his gaze back to the two uncomfortable officers, it was the bored stare of one who really wasn't interested.

"Major Dalgleish and Captain Roberts...sir."

"You do not salute?" Darcy lifted an eyebrow and then rose to his feet. "I fear I must ask you gentlemen to depart, you are most clearly not Major Dalgleish and Captain Roberts."

"We saluted when we initially entered."

"That is irrelevant...good day gentlemen." Darcy crossed the room and picked up a folder before returning to his desk once more. "Are you still here?" It was five minutes after that when Darcy finally lifted his head once more.

"Yes, and we're going to stay here." Dalgliesh jutted his jaw in determination.

"Indeed." Darcy looked gravely at them for a few seconds and then returned to his files. Silence reigned for another half-hour, before it was broken by a soft knock on the door. "Enter." Darcy laid the file aside as the Signalling Corporal slid into the room and saluted stiffly.

"Your pardon sir, Carrigan reports that three pickets are missing."

"Missing?" Darcy's head lifted sharply.

"Yes sir, they were observed walking from their posts back to their tents."

"Points?"

"14 and 32."

"Thank you Corporal...will you send the Brigade-Major to me?"

"Yes sir." The Corporal retreated with alacrity while Darcy removed a sheet of paper from a nearby pile and scribbled on it briefly.

"You sent for me sir?" Carrigan stopped by the open door.

"Correct. Attend to this please." Darcy handed the page to him and with a brief nod Carrigan retreated. Darcy paused to sharpen his pencil and then returned his attention to his files. "Gentlemen, would you care to return to your tents?" Darcy had finished his last file and crossed to the lamp before he spoke again.

"You sent for us, and we came, and we want to know why you sent for us." Dalgliesh's jaw jutted pugnaciously.

"No gentlemen, I sent for Major Dalgliesh and Captain Roberts not you. Now if you'll excuse me, Headquarters are closing for the night and I must evacuate the building."

"Look we ARE Major Dalgliesh and Captain Roberts, we even have the papers to prove it."

"Do you indeed." Darcy's face was graced by a faint sardonic smile. "You know gentlemen, if I felt so inclined I could acquire papers which would prove beyond any possible doubt that I am King George V, God save the King and may I never have to impersonate him. I sent for Major Dalgleish and Captain Roberts at just past 1800 hours."

"Well, we came didn't we?"

"Gentlemen, you arrived at a 1845 hours."

"Well we were busy."

"Indeed...doing what?"

"Eating dinner."

"Oh, I see." Darcy's tone was politely disbelieving. "Your dinner is so important that it has priority over the requests of a Brigadier?"

"It would depend on the circumstances, as it was, there was no rush to your request so we finished our meal before coming."

"Suppose I had wished you to come so as we might discuss the arrival of the Germans on yonder hill."

"We would have come immediately."

"And yet you did not come."

"Well there were no Germans."

"That is as you think, perhaps there were but you could not see them."

"Please be reasonable, sir."

"I am being reasonable." Darcy abruptly straightened and with one long hand caught Major Dalgliesh by the throat and lifted him off the floor. Captain Roberts yipped fearfully, but the yip ended in a choked gurgle as he also was lifted from the floor. "We are only ten kilometres from the Line here, we are just out of range, but the Germans have proven more than once that when they move fast, they move fast..." Darcy was abruptly interrupted by a shrieking, peeling whistle. The whistle was almost immediately followed by the rapid-fire stutter of a machinegun. Darcy unceremoniously deposited his double load in the corner, grabbed his rifle and was out the door. As Darcy went out two signalling corporals came in and methodically set about putting the files together and hiding them away. Guns were chattering away, interspersed by regular and deep explosions.

"What in hell is that?" Dalgliesh yelled at the two Corporals, but neither answered, and when he grabbed one by the sleeve he found himself looking straight into the coldly metallic-black barrel of a revolver with the second chilliest pair of eyes he had seen that day behind them.

"Release my arm before I fire and leave this hut immediately." It was a robotic monotone which froze Dalgliesh to the core, he promptly dove from the room and out into chaos. Flares lit the night air and numerous fires blazed as men tumbled, fought and wrestled. Rifles were being discharged at regular intervals and Dalgliesh abruptly felt himself seized by a pair of hard hands and dragged away, he was quickly and painfully roped up along with several other men, all of whom Dalgliesh recognised. On a few occasions Dalgliesh could hear the Brigadier's impressively powerful voice as he rallied men and called reformation orders, all of which were centred around the defense of the hut and no other building. The chaos continued for forty minutes, and then as quickly as it had risen it died away and Dalgliesh found himself sitting cramped up against Captain Roberts, 8 Lieutenants and 114 Privates, staring out at a totally asleep camp, with the exception of Pickets who showed no response when yelled at.

Dawn was a cold and damp period of the day, and as the mist started to rise Dalgliesh watched as the camp came active. The reveille was blown and Dalgliesh watched as the entire Brigade slowly formed up, it appeared ratty and ragged, several great gaping holes stood out in the ranks. Whistles shrilled and voices yelled and Dalgliesh watched as the Brigade went through an impeccable drill, all the time lead by the imposing figure of Brigadier Darcy. Dalgliesh watched the immense form and felt anger well up within him, bitter, killing anger. If Dalgliesh had seen Darcy fall, blood spouting from him, he would have, at that moment, cheered long, loud and vigorously, damning the consequences. But Darcy did not fall and after an hour more whistles were blown and Dalgliesh watched as the Brigade dispersed to various tasks and breakfast.

"Why don't they release us, they must be able to see us." Captain Roberts fumed softly.

"Trust me, Captain, you will thank your lucky stars when we are released that you were not released earlier. The Major does not forgive careless men."

"You saying I'm careless?" Dalgliesh rounded on the Private furiously and was rewarded by a disgusted grunt.

"Major, for you to be here you has to have been careless...Oh 'ell, 'ere they come." The Private swore softly under his breath and turning Dalgliesh saw that finally uniformed figures were ascending the slopes, and only dignity prevented him from cheering. A Lieutenant, two Captains and a Major and all four were complete strangers.

"Alright, get them on their feet." The Major watched in a metallic manner as the cramped group were ruthlessly dragged to their feet by their ropes. Dalgliesh's feet, long since asleep from insufficient circulation, crumpled up underneath himself and he collapsed back to the ground.

"'Ere, none of that!" The order was accompanied by a stinging lash across the shoulder.

"How many?"

"124 all told, a Major, a Captain, 8 Lieutenants and 114 Privates."

"Disgraceful!" The Major glared at the miserable, cold, and cramped group. "Okay, separate the Officers...and tell Carrie we'll need the kit out, no way in hell we'll get through this many Privates this side of Christmas without it."

"Sir." The Lieutenant turned and retreated down the slope, across the field before dodging through the hedge and crossing to the hut.

"Okay, the rest of you get moving." The Major twitched a fine riding crop between his fingers. Dalgliesh turned his head and simultaneously discovered, one, that all the Officers carried a crop, and two, that turning heads were hit by a crop. Dalgliesh's ears stung furiously to the degree that he did not realise how difficult and painful the descent was. By the time they reached the camp a curious contraption had been erected in about the middle of the camp. It was a longish tunnel, loosely barred and made of general camp scrap. At regular intervals along both sides men stood grimly, their grim expressions appeared grimmer with the aid of an extra layer of mud, the odd bit of blood and the more than occasional black eye.

"What is that?" Dalgliesh did not like the look of that device at all.

"It's the tunnel." The Major responded sourly. "Okay, get 'em moving, we don't get no lunch until this is done." Dalgliesh watched in silent alarm to begin with, but it quickly became sickened horror as the Privates were fed one by one through the tunnel without their shirts and flogged by each of fifteen men in turn, the skin was not broken, but the bruising would be immense. On exit each Private was given his shirt again, a glass of watered Johnnie Walker and dismissed. 1300 hours came and still the last of the Privates had not gone through. As the last Private went through, just short of 1400 hours Dalgliesh was sardonically relieved to note that it was the Private who had called him careless...and he wasn't even going to be flogged.

With the last Private done Dalgliesh found that a knife was hacked through his bonds and he was released. Dalgliesh stood uncertainly for a moment after his release and then went directly to his tent without speaking to anyone. Captain Roberts hesitated and then cautiously crossed to where Carrigan stood.

"Excuse me."

"What?" Carrigan turned a sour eye onto Captain Roberts.

"Could you please explain what happened?"

"We just flogged 114 Privates, that's what happened."

"Sorry, I meant last night."

"We were raided." Carrigan turned his head and frowned sharply. "Hi! None of that!"

"Who by?"

"Ehh?" Carrigan swung back to Roberts. "What was that you asked?"

"Who raided us?"

"Oh, technically speaking they were the Huns, in reality they were just the 14th."

"I do not understand."

"Security test. Theoretically there should be zero casualties, and usually we only have about ten or twenty Privates and one or two Officers. We're still waiting on the report from 14th to find out what the problem was."

"Carrie." Both men turned sharply at the voice and Roberts found himself face to face with Brigadier Darcy. "Take a look at this!" Darcy handed the page to Carrigan and then turned to Roberts. "Roberts, you're being transferred to the 4th Midlanders Battalion."

"Why sir?"

"Can't have too many green'uns in the one Battalion."

"Very good sir." Roberts bit his lip nervously and then shifted. "Can I leave, sir?"

"Preferably." Darcy responded shortly and Roberts gratefully fled. "See Lieutenant-Colonel Holloway at 1600 hours concerning the movement, this bloody mess should be settled by then."

"Yes sir." Roberts finally made good his escape and safely reached his tent.

"What were you talking to that Lieutenant about?" Dalgliesh poked his head into Roberts' tent.

"I merely asked what happened."

"I think it was just that blasted Brigadier getting petty revenge."

"No." Roberts shook his head slowly and looked gravely at Dalgliesh. "I think it concerned precisely that which is why the Brigadier wished to speak to us last night."

"Don't be stupid, that damn Brigadier was just testing our patience...he had no reason for it all."

"When you're quite done." The voice was dry and totally devoid of life. "Brigadier Darcy wishes to see all Officers outside of Headquarters."

"Excuse me, sir!" Roberts dove roughly past Dalgliesh and just managed to stop the man. "Who are you?"

"I am Colonel Harralds, the Regimental Officer."

"Thank you sir." Roberts dove back into his tent for his hut and scrambled out again while pulling it onto his head, only to be stopped by Dalgliesh's hand.

"You're not seriously going immediately are you?"

"Why not, I'd sooner be early than late...again."

"He didn't say it was urgent or important."

"And neither did he say we were to be there at some specified hour. I think it's just how this particular Brigade operates, they don't put pressure on you, they just expect you to do it. Now if you will release me arm, I wish to depart."

"Well don't blame me if you have to stand around for hours waiting for others to turn up." Dalgliesh glared after the retreating Captain before retiring to his tent.

Twenty minutes later Dalgliesh meandered slowly up the slope to the small hut, only to be met by a battery of glares from 90 sets of eyes.

"It would appear that Major Dalgliesh has finally deigned to grace us with his presence. How kind of you to so degrade yourself as to enter our humble company. Will you take a seat Major...or shall I go fetch a throne for you." Darcy's quiet mockery fanned Dalgliesh's embarrassment into white-hot fury. "It would appear the Major has a temper after all." Darcy walked slowly across to where Dalgliesh stood and abruptly pulled a small dagger from his belt. "Come, you would so love to kill me wouldn't you? Here, kill me with this." Darcy pushed the dagger into Dalgleish's hand then turned and walked back to the group of Officers. "Gentlemen, we have a problem...and a big one. 14 successfully stole three quarters of our Brigade information last night. The analysis received from 14 revealed that they managed such a successful raid for the simple reason that two picket posts were completely deserted when they arrived..."

"Excuse me, sir." Dalgliesh took a deep breath and stepped forward.

"Miles, if you will brief the rest on the outcome of this raid and run a detailed analysis on it. Harralds, keep an eye so he doesn't foul it up. Manners, you're in charge of the nuts." Darcy then turned and walked into the hut. Dalgliesh turned and after a hesitation followed him. "Are you going to use that?"

"I beg your pardon?" Dalgliesh blinked in surprise.

"My dagger, are you going to use it, or may I have it back?"

"Have it back...Please!" Dalgliesh nearly threw the dagger to him. Darcy caught it deftly and stowed it away into his belt.

"Now where were we...oh yes, you interrupted me." Darcy gave a nod and settled down in a nearby seat. "Take a seat."

"Well sir, I wanted to appologise, for they were my company which were supposed to be manning those two posts."

"I see." Darcy rubbed his chin, then frowned and scratched it gently, his fingers came away reddened by blood. Darcy frowned thoughtfully as he produced his handkerchief and spat into it a few times before wiping thoughtfully at his chin. "You realise what you've just admitted?"

"Yes sir." Dalgliesh hoped his banging knees were not visible.

"Well in that case...what do you advise I do?" Darcy lifted his brows enquiringly.

"King's Regulations call for demotion, three weeks with the possibility of discharge."

"Do you want to be discharged Dog?"

"No sir."

"Well how about we reach a compromise."

"Compromise sir?" Dalgliesh paused hesitantly.

"A compromise. If you're given an instruction you'll follow it to the letter and immediately, and in return I'll refrain from denting your dignity at any and every opportunity."

"Please." Dalgliesh could hardly believe this was real.

"Had it not been that this is only your second day I would most certainly not have considered such a move, but certain things happened yesterday of which I'm sure we are both at least somewhat, if not very ashamed of."

"Yes sir...what did you do?" Dalgliesh looked puzzled.

"That is none of your business...I let my temper get the upper hand. We're somewhat short of sleep around here and as a result I permitted you to have to pay the very high price of not immediately following any instruction."

"Oh..." Dalgliesh did not know what to say. "Sir...are...are the Privates the only ones who suffer from last night?"

"No Major, I'm afraid not...in fact the Privates get off rather lightly."

"I would never have thought of a flogging as light punishment."

"For the crime it was adequate...but I'm afraid that at 1800 hours, you, Captain Roberts and the other Lieutenants are all going to have to ask forgiveness from your own men...and from the 114 who were flogged...and you will need to do it with sufficient sincerity, or Major Falks will take the skin of your ears. You failed a duty Major, you were not prepared for every possibility and as a result your men suffered dearly. These raids occur at irregular intervals and only I and the other Battalion know when they are. Last night you were actually to have been drilled in the process, but three things interfered with that. Firstly you, Captain Roberts and your men left the Parade Ground without receiving leave to do so. Secondly, when called back, you once more left before instructed to depart. Thirdly, you were nearly half an hour late when I specifically called you up to brief you on the matter. Such breaches of discipline are not only unacceptable, but here they can be exceedingly dangerous to many lives. We do many things which would appear insane to an outsider, but believe me every single one has a deliberate and definite reason behind it...One does not forget about a Battalion Major Dalgleish, not one single Private can go missing in this camp without many people knowing."

"I'm sorry sir."

"Will you damn well stop appologising, every time you appologise I also have to appologise, and I really dislike appologising. Now get your ar** back out there and pay attention to Miles' lengthy lesson in the defense of a camp."

"Yes sir." Dalgliesh saluted and headed for the door.

"Oh, and Dog...remember that the blame never lies squarely on one person. The vast part of it may, but it does not all lie there. Someone throws a knife at me and I die, yes the blame will fall entirely on him for my death...most people forget that I should have been aware of the danger and moved out of the way. It is very rare indeed for an individual to be entirely blameless of fault."

"Yes sir."

May 24th 1917-Minnehaha Falls, Minnesota

Emma rubbed her head, a wearied and tired push which wrinkled the skin around her temples and stretched her left eyelid flat. The sun was a blazing ball of fire on the very horizon, but the rest of the land was smothered in darkness, the house and its accompanying windbreak were silhouetted against a fiery sky of reds and golds. Turning to face the other direction Emma could already see stars winking away.

"Oh Izzy." Emma sank tiredly onto her heels and abstractly plucked at some green grasses that clustered near her feet. Emma looked back up at the stars which were appearing with ever growing intensity against the black backdrop. Does Isabella see these same stars? Emma pondered the thought in a distracted and light-headed manner, before rocking back off her heels and sitting down in the grass. Emma felt a delightful relaxation steal over her, a lassitude that sapped any desire to move, and soon she was lying flat on her back staring up at the sky. Thoughts danced and gambolled through her head like they had never done before, cannoning into each other and ricocheting off in completely new and seemingly illogical directions. Faces danced through her mind in a dizzying whirl before spiralling off into the sky to dissolve among the stars, faces of friends, faces of relatives, imagined faces, faces from the pictures. But then one face appeared, it did not spin, it did not spiral, and it most certainly did not go away. Emma frowned at the face, it was familiar, but for the present moment in time she could not put a name to it.

"Emma?" It was a tentative question and something brushed against Emma's cheek. Emma pondered the matter, it had been a fleeting contact from a warm and controlled object, had someone touched her face? Perhaps it belonged to the face which still loomed in her view, a hand perhaps. Emma really had no idea and didn't want one either. "Emma?" The question was not so tentative now and there was an underlying note of concern. Why should he be concerned? Emma pondered anew. And why he? Emma studied the face again. Definitely a he with that coarse shirt with the open neck. Had they met before? Something passed close to her face and Emma instinctively blinked, trying to refocus, but now all she could see were stars, the face had vanished. Whose face had it been, why could she not connect a name to it? Emma pondered again and found much to her surprise that she could attach names to nothing, faces and images floated around, but no coherent thought accompanied them. Whole scenes would float past, and yet Emma knew that a single word should describe the whole sequence. Then abruptly her field of vision rocked violently before blacking out. Emma nearly panicked before she realised that her face was buried in something. Cautiously Emma set about the task of freeing her face, no easy task when one did not know which direction was up and out. But eventually she managed to free her face and she found herself observing, in semi-profile, a strong chin, topped by a nose which was not quite aquiline, a broad forehead and wind-ruffled hair. Wind-ruffled, what did that mean? Emma studied the face above her thoughtfully.

"Mr. Knightley...but no, he can't be here."

"Sorry to disappoint you Emma, but I most certainly am here."

"I'm not certain I'm disappointed." Emma responded gravely, as she considered the matter she realised that she had really no opinion on the matter. "Why are you here?"

"Here as in here? Or here as in Minnehaha?"

"Both." Emma responded after a brief consideration.

"I'm here, here because your father was concerned about your delayed return. And I'm here, in Minnehaha, because the Session has finished for the time being."

"Is Isabel here?"

"No, she is in England still."

"Oh." Emma fell silent again.

"Are you alright Emma?" Knightley came to a halt and looked intently down at her.

"I think I'm fine...though exceedingly detached, I seem utterly unable to retain a single coherent thought."

"You are an utter fool." Knightley abruptly jerked her higher up into his arms and resumed walking.

"Yes, you tell me so frequently." Emma frowned. "Why am I not permitted to walk?"

"Because I am of the opinion that even if you wanted to you couldn't."

"I can to." Emma started to shift.

"Very well." Knightley calmly lowered Emma feet first to the ground, but did not remove the arm that crossed her back. Emma was annoyed at the presence of that arm for perhaps a second, and then she was excessively relieved for it. Knightley caught her as soon as she started to fall and swung her back up again. "I suspected as much. You, dear Emma, are going to bed the minute we reach the Homestead, and you are not shifting out of that bed for three days."

"I can't...I have father to look after and Starlight to consider." Emma promptly started to struggle again.

"Don't be stupid Emma." Knightley spoke harshly as his arms tightened painfully around her. "You are dead to the world and totally exhausted. Now don't be stupid, take your three days and avoid getting seriously ill."

"I don't have the time to be sick." Emma shifted her head in annoyance against his shoulder, it was about the only thing she could move.

"Sickness does not await your convenience Emma, now stop being a fool."

"I am not being a fool."

"This stubborn stupidity of yours is the very essence of foolishness. Why don't you get some help Emma?"

"I have Harriet and she's all the help I need."

"Harriet is..." Knightley abruptly compressed his mouth.

"Harriet is exceedingly helpful, thank you very much."

"Harriet causes you considerably more work than she repays. Up Mrs. Franck's wage and let her watch your father some of the time, it's not like he yet requires twenty-four hour watching."

"Dr Shaw says the current time is critical."

"Oh so you'd prefer for your father to slowly dissolve away over the space of many years, not quite well enough to be well, but not quite sick enough to be sick." Knightley snapped back shortly and then firmly compressed his mouth as Emma's shoulders heaved and silent sobs wracked her diminutive form. Not a sound did Emma make while she cried, not a single sniff, sniffle, or sob escaped her, in fact the only outside verification was the fact that her shoulders were convulsing at regular intervals and Knightly could feel his shoulder getting quite wet.

"I hate you." It was softly uttered just before Knightley mounted the steps into the Homestead.

"Yes, you tell me so with great frequency. Now dry your face so as not to upset your father and let's see if we can't get a semi-respectable walk out of you for the width of the living room."

"You needn't trouble yourself." Emma's voice shook bristly as she settled her feet on the floor. "I require your assistance no further Senator Knightley."

"Very well then Miss Woodhouse, Mrs. Franck will be up to help you shortly." Knightley responded calmly before holding the door open so she could pass through. Knightley watched silently as Emma progressed at a dignified speed across the living room and then up the stairs, he then turned and crossed to the kitchen door where he could hear Mrs. Franck banging pans together. "Mrs. Franck?"

"Well, Gott bless mein soul if it int Herr Knightley."

"'Deed it is Mrs. Franck. Now Emma's upstairs, she awful cross at me, but she also exceedingly tired, will you go make certain sure she goes to bed?"

"With pleasure Herr Knightley. Mind, I been tryin' to get her to sleep for days now."

"Well just make sure she goes now."

"Jo, Herr Knightley." Mrs. Franck's Danish heritage surfaced again to the fore and Knightley watched her departure with a satisfied sigh, Emma would be in bed and asleep before Mrs. Franck returned to her kitchens. Knightley turned and walked back into the living room where Mr. Woodhouse was rugged up near the fire.

"What's with Emma? She did not speak to me." Mr. Woodhouse rubbed his nose.

"She's tired. If Jim's to be trusted she's been out breaking Starlight for the better part of the day, with the exception of three hours when she was helping plow the cornfield over."

"The cornfield did need plowing, it's good to get the last snow plowed in." Mr. Woodhouse stirred uneasily. "I was digging the snow into the vegetable garden this afternoon...Emma worries too much, she should get out more than she does."

"She's going to get out more." Knightley spoke grimly.

"Ahh, the mighty Senator." A faint smile danced across Mr. Woodhouse's face. "You have that many engagements this summer?"

"No, not that many, but I have more than one, that is for certain."

"You should get yourself a wife George, some dainty little creature who knows how to behave in public."

"I'm more likely to get a strapping country miss who doesn't know knife seven from fork five." Knightley's response was sarcastic in the extreme.

"You are despondent my friend, go home and sleep off your five day train ride...you'll come play chess with me tomorrow? Emma is too restless."

"Consider yourself engaged for the afternoon." Knightley rose with a faint smile. "And don't consider matchmaking my old friend for I will not take kindly to it, I have no wish for a wife."

"You've said that these eighteen years...given another two and I may believe you." Mr. Woodhouse picked up a nearby book and waved a distracted farewell as Knightley let himself out of the house.

May 28th 1917-Squadron 284, France

Major Frederick Wallingford was staring somewhat dismally at the trees at the far end of the aerodrome. He had been at aerodrome for over a month now, but he still felt as isolated and alienated as he had on the first day. This feeling of isolation was by no means relieved by the fact that he was the only person on the aerodrome at the present moment in time. Everyone else, Thomlin, the two ack-emma's and the other seven pilots all had cleared out for the day, along with the mess staff to play Rugby (of all things) against some Battalion or other. For the Ground staff and the two remaining Lieutenants, who seemed to transfer all over the place, the Battalion seemed to be an old enemy.

Wallingford was alone for the simple reason that he had a fractured forearm, occasioned by slipping on some ice while descending from the cockpit one day, and actually enjoying a game of Rugger he had no wish to watch others play when he couldn't himself. Wallingford turned again and headed back up the tarmac, before the soft pour-vous warned him of an incoming 'plane. Wallingford hastily ducked off the Tarmac and watched in amazement as a Sopwith Camel came in and made a neat landing. Wallingford's amazement was not so much caused by the 'plane then by the fact that it was a Camel. Newly commissioned, the Camel was both a rarity still, and had a wicked reputation.

"Squadron 284?" The pilot slid easily to the ground and stripped off helmet, goggles and gauntlets, he had the pips of a Major on his shoulder. Fingers quickly raked the hair back so it lay like it had been newly combed.

"Why do you ask?" Wallingford eyed the man suspiciously.

"Well I'm looking for 284 and this is more or less where I remember it to be."

"More or less?"

"Well let's put it this way, in this week alone I've been to seventy separate aerodromes, and it's been over a month since I was at this particular one and if it is 284 the external appearance has changed considerably since I was last here."

"That should not be surprising, the Squadron-Leader has changed."

"True...I keep forgetting."

"You knew the old one?" Wallingford looked sharply at the pilot.

"Captain Ashington-Frankston was my worst enemy."

"You must be a rarity, Captain Ashington-Frankston seems to have left many friends behind."

"He might be glad to hear it, but I suspect he wouldn't be." The pilot scratched thoughtlessly at a intricate scar which twisted away across his left jaw and vanished down into his collar.

"You've been out here for a while?"

"Hmm, oh, since February of 1915."

"When'd you stop that?" Wallingford indicated the scar.

"Ehh." The pilot looked startled for a minute and then nodded realisation. "Gallipoli."

"Why'd you transfer to Flying Corps?"

"Got caught by the Turks and the infantry wouldn't have me in France, only option left."

"I got transferred here by an uncle who didn't like me 'muddling around in the trenches'. He didn't like the honourable name of Wallingford being so without repute, I had to be different."

"Sounds like a Lieutenant I used to know, pacifist through and through, he got sent out here by his uncle. He spent about a month trying to kill himself and then the Company Officer gave him an earful and pointed out that his efforts to become deceased were being a somewhat draining toll on his platoon."

"What'd he do?"

"Cleaned up his act. Nothing else he could do, he decided to be faithful to his pacifistic ideals by having the lowest casualty rate on the Western Front...but fate does not help those sort of ambitions."

"Is he still alive?"

"Yes, just been shifted back I believe, they were mangled to hell and highwater at Arras. He avoided that debacle by catching trench fever...and I think he's since decided that a fight is better any day."

"What are you?"

"Delivery pilot, I've been flying in Bristols and Camels for the past fortnight."

"Where's this one headed for?" Wallingford had been not so subtly eyeing the Camel.

"284, I've got another three to fly in during the week, and on top of that I'm meant to instruct you all in its use."

"But that's only enough for half the Squadron."

"I can't help that, that's as fast as they come. Where's the rest of the Squadron?"

"Off playing Rugger." Wallingford responded morosely.

"And you wish you were to? Tough luck. What position?"

"Winger."

"You good at it, or is it just a hobby?"

"I got Cambridge Blues and was going to get the international flag, but then I was bundled out here and I haven't touched the ball since."

"You look more like a Fly Half to me."

"That's what all the coaches seem to think, but I'm not heavy enough. The wing is much more fun."

"I'll agree, Fly Half requires no finesse, just brawn. Wings on the other hand, now that requires finesse...Did you ever see Jefferson play?"

"I'll say." Wallingford laughed shortly. "I was the wing who flattened his nose."

"You don't say...so you're that Wallingford."

"Not really." Wallingford responded slightly shame-facedly.

"Why not?"

"That Wallingford would not have been sent to a down and out bomb station."

"You calling 284 a bomb station?"

"Well aren't they? They're called the Cads and they've got absolutely shocking figures when it comes to victories and casualties."

"Man oh man, the Cads are the hottest stuff out here...just ask another Squadron."

"Well they were a bloody nightmare when I got out here, no flights, nothing, in fact things were bloody frightful until that damn Lieutenant Angel transferred away. Nothing satisfied him, every bloody turn I was met with 'Ashie wouldn't do that', it's enough to drive anyone wild."

"What on earth were you doing?"

"Merely tightening some loose screws, they were terribly careless with equipment, lending it to anyone and everyone."

"Ahh."

"Something the matter?" Wallingford eyed the pilot sharply as he saw a shadow drift across the face.

"No, no problem at all. I thought Angel was here?"

"Yeah, transferred back a couple of weeks ago, maybe three. Dunno what happened while he was gone, he's still not pleasant to be around, but he doesn't contradict me at every turning now."

"That's a relief to hear, I always found Angel exceedingly annoying...you wouldn't be willing to give him a note would you?"

"Guess I can manage...unless you intend to incite him to further revolts." Wallingford smiled faintly to signal it was a joke.

"I don't think it will." The pilot smiled faintly in response, only a faint smile, Wallingford could still feel an unpleasant undercurrent which had been bubbling since the topic of Angel had first come up. The pilot scribbled briefly on a dirty scrap of paper and then handed it across. "Well I guess I'll come back another day to deliver this, I'm meant to sign it over to the C.O."

"See you later then." Wallingford nodded politely, and then stepped forward to swing the prop as the Pilot called out for contact. The engine howled viciously and then whipped off down the tarmac and leapt into the air.

Wallingford was still staring after the long vanished Camel when he heard the crunching grind which signalled the return of the Squadron Motor. Wallingford turned and walked slowly across to the motor where pilots and staff alike were piling out.

"We trounced them." It was Masterson who howled the delighted news.

"I'd hardly call it a trouncing." Pyro straightened somewhat stiffly from the back seat and then exited the motor.

"Well what would you call it then?"

"I personally would call it a fortunate win." Florrie was untangling himself, a large bruise was already forcing his right eye closed.

"Why?" Wallingford looked enquiringly at Florrie.

"The Major wasn't playing."

"Major...oh that reminds me Angel, a note got left for you." Wallingford handed across the note and turned back to Florrie. "Major?"

"Sorry sir, Brigadier Darcy...Major's what we always called him."

"Alright." Wallingford nodded then turned to Thomlin. "Sir, do you know anything of Camels?"

"They're Sopwith productions, or they are very uncomfortable and ungainly creatures who tend to live in deserts."

"The Sopwith production. There was a delivery pilot..." Wallingford stopped because Pyro had handed the dirty scrap of paper to Florrie and was walking away from the group. "Here claiming he had one to deliver."

"Yes, we are having our Pups replaced with Camels."

"Very good sir, I think the man will be back tomorrow...and now if you will excuse me." Wallingford hastily ducked away and dodged after Pyro. "Lieutenant Angel." Wallingford paused a short distance behind Pyro.

"Sir, if you value your life, leave me alone." There was a harsh and bitter note in Pyro's voice which Wallingford had never heard before.

"Why?"

"Because you've managed very successfully to get me into one hell of a lot of trouble." Pyro abruptly turned around.

"I fail to understand you." Wallingford faltered uncertainly as he saw the emotion fighting for supremacy in the face of the other.

"I'm sure you do." Pyro's voice bit sarcastically.

"Hi! Wallingford, sir!" Florrie came charging up.

"Something the matter Lieutenant?"

"When was he here?"

"Who here?" Wallingford stared at Florrie in bewilderment.

"Ashie of course...when was he here? when did he leave? what did he say? How was he?"

"Captain Ashington-Frankston was never here." Wallingford shook his head in bewilderment, had Rugger addled these two Lieutenants?

"Well he has to have been else how in hell did you get this?" Florrie abruptly thrust the dirty scrap of paper under Wallingford's nose.

"I got that from the delivery pilot..."

"And Ashie crashed a Camel into the Major's HQ, oh hell Florrie, hit me over the head and put me out of my misery."

"Will someone tell me what's going on?"

"Ashie isn't dead, never was, he was just invalided out. That's why Pyro and I returned, Thomlin was threatening to resign from the military altogether and he's the only C.O. we've had so far who's been able to cope with Ashie. So we returned here and Pyro's been trying to draw as much of your fire as possible ever since."

"My fire?" Wallingford shook his head, still totally lost.

"To put it bluntly Thomlin took it roughly when you side stepped him and sent B-flight after the Red Baron, in fact he still blames himself for that, and as a result he is not functioning to the best of his ability. You came here fired with reactionary verve, you were going to turn us bombs into the most polished and shiny Squadron on the front. Unfortunately you ran headlong into four people who preferred ability above appearance. We don't care how patched our Pups are, just as long as we can fly better than the majority of the pilots out here. It's a trait which carries from when we were a bomb Squadron. You got wild at us for lending out equipment to whoever...but you see none of the equipment was ever ours. We don't get equipment through the regular channels, so we acquire equipment by our own means. The other Squadrons don't get to vocal over this...provided they can rely on us for help if they have problems of any or every type." Florrie shrugged. "Because of this we continued lending things out and you were hammering straight at Thomlin every time because you knew he sanctioned the actions..."

"Sanctioned?...Thomlin organises every one of your damn raids." Wallingford exploded.

"Our point exactly. Thomlin doesn't organise those raids Wally...Denny's the only one who has access that kind of information. Yet at every turn you've been hurling these raids in his teeth, Thomlin can't do a thing about the raids for our very livelihood relies on them. As a result Pyro's been throwing Ashie in your teeth at every turn, and now Ashie's got wind of it and he's...in his own particular style...shredded Pyro for bad behaviour. The worst of it is, Ashie seems to believe it's just because he's gone that we're giving you such a pulping hard time, so try as we might we're not going to be able to explain the truth to him any time soon...and he's threatening never to return at all now."

"That was Ashington-Frankston who was flying delivery?" Walllingford had paled and now he was blinking uncertainly.

"So we assume, admittedly we did not see him, but we can think of no other way you got that note...By the bye, how did you get talking to him about such matters? You don't talk to anyone."

"I don't know...we were talking about Rugger, and then I was complaining...damned if I know why, I don't usually let grievances out."

"Or at least not to the general public, I'll agree with that...damn you Ashie!" Florrie abruptly swore.

"Shut up Florrie, Ashie knew things were crook before he even turned up, else he would have identified himself...possibly he chose the time of arrival deliberately as well." Pyro was frowning darkly. "devil take it, I hope I'm on the aerodrome when he next shows his face."

"Am I that bad as a Squadron-Leader?" Wallingford asked the question bluntly, and Pyro turned to look at him thoughtfully.

"No Wally, you're a damn good Squadron-Leader...in fact you're too good for the likes of us...or at least you have been for the past fortnight...But the fact remains that you are not Ashie."

"I...see." Wallingford paused. "Is there any way I can speak to Ashie?"

"Damned if I know, all we know is that he's being a delivery pilot...Ask Mac, he may be able to say and failing him the Major will probably know. Bluntly we're just going to wait for Ashie to emerge from the woodwork again, it's the only thing we can do."

"I guess so." Wallingford paused. "I sorry to have got you into this mess."

"Not your fault and all things considered it might be for the best but...dammit!" Pyro abruptly stalked off.

"He's annoyed with himself and no one else, I wouldn't concern yourself further with the matter." Florrie gave a yawn as he spoke and gently felt around his black eye. "And he's only annoyed with himself because Ashie's ticking off bit deep."

"Lieutenant, would you consider it to inconvenient to accompany me this evening to the pub? I...I wanted to talk about some things." Wallingford saw Florrie's shoulders tense. "No, no it's just concerning the Squadron. I'd...I've never been at an active Squadron before and no one here would even speak to me, let alone answer questions." Wallingford rushed the last bit, as he gradually turned an interesting shade of pink.

"Wally, you're a damn sight better than any of us Cads, we'd never have admitted that we didn't know bugger all. Sure, Pyro and I'll go have drinks with you...Pyro's shout so you'd better drink yourself under the table...but after tonight we'll probably both thank you not to refer back to this day, you've made us both feel like frightful cads and we don't like it at all. Lieutenant's are allowed to come in Green and inexperienced...never occurred to us that we might be given a Major in that boat. We just assumed you were a stuffy bugger who was all for appearance and brilliant reputation."

"I was...until Katt went, and then I realised that this wasn't fun and games and appearance, this was life, death, and suffering...but I didn't know how to right things and you and...Pyro weren't helping at all."

"You were at Farnborough weren't you?" Florrie's answer came in a brief nod. "I'd have thought you knew Thomlin."

"He left before I arrived, and then I only got student reports that he's a damnably unpleasant person."

"Oh he is, but first Ashie went, then Katt, and then Ashie's survival came and it threw him right out of gear and into a bad spin."

"Is there anyway I can help get him back on course?" Wallingford looked curiously at Florrie, an hour ago he would have been shocked and disbelieving had someone told him he would shortly be conspiring with the most junior Lieutenant in the Squadron.

"I'll tell you at drinks." Florrie gave a grin, a wave and then trudged off to find Pyro. Wallingford hesitated and then glanced up at the sky, whether he liked it or not, the dice had now been cast, never to be reclaimed.

Pyro was in the lead as they entered the pub, and he stopped so abruptly just as he got through the doorway that Florrie cannoned into the back of him, and Wallingford only just managed to stop.

"What is it?" Florrie hissed the question as he tried to see past Pyro.

"Nothing." Pyro turned sharply and went to a small table in a back corner, three beers came almost immediately and while Pyro promptly buried his head into his, Florrie was to busy scanning the room. What had stopped Pyro like that? But then Florrie saw it, a very familiar dark head. Ashie was perched on a stool by the bar and he was talking to Mac. Ashie's hands moved periodically as he illustrated a point, he was clearly talking about flying.

"Excuse me for a moment." Wallingford abruptly slid out of his seat and was gone before Florrie could catch him.

"Damn!" Florrie hissed it under his breath, and using the pretence of drinking Florrie kept a very sharp eye on the bar.

Wallingford crossed to the bar and collected another drink before he finally ventured to sit down next to Ashie and Mac. He spoke not a word, just watched and waited.

"Well if it isn't Wally from 284." Mac gave a distant nod as he finally observed the new arrival. "Why aren't you with your friends?" It was a savage-edged remark.

"Because I'm sitting here." Wallingford responded quietly.

"Don't mind Mac." Ashie finally swung around on his stool and ordered another drink. "He's just had the head blown off yet another of his Observers and he's feeling nasty."

"It's all very well for you to talk." Mac snapped unpleasantly.

"Isn't it just." Ashie gave a nod, and then swore as the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered onto the floor. "Blast it all...no more for me thanks bartender, though some water won't go astray."

"Fingers playing up?" Mac's harshness abruptly faded.

"Only because I had one glass to many." Ashie gave a smile. "Now where...oh yes, I was speaking to Wallingford. What brings you here?"

"Here as in here?"

"Well we'll start there. Why are you sitting here as in here?"

"Because I wanted to speak to you."

"Well if it's private, save it until tomorrow, people hear everything here."

"Not really."

"Well if it concerns Pyro's nastiness, save your breath, it's about time Pyro learnt that Thomlin is quite capable of fending for himself."

"Colonel Thomlin is not capable of fending for himself at the present moment in time." Wallingford responded shortly.

"Oh, you know Thomlin that well do you?"

"No, but I know when someone is in retreat and that the Colonel most certainly has been."

"It's Katt isn't it?" Mac spoke up abruptly.

"What's with Katt?" Ashie looked sharply back and forth at the two men.

"He's dead." Wallingford answered bluntly. "He's dead and I killed him...but Colonel Thomlin blames himself."

"That shouldn't surprise you." Mac responded curtly.

"Quiet Mac!" Ashie snapped sharply and jerked back to Wallingford. "Now spit, what's happened?"

"A month ago, about a fortnight after I arrived I side-stepped the C.O.'s orders for the day and sent B-Flight after the Richtoffen Jagstaffel. Looking back now I can say it was unsurprising that we lost the entire Flight. As it was Thomlin copped the Official rap for the loss of that Flight, I only found that out this afternoon, and he blames himself that he wasn't aware of the 'problem' earlier."

"Damn!" Ashie spoke quite calmly, and after a moment he picked up his glass of water and started to walk away. "I will be back in a moment, you two exchange polite nothings...and I mean POLITE!" Ashie weaved his way through the crowd easily, dropped into the seat Wallingford had been using and upended his glass over Pyro's head.

Florrie had watched Ashie's approach in silence, his expression betraying nothing. Ashie could either becoming to settle this mess, or he could be coming to let hell lose. Florrie continued watching as Ashie took the seat, Pyro hadn't even twitched an eyelash...or he hadn't until Ashie upended the glass.

"What the devil..." Pyro spluttered in annoyance, scowling very darkly, but the scowl did not last long. "Ashie?"

"No, the King of England...stop staring at your glass, the poor thing will melt in a minute."

"I wish it would." Pyro took one look at his handkerchief and then returned it to his pocket and settled for shaking his head to get most of the water off it.

"What a polite hope...Now Florriekins, get spluttering."

"I don't wish to splutter."

"Then don't splutter." Ashie settled back in his chair. "What have you two twits been up to?"

"Being as unpleasant as we know how...the aerodrome has not been a fun place for the last six weeks."

"I gathered as much from Wallingford's comments...that was one unhappy Major I met on the tarmac this morning."

"Why'd you come?"

"I had a Camel to deliver."

"So we're actually getting Camels?" Pyro looked at Ashie hard.

"Correct, and it's taken a fair bit of rope pulling on my part to get it." Ashie tapped the tabletop. "How's the Major?"

"Seems to be keeping alright, wouldn't come onto the field though, even though they were losing Rugger miserably. He's got his Brigade at last, Miles has the Battalion, Carrigan's the Brigade-Major...Town Major in this case since they're not out. They got mangled at Arras, which is part of why they made a miserable showing. They're shifting back day after tomorrow, been delayed by some equipment problem or other."

"Not surprised he didn't play Rugger, the last thing the Major needs is that leg of his rebroken. What's your personal analysis of Major Wallingford?"

"Green, terribly green." Pyro gave a brief nod. "But he concealed it so well we just assumed he was a stuffy bugger."

"He was a stuffy bugger until Katt went, Pyro tried to push his head through the door and that seems to have knocked some sense into him, but Pyro and I weren't being nice and there was no one else to answer questions because they're all as green as he was and he'd been gunning for Thomlin and Denny over the equipment raids."

"Think you can manage with him for another week or two?"

"Easily." Pyro gave a nod. "I really think he should try to get Squadron 198, he prefers two-seaters to fighters, and the boys out there are just his type, unlike us guttersnipe."

"I think I agree with you." Ashie gave a nod. "I don't get the physical until next week...I've failed it twice already...so we have to wait, but I should be back in a week...unless you want Wally for longer?"

"No thanks, he's rather good at making us feel like gutter company."

"I'll see you the day after tomorrow." Ashie gave a nod and then slid from his seat and returned to the bar. There were a few words exchanged at the bar and then with a nod Ashie left, with Mac in tow.

"Where's Nero?" Pyro abruptly spoke up.

"Dunno, never saw him." Florrie responded laconically.

"Hi!" Pyro's yell stopped Ashie at the door.

"What?"

"Nero! Where's that hell hound of his?"

"Damned if I know." Ashie gave a shrug and continued his departure. The door had just banged shut when an absolute volley of French oaths rang out from the kitchen and a tan and black streak shot over the bar top and vanished through the door, a heated chef, complete with chopper, was not far behind.

"I think that settles where Nero was...welcome back Wally, take your drink and settle down." Pyro gave a laugh and shoved the glass across to Wallingford who was just settling down.

"Major Ashington-Frankston is...an interesting individual."

"That is an understatement, but back to the Squadron which we never even started to discuss..."

Posted on Tuesday, 12 December 2000

June 2nd 1917-Squadron 83, France

"'Lo Mac." Freddie came yawning out into the sunlight, where Mac was reclining sleepily against an equally sleepy Nero.

"I swear he's touched nothing this morning Freddie so don't even consider charging the Mess Overdraft to me." Mac gave a yawn and rubbed his eyes before looking up at Freddie.

"For a wonder we've actually got no Mess Overdraft."

"A miracle, must be. Well if you're not here to ask me for money then you must have something beastly to report...what is it?"

"Well you might call it beastly, but most wouldn't. You've got home leave for ten days."

"What?" Mac jerked forward and was rewarded by a growl from Nero. "Oh shut up...are you joking Freddie? I'll swear I'll murder you if this is a lurk."

"Don't be a lunk-head." Freddie shook his head. "Mac it's nearly been two years since you've had home leave...you keep trading the stuff off for two days in Paris."

"Well why shouldn't I?" Mac widened his eyes sharply. "I had the devil of a time getting Nero back the first time and you know how he behaves when I skip out on him."

"Well teach the damn dog to fly for you're taking a Bristol back for servicing, and Hiton has been transferred to 65."

"By the sounds I'm also going to have to teach him to fire a Lewis Gun. Okay Freddie, I get the idea...yes I'll take leave, now buzz off and leave me to sulk in peace." Mac watched Freddie's return to the recording office before he realised he'd forgotten a critical detail. "Hi! Freddie!" Mac charged after the Recording Officer.

"What's up now?" Freddie glanced back over his shoulder.

"When does it come active?"

"Tomorrow morning...or at least that's when the Bristol should arrive."

"Good-oh." Mac returned to where Nero was still seated and frowned at the immense dog. "How may I ask am I meant to get you into the Observer's Cockpit of a Bristol?" Nero responded by opening his mouth and staring back without winking. "You are quite correct, this will be a most undignified operation...I hope you'll forgive me for doing it twice." Mac settled back onto the ground and stared up into the sky. "I wonder where I will go? I do not feel like going back to Hertfordshire...and I most certainly will not set foot in Sussex...except to drop off the Bristol." Mac paused and scratched the rough head which was shoving around his ear. "No, you are quite right, Scotland at this time of year is a bad idea...therefore we will most tamely hole up in London and hopefully not be bombed." Mac paused again, and then pulled his head away. "No Nero, my ear is not where you wipe your nose...now what was I thinking about?" Nero wuffled and then gave a short bark. "Quite right, I was considering the joys of London...maybe we will go to Hertfordshire after all...I'm sure Bing will put me up, and failing Bing I'll buy a tent and camp in his front yard." Mac finally straightened up and then stood up again. "You are as ever correct Nero...Just let me clear it with Freddie and then we shall heigh ourselves for the high road and take a walk." Mac spent a moment or to clearing things with Freddie, and then with a whistle he headed for the road.

Mac studied the Bristol which had just arrived, and frankly speaking he was not surprised that it was being sent back to England. From where Mac stood at the edge of the tarmac he could see through the body in three places, and he did not like the condition of the airlerons at all.

"How did someone manage to so thoroughly trash it?" Mac turned to look at the pilot in surprise.

"It's mine." The pilot turned slightly red. "I flew it through the top of a tree."

"We'll you're bloody lucky to have survived to tell your tale...are you certain it will make it to England? It doesn't even look as if it will stand take off."

"It should."

"Good, now take-off yourself and leave me to ponder the difficulty of getting this tank back to England." Mac frowned as he swung up into the cockpit, and much to his surprise he discovered that both were sound...except for the hole in one side of the pilot's cockpit.

"That your Bristol Mac?" Freddie came out and gave a whistle. "What in smoke did they do?"

"Flew through a tree."

"That sounds like a nice, healthy thing to do in your spare time." Freddie gave a yawn, and the frowned. "How, precisely, do you to intend to get Nero up there?"

"Two options, one is to see if he could jump up there, but I suspect such an act would be beyond him." Mac scratched the large head. "An...make that three options. Another is that he is pulled up there...but that will be most undignified and he'll probably never forgive me. The last option is that I build a nice supply of steps or some such device and send him up that way."

"I much prefer the latter option." Freddie grimaced at the huge dog. "And do forget to bring him back when you return, Gary would probably love you for it."

"That's his tough luck." Mac swung up into the cockpit and fiddled around for a minute, and then quite abruptly the seat flew out. One military issue blanket, half a tonne of dog biscuits and a can of Bully Beef later and Nero was comfortably installed in the Observer's Cockpit.

"You flown with Nero before?" Freddie had watched the entire operation with extreme doubt.

"Once, and he seemed quite content to stay put. I'll refuel at Paris, Calais, Dover and then land at Farnborough...and they better be expecting me, I have no wish to follow Jimmy Lark's example and be an unexpected arrival that is interned for a week."

"I'll make sure they know you're coming, Mac." Freddie gave a laugh and shook his head, Jimmy Lark's escapade had been the talk of the Squadrons for the past month.

"You better." Mac frowned darkly as he swung up into the cockpit.

"Hi! Freddie! Yer dinger's gey'in." The Scottish Cook was not always very intelligible.

"Yipe! The telephone!" Freddie dodged back into the Recording Officer as Mac continued prepping for his departure.

"You ready?" The Ack-Emma looked up enquiringly.

"Yep." Mac settled back as they flowed through the sequence once more.

"Mac!" Freddie's holler was only just audible over the roar and snarl of the engine.

"What?" Mac pulled the earflap back from his helmet.

"Ashie! He's at 284...Wants to speak to you."

"Right." Mac nodded his comprehension before finally opening up the throttle and surging off for take-off.

It was the first time in two months that Mac had no difficulty in recognising 284 when he arrived. There were four Camels out on the tarmac and all were in various stages of repair, the best of which was missing half a wing. Mac landed somewhat cautiously and gave himself as much space as possible.

"Quick." Ashie appeared from under the Camel with the busted wing and approached the Bristol. "What did you do to the bus?"

"Not mine, I'm taking it back to England at the same time as taking ten days home leave."

"Enjoy it." Ashie wiped a greasy hand across his face. "Look can you deliver a letter for me?"

"That's why you asked me to stop here?"

"No, but if you're going home you can't really do what I was going to ask you to do so I'm not going to ask." Ashie gave a shrug. "But can you deliver the letter for me?"

"Depends on where you want it to go."

"Cambridgeshire."

"Okay, fork it over." Mac held out his hand and watched as Ashie delved through his pockets soon to produce a mangled screw of paper. The screw was in fact about five pages, but for some reason it's external appearance seemed closer to one. "Why do you have such a frightful scrawl? No one could read this!"

"Those who need to read it can read it." Ashie gave a quick grin. "Enjoy your holiday and I'll see you when you return."

"I'm not looking forward to that day." Mac nodded briefly, then frowned. "Ashie, I can't read your handwriting."

"So what?" Ashie looked up from the propeller.

"How the devil am I meant to deliver it when I don't know WHERE! you want it to go?"

"Hmm." Ashie nodded thoughtfully, and then shrugged. "Deraux Castle, Deraux, Cambridgeshire."

"Front door or back door?" Mac lifted a curious eyebrow.

"Which do you think?" Ashie tilted his head enquiringly.

"I'm not guessing, you're telling or I'm not delivering."

"Okay, okay." Ashie threw his hands into the air. "It's addressed to the honourable Earl of Deraux, I don't think he'll be happy if you deliver to the back door...provided you could find the right backdoor."

"Why do you say it that way?"

"There are seventeen backdoors and six side doors...and one front door."

"You wouldn't happen to know the Earl would you?"

"I'll wait until you get back to answer that question." Ashie gave another smile and then swung the prop before Mac could voice another question.

"Damn!" Mac swore as Ashie returned to his Camel and opened up his throttle with a disgusted sigh.

By the time Mac took off from Dover he was starting to have extreme doubts about the right wing. By the time he reached Farnborough he was having more than doubts...he was bloody terrified.

In all seriousness such a small noise should never have been heard, and yet Mac heard it and he finally took his eyes away from the dubious wing.

"What..." Mac got no further as he instinctively slammed the stick over. To the ripping chorus of torn canvas and the splintering sound of snapping spars Mac heeled away and dodged the clod-hopping Avro and the next five minutes were exciting enough to have satisfied even the most thrill seeking pilot in the Flying Corps.

"What, may I ask, was that about?"

"That's rather what I'd like to know." Mac spat furiously from his wreckage, where he was fast discovering why the Cads always carried wirecutters.

"You mean you don't know what happened?"

"Look, could you just shut up and get me some wirecutters?"

"Just give me a minute." The voice retreated and a couple of minutes later a set of wire cutters was pushed in.

"Thank you." Mac hacked himself free and without even looking at the person standing beside the Bristol he set to work hacking into the centre.

"What's up?"

"Look, my passenger is stuck in there and I'm in rather a hurry to get him out before he decides that his dignity is offended."

"Why should his dignity be offended...and why should that worry you?"

"You wait until you see my passenger." Mac wrenched at the last wire. "Yah! Hold it! I can't get you out if you eat me." Mac yanked his fingers back and inspected them closely before directing a dark look at the Observer's cockpit.

"Your friend seems a trifle unfriendly."

"My friend is an Alsatian who is one hell of an arrogant dog and doesn't take kindly to having his dignity battered." Mac snapped shortly and made another effort to free Nero. An effort which ended once more in Mac hurriedly withdrawing his hand to avoid the large teeth of Nero. "Look you wouldn't have access to a leg of Mutton would you?"

"No buddy, we don't have a leg of Mutton...are conditions that good in France?"

"No fear, the only Mutton Nero gets is the stuff he swipes...and unfortunately I don't think anything but Mutton is going to pacify."

"Well there I can't help you. Look, can you possibly get tidied up, we've got some 'planes to land."

"Damn it all!" Mac abruptly sprang to his feet and furiously faced the other. "Do you think I'm dithering on purpose?...Maybe you don't believe me that my passenger is an Alsatian. Well I can assure you he is, and he is getting progressively more unhappy." Mac crouched down again and with an exasperated sigh Mac hacked through the last wire before springing backwards. "Nero!" The response came as a faint whimper. "Oh hell." Mac promptly dove headfirst into the wreckage and a few minutes later he was dragging Nero free, having severed a few more wires.

"Oh my God!" The man's stunned exclamation produced a savage snarl from Nero.

"Stop swearing, just get an M.O. here." Mac was attempting to staunch the flow with one hand.

"We have a vet here."

"Good, get him and stop dithering." Mac snapped.

"A problem?" The enquiry came perhaps five minutes later.

"No, I'm just covered in my dog's blood for the fun of it. Do you think that needs stitching?" Mac removed his hand for a couple of seconds.

"I do." The response held plenty of conviction.

"Then get some stuff and get working. I'm getting tired and Nero will wreak havoc if I leave him alone."

"And while he's getting stuff will you tell me what happened?"

"Maybe if you tell me what you saw and then I'll decide if your version needs any editing."

"We saw a Bristol just crash, semi-controlled, onto the tarmac. It was missing one wing before it made contact with the ground."

"Well add to that a 'plane returning from France for servicing, in other words already three-quarters wrecked, and an Avro which was not watching where it was going and you will find the desired result."

"The Avro hit you?"

"No." Mac finally took a look at the man. "Oh I do appologise sir, I had not realised."

"Excused Captain, you've been living somewhat excitingly...if the Avro did not hit you, how did you lose the wing?"

"I shed it while avoiding that Avro, I only just saw it in time and the Bristol was not up to the turn."

"I had heard they were structurally weak, but I didn't realise it was that bad."

"They're not...nothing short of a tank would survive what this bus has been through. It was flown through a tree in France. It received minimal repair work and has since flown from France to England, stopping only to refuel, and then it was given some acrobatics to contend with...no aeroplane likes such treatment."

"When you put it that way I quite agree with you." General Carter paused. "You didn't manage to see what Avro it was did you?"

"It was an unlettered trainer with green flares."

"You have quick eyes my friend...Charles." The latter call was to someone else.

"Yes sir?"

"Who's in the green Avro?"

"Stuart."

"Send him in when he returns...and ask the mechanics to clear up this mess."

"Yes sir." Footsteps retreated, and at the same time the vet returned.

"Try and keep his teeth away from me sir, never known a dog who liked stitches.

"You've met a person who has?" Mac finally moved around so he was holding Nero's head.

"A point I had never considered, I have never met a person who likes stitches...name's Harolds by the way."

"McKenna, known to all as Mac."

"You from France?"

"On ten days leave."

"Enjoy 'em. I hope I see you out there."

"I wouldn't unless it's at the local pub."

"Why?"

"Because if it's anywhere else you're probably rescuing me from an embarrassing situation, or running escort."

"Then I'll hope to see you at a local pub."

"Any news?"

"Well the Yanks are coming. They started conscription a bit back and we should be expecting their first troops soon."

"What a comfort." Mac took a squiz at where Harolds was working. "That nearly done?"

"It's a four inch gash, be patient."

"I'm trying to be, but Nero is not at all patient."

"Hmm." Harolds frowned. "Well with this one I prefer safe than sorry, I have no wish to be called in a week to stitch up ripped stitches."

"You probably will."

"Then we shall dissuade him from scratching." Harolds frowned deeper as he continued working. "Fine dog you've got here. How'd you come by him?"

"He was sleeping on our tarmac and wouldn't get off. Given the choice between sending me out, or shooting his head off the C.O. chose me and has regretted the decision ever since."

"Bit of a thief?"

"A bit is a major understatement." Mac gave a yawn.

"That's the third time you've yawned."

"I was night bombing for the better part of last night and I've been flying since five this morning."

"A pleasant expedition by the sounds...well that's Nero patched up. If he persists in scratching and biting it, put a wide-spread collar."

"Now that will really offend his dignity. I'll rely on him not touching it." Mac straightened up with a grunt.

"The General wanted to see you when I was finished, Stuart should be in soon and I think he wants you at the...errr...'meeting'."

"I see." Mac gave a sigh, collected the pack which the ack-emma had left standing beside him and looked enquiringly at Harolds.

"This way."

"Lieutenant Hawley Stuart, sir." The orderly ducked back out immediately after admitting dark Lieutenant.

"Sit down Lieutenant." General Carter waved an expansive hand. "How did your flight go?"

"Quietly sir, I reached Jettingsley and then came back, very still the whole way."

"See anyone else?"

"No sir, not a soul."

"Intriguing." Carter scratched his head for a moment. "Stuart, let me introduce Captain McKenna and his hell hound Nero to you."

"How d'ye do?" Stuart flickered an uninterested glance at Mac and then returned his attention to Carter.

"Have you met Captain McKenna before?"

"Not that I remember sir." Stuart's expression became wary.

"What did you do after you took off this afternoon?"

"I took off, checked my gauges and then set my course."

"Did you look around yourself between take off and course setting?"

"Yes sir, several times."

"And you saw no one?"

"No sir."

"Then how do you explain the fact that Captain McKenna crash-landed just after you took off after shedding a wing while avoiding an Avro with green flares."

"I saw no one sir...the Captain may have been mistaken."

"No Lieutenant, Captain McKenna was not mistaken...he can't afford to make such mistakes."

"It's impossible, no one could see the markings on another 'plane while flying."

"Lieutenant I've been identifying 'planes for the past couple of years when they are several miles distant, from make through to colour, your life isn't worth the air around it in France if you can't do it."

"Have you?" Stuart frowned doubtfully.

"General, the afternoon flight is still up isn't it?"

"Y-es." Carter was somewhat hesitant.

"Come Stuart, we are going to sit on the hanger roof and I'll give you a bob for every 'plane you correctly identify before I do."

"Alright." Stuart calmly followed Mac out of doors, then gaped as with a strong jump and a powerful swing Mac swung himself up and over onto the hanger roof.

"You coming up?" Mac's head appeared back over the side.

"How?"

"Jump." Mac responded shortly and extended a hand. Stuart frowned doubtfully, but eventually he jumped for the hand and found himself easily hauled up onto the roof. "In coming, nine o'clock, Sopwith Pup G-9740." Mac settled back on his heels as he spoke. "Oh hell, you've got a collision on your hands, twelve o'clock, Avro B-7560...they haven't seen each other, predicted impact 1 minute and counting."

"Are you serious?" Stuart couldn't see a thing.

"Quite. Damn it I wish you could communicate with the pilots. Half a minute."

"I still can't see a bloomin' thing." Stuart growled, his eyes raking the sky.

"5,000 feet, half way to the horizon at ten o'clock and eleven o'clock." Mac grimaced. "Fifteen seconds."

"What...got them...Oh hell."

"Now." There was a rending sound of ripping canvas and shattering struts a second or two after Mac spoke and silence fell on the rooftop as the two pilots watched the two 'planes sink earthwards, forever wrapped in a deathly embrace.

"How did you see them and how did you know they would collide?" Stuart turned sharply to look at Mac.

"Practice. You won't live if you can't develop the skill fast...as it was if I'd been flying and they were both Fokkers coming for me I would be dead meat. One minute isn't enough leeway, you need about two or three minutes...which puts the Fokker 4-6 miles away...or it would be in a Fee. Bristols, 2 minutes gives a clean getaway if you're within ten miles of the lines...and we usually are."

"Oh." Stuart looked blank.

"Six o'clock, Fee, unmarked but red flashes...3,000ft, he's been attracted by the crash and is flying quite slowly...jumpy blighter, he seems to be preparing to turn and flee...almost as if he's expecting to arrive and find the aerodrome under attack."

"He does...but how do you know that?" Stuart looked at Mac curiously.

"Watch him, he keeps veering off to starboard and it's not the Fee's fault. He corrects the veer seconds later, but his dead nervous, watch how unsteady his height is, he should appear just to sit there at that speed."

"Should he?" Stuart frowned uncertainly at the Fee.

"Yes. Incoming two o'clock, Avro C-9784, 1,000ft. He'll land safely and not even realise there was a crash."

"How do you know?"

"Watch him fly, he's supremely indifferent to the world around him...damn it I wish I could take a gun after him, he'd be dead meat in less than ten minutes."

"I doubt it, he's the best of our class."

"That's it, get me an Avro with a blank machine gun. The sod's decided not to land and his indifference annoys me."

"You'll have to clear that with the General."

"Fine, I will then." Mac swung easily from the roof and dodged across to the General's office, soon to return waving a sheet of paper. Stuart watched in amazement as the Ack-Emma's came scurrying out with the Avro and a minute later it was in the air looping slowly and lazily around the aerodrome in wide arcs. Stuart considered dropping to the ground for a moment, but he changed his mind quickly and decided to stay put, the view was a good one. Stuart frowned as the Avro tightened into sharper figure-eights around the aerodrome before dropping down to the mat. Stuart frowned doubtfully, only to have his jaw drop slowly open as he watched the Avro literally drag its wheels through the hedges and along the grass, before climbing in a sharp turn so as not to hit the tail on the ground.

"Where is he?" Carter's voice was somewhat breathless.

"Field two sir." Stuart glanced briefly at the ladder which had brought Carter to the roof and then returned his attention to the Avro. The Avro was now climbing steeply, twice it climbed into a stall before it finally flattened out and kicked over into a spin. Stuart counted the revolutions nervously, the Avro was not actually designed to spin and as a result it was the very devil to get out of one, but McKenna seemed to come out of it easily some twenty feet above the tarmac before it climbed up again.

"Good lad." Carter gave a chuckle.

"You know Captain McKenna sir?"

"I was here when Thomlin thrashed him through the training course in near record time. There are only three men I'd bestow the title of born to fly on, the first is Colonel Thomlin, the second is Captain Ashington-Frankston, and the third is Captain McKenna. All three were born with wings and knew how to fly on instinct, no garbage and bad landings from them."

"No sir." Stuart murmured his response doubtfully, so far he had seen nothing spectacular in the Captain's flying.

"Have you seen him make an error yet?"

"No sir."

"I would sooner judge a pilot by the neatness of his flying than by his stunting ability. Anyone can walk a tight-rope, but it is only the masters who can pause half way across and make themselves a cup of tea. Take a lesson from it, never stunt in an unfamiliar aeroplane until you can make your cup of tea on the wire. Mac's a tricky devil, he's going to tease and torment Sutherly until he goes for Mac...then you'll see how you fly an aeroplane." As Carter finished up both men saw Mac veer sharply away and climb, yet the climb seemed strange, it was jerky and uncertain. The climb then abruptly fell over into a wild and uncontrolled side-slip which only missed Sutherly's Avro by a foot or so. The Avro came uncertainly from its slip and promptly climbed straight up and only a wild plunge on Sutherly's part avoided the collision.

"He must have nerves of iron." Stuart gave a soft whistle.

"Well France is no place for a weakling." Carter gave a soft chuckle. "Don't worry, Mac will pull no trick that endangers either himself or the Avro. I sometimes think it a pity that Thomlin went to France, one deliberately smashed 'plane and you'd treat any other as if it were made of glass. Boy could he keep you greenies in line when it came to needless and foolish stunting."

"What in Hades is Sutherly up to?" Stuart gaped as Sutherly nailed himself to Mac's tail, a blatant breaking of the rules.

"Oh this will be fun." Carter gave a soft chuckle, and as he chuckled Stuart's gape became a stunned stare as, with a peculiar twisting loop, Mac suddenly attached himself to Sutherly's tail. A few seconds later there was a dull chatter and Stuart watched at Sutherly dove wildly, as if attached by a string Mac followed, loop for loop, dive for dive, turn for turn, climb for climb, and never once did the dull chatter cease. Then with a funny piking dive Mac abruptly jerked right and lunged forward and away, headed straight for the tarmac.

Stuart swung down from the roof the minute the Avro rolled to a stop and went hurrying across to where Mac was sitting, having moved to the edge of the tarmac.

"Sutherly's going to be in a furious temper with you." Stuart couldn't help but grin as he came up.

"So that's his name. I shouldn't blame him, and as a result I advise you to clear out before he decides that you were some how involved."

"I'd rather not." Stuart smiled winningly. "He's an awful swine and I'd like to see him furious."

"Well don't blame me if he tries to take it out on you later."

"Thank you sir." Stuart ducked back with a grin as Sutherly's Avro camed down in a wild landing which was much to fast and the undercarriage ground audibly as the Avro came to a halt.

"That's devilish hard on the engine." Mac yawned and shoved his helmet into his pocket as he meandered across to the Avro.

"And who the devil might you be?"

"And who the devil might you be...sir!" Mac stared flatly and arrogantly back at the man. There was a pause which had the potential to become awkward, but then Sutherly laughed.

"And who the devil might you be, sir?"

"The name is McKenna, Captain McKenna...and if you don't mind my saying, you're a confounded ass not to have seen my initial climb."

"But I did." Sutherly looked puzzled.

"Then you're an even greater ass than I thought. Hell, I'd be running away as fast as I could if someone climbed in that manner near me."

"Why?"

"Too damn likely he'd lose control and crash into me. Invariably it is the least probable which tends to happen."

"Then why didn't you hit me?"

"Waste of an Avro, and I've already crashed once today."

"That sounds like you've already wasted an Avro." Sutherly's dark frown was fading slowly away.

"Wasn't an Avro." Mac gave a faint grin.

"You're not training here are you?" Sutherly's frown darkened abruptly.

"Quite correct."

"Then why are you here? You should be back at your training school."

"I'm afraid they won't have me, and I had to camp down somewhere for the night." Mac gave another faint grin which had Sutherly shifting uncomfortably.

"Hi Mac!" One of the Ack-Emma's came up.

"What Fletcher?" Mac turned aside.

"How'd she handle?"

"A dream Fletcher, like a dream...for an Avro."

"Thank you sir, we was worried the new tail would make her awkward."

"Someone wiped the old girl's tail did they? How rude."

"Yes sir, took it off a fortnight ago and we only just got it fixed."

"Well it seems I timed my arrival well." Mac gave a grin and then patted Fletcher on the shoulder. "I'm dragging you out to France, my friend, the minute I'm permitted to call for a personnel Ack, I know that Old Icey's already hauled Geordie out, and he stole Briggs from us two days ago."

"I'm not on the overseas list."

"Damn shame that Fletcher...I'll see you again if I get any more leave...and do be kind to that wreck which is meant to be a Bristol. It carried me safely from France but found a Training School more than it could cope with."

"You will be that sir. See you in ten days, sir."

"You probably won't, for I really doubt you'll get that fixed within ten days plus your usual load."

"True sir...how do you return to France?"

"Damned if I know, I'll probably end up being sent by boat though, and then I'll be miserably sea sick."

"You is a liar." Fletcher responded roundly, and then hurried off before Mac could respond.

"And he's not the only one who thinks that." Sutherly muttered the remark morosely.

"I was told you were the best in the class, and I wanted to see whether the best of the class would fall for the oldest trick in the book...you did, hook, line and sinker. You is deader than a dodo."

"I'm not familiar with that one." Sutherly looked slightly blank.

"Blame Ashie not me, I just observed that you were dead meat, that Hun had you char-boiled and already eating you before you realised he had arrived. Never take something for granted, least of all a dismal looking pilot in France...they're invariably Hun Aces looking for a quick kill."

"Hmm." Sutherly looked doubtful.

"Okay, don't believe me, but remember it...I've seen too many newcomers fried because they fell for it and wanted a kill." Mac gave a waved and moved off, only to be faced by a disappointed Stuart.

"I thought you were going to give him 'what for', sir."

"Why should I? I'm not here to make enemies, I'm here to try and persuade a few of you to live after you reach France, we've been losing far too many lately." Mac shook his head. "You want to see a walking corpse, just go to a Fighter Squadron that's undermanned. The result will probably persuade you that War is not a big joke, but a Bloody, Ghastly Business!" Mac whistled sharply to Nero. "When's the next train to London."

"In twenty minutes." Stuart responded reluctantly.

"Then I better hop it or I'll miss it." Mac grabbed his pack and duly hopped it, leaving behind himself two pilots who were totally bewildered, and sufficiently amazed that they turned to each other to discuss the matter. Two pilots sufficiently amazed that they remembered, even if they did not believe, the advice they had been given, and adhered to it.

Continued in Next Section