Disclaimer: I do not own/profit off of The Lord of the Rings, which belongs to their respective owners.

This story asks the question - what if aviation was present in Middle-earth? Without further ado, here's the first chapter. Please note that RAF Fairfield was never a real RAF airbase, and is created for this story.

Update: I've rewritten this chapter of the story to get it up to my quality standards. Enjoy!


RAF Fairfield was an RAF airbase in Yorkshire County, England, consisting of the No. 147 Spitfire Squadron, No. 107 Mosquito Squadron, and No. 545 Dakota Squadron. No. 147 Squadron usually conducted air superiority and escort missions over the Low Countries, No. 107 usually conducted small raids on German infrastructure, and No. 545 participated in supply runs throughout Great Britain. This is their story of how RAF Fairfield and its squadrons were transported to the land of Middle-earth during the time of the War of the Ring in the Third Age.

December 12, 1943

The commanding officer of RAF Fairfield, Air Commodore Arthur Maxwell, had received an order from high command to destroy a power grid spotted in reconnaissance photos. No. 147 Squadron was deployed to escort a Blenheim raid, and No. 545 Squadron was off doing supply runs, which meant that only No. 107 was currently at the base, ready for orders. The commodore picks up the telegram and heads over to the No. 107 Squadron hangars, intending on relaying the orders to some of the men, where he meets them with an exchange of salutes.

"Lads! Your mission today is to take out a major power grid spotted in Bochum in the Ruhr district. Your two Mosquitoes equipped with eight RP-3 rockets each should be enough to take out the power grid."

"Affirmative, sir!"

The pilots and navigators of the two Mosquitoes salute the commodore again as they head for their hangars where the aeroplanes are stored. The crew climb into each of the Mosquitoes and start their engines, letting them roar. The two Mosquitoes of No. 107 taxi to the runway, chocks in and ready to take off at a moment's notice. After what seems like ages, the signal is given to take off. Both pilots push the throttle forwards, lower the flaps, and begin to move faster and faster, rolling down the runway with thunderous growls from the Rolls Royce V12s. As air rushes past the wings, the Mosquitoes start to rise in the air, and the pilots each orient their aircraft towards their target in Germany, uncertain of what to expect over the skies of the Third Reich.

...

Ruhr, Germany

The skies of Nazi Germany at war give off an inhospitable aura as the Mossies enter the airspace of the Ruhr District, trying to navigate to the power grid in Bochum while comparing their surroundings to photos of the power grid. Around a kilometer from the aircraft, the power grid is spotted along with a complex of buildings surrounding it, presumably to house workers and supplies.

"At last, we're here. I can see the power grid in the distance," says the pilot of the first Mosquito. "It is relatively unprotected, considering the bombing campaign against this area of Germany. I really expected more damage and craters."

"Well, our bombers just haven't targetted this specific power grid," replies the pilot of the second Mosquito. "That's what we're here for."

Suddenly, portions of air start exploding around the two aeroplanes, rattling the Mossies slightly and leaving dark, sooty spots in the sky; a telltale sign of resistance from the Nazis below. Luckily, none of the aircraft receive damage from the anti-aircraft weaponry as they rush past the sky towards their target.

"Blimey! The Germans have flak, but it's nothing to worry about. Jerry didn't account for pieces of plywood going 300 miles an hour."

The Mosquitoes arrive at the power grid, descending in altitude and gaining speed while doing so. They each get into a position to make a pass, making sure not to bleed their energy in order to not be easy pickings for the flak. The rockets are fired one by one, each flying towards the power grid in a shower of fire, impacting the power grid dead centre and leaving behind a pile of twisted metal, cutting off the power supply for much of the Ruhr district.

"Yes! The power grid has been destroyed! Report back to base about our success. Out."

"Affirmative. We'll be back for tea in no time, mate."

The first pilot notices strange black clouds forming in the air, which worries him slightly.

"Uh, do you happen to see that bit of strange weather up in the sky? It's usually cloudy back home but that is some pretty off weather. It looks like it's heading west, towards Great Britain."

"Ah, it might be a storm, mate. Nothing too worrisome, but keep your eyes open in case Jerry decides to intercept us," responds the second pilot.

"Yeah, it might be a possibility, although Jerry's got less air superiority these days ever since we got these Mossies."

"Can't say the same for the Americans, though. They should really start doing night bombings instead of feeding perfectly capable bombers to the Luftwaffe."

"Even though Bomber Command's been doing night bombings, we're still getting reports of surprise losses from indeterminate sources. They're just cruising along and blam! Their bomber is in pieces and they don't even know how it happened."

"I think it's the 88s. Those things produce so much smoke you could probably walk on it if you tried hard enough."

"Ah, whatever. Speaking of 88s, we have to watch for those while heading back home. Out."

The Mosquitoes proceed to set a course back to their base, unaware of the significance of the black storm which is making its way towards Great Britain.

...

Harlingen, Netherlands

Above the dreary skies of the German-occupied Port of Harlingen, an aerial battle is currently being fought between Spitfires and Bf 109s as Blenheims rush to destroy merchant ships scattered within the harbor. Rustled by the incoming attack force of 10 Blenheims escorted by 3 Spitfire squadrons, German fighter aircraft based at a nearby airfield were forced to scramble, shooting down one Blenheim before they were ambushed by the Spitfires, which shot down two 109s in the process as anti aircraft guns focused on the Blenheims. Lining up his guns on a 109, Flight Lieutenant James Harris takes some time to adjust with his machine guns before firing his cannons, causing black oil to suddenly start leaking from the enemy aeroplane's engine, heavily damaging it in the process as the dark liquid covers the canopy of the 109, severely hampering the enemy pilot's vision. Finding the Messerschmitt to have taken too much damage to fly effectively, the pilot decides to bail out, earning James a victory.

"This is Falcon 2-2, bandit down."

"Good job!"

"This is Wolf 2-1, it looks like we've missed."

"This is Wolf 1-2, we've hit a ship!"

"This is Wolf 2-3, we've destroyed a ship!"

At the same time, another Spitfire gets a lucky shot and snaps the tail cables inside a 109, causing it to plummet to the ground. "This is Hawk 3, bandit down."

"Oh bollocks, this is Falcon 4-3, I've got one on my tail—AHHHHHHHH!"

Swiveling his head around to look for the enemy, James spots a Spitfire aflame as it receives gunfire from a 109, fragmenting in several sections before crashing into the water below without the pilot having been seen bailing out.

"Bloody hell! Falcon Leader here, we better keep it together."

Realizing what had happened, James continues scanning the area around him to prevent further losses. Seeing a 109 coming in from around 2 o'clock, James is about to report it on radio and dodge when two Spitfires give chase to the incoming aircraft, causing the 109 to flee as it is shot down by both of the Spitfires.

"This is Eagle 3-1, bandit down."

"This is Hawk 1-4, bandit down. I guess it's a shared kill, then."

"This is Wolf Leader, we've destroyed around half of the ships in the harbor. Operation Ramrod 20 is a success. Heading back to base. Out."

"This is Falcon Leader, bandits appear to be retreating. Over."

"This is Eagle Leader. All sections, regroup and follow the Blenheims back to base. Out."

"Roger that," comes the response from the remaining pilots of the attack force as they all adjust their course back to England.

After around 10 minutes of flying, a transmission comes on the radio. "This is Hawk Leader. Does anyone see those odd-looking clouds in the sky to the north of us? They're pitch black."

"Falcon Leader here. I can also see the dodgy weather. It looks like it's moving westwards. I don't think they were mentioned in the Allied weather reports."

"Ah, I'll contact them once we get back to base, just to make sure. I'll get back to you tomorrow. Out."

...

RAF Fairfield, Yorkshire County, England

"RAF Fairfield, these are Spiders 1-1 and 1-2, requesting permission for landing. Over."

"Visual and radar confirmation complete, you have been granted permission to land. Out."

"Affirmative."

The Mosquitoes each lower their throttle, put down their flaps and landing gear, and prepare to land on the airfield. In the distance, the black clouds become more noticeable and grow closer to the island, which some of the servicemen on the ground start to notice. The Mosquitoes taxi to their hangars, where they are to be stored for the night and maintained. On the ground, the Air Commodore appears to be elated at the sight of the successful mission and meets with the crewmen climbing out of their aircraft.

"Well done, all of you. You all did a fine job out there, now go get some dinner and rest. I will see you tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir."

The crew head into their barracks, ready to eat with the rest of the folk who have just finished their missions as well. Some of the men of No. 147 seem grim, and the first pilot notices that a Spitfire pilot is missing, but he knows it wouldn't do much good to ask what had happened, already knowing the answer. With nothing else to do, the first pilot decides to find an officer so that he can tell them about the strange weather observed above Germany.

After looking around for an officer to talk to, he finds one and mutters, "I'd say Earl Grey is the best tea, how about you?" He was trying his best to change the topic to something less grim.

Group Captain Travis Walker, the top Spitfire ace at RAF Fairfield and commander of No. 147 Squadron, sits down with a hint of sorrow before opening his mouth.

"Earl Grey is okay, but it isn't my favorite." He looks down at his cup before noticing the tag hanging at the side, displaying the high levels of caffeine within the particular tea bag.

"Hold up - some tosser that made these rations put breakfast tea instead of afternoon tea in the rations! Well, it's going to be a long night, speaking of which, I feel bad for the blokes who have to fly at night because they have to deal with bad visibility and the like while Jerry's pattering them with their ack-ack fire."

"Ah, it won't be a problem, mate, at least right here. Oh, and I should tell you about this. In Germany, I saw some strange black clouds heading towards Great Britain; however, I don't really think it is a problem. But who knows?"

"Well, I'll have you know that we also saw some black clouds drifting westwards. Didn't think much about it at the time, though."

After the meal, the airmen at RAF Fairfield head to their barracks for the night, all of their energy depleted from the aerial combat and long flights. At his bed, Travis begins to have trouble sleeping due to the caffeine in the breakfast tea, and soon, he is the only one awake in the barracks. He looks outside and sees the strange clouds the pilot mentioned to him earlier, darker than the sky and drifting towards RAF Fairfield. What is going on here? This is very unusual weather. A few seconds later, the clouds start moving much more rapidly and begin surrounding the airbase as if it were being engulfed by a tornado. After about a minute or so, the clouds gradually stop spinning and the landscape slowly emerges as a deep valley situated around 100 metres from the edge of the airbase, containing a large river along its base with a nearby waterfall gushing large amounts of water down into the river.

It seems to still be night, but it is clear unlike before, and to the south, Travis also notices a factory, an oil pump, and a rather small petrol production facility. It's as if we were transported along with some basic infrastructure to sustain ourselves. Wait, the moon... Yesterday, it was full. But right now, it's a waning crescent... It's clear we are in a different world than Earth. Wait, what is that giant house over there? It seems to be something straight out of a fantasy novel! The house appears to be situated in the valley, built around a smaller waterfall along the river. Desperately searching for answers, Travis was unable to think of anything related to fantasy, being sleep-deprived and awake in the middle of the night. After a few seconds of frantic thought, the caffeine had worn off and Travis finally puts himself to bed and gets his much needed rest.