Sensing he could do nothing to help, he headed towards the mess. He needed a drink. He ordered a pint of beer and sat in the corner of the ante room, eyeing the pint with increasing anxiety. What would happen when he ended up like the poor bloke being scraped off the tarmac?
Deep in his subconsciousness, he hardly noticed the slim figure that perched itself on the chair opposite him.
"Cheer up laddie," encouraged the slender figure. "It's not all that bad,"
"It can't get much worse either," Talbot replied lugubriously, inwardly annoyed at this stranger's untimely arousing of him from his reverie. He drank deeply and glanced up into the deep-set hazel eyes that smiled at him from within the boyish face with a square jaw that suggested a certain doggedness that would make him unwise to cross. "Sorry, I'm afraid I don't recognize you, I'm Tom Talbot,"
"My name's Bigglesworth, but my friends call me Biggles, I'm from 266, the Camel squadron down at Marseilles,"
Tom, despite all his instincts urging him not to get too close to anyone, was beginning to like the young officer that sat across from him, there was something in his manner and confidence that Tom found intriguing. "What brings you up here?" he inquired.
"Ah, I came up to see a fellow from 297 squadron, Wilkinson's the name if you ever meet him," replied Biggles easily. "I just stopped off here to refuel, and between you and me I came to see if anyone had any news on a friend of mine, well, protégé I suppose. He was shot down a few days ago while on a solo flight, I thought he might have made it back over the lines,"
"I'll keep an eye out for you, what was his name?"
"Ginger," answered Biggles wistfully, he wished Ginger were still here, rather than captured, or worse.
Biggles glanced at his watch, "I'm afraid I must be off now Tom, the Old Man will be wondering where if been off to. It will get better, trust me on that,"
Tom watched until the sleek, flowing curves of the Camel were a mere speck silhouetted against the orange belt that was being rapidly overhauled by the mysterious embrace of the night. He returned to the mess to further drown his sorrows.
Making his way towards the draughty hut that served as his billet, Tom thought over the conversation with Biggles and wondered how someone so youthful could be so full of wisdom and well-placed words. He supposed that it was just the war forcing premature responsibilities upon those who had brutally had their childhoods swept away from them by the uncaring hands of propaganda. Suddenly overcome by his thoughts and the hectic events of the day, he collapsed onto his bed where he stayed, unstirring while the other subalterns trickled in in various states of intoxication. Despite the haze of unconsciousness that enveloped him, the deep, throaty roar of his SE5's Hispano-Suiza engine still throbbed painfully around his head, despite the silence.
He was awakened by his batman gently shaking him and handing him a cup of tea and telling him he was to be at the sheds in 10 minutes for the dawn patrol took off in 30. His head still throbbed painfully but that was likely the hangover that he now had to nurse for the rest of the day. What an idiot. Dragging himself out of bed and steadying himself against the wall, he glanced over at Trent's bed. He was sleeping peacefully. "I'll change that!" Tom thought savagely as he hurled his pillow at Trent's sleeping form.
Tom, who was now combing his hair in front of a cracked mirror, ducked swiftly to avoid the, albeit badly aimed, retaliation. "If your aim on the ground is the same as it is in the air, I wouldn't bother unpacking!" he called back as he left the room. He walked quickly down to the mess hoping to catch a biscuit and some coffee. The mess was deserted when he walked in and was still empty when he had finished his hasty breakfast; he could hear the reluctant meandering of hobnails on the path leading up to the mess.
He stood by the entrance to the hangar, putting on his sidcot suit and fur lined boots as the other officers in B Flight came towards the hangar to get themselves ready for the (usually) uneventful flight. In unison, they began to climb in their cockpits and musical calls of 'switches off, petrol on' and 'contact' came and then the deafening sound of 4 aircraft engines being started up ripped through the still morning air.
Now approaching the lines, the usual flurry of Archie met them with the customary puffs of black smoke, he found it difficult to stay in the formation as the gunners were throwing up well placed brackets of Archie that came close enough for him to hear over the sound of his engine.
As they left the range of the Archie, Tom began to drift off, the constant, monotonous roar of the engine doing nothing to assist with the banishing of the relentless, throbbing pain that was now his every thought. Then came the sound of bullets tearing spruce and canvas to pieces, which jerked him back into reality and the dogfight which was now rapidly unfolding around him. He looked around only to see one of the gaudily coloured triplanes dancing around on his tail attempting to bring it's sights to bear on him. He touched his foot to the rudder just as the chilling stream of bullets tore through the centre section and buried themselves in his engine. A dull pain blossomed in his arm. Almost instantly, the engine began to groan, and Tom watched as the needle of the revolution dial swept counterclockwise, counting down until he inevitably lost all power from his engine.
The triplane followed him down, as he looked anxiously for a suitable landing ground. A large field presented itself, and after losing the little height he had left he glided in. A wheel hit an unseen obstruction, and the SE took to one wing and cartwheeled before coming to a stop, an unrecognizable mess of splintered spruce, tangled wires and torn fabric. The strong smell of petrol hung in the still air. Nothing stirred.
Mess- A building where men eat and socialise (and sleep- Navy only)
Ante room- A room where men can relax and socialise
Camel- Sopwith Camel- A biplane introduced in 1917- most well known fighter of the war
Old Man- slang, Officer Commanding
Subaltern- An officer rank below Captain i.e. 2nd Lieutenant, Lieutenant
Batman- Orderly, a soldier or airman acting as an assistant to an officer
Archie- Anti aircraft guns