It was snowing on the eleventh day of November in 1918.

Great big flakes of cotton drifted down from the low sky and gathered in a blanket of white on the cold, barren soil. Doug Calvert sat on a gasoline drum outside of the hangar; smoking a cigarette and watching his friends play a game of American football in the mess of mud and snow on the ground. He exhaled lightly; the remnants of the tobacco smoke mixing with the misty vapor of his breath. Darkness was falling, filling the field with shadows and muted light, the gray clouds hanging low in the sky. As always, when he watched his friends and comrades at war and at play, his thoughts swept back to his brother and what could have been.

The war had made him bitter and resentful, but time was forcing his raw wounds to heal. Every day that passed he found his smiles becoming easier, his laughter not as forced as before. He was healing, slowly. His memories of the time right after his brother's death were becoming stark, black and white photographs in his mind. They were tough and relentless, unpredictable yet hypnotic and would remain unforgettable.

When he thought of Rob, as he did often, he was no longer haunted by the vision of the mangled aircraft, or his brother's body covered with wildflowers. He instead brought to mind the laughter, the smiles and the good-natured fights of their youth. He remembered his brother in his uniform on the day they left, so young and full of life, serene and unblemished as they kissed their mother good-by as their train was leaving the station for Camp Dix and basic training.

Ah, but that seemed like a lifetime ago.

When the shadows lengthened and the sky grew dark, the football players gave up their game and started for the mess hall. Owen walked over to Doug and stopped, resting his hands on knees to catch his breath.

"You make a habit of smoking on objects that can explode without warning?"

"Every chance I get." Doug countered as he kicked the drum with his heel lightly; smiling as the hollow ringing announced it was empty.

"You should have joined in, then maybe they wouldn't have kicked our ass."

"I thought about it." Doug flicked his cigarette into the darkness.

Owen nodded and straightened, stretching the muscles in him back. "Jesus, I'm getting old," he grumbled. "Give me a cig, will you?"

Doug pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and tossed them to Owen, who took it and shook one out for himself. All he seemed to do in this foreign country was sleep, smoke and fly. He lit the cigarette with the match Owen offered and inhaled the hot smoke into his lungs, feeling them tighten from the intrusion.

Owen coughed as he exhaled. "Christ, if they don't kill us in battle, these things will."

"That's the plan. Why do you think they give us cartons like they're candy?"

Owen chuckled as he sat down next to Doug and the two smoked in the comfortable silence. "They say were going home soon." Owen quietly said, his breath stretching out in front of him in a ghostly trail.

Doug grunted. "Home. Where's that? I've been here so long; I forget what my bed feels like. I forget what it feels like to wake up and not have to worry about being shot down. I can't remember playing footballs without the thought the guys I played with might be dead tomorrow. Where the hell is home? Can you tell me? I don't know anymore. Do you remember home?"

Owen nodded. He was used to this pessimistic side of Doug. "Sometimes, when I least expect it. When I'm in the middle of a dogfight and I should be concentrating on not getting my ass shot down. It's then the smell of my mother's sachet fills my senses or I remember how soft Evelyn's hair feels in my hands and I feel sick to my stomach from homesickness. But I know what you're talking about, this place has become home and these guys have become our family and that scares the shit out of me. Jeez, how long have we been here? It feels like a lifetime."

"Exactly." Doug inhaled on his cigarette. "This place, these battles in the air that we've fought, they've changed me. Changed me so much I'm scared I don't even know myself anymore. I guess I'm afraid that if I don't know myself, how can I expect my mother or Charlie or anyone who hasn't been through the war to understand."

Owen sighed and leaned back on an elbow as he took a deep drag from his cigarette. "I know where you're coming from. How much should I tell Evie about what I've seen and done? I'm afraid if she knew the truth she would never want to speak to me again."

Doug nodded soberly as he stared down at the glowing ember of his cigarette. "Do you have any idea how many men have been killed just this month in the trenches? The number is staggering. Sometimes I think I have no excuse for sitting here and complaining about how I fought this war in the air while enlisted men are huddling in terror and confusion in the bottom of a foxhole. This wasn't a war; it was an abomination." He scratched the back of his head with one hand. "Every time I shoot a plane down, the further away from home I feel and all I know is if I survive this war and never have to fly again, I won't miss it."

Owen looked up sharply. "What?"

"I mean it, Owe. I don't think I'm going to continue the airfield when we return. I just don't have the heart for it anymore."

"What are you going to do?"

Doug stepped down from the barrel and dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. He turned and stared out west towards the last remaining shreds of daylight. "I don't know. I honestly have no idea. I'm not like you; I don't have a girl waiting for me at home. Maybe if I did, I would feel differently. All I'll have when I leave here is regret and memories. I don't think I can return home and go on with my life as it was before I left. I'm no longer that person. Do you know what I mean?"

"Of course I know." Owen said irritably as the cynicism of Doug's speech grated on his nerves. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but you're not the only person who fought this war. Everybody in this place has lost somebody, a father, a brother, a cousin, or a friend. You're not the only person who is going to return to the States different from when they arrived. Don't make yourself a martyr, Doug. It doesn't suit you."

Doug nodded his head silently as he continued to stare towards the horizon.

Owen stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. He wiped the snow off of the seat of his pants and turned towards his friend. "Christ man, I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. You're right."

"How about we go inside, I'm freezing. I say we not worry about going home until we get the official word. For all we know, we might still be here for awhile. Let's go get something to eat before there's nothing left. I'm starving."

"Good idea."

The mess was always rowdy in the early evenings, as the returning pilots were anxious to speak of their day. But tonight a feeling of apprehension ran through the ranks of men sitting at the long tables. Doug wound his way through the food line, his shoulders and back rigid as a board. He grumbled as he placed the last of few rolls onto his plate and picked up his dinner tray and made his way towards Owen, who beckoned him to the seat beside him.

"Look, I became lost and I landed on the first field I saw. You'd do the same thing, right?"

Doug sat down next to Owen, who was listening to Major Kirby recount his sensational victory only days before.

"I was tired, the plane needed to be fixed, so I didn't even think about telephoning the Aerodrome to let them know I was OK. I did the repairs necessary and fell asleep in the cockpit of my machine. How was I to know the fog would roll in?"

Kirby grabbed a roll off of Doug's tray and motioned to Doug sitting silently before him. "You know how it is. Some days you fly in the air and not a single thing happens. Then, WHAM! Next thing you know, you're clearing the fog and flying over Etain. I almost shit my pants when what do I see coming out of the fog alongside me but a Fokker! I swear to God he was just as surprised to see me as I was of him. So what did I do? I almost waved to the sucker!"

The men at the table broke into laughter. "But then the next thing I knew, he was diving toward the ground. So I piqued my tail, and followed him down, strafing him all the way. Jesus, we must have been only fifty feet above the ground." He snorted. "Could I have known he was going to crash into the ground? Uh, no. If I had delayed two more seconds, my plane would have wrecked right on top of his. At the last minute," Kirby took a bite of the roll, "I was able to pull the stick up and fly to safety. I'm tellin' ya; I scared him to death. Honest."

By the time Kirby was done telling his story, all of the men at the table were listening to him enraptured. The strange vibes that Doug picked up on when he entered the mess intensified. Only a few of the men were talking, it was if as a unit, they could sense something was about to happen.

Owen looked up sharply at the ringing of the telephone and nudged Doug with his elbow. Doug pushed his tray away and watched Rickenbacker pick up the phone and cradle it to his ear. A hush gathered over the hall as Eddie dropped the phone and turned towards the group.

Every muscle in Doug's body tensed as he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He looked at Owen as he realized everyone in the room felt the same way. Not a sound was heard, not an eye blinked. It was if every person in the room was holding his breath, one of those peculiar moments when every instinct shouts that something monumental is going to happen.

In the midst of the uncanny silence the loud boom of the Arch battery thundered outside. Suddenly, pandemonium broke out as everyone jumped up at once. The men were shouting and tumbling over one another in their excitement, anxious to be out the door and celebrating.

Doug sat silently for a moment, staring down at his hands. It was officially over. He realized this, he knew it deep in his heart, but what would he do with himself once the war was over?

"Doug?" He looked up to see Owen in the doorway. "Come on outside. There's nothing here for you now." Doug nodded and stood up, feeling his mouth curl up at the corners.

The sky over the Aerodrome and in every direction they faced was aglow and shivering from the bursts of fire. Searchlights from other aerodromes were frolicking frantically across the heavens, illuminating through the clouds and softening to dimness the thousands of colored lights, which exploded in every conceivable direction. From all around came the shrill yells of festivity that were punctuated with the fierce rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of machineguns that rang all across the countryside. Roars of laughter and whoops of joy came floating on the wind from the sleeping quarters beside the hangar.

As sudden as the snow clouds formed that day, the wind of the evening pushed them east, allowing the stars to shine brightly overhead. Doug watched silently as sometimes even the heavens were hidden by the thousands of rounds of ammunition that exploded, releasing various colored lights, that floated softly towards the earth until they withered away to nothingness.

Everybody was laughing, whooping, firing guns into the sky, punch drunk with the realization they were alive and going home. I'm going home, Doug thought to himself as he stared at the spectacle in the sky. From the corner of his eye he saw Rickenbacker helping a few of his pilots roll barrels of gasoline through the mud. I'm finally going home. Doug threw back his head and laughed as he walked over to give Rickenbacker a helping hand.

Once the pyre was high enough, Rickenbacker struck a match and threw it upon the barrels. The flames whooshed to the heavens and enveloped the joyous men in its bright orange light and welcomed warmth. Doug stood watching the dancing ring of crazy lunatics which circled the blazing fire, listening to the similar howling of other rings as they formed. Bonfires burned voraciously other barrels of gasoline that would never again allow fighting aeroplanes to fly over enemy lines.

Doug watched in wonder as one lone soldier pirouetted madly on the outside of the bedlam. "I've lived through the war!" He repeated to himself over and over as he spun frantically in the mud.

A great silence descended upon Doug as he turned to stare at the men, deafening the cries of joy and the booms of the artillery cannons to a dull roar. All he could hear was his blood pounding in his ears. He watched in eerie slow motion as another bonfire was lit, its fireball bursting and lighting the clouds with orange and red fury high above. It was a moment of perfect clarity, a moment of epiphany. His vision became blurred as he realized tears stung his eyes.

He never had to fly again. His arms shot over his head, whooping with elation as his hearing returned. No matter what road life lead him down when he returned home, he was thankful he would never again be required to climb inside of the cockpit of an airplane and fly.

The flying machine that filled his dreams as a child, in war became the object that filled him with complete and utter loathing. Never again would he have to climb into the cockpit of an airplane and shoot down enemy aircraft. Never again would he have to feel the burn or adrenaline rush of the kill. Never again would he awake fearing this day would be his last. He had fulfilled his promise to his brother to complete his missions with honor and tact and now he was free.

His whoop of joy became the cry of salvation. He was going home.