(Available February 2016)

Chapter One

May 1915, Artois Province, France

The sky rained water droplets and artillery shell fragments through the loud, misty morning. The water left puddles under the duckboards at the bottom of the French trenches and turned Julian Olivier’s horizon-blue uniform into a muddy mess. The artillery, most of it fired from French 75mm Soixante-Quinze guns, landed largely on the Germans and, thus, troubled Julian little.

Amid the shrill whines and distant booms of the guns, Julian huddled under a rain block fashioned from broken rifles and a tattered greatcoat. Water dripped from the edges and leaked through in three spots along the center, but the shelter was sufficient to protect his paper from rain damage as he finished a letter to his parents.

Spring has skipped the trenches. I don’t suppose it can compete with the artillery. Has spring come to Calais? I miss the blossoming trees and the new green grass filling the meadows. Is the Channel clear? When I picture home, I imagine the harbor full of shipping from England. We’ll take all the men, horses, and ammunition they can send.

I wish I was home to help with the extra work this time of year always brings, yet I am also glad to sacrifice for France. Our existence here is rough, but Lieutenant Roux tells us we will be relieved within the week. I would do much for a bath and a real bed. Mother, you would be horrified by how filthy I look and smell, but since everyone else has been unwashed just as long, we grow used to it.

Julian paused, his pen hovering above the paper. He decided to spare his mother the description of trench rats. She despised rodents, and he didn’t want her to worry. Maybe he’d already said too much in complaining about the smell, but the scent of unwashed men was minor compared to the stench of decomposing bodies. He scratched the hair on the back of his neck. When washed, it was chestnut brown, but for now it was like everything else: the color of mud. He decided to omit the mention of lice from his letter as well. Nor would he tell her about the German shells that frequently pounded his position, but his father would want to know about French weapons.

Our current artillery barrage is strong, thus my friends predict we shall soon see action. I hope to make you proud when we drive the enemy from our soil.

Today it rains, but I am well. Please pray for me, as I ever pray for you.

Your loving son, Julian

He added the date to the top of the sheet: May 6, 1915.

After the ink dried, Julian folded the letter and stuck it in his breast pocket for safekeeping. He would post it tomorrow after he’d had time to reread it and make sure he hadn’t said anything he wasn’t allowed to discuss. During their last period away from the line, he’d written that the cramped barn they were stationed in was covered in more manure than straw. A censor had refused to mail the letter and had given Julian extra work duty as punishment for his complaint.

He left the shelter and stepped into the rain, climbing onto the firing step next to his friend to peer through a hole in the sandbagged breastwork across no man’s land. How long before they’d be asked to go over the top? And when they went, what would they find, other than more mud and bullets? “They’re awfully quiet over there.”

Maximo Durand turned from his study of the German positions. He removed his kepi and wiped at his brow before replacing the visored cap. He gestured behind the line, where the artillery batteries were set. “At the rate our field guns are firing, there won’t be anyone left to attack.”

“Someone will survive. And they’ll be expecting us.” Only a fool wouldn’t recognize that a major attack was coming, and for all their faults, the Germans were no fools. Julian checked his rifle for the fourth time that morning to ensure it was loaded and clean, but he didn’t think they’d attack in this weather. Soon, he thought. He hoped he would be ready.

* * *

The next day was too foggy for an assault. Nor did the battle come the day after. When dawn broke on May 9, Julian read for the fourth time the letter he’d received the day before, a report from his father about the family dairy outside Calais. Julian cared little about the status of the garden, the weather summary, and the detailed chronicle on each of the cows, but he studied each word closely, knowing who had penned each line. The phrases were simple and the spacing uneven, as if written by an unsteady hand. Was his father getting old, or had the table become more rickety during Julian’s absence?

“Any news?” Maximo asked.

Julian fought back a yawn as he folded the letter. The artillery bombardment hadn’t entirely ceased for days, but its intensity had jumped early that morning. Even though the shells weren’t aimed at him, they’d disturbed his already uneasy sleep. “Nothing much.”

“Three pages, and nothing much?” Maximo raised a dark eyebrow and twisted his mustached lips to the side.

Julian scraped some of the mud off his left boot with his right one. He could barely remember the last time either of his feet had been dry, but he supposed everyone had their troubles. “My father still works from dawn to dusk, my mother is still ill, and my brother is still dead.”

Maximo looked away. “Sorry.”

Julian regretted his sharp reply. The strange mix of boredom with their tasks, danger from German snipers, and anxiety for the upcoming battle left him on edge, but he shouldn’t take it out on Maximo. Julian was lucky to have someone write to him so frequently. Maximo’s wife was barely literate. She usually found someone to write a letter for her once a month, but Julian suspected the stretch between letters was agony for his friend. “No, I’m sorry. Would you like to read it?”

Julian passed the letter to Maximo. The two had known each other since beginning their compulsory military service at age twenty. A new law had stretched their two years’ active duty into three, and then the war had extended it indefinitely. When they were new enlistees, Maximo had tried to match his friend with his younger sister, but Mademoiselle Durand had married someone else after exchanging only two letters with Julian. She was lovely in her pictures but dull in her letters, so Julian had experienced only slight disappointment.

Maximo handed the letter back when he finished. “I’m sorry about your mother. Send her my wishes when you write her again, will you?”

Julian nodded, scratching his neck.

“Fleas?”

“I caught them from you, I’m sure.” The itching moved into his hair, and Julian took his brimmed cap off for a few seconds, letting the breeze cool his head as he searched for the irritation’s source.

“Why bother? They’ll still be there no matter how hard you scratch. Unless a shell scratches it for you.”

Julian slammed his kepi back on. He was sick of living in mud. Their unit was past due for a break, a trip behind the lines where they might have hot food and maybe even baths. “I miss the ocean. If I were home, I’d go swimming and drown the vermin.”

“Remember the time I came to visit?” Maximo was the only member of the section who had met Julian’s German mother and French father.

“How could I forget?” Before Julian could tease Maximo about his inability to milk a cow or the way his jaw had dropped when Julian had pointed out the White Cliffs of Dover, Lieutenant Roux squeezed along the narrow trench, gathering his soldiers.

Roux was about Julian’s age, in his midtwenties. He walked with the discipline and precision of a chasseur officer. Even in the trenches, his uniform was pressed and his face clean-shaven. It was a contrast to most of the men, who were now called poilus—the hairy ones.

Everyone was silent as Roux instructed them. “Today we drive the Boche invaders out of the Noyon salient and clear Vimy Ridge and Notre Dame de Lorette. Once we manage that, we’ll reach the Douai plains and cut off German rail lines. Tenth Army will attack along a broad front. Our section’s goal is to take the area between Souchez and Givenchy. The timing is perfect. The Germans are still busy up in Ypres, and the British have given them new problems over at Aubers Ridge. We’ll go as far as we can, then consolidate before the German counterattack. Follow the nearest NCO. Don’t bunch up, but work as a unit. Any questions?”

No one spoke. Julian glanced around at his comrades. Some of them looked at Roux; some of them gazed toward the German lines. None of them smiled.

“We go over the top at ten. Check your equipment and get ready.” Roux moved on to brief more of his men.

“Souchez and Givenchy.” Maximo said the words as if describing something from the underworld. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Well, I’ve long thought the Boches were a little too close to Paris.”

“Our artillery has already killed most of them, remember?” Julian tried to lighten the mood, but they both knew it took only a few survivors to man the machine guns positioned to sweep all of no man’s land. Maybe the barrage had at least taken out the Boche artillery. He would rather be killed by a bullet than a shell fragment. He’d seen his share of corpses in the past months. Those hit by bullets were usually still recognizable as human; the same couldn’t be said of those struck by artillery. “Corporal Bernard said the Russians need a little help. Maybe this will take some of the pressure off them.”

“Sure. Take the pressure off them by drawing more Boches to France. I hope the only thing we find alive over there is the rats,” Maximo said.

“Don’t we have enough rats for you here? You want more?”

Maximo’s face broke into a smile. “During the Hundred Years’ War, wasn’t Calais under siege and its inhabitants so desperate for food that rats became a common staple?”

“And you country peasants turn to rats every time a crop fails. Several times a decade, right? I’ll wager your wife can cook up a fine rat stew.”

Maximo laughed, but his grin faded as the whine of a falling artillery shell grew louder. “You remember our agreement?”

Julian nodded. “If anything happens to you, I’ll visit your wife on my next leave. And if something happens to me . . .”

“I shall visit your parents.”

Julian peeked over the top of the trench. He could see Vimy Ridge in the distance, partially obscured by artillery smoke. It wasn’t very high, but the slight elevation gave the German gunners an edge. An edge we’ll take from them today or die trying.

Corporal Bernard milled around the men, tugging on straps and looking along rifle sights. The lanky noncommissioned officer with a roman nose liked things orderly, but there was always reason behind his discipline, never a show of power. Unlike the commissioned officers, Bernard spent his time in the mud with the men, sharing their hardships equally, explaining rumors honestly.

The time to advance came quickly. The guns fell silent for a few minutes, and when it was likely the Boches had emerged from their cover to man what was left of their positions, the French Artillery showered them with sixteen-pound shells for another thunderous ten minutes. Julian almost felt sorry for his enemy. He’d lived through artillery barrages, and he hated them—the terror of being buried alive by a close hit, the fear of being decapitated by a closer hit, the noise, the uncertainty, and the way the whole earth shook as if hungry for fresh corpses. But no one had invited the Germans into Artois. It was their own fault.

“Ready!” Lieutenant Roux’s voice carried along the trench as clear as a bugle.

Julian held his breath as he waited for the order to advance.

“Forward!”

Julian crawled from the trench on a ladder, Maximo right behind him. On Roux’s orders, Corporal Bernard led their group through the gate in the French barbed wire and into no man’s land. Julian took a few deep breaths and kept hunched over as he ran toward the Boche line. It felt like he’d left something in the trenches—his stomach, perhaps. Everyone did their best to ignore the hail of bullets flying all around them. Keep moving, Julian told himself. Going back was both cowardly and treacherous. The only temporary safety lay ahead of them; the only permanent safety lay in victory.

Julian had studied no man’s land before, but it looked different now that he was in the middle of it, exposed to enemy fire. The earth seemed more desolate, each crater forming a nearly impassable hurdle. They dashed across twenty meters of ground and followed Bernard into a group of shell holes. Most of the soil had dried from the week’s earlier rainstorms, but the bottom of Julian’s hole was marked with puddles, and he splashed into one as he tried to protect his head from a persistent German machine gun.

He aimed his Lebel rifle toward the bullets’ source. He couldn’t see the soldiers shooting at them, but when Bernard gave the order, he would fire, along with everyone else. Ideally, they’d distract the gunners long enough for another group of Roux’s men to move forward.

“Let’s get that Boche, eh?” Maximo said from Julian’s elbow.

“I can’t see him.”

Maximo fired, and the machine gun fell silent. “I could.”

When the other half of their group arrived, Bernard called out to them. “Prepare to advance.”

On Bernard’s instruction, they fired as a group, then rushed from their shelters. One of the other soldiers spun around and cried out in pain. “Keep moving,” Bernard ordered. Julian looked back. Bernard dragged the wounded man into a ditch, where he would be protected from German bullets, and then sprinted forward to lead his men again.

The noise was incessant. High explosive shells, shrapnel shells, machine gun bullets, rifle bullets. Julian kept moving despite the artillery bursting around him, staying next to Maximo. His friend was the faster runner, but there was strength in numbers, so Julian forced himself to keep up. Bernard’s section leapfrogged with a sergeant’s group all the way across no man’s land. Julian heard the whine of a particularly noisy shell, and he didn’t like the way the sound accelerated as if coming directly toward him.

“Get down!” Julian grabbed Maximo’s elbow and yanked him down to the naked soil. The shell hit only fifteen meters away. Plumes of dirt shot skyward, and the blast’s force barreled over him like a cavalry charge. German artillerymen must have sighted their guns to the area long ago because the salvo was devastatingly accurate. A dozen comrades surrounded Julian and Maximo on the ground, some of them wounded, some of them killed, and some of them obliterated.

Maximo glanced at the casualties on either side of him and then at Julian. “I would have got it if you hadn’t pulled me down.”

Julian swallowed back the urge to vomit as he caught sight of Pierre Bonnett’s body. At least, he thought it was Bonnett. It was difficult to tell because most of the head was missing.

Corporal Bernard gathered the remnants of his group. Of the sixty men who had comprised their section, Julian could see fewer than half.

As they neared the German trenches, they were greeted by increased machine gun fire and a mass of barbed wire. The French shells had cut some of the wire, but enough remained to slow them down. Several men cried out and fell, some of them tumbling to the ground and others getting caught in the barbs.

Julian climbed over a mound of dirt and jumped into the trench. It was empty except for the German corpses littering the ground. The first trench had taken a beating, with huge sections completely collapsed. Maximo scrutinized the neatly sandbagged sides of a preserved section. They were different from the French trenches—more orderly, wider.

“They’re tidy. I’ll give them that.” Maximo kicked the side of the trench and followed it around a corner.

“Maximo, wait.” Julian ran after him, hoping no German soldiers lingered just out of sight.

Maximo grinned at him as Julian caught up. “Nothing here.”

Corporal Bernard’s voice bellowed over the battle. “Let’s not dawdle. We’ve made good time. Keep the momentum before the Boches reorganize.”

They were advancing again, this time from a German trench. They repeated the process of taking and securing the German reserve trenches, each a few hundred meters farther east. All morning they ran forward for an incredible gain of over four kilometers. By noon they could see the Douai Plain.

“Unbelievable,” Maximo said as they sheltered in a ditch at the side of a road. “I didn’t think an army could move this fast anymore. I feel like I’m part of Napoleon’s Grande Armée.”

Julian watched a rat nibble on a French corpse. “Sure, and Givenchy will turn into another Austerlitz.” But Julian had a sinking feeling that if the other sections had fared the same as Roux’s, the French army had lost far too many troops for a victory as glorious as Austerlitz.

Roux gathered them in a slight depression behind a minuscule ridge that, in theory, would protect them from enemy fire. “Time to consolidate. Our flanks haven’t advanced as far as we have, so the Boche can shoot at us from three sides. We need reinforcements before we move on.” Roux glanced at his men. “Archambault.”

“Yes, sir?” A soldier with a muddy kepi and a thick beard crawled forward.

“Find our reserves. Tell them our location and that we need them at once.” Roux pointed to another group of soldiers. “You six provide cover fire. The rest of you dig in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Archambault climbed from the shelter and headed back the way the section had come. He’d made it only ten meters when the crack of a rifle sounded. Archambault jerked to a stop, his back arching, and dropped to the ground.

Roux swore under his breath. “Olivier.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the shovel he’d just removed from his pack. “Yes, sir?”

“We need those reserves.”

Julian put his shovel away. He tried not to picture what had happened to Archambault, tried to convince himself that the man’s death had been a fluke. But that wasn’t true. Around the trenches, dead runners were almost as common as rats. He wasn’t exactly safe where he was, but out in the open, things would be far worse. He had a lot of ground to cover, and enemy machine gun nests and snipers had plenty of light with which to see him.

“I’ll go instead.” Maximo grabbed Julian’s arm and looked to Roux for permission.

Roux shrugged. “One of you go, now.”

“Your legs are too short for you to be a runner.” Maximo gave Julian a forced smile. “You’ll never outrun their bullets.”

“You’re married,” Julian said. “I’ll go.”

“Julian, I owe you my life. Let me repay my debt.”

Julian forced a laugh. “Our artillery killed all the snipers, remember?”

Maximo didn’t loosen his grip. “Julian . . .”

“I’ll see you in a few hours. If not, write to my parents.” Julian pulled away from his friend and scrambled from the ditch, dashing into a shell hole where he could pause long enough to locate another shelter. French rifles discharged as Julian’s squad provided cover fire.

Inside the crater, Julian took a deep breath. His friends depended on him, so he had to stay alive until he delivered his message, and he had to move quickly. Time to return across the chaos you just conquered.

Chapter Two

May 1915, Artois Province, France

Warren Flynn examined the wings of his B.E.2 biplane, checking the repaired canvas and inhaling the scent of castor oil and petrol. Around him, the aerodrome roared to life as mechanics spun propellers and men shouted over the noise in preparation for takeoff.

“Ready for your dose of hate, Canada?” Captain Jimmy Prior asked.

Warren wasn’t the only Canadian in this squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, but the nickname had stuck, even though he’d left his father’s farm in Cardston, Alberta, almost five years ago. “Of course, sir. And Boyle is ready to dish it back out to any Hun plane unlucky enough to fly within range. That is, if Boyle’s willing to come up again. We had a rather thin time of it this morning with that Albatross.”

“I’m always happy to fly, sir.” Tommy Boyle looked up with a wide grin as he put away his wrench and other tools.

Prior studied the repairs. “Flynn, do you remember the village we ate in last Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“I’m meeting a mademoiselle there this evening.” Prior winked. “Should I see if she has a friend?”

“No. Thanks though.” Warren enjoyed the attention his uniform generated with women as much as the next man, but he wasn’t on the hunt for a lady friend.

“That’s right. You’ve got that Yankee girl. In Paris, isn’t she?”

Warren smiled. “Yes, but I don’t think Americans from the South refer to themselves as Yankees, even when they move to France.”

He owed Claire a letter. He’d received one from her the day before, written in flawless handwriting and smelling slightly of lavender. He would try to write back soon, but first he had to worry about the patrol.

“Carry on, then.” Prior nodded at the two of them before gathering his own observer and striding to his own plane.

Boyle stood and used a rag to wipe the oil from his hands. “Do you speak French, Lieutenant?”

“Badly.”

“I wish I did, even badly. Hard to talk to the women when you don’t speak the language.”

“Have you seen one you fancy?” Warren finished inspecting Boyle’s repairs. They looked perfect, as usual. Boyle was a competent gunner and a top-notch mechanic.

“I’d fancy a walk with just about any of them, sir, but someone has to keep this troublesome old plane flying.”

Warren didn’t mind the mismatched fabric patches or the scratched fuselage as long as the battered biplane continued to function. “I should have checked with you earlier about going up again, but I knew you’d say yes. You’re almost as addicted as I am.”

Boyle helped mount the twenty-eight-pound machine gun onto the plane. “I don’t suppose it’s likely that a tanner’s son could ever be a pilot, but I would like to fly someday, sir.”

“Your eyesight is sharp—probably better than mine. You have that in your favor.”

“Perhaps, but my birth puts me at a bit of a disadvantage.”

“I was born on a small farm in Western Canada. I’m lucky enough to have a rich English grandmother, but I imagine our boyhoods weren’t so different. You watch, this war isn’t going to end quickly. Soon a man’s abilities will be of greater worth to the Royal Flying Corps than a man’s birth, and I’ll be the first to recommend you for pilot’s training.” Most men would tell Warren not to encourage the lad, but Warren felt the hope he gave was real.

Boyle’s lips curved up in surprised joy. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m just not sure where I’ll find another mechanic as good as you.”

“You’ll find someone, sir. I’ll train him myself if needed.” Boyle’s eyes glimmered with anticipation. Warren recognized the yearning there, the deep desire to soar through the sky, because he’d had the same hunger since the moment he first witnessed flight. He could still picture the plane in the black-and-white newsreel, striking him with awe and inspiring a thirst for audacity.

Warren made his last preflight check, reaching into his pocket to make sure his good-luck charm, the broken handle of a teacup, was still there. He’d dropped his china cup the last time he’d had tea with Claire and her English grandmother in London, the day after Britain had entered the war. Claire had picked the piece up and tossed it to him, saying, “I trust this cup is the only thing you’ll be breaking during the war, Mr. Flynn. I would hate for this to be our last meeting. Do take care as you fly your plane off into glory.”

Off into glory . . . Warren had quickly discovered that war wasn’t glorious, but flying was, regardless of the circumstances that allowed him up in the air day after day.

The men climbed into the plane, Boyle in the forward observer’s seat and Warren in the rear pilot’s seat. They adjusted their goggles and safety straps, then Warren signaled for one of the mechanics to spin the propeller. Soon the Renault engine thrummed steadily.

Warren loved the feel of the airplane’s vibrations as it sped along the ground, seeming as eager to be airborne as he was. Even more, he loved the sensation of the plane leaving the ground and climbing ever higher, no longer bound by the rules that had held men to the earth for centuries. There was freedom in flight, marred only by the carnage below.

And the ground below was covered in carnage, even if all he saw from eight thousand feet was a colorless muddle of gray and brown sliced with trenches and pocked by high-explosive shells. Yesterday the British Expeditionary Force had attacked Auber’s Ridge in conjunction with a nearby French attack. Warren had spotted for the artillery before the men had charged across no man’s land. Today the front line looked unchanged. The poor devils on the ground had advanced but a little, and they’d given up their meager gains the night before under persistent pressure from the Germans. The effort had been a waste of blood and munitions.

“There they are.” Over the roar of the engine, Warren could just hear Boyle’s shout from the observer’s seat. “Hun field guns.”

“Signal in the coordinates. Let our artillery know where to hit.”

Boyle pulled out his signal lamp and sent the initial flashes.

A series of shells streaked skyward from behind the German lines. “Here comes Archie.” Warren wasn’t sure who had started referring to the antiaircraft shells as Archibald, but he sent the plane into a dive to avoid the latest explosions. After his evasion, Warren pulled the nose of his plane up to regain the altitude he’d lost.

“How short was that?” Boyle asked as a British salvo hit the German lines. “Sixty yards? Seventy?”

“Fifty, I’d say. You’d best signal again.” Warren’s ability to judge distances from above was improving, but artillery spotting was still just trial and error.

He glanced behind him, squinting at three dark specs that grew into three biplanes. “On second thought, time to trade in that signal-lamp for the Lewis gun,” Warren shouted. He couldn’t yet make out the type of planes, but his gut told him they weren’t friendly.

Boyle made the switch in an instant. “You think we’ll be needing it?”

“Three aircraft, five o’clock high.” As they drew closer, he added, “Rumplers.”

“Do you think they’ll attack?”

Warren didn’t answer immediately, turning west and getting a better view of the German scout planes that adjusted their courses to match his. “If I had planes like that, I’d attack. They’ve got the advantage in numbers, and they can hit more than ninety miles per hour.”

“So can we, sir, in a dive with a tail wind.”

Warren forced a laugh as they crossed into British-held territory. He wasn’t opposed to scrapes with enemy aircraft, but when his machine was outnumbered and outmatched, he preferred to fight over his own lines in case he had to make an emergency landing. The Rumplers were faster than his B.E.2, but it would take them a while to catch up. He considered diving to increase his speed, but the Rumpler pack was already above him, and he didn’t want to increase their altitude advantage.

The next few minutes stretched out, each second slower than normal, as if time were caught in a roll of barbed wire and was having difficulty extracting itself. It was three against one, and the enemy had the better planes. But perhaps their pilots were poor or their gunners nearsighted. As the Rumplers grew progressively closer, a desperate plan formed in Warren’s head. It might backfire, but there weren’t many alternatives.

When the first Rumpler was about sixty yards away, nearly within firing range, Warren pulled his plane into a loop-the-loop. When he’d first learned to steer his plane through a vertical circle, he’d thought of it as a stunt, not a tactic, but that had been before the war had started.

Two of the enemy planes followed him as he returned to a level course, but the third was now ahead of him in perfect range for Boyle’s Lewis gun. The .303 caliber cartridges tore into the Rumpler, the rhythmic thumps of the bullets barely audible over the engine’s drone. Warren gave Boyle a few good seconds to shoot, then dove sharply to the left to lose the airplanes still on his tail. He heard the double sound of Rumpler guns but didn’t feel anything crash into his plane. He’d flown beneath the stream of bullets.

Warren sped through a cloud and leveled off. The plane Boyle had shot turned back to the German lines, smoke trailing from its engine. Warren’s dive had increased the distance between the two remaining Rumplers and him, but they would soon catch the B.E.2 again.

It took the Hun planes less than two minutes to return to firing range. Warren dove again, this time to the right, but his plane simply wasn’t fast enough. German bullets tore through the canvas wings and across the observer’s seat. Wires snapped, Boyle slumped forward, and the propeller splintered. The plane dropped.

“Boyle?” Warren switched off the engine to keep it from igniting. He tested the stick. The plane still responded to his commands, although its movements were no longer smooth.

“Boyle? Are you all right?” Boyle didn’t answer, but in case the lad could hear him, and because things seemed less dire if he spoke aloud, Warren continued. “We’ll glide down. We’re over our lines now—or the French lines. No hardship to make it back to our aerodrome once we land.”

The vast majority of pilots would recognize that Warren’s B.E.2 was going down and leave the damaged plane to its dismal chance of a successful landing, but one of the Rumplers came back for another pass. With a broken engine and an unresponsive gunner, Warren was as easy a target as the French troops had been charging across Alsace in bright red trousers the previous autumn. The bullets didn’t hit Warren, but the smooth glide he’d managed to coax his plane into disintegrated to a spin as bullets struck the fuselage and tail.

Warren fought with the stick and the rudder, trying to regain some measure of control. Between the clouds, the smoke, and the rotation of the plane, he could no longer see the Rumplers. He hoped they’d gone away. He was suddenly grateful for all the practice in coming out of spins that his flight instructor had insisted on. He’d lost track of his altitude, but the ground was coming up fast. He wrestled the plane into a straighter course and coaxed it past the rows of trenches.

Only feet above the earth, he braced himself for a crash landing.