Chapter 2

"The Red Baron? The guy that makes the pizzas?" Sam asked in confusion.

"No, Sam, the pizza brand was named after him." Al tried not to look disgusted at his friend's memory lapse. "I'm talking about Baron Manfred von Richthofen, the top ace of World War One; otherwise known as the Red Devil or the Red Falcon, the French called him le rouge teufel – but most commonly referred to as the Red Baron. He flew an all-red tri-plane, it was kind of his signature; he was the leader of the Flying Circus."

The thought of 'flying' in a circus brought up more troubled memories for Sam. For a moment he felt himself hanging upside down from the trapeze, swinging back and forth; he swayed a bit and put his hand on the side of the plane to steady himself.

"You okay, Sam?" Al asked in concern. "Maybe you really should see the medic. These old engines burn castor oil, and when it drips out the wind blows it in the pilots' faces; they can't help but swallow it. If you swallow enough of it it gives you dysentery, which was a real problem for these guys."

"I don't think I was up there long enough to swallow that much castor oil," Sam explained. "When you said 'Flying Circus' it made me think of the time I Leaped into the trapeze artist. You know how much I hated that Leap."

"They called it the Flying Circus because all the planes were painted bright colors – blue, yellow, green, red, et cetera. And the Jastas, the flying squadrons, they were based in tents that could be packed up and sent wherever they were needed fairly quickly. It was really a great idea, they were a lot more mobile than the Allies."

"Okay, I get it," Sam nodded. "The tents and vivid colors reminded people of a circus. It's a happy picture during wartime, and slightly derogatory to the enemy. So did I shoot down this Red Baron?"

"Apparently not," Al replied. "There were other German pilots with red planes, but there's no data about anyone being shot down today. That wouldn't be surprising since you were behind enemy lines and there wasn't another Allied pilot to confirm it. Both sides fudged the data when they could; no one wanted to admit to a loss if they could help it. It made them look more invincible not only to the other side but to the people back home as well."

"So why is the death of this one pilot so critical to the Allied side?" Sam asked.

"Because he shot down 100 planes!" Al exclaimed. "No other pilot came close to that number. Captain Rene Fonck of France claimed 75 victories, he had the second-highest score of the war. Let me just check…" He punched a request into the handlink and reported the result. "Von Richthofen's record stands at 78 kills as of today."

"This guy must be really good at what he does," Sam remarked.

"Well, it's a funny thing," Al began. "You see, he wasn't all that good a pilot, but he was a damn good hunter. He didn't distinguish between hunting four-legged beasts or two-legged. He even had little silver cups made up to commemorate each kill; he had the date and type of plane engraved on them."

Sam looked appalled. "He had trophies made for killing men?"

Al nodded. "I know it sounds grisly, but it wasn't all that uncommon during this time period, Sam. The Allied pilots did it too; the Brits seemed to prefer engraved beer mugs. But you see, as the war went on supplies were hard to get and the jeweler eventually ran out of silver. So von Richthofen only got 60 silver cups."

"What a pity!" Sam remarked sarcastically.

"If you could shoot him down today you'd save 22 lives," Al reminded. "As it is he's not killed until nearly the end of the war."

"How can you be sure I'd save all those lives?" Sam asked. "If I change history some of those poor guys might be shot down by some other German pilot. Weren't some of those 'victories' just crashed planes, anyway? Not all 22 pilots were killed."

"You're right, Sam," Al agreed. "But isn't it worth trying? Besides, it would be a tremendous boost to Allied morale if the Red Baron were gone from the skies."

"Well, the Allies seem to have won the war anyway. Al, I just can't believe I'm here to kill some man, no matter how many men he killed. It's not like he's an evil man; he's just a soldier doing his job which happens to be killing the enemy just like the Allied pilots. Besides, I'm a mechanic; how could I possibly shoot down a plane? You seemed a little hesitant when you mentioned the armistice date; is there maybe something I could do to make the war end earlier? That would save a lot of lives, and on both sides!"

"Okay, okay," Al said in a placating tone. "I just got a little carried away when you said you'd shot down a red tri-plane. I know we're in the wrong-righting business, Sam – but ending a war is more than even you can do!"

"They called it World War One for a reason," Al continued, in lecture mode now. "At the time it was known as 'The Great War' or 'The War to End All Wars', but it was the first truly global war in mankind's history. The whole of Europe was involved; not just the central countries, but England, Russia, Italy, Greece – all of it. There was fighting in the Middle East, Africa, and even some of the Pacific islands."

"I always thought of it as just the Eastern and Western fronts," Sam said.

"It's estimated that there were 30 million casualties, including civilians," Al stated. "These were the men of the 'Lost Generation'; many small towns lost most of their farmers and laborers. The devastation was unimaginable."

"That was because so many countries were fighting, right?" Sam asked.

"That was part of it, Sam," Al agreed. "But technology was a big part, too. Mankind had invented new and better ways to kill each other en masse."

"Technology," Sam repeated. "You mean like better guns?"

"Exactly." Al looked a little disgusted at the thought. "Percussion locks used a cap to ignite the charge through the touch-hole, which was much more reliable than the flint lock. Minié balls used a cloth patch to keep the ball in the barrel so you didn't have to rely on gravity and you could load lying down. Breech-loaders were a lot easier to handle, and rifling made weapons more accurate and gave them a longer range. The Gatling gun was used in the Civil War; it had a rotating barrel while the Maxim gun's barrel was fixed. But they both used cartridges which made it easier to spray a whole lot of bullets real fast."

"Wow!" Sam responded. "You weren't kidding."

"It wasn't just the weapons," Al continued. " Railroads allowed for rapid movement and deployment of troops. Telegraph and telephone allowed quicker communications. They had submarines, torpedoes, and tanks, too."

"And flying machines," Sam said with a sickly grin, pointing at the primitive plane beside them.

"Well, the Germans had Zeppelins too, which they used to drop bombs," Al replied. "But it was cheaper for them to use hydrogen rather than helium so they burned rather spectacularly when the Allies shot 'em down. But, yeah, this was the first time airplanes were used in combat. Initially they were used for reconnaissance and photography missions."

"Let me guess," Sam said sarcastically. "It didn't take long before someone figured out you could mount guns in them."

"Most pilots carried pistols for self-defense in case they were shot down behind enemy lines. Then it occurred to them that they could also shoot at enemy pilots. But the real breakthrough came in 1915 when Anthony Fokker figured out how to synchronize machine guns with the propeller blades so you didn't shoot your own prop off. He was a Dutchman working for the Germans, but the Allies soon copied the mechanism so that advantage evaporated."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Sam asked.

"You want more details?" Al answered with a question, and a grin. "I'll give you details! One enterprising fellow tried covering his prop blades with sheet metal; he shattered a lot of props, and bullets ricocheted back onto him but he was never hit. At first the pilots fired out the side of the cockpit, but with synchronized machine guns they could fire straight ahead; that lead to the tactic of wanting to be on their quarry's tail. These pilots here…" he waved his hand to indicate the aerodrome as a whole, "…they're the guys who invented the air tactics we still use today." He paused a moment. "I'm a Navy pilot, Sam. They teach you military history in flight school."

"Right. Sorry, I forgot. With all those technological advances you'd think one side would've won pretty quickly," Sam mused. "Why did the war drag on so long?"

"The generals didn't really know how to use all the new stuff very well, or how to defend against it," Al replied. "They were used to relying on the cavalry, but horses weren't very effective against a hail of bullets from a machine gun in a trench. So the elite cavalry units were all but disbanded and a lot of the officers transferred to air service; von Richthofen started out as a captain in the cavalry."

"So we're back to the Red Baron again. Other than shooting him down, do you have any idea why I'm here?" Sam asked as if tired of repeating himself.

Al shook his head. "Ziggy's gonna need some time to check up on all the people you're likely to run across, and correlate that with the events of the war. It could be anything."

"I don't suppose it's another war-time romance," Sam suggested hopefully. Though it might be tricky, romancing some young woman sounded a whole lot better than fighting a war.

"Hey, it could be to keep some guy from bringing home a war-bride in a marriage that doesn't work out. I promise you I'll let you know just as soon as Ziggy comes up with something, Sam. Until then, you need to do John Beckett's job; you can start by fixing this airplane."

Sam turned to stare at the plane in the vague hope that he could see something clearly wrong. Although it seemed very primitive to him, there were still a lot of parts that had to work to make it fly; the engine would have hundreds of moving parts by itself. "Lt. Browne said something about the engine cutting out in flight." He turned to look at Al. "Do you have any idea what's wrong with it?"

"How should I know?" Al shrugged. In turn he eyed the plane critically. "Apparently the engine runs fine on the ground; otherwise you wouldn't have been flying around trying to figure it out. These early planes weren't much more than glorified kites; the torque from the engine must put all kinds of stress on the airframe. I'd look into the electrical connections, if I were you."

Sam looked dismayed, but said, "Okay, thanks."

Al used the handlink to open the Imaging Chamber door. He stepped inside the rectangle of bright white light and said, "Sam, I promise I'll let you know as soon as we have any idea why you're here. In the meantime, don't shoot any more German pilots down!" With that he tapped the 'close' button on the handlink and disappeared,

Sam stared at the spot his friend had just vacated. "Ha, ha, very funny, Al," he muttered. "I'll be happy if I just don't have to fly in that thing again."

He turned to the wooden workbench to see what tools he had to work with. There was the usual array of screwdrivers, wrenches, and hammers but there were also woodworking tools like planes, rasps, and sanding blocks. He supposed that made sense as so much of the airplane was made of wood. Presumably broken ribs or framework would be replaced with hand-made copies on the spot.

Sam also saw a heavy canvas apron hanging from a nail driven into one of the tent's support posts. He glanced down to realize he was wearing a uniform jacket of an unbelievably ugly color; not quite brown, not quite olive green. The pants matched, and both were made of wool. Now that he thought about it, he realized that the rigid stand-up collar rubbed his neck uncomfortably.

"I guess this guy got all dressed up in case he was shot down, so he'd look proper for the enemy." He peeled out of the jacket, rolled up the sleeves of the cotton shirt underneath, and donned the apron. "Al said to check the wiring," he reminded himself. "Sure wish there was a volt meter here!" He picked up a couple of tools and approached the engine.

An hour later Sam approached a small square wooden building, having been told he might find Lt. Browne there. He stepped inside to find several officers lounging around what appeared to be a common room; a group was playing cards at a beat-up table, while a couple of men were intently writing letters. Kerosene lamps hung from brackets on the walls, giving off smoke that mixed with that of cigarettes and pipes. A gramophone in the corner was playing a huge vinyl record; the music had a scratchy quality. Probably 78 rpm, Sam thought. Only one song on that big disc.

The lieutenant was holding his cards close to his chest, but the man had a good poker face and Sam couldn't tell if he were winning or bluffing. There was a large pile of cash, coins, and cigarettes next to his elbow. Apparently these men took the game seriously and he didn't want to interrupt. As far as he was concerned they had every right to enjoy themselves whenever they could, not knowing if they might be killed on their very next mission.

There was a full-length mirror standing in one corner so Sam wandered over to see what this Beckett fellow looked like. What he saw was a nice-looking young man with short brown hair and hazel eyes. The face was deeply tanned and the arms and shoulders had good musculature on an otherwise tall and thin frame. He tilted his head from side to side and decided he could see a little resemblance to his own face; a nose that would look too large if not set against a long face, and a slight cleft to the chin. Or maybe it was his Dad's face he was thinking of; after all these years of looking at a stranger's face in the mirror it was hard to remember what his own looked like.

Behind him he heard someone say, "I'm afraid you lose this time, Trevor." He turned around to see a blond man who couldn't have been more than 21 years old triumphantly place his cards on the table.

"About time, if you ask me," another pilot remarked. Trevor shrugged and smiled, as if losing were of no importance.

Now that the hand was over he focused his attention on Sam. "I do hope you're here to give me good news," he said.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied. "I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible."

"Well, out with it, man! What was wrong?" the lieutenant asked.

"It was the wire from the ignition switch to the magneto," Sam replied. "It was too short. It was fine when the plane was on solid ground, but the frame twists when you're flying causing it to stretch and pull, and I think the vibration of the engine caused it to lose contact sometimes."

"How ever did you figure that out?" the blond man asked.

"He's a clever farm boy, is our Mr. Beckett," one of the other players put in. "You have to be a Jack of all trades and Master of none to do everything that needs doing on a farm; if he can't fix it then it can't be fixed!"

"Well, I'm not sure that was the problem, but I think it was," Sam replied. "The end of the wire looked a little frayed and it makes sense. The mag can't generate electricity if the wire doesn't make solid contact. I thought maybe you'd like to take it up and make sure."

Lt. Browne grimaced. "Can't, old man. Petrol is in short supply these days; but I should think we'll get word to go aloft again soon. That'll have to do, and you can be sure I'll let you know if it doesn't work!"

Sam responded with an uneasy half-smile. "I'm sure you will, Sir. I'd better get back then."

"No rest for the weary, eh Beckett? Carry on, then. And thanks for letting me know."

"Yes, Sir," Sam said, not sure how much fraternizing went on between enlisted men and officers. They began dealing another hand as he left the room; easier to think of cards than what might await them later in the day.

Sam walked across the aerodrome back toward the tent he'd been working in. It was a rather desolate place, full of busy men but with an air of having been hastily thrown together. The buildings were the kind that could be quickly built on the spot to serve a purpose, and that's exactly what they looked like. The whole place had been constructed in a large field and there were no trees to block the wind which constantly whipped at the open tent flaps.

As he approached 'his' tent he saw a crew pushing the R.E.8 back out to the flight line. It seemed odd to him that his repair job would be tested under fire – maybe literally. He reminded himself that this was a different era; that these men were figuring out new rules as they went. And he sincerely hoped he'd really fixed that plane.

A soldier ran up, calling his name and pointing off in the distance. "Cap'n says you're to see to that lorry," he said.

"Lorry?" Sam asked. "Oh, you mean truck."

"Yanks!" the soldier said with a grin. "It's quit on us, had to be towed back with a team of horses, it did."

Sam looked puzzled. "I thought I was an airplane mechanic."

"You're a mechanic, that's close enough. It's the baker's lorry over there," he said, and then walked away as if that was all he had to say.

I s'pose that makes sense, Sam thought. There's no real specialization yet, so a mechanic would work on any kind of vehicle. He spotted the truck in question by the name painted on the side, grateful that he remembered that boulangerie meant bakery in French. Apparently they'd pressed local vehicles into service rather than bring in military trucks. The cab was an open box with C-shaped openings on each side instead of doors; the bed a simple wooden platform surrounded by low rails. What surprised him was that the wheels were wood-spoked with solid rubber tires.

The hood consisted of four panels with hinges in the center as well as the middle of both halves. When raised it looked rather like a capital 'M'. The engine was a tiny inline 4-cylinder; Sam began the process of figuring out what was

wrong with it.

Three hours later Sam was working with a team salvaging parts from a downed German plane when Al showed up.

"Waste not, want not," Al quoted sagely. He poked at the handlink's buttons and rose into the air so that he appeared to be sitting in the pilot's seat. "Always wanted to fly one of these old things," he said wistfully. "The wind in your face, coming out of the sun with guns blazing at the enemy…"

"Falling out of the sky and crashing," Sam finished.

"It could've been worse," one of the team insisted. "I heard we captured the Hun that flew this one; he's right out of the war but at least he wasn't killed."

Al was pretending to fly the plane, but spared a glance for Sam. "I just dropped in to let you know that we got the DNA results and it turns out that John Beckett is your Great Uncle, your Grandfather's youngest brother."

"That's good news," Sam responded.

"It's good news for him," the teammate agreed.

"Good news for us, too," another man said. "We can always use the spare parts."

"Better we're stripping one of theirs than of one of ours," the first man commented.

"So what am I doing here?" Sam muttered in Al's direction.

-"Oh, we still don't know." Al was playing like he was firing the gun.

-"Well, the lorry's near full, you could haul that load back if you want," replied one of the workers at the same time.

"Is that all you've got for me?" Sam asked.

-"I thought you'd want to know," Al said, his feelings clearly injured.

-"You can start getting it sorted and we'll have the engine out soon and bring it to you."

Sam looked up at Al who stopped his play long enough to suggest, "Why don't you do that, Sam, and I can tell you all about Uncle John.

"Um, okay, sounds good," Sam told them both. He stepped through the opening in the truck cab, started the engine and drove off.

He pulled the truck up behind one of the tents where salvaged materials were piled and began unloading, adding items to the various piles of wood, metal, engine parts, and gun parts. Al showed up not long after he started.

"You done playing?" Sam asked with mock disapproval in his voice and a grin on his face.

"Gimme a break, Sam." Al replied. "This is the chance of a lifetime! There aren't very many of these old planes left, and the ones that are are in a museum." His face grew thoughtful. "Hey, maybe I'll hitch a ride the next time the guys go up."

Sam's smile grew wider. He understood what this meant to his friend, but couldn't help teasing him nonetheless. "You wouldn't be able to feel the wind in your face."

The expression on Al's face changed from surprise at that realization to a frown as it dawned on him he'd been had. "Gee thanks, Sam. Okay, so I wouldn't get the full experience, but it's a chance I can't pass up."

Sam heaved a large section of broken wing onto the appropriate pile. "So what've you got on Great Uncle John?" he asked, pausing for breath after his exertion.

"He's a lot like you, Sam," Al began. "He's a smart guy, interested in all the latest technology. Of course in 1918 that means internal combustion engines, advances in weaponry, and electronics. He's a true mechanic; he can see how all the pieces work together so he can solve the problem instead of just changing out a part."

"I can see how that would make him invaluable to the war effort," Sam said as he continued to toss bits of broken junk on the piles. "But why did he enlist? Didn't you tell me he's older than these soldiers? One of the pilots mentioned he was a farmer."

"He is, or was," Al agreed. "But he's the youngest son and knows he'll never inherit the farm, and he doesn't want to see it broken up into little bitty farms for each of the brothers, either. He's the one who insisted they invest in motorized equipment, so they could run it more efficiently; he taught himself how engines worked so he could keep the machines running."

"So what's the problem?" Sam asked. "Obviously the family appreciates all his hard work; even if he'll never own the land they'd want him to stay there."

"Yeah, he could stay there all his life and the family would take care of him. It's your family, Sam, you know they'd treat him right. The problem is that he lost his wife last year to the influenza epidemic and he's not sure he wants to stay where those memories are."

Sam winced. "That must've been horrible for him, and I can understand that he might want to move on. But surely there were better ways than to enlist in the military."

Al gave him a guarded look, in case that was a slur against his chosen profession.

"I just meant that going off to war is dangerous," Sam added.

"You're right about that!" Al said. "But this camp is pretty safe, and John lives through the war and ends up going back home to the farm after all. He enlisted out of patriotism, Sam. When Woodrow Wilson declared war last year a lot of young men joined up. They wanted to fight for their country, and besides, it was a chance to see some other part of the world."

"So John was dealing with grief and feeling restless, and this seemed like the perfect solution. That probably means I'm not here to put something right in his life."

"Not that we can tell," Al said. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's so many things going on here, and there's not a whole heck of a lot of data on a lot of these soldiers. It's just gonna take some time for Ziggy to come up with something."

They heard the cough of an engine from the flight line. Al disappeared for a moment and then popped right back. "Sam! You should watch this, they're going up!"