In the chill light of the early morning the airmen stood shivering, grateful for the thickness of their Sidcots and sheepskin boots, waiting for the weather to clear. Grey clouds and misty rain had reduced visibility in both the air and on the ground and turned the surrounding countryside to monochromatic colours and mud.
The deep-set hazel eyes of a young man looked up constantly and he sincerely hoped that the grey murk above harboured nothing more sinister than snow.
Mechanics stood ready. The promised forecast had been for that of hail and damaging winds and any aircraft caught out in it would suffer severely. They knew they would have to move quickly to get the flimsy aircraft back under cover should it eventuate.
The air was redolent with tobacco smoke as the men waited tensely. Mess waiters brought out tin cups of steaming hot tea, around which cold hands wrapped gratefully.
It was 6am and time for Dawn Patrol.
An icy blast of wind tore across the aerodrome; a tin that had once contained best quality peaches rattled up against the wall of the nearest building, causing one of the young airmen to spit a curse.
The rain of the preceding 24 hours had caused the nearby stream to overflow, its bloodstained waters bringing the stench of death from the nearby battlefields.
Each man knew the sticky, stinking mud would make it more difficult to lift a machine off the ground and that a poor landing could quickly become a death-trap.
"They said this war would be over by Christmas," remarked an untidy boy with a freckled face to the young man with the hazel eyes. He gave an irritating falsetto laugh that betrayed the tension he was under and flicked the ash off his cigarette before replying. "They neglected to tell us which year, old chap."
A telephone bell shrilled into the desolate tension; the men looked automatically towards the aerodrome office.
A few moments later the C.O appeared and strode over towards the waiting pilots. "That was Wing on the phone. The weather's a complete washout, I'm afraid and has grounded all aircraft from Amiens to Dunkirk. Stand by, you fellows, just in case the weather clears later."
The men relaxed perceptibly. One clapped another on the back and laughed. "So are you going to let me take some money off you today Mac?"
"Hardly, Mahoney" the other man said in his Scottish accent. "I feel my luck will be in again today. Care to join us?" he threw casually over his shoulder towards the young man with the deep-set hazel eyes and his freckle-faced friend as they made their way towards the Mess.
"Not on your life" he said with a grin. "Algy's no pigeon for your plucking and neither am I. You've always had the devil's own luck at cards, Mac."
