March 1917, Champaign Province, France
Warren was in love. His new airplane, a Sopwith Pup, had to be the finest machine ever built. There were other good planes, like the French Spad and the German Fokker. They might even be better in some ways, but he doubted any of them were as fun to fly, and none beat the Pup at high altitudes. In the ten days he’d had it, he’d shot down nine German planes, two of them on the same day.
He was a captain now, commanding his own flight. After his takeoff, he circled the aerodrome, waiting for two other pilots from C squadron to catch up to him.
The cool, crisp air blew through the open cockpit and kept him alert as he led his group toward the front lines in search of German opponents. The Sopwith had finally given his men the plane they needed to go head-to-head against German scouts like the Fokker and the Albatross. Peering into the distance, Warren thought he saw a group of small black specks.
Speaking of German scouts . . .
Ready for a fight, he turned toward them. They were at a similar altitude to his group, so it would be an even match. No . . . He could make out four planes, so his team was outnumbered. But Nelson and Grimsley, the men he flew with today, were experienced pilots, and they were high enough that most other planes would lose some of their aerobatic abilities, giving the Pups the advantage.
The two groups closed the distance quickly, meeting each other in a burst of machine gun fire. Warren twisted his plane around to chase the Germans, who couldn’t match the Pup’s tight turns. The Albatross D.IIs were good planes though, and the enemy pilots didn’t make it easy to get around behind them.
Both formations broke up. Warren attacked one of the German planes from slightly above, riddling it with bullets but not downing it. He adjusted his plane and Vickers machine gun for another try, then noticed two of the Hun planes ganging up on Grimsley.
Warren turned to stop the planes diving on his comrade. He put a line of bullets through the fuselage of one, and the plane flew away with an engine fire. By the time Warren turned around to dive at the other Albatross, Grimsley had gotten away, as had the other attacker.
Warren pursued a new target, focusing on the Albatross he’d shot up before breaking off to aid Grimsley. The plane was limping home, but before Warren was in range, the dogfight to his left distracted him. The fourth Albatross had shot the wing off Nelson’s plane. His friend’s face filled with horror as the plane fell apart underneath him. It was impossible to glide a plane to a gentle landing with only one wing, and the Royal Flying Corps didn’t issue parachutes to pilots.
The Albatross pilot who had shot Nelson ended his pass with a few bullets into Warren’s plane. Warren grabbed the end of his silk scarf and wiped at his goggles to clear them of oil from his damaged engine. He made Nelson’s killer his next opponent. It was tricky maneuvering into position behind such a skilled pilot, but eventually he was within range. He squeezed the trigger in a rage but missed. He fought the wind and wiped at his oil-splattered goggles again, but just before he had the plane lined up in his sights, it dove away.
The two other surviving Albatrosses joined him, heading for their own lines. Maybe they were low on fuel. Nelson’s expression still fresh in his mind, Warren wanted to chase them. He’d crippled one of them, and Grimsley had gotten a few good shots in as well. But both Pups were damaged, and attacking a superior number of planes with an imperfect engine was unlikely to achieve successful revenge. Warren signaled to Grimsley, and they turned for home.
When he landed, he checked the damage to his engine.
A mechanic joined him. “That will take some work to fix, sir.”
“Grimsley’s plane will need repairs too,” Warren said.
“And Nelson?”
“Shot down.”
The mechanic bowed his head in a gesture of respect.
“Has A squadron made it back?” Warren had planned a trip to a nearby village with Captain Prior, who was seeing a local girl. Warren had intended to purchase birthday gifts for his grandmother and Claire, but with Nelson’s death, a shopping trip no longer sounded enjoyable.
The mechanic nodded, but his frown sent goose bumps forming along Warren’s arms. Not more bad news.
“And?”
“Not all of them made it back, sir.”
“Captain Prior?”
“Haven’t seen him yet.”
Warren left his beloved plane to the mechanic and strode to the tent where Major Cook debriefed the men after each flight. He pushed aside the flap as the intelligence officer hung up the telephone. Warren waited.
The intelligence officer gave Warren a nod, then turned to Major Cook. “An artillery battery saw two of our planes attacked by three German fighters. Our boys had one victory, but they both went down.”
“Did they see which planes?” Warren asked.
“Blue nose on one, red wheels on the other.”
Warren swallowed hard. That meant Prior and Nesbeck had been shot down on the same day he’d lost Nelson. “Which side of the line?”
“Ours.”
“Where?”
“North about twenty miles. The artillery that called it in is supporting the 51st Highland Division.”
Warren left the tent, rushing to find a car. Maybe they’d survived their crashes. He drove as fast as he could along the muddy road often blocked with men and supplies moving to or from the trenches. He stopped some of the soldiers for directions and eventually found his way to the correct artillery battery.
“Those two planes, where did they crash?”
One of the men made a vague gesture to the west.
“Has anyone checked them?”
The man nodded.
“And?”
“Neither pilot made it, sir. I’m sorry.”
Warren couldn’t bring himself to reply. He drove slowly back to his aerodrome, a heavy sense of gloom surrounding him, eating at him. Prior, Nesbeck, and Nelson had been good pilots and good men. He was going to miss them.
* * *
A few weeks after Captain Prior’s death, Warren’s wing moved closer to Paris. It was close enough that he could visit the Donovans if he had a day off due to poor weather, but it was another month before he got around to it.
Mr. Franke, the butler, showed him to the library, where Claire waited in front of the piano. “When I looked out the window this morning and noted rain for the third day in a row, I said to myself, ‘Perhaps Mr. Flynn will come visit as he cannot fly and will have already taken apart and adjusted everything on his airplane.’ Ever since I received the letter about your new aerodrome, I’ve been hoping you’d accept one of my invitations. I had our cook plan an elaborate supper for if you came. Will you stay long enough to join me?”
He nodded.
“I missed you, Warren.” She faced the piano as she said it, as if hesitant to be so blunt and look him in the face at the same time.
He knew he should say something about how much he’d missed her, but he kept silent as he took the seat next to the piano. “Any new music since I was here last fall?”
“Yes.”
“Will you play for me?”
She complied, her lithe fingers playing first a classical piece, then a ragtime piece. As she finished, she rubbed her hands together. “It’s still so cold all the time. I’m looking forward to summer.”
“Coal shortage?”
“Yes. Papa usually manages to buy enough, but he didn’t think it would be cold for so long.”
“I have an idea.” Watching Claire play was pleasant, but he wanted to be closer, wanted to hold her. He went to the gramophone and selected a disc. As the music started, he held out his hand. “We can dance to stay warm.”
Her fingers slipped into his, and as she stood, he placed his other hand on the back of her narrow waist.
“You know, I think you’ve gotten prettier since my last visit.”
One of her eyebrows rose. “And you seem to have grown more romantic.”
“You know better than to assume something like that.”
Her smile made her dimple show, but she didn’t look convinced as he led her in a waltz. He was tempted to say something completely unromantic just to prove his point, but he found watching her more enjoyable.
“You seem to be staring at me, Captain Flynn.”
“I’m counting your freckles.”
She turned away with a grin and a blush.
“You moved; now I have to start over. I wonder if you have more freckles or if I have more kills. I’m up to thirty-four now.” When Warren realized what he’d said, his feet stopped moving. He usually thought of his opponents as machines to eliminate, but there were people inside the planes too. How many of them had squadron mates mourning their loss, just as he mourned Captain Prior’s and all the other men’s who’d been shot down? The poor devils. “I’m sorry, Claire. That was a rather insensitive thing for me to say.”
He rushed from the library to the garden. He needed fresh air despite the rain. Lately the war had him feeling as confused and out of place as a cavalry officer on a U-boat. He still exulted in each triumph over another pilot, but when he thought about how many people he’d killed, it made him sick. What type of man went up in a plane and shot down other men, then celebrated the event? And what was the alternative? Doing the same thing only with a rifle aimed across no-man’s land? War turned the world upside down.
“I brought you your hat.”
Warren glanced back at the doorway, where Claire stood with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She walked over to stand next to him and offered him his hat.
“I noticed you still have the good-luck charm I gave you. Lately your letters have been so infrequent.” She looked away. “I wondered if perhaps there was another girl somewhere.”
He took his hat. “No. No girl. I’ve just been busy turning into some type of despicable killing machine.”
“You’re doing your duty.”
“Hmm.”
Claire pulled her shawl more tightly over her shoulders. “My mother would have known exactly what to say to make you cheerful again. She had a way with words, could always read people. I wish I had that gift, especially now, because I don’t know what to say.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry that war is so awful and that you have to be part of it. But I’m here, and I want to help.”
Warren took her hand and held it as he stared at the ivy. He didn’t put as much pressure in his grip as he did on his stick when pulling his plane from a dive, but he grasped it with equal desperation. Having her nearby was helpful, even when she said nothing. The two of them would be as soggy as a duckboard in Flanders if they stayed outside much longer, but somehow the drops of water seemed cleansing.
“Do you ever miss your mother?” Claire asked.
It wasn’t something Warren usually admitted, but he nodded.
“Still?”
Sixteen years had gone by, but he thought of her often. “Yes.”
“I miss mine. Every day. I was hoping it wouldn’t be so bad after a decade.”
“It isn’t as bad as it used to be. But it hasn’t gone away. I doubt it ever will completely.”
“Sometimes I wonder if she looks down on me and what she thinks.”
Warren studied Claire. Her red curls were growing heavy with rainwater, and several drops hung on her eyelashes. “If she looks down on you, I’m sure she’s pleased with the woman you’ve become.” On the other hand, if his mother was watching, and if all she had taught him about right and wrong was true, Warren had a gnawing fear that she’d be horrified by the war and by his role in it.