C'est La Vie

Match Grounds, Yamanashi Prefecture

Marvelous.

One word to encapsulate what was to come for this fine morning. Pink skies receding as the familiar shade of blue enveloped this side of the world, it was beckoning to be fair weather. And as fair weather seemed a good omen, our commanders shared equally heartful exchanges in the pre-match ceremony.

"Divertiamoci."

"Donnons-nous à fond."

I had to say, what a day ahead it was going to be. We, the greatest Italy could bestow to the world, against an honorable opponent in France under their host of Maginot. It was a case of gathering our best manners for our guests, and as such that's what we expected during pre-match planning. At least, that's what I thought we were going to get.

"What's our plan, Comandante?" Teresio asked.

"Me? You wish for me to tell you how to conduct ourselves today?" To my surprise, he turned to me. "Claudio, how about you helm this one?"

I was taken aback. Comandante Pisano was giving me the opportunity to do something that would normally be his job in our crucial first match? He must have had a good deal of faith in me to take that decision. Thinking about it, maybe it wouldn't hurt to give it a shot, and it would make for good appearances back in Italy. "Our youth leading the way!" the papers might put in the headlines.

"It would be my honor, comandante," I responded, a small grin forming before turning to address the rest of the assembled group. "Firstly, we organize ourselves as a strong spearhead, instilling confidence and strength amongst ourselves. Secondly, we attack the bulk of our guests with overwhelming firepower to cut down their numbers. Lastly, we'll deal a lasting blow to ensure our victory and to send il francese packing."

"That doesn't sound like any strategy I've heard of before," Teresio mused.

I scoffed at that. "Strategy? Davvero? Why would we need such cunning plans that take eons to craft? We have been bestowed the finest Italian aeronautical craftsmanship of the early 20th century! A Centauro, Sagittario, Veltro, and Saetta are more than a match for il francese."

"Um, what about us?" someone asked. Who was-oh, yes, the bomber crews! They could do…something, right?

"We probably won't need you for this one. Why not just lay back and relax while we perform the heavy lifting?"

"Could we at least fly into dogfights? I'm sure we could make good distractions."

"I suppose if you want," I shrugged. Sounded crazy, but if they wished to have some fun, be my guest.

"Any further questions?" our commander asked, to which no one did say anything. He looked back at me. "Claudio, care to say anything else worthwhile?"

I pondered for a moment before the words fell in place for me. I cleared my throat before I let my proclamation fly, "Look at your opponent out there! They may be noble, brazen, and tough, but they are only just holding on to what little hope they have! This is our chance to show the might of Italy! Preparati!"

Hopes for a great match were high for myself given it was France. I was certain they were going to be no pushover with whatever they wielded. The grandiose question of course: how well would they fare against the finest aeronautical craftsmanship Italy raised skyward?

With the crews running the last inspections over our aircrafts, there wasn't much else to do but wait for the officials. It was of course the middle of pre-match preparations when a lull does tend to happen. One such method to pass the time involved asking and answering trivial questions.

"I don't understand. Why do the French get two schools to host them, and everyone else gets one?"

I had a hearty chuckle before responding, "Simple, dear Leonardo. France bestows a glorious history with aviation since the very beginning. It is only right that the world recognizes their contributions and sacrifices, and this tournament may be considered gratuity for them."

"I suppose you mean people such as Blériot," Teresio mused.

"Of course."

"So, what do you think of our chances today?"

"Chance? Hah! As if we would have to rely on such a silly idea."

Teresio gave me a slight side-eye. "As one once said, 'Fortis fortuna adiuvat.' Luck does take some responsibility for any team's success."

Really, as if chance could ever dictate the outcome of something that we ourselves were in control of. Even so, Teresio words didn't just dissipate but only lingered in the back of my mind. Perhaps it had some purpose? I couldn't be certain.

"Pronti!" Our commander called out. That snapped everyone out of whatever additional questions were being formed, and as fast as we could we were assembled on our start lines. Opposite from us, our magnificent machines lay in wait for their aircrews, just mere seconds away from the beginning of a new story.

Seconds that I wouldn't waste to tell myself something akin to a short motivational talk. Deep breaths, deep breaths…

We were a proud team. The best individuals, handpicked from across the Italian peninsula, Sardinia, and Sicilia, pushing forth like the Thousand of Garibaldi all those ages ago. Victory today would come under one unifying cry that every person on this side of the world would know.

Sempre Avanti.

The referee's flare gun went with a POP! followed by a green light sparkling high up.

"Andiamo!" A flurry of feet ensued, engines roared into life, and an armada of metal birds took to the skies once more in search of their glory.

In moments, a blanket of Italian aluminum was our message to this wondrous land. Off in the distance rose Mount Fuji, the prominent peak of this entire land. Like a silent sentinel, it bore witness to the greatest action the skies hosted this day. The main body of C.200s set up ahead as the tip of the pilum while I led my trio of the best there was to offer. The one BR.20M and two Ba.65s were trailing somewhere behind I couldn't see but no matter.

Because now, the opponent ahead had chosen to unveil themselves.

"Enemy planes sighted, two o' clock!" a teammate radioed. Fighters probably, but too far away to see exactly what. But fear not!

"Lince capo, begin when you're ready," I radioed to the C.200s whom Teresio was leading.

"Understood. Linci engaging!" The quartet of Saetta made haste to greet our guests.

According to plan-wait, plan? What was it again? Anyways, they were first to engage practically headfirst towards the swarms of French planes.

As for my little trio, just keep it simple. Climb a little, and we could hold all the cards needed in a fight. Coasting over, the inevitable began with our machines getting entangled with theirs in the heat of close quarters. I was able to get a better view of our guests. They appeared to be some of the older Bloch MB.152s. The others-Curtiss H-75s?-they were also tossed in the mix.

Perched well above them, me and my wingmen were in a textbook position. With the majority of the opponent occupied, they wouldn't see this coming.

Our chance had arrived. " Perfetto. Time to tip the scales. Pantera Due e Tre, attacco!"

The three of us made in for high side attacks, guns alight. Being the definitive evolution of the Folgore, my Veltro had no qualms of what I asked of it. I only had to serve as its guide with a light grip on the control stick once it got into action. It weaved through the confines of the multiple dogfights going on at once, searching for the right target.

Off ahead, an H-75 was locked in a low altitude turning fight with one of our Saetta. The perfect candidate. I made for a fast pass, fired a few rounds off, and powered on through. Looking back, I didn't score hits but the pilot must have been surprised given they were broken out of the circle and veered off the opposite direction.

Suddenly, tracers zipping by erratically! Nowhere close to me, but still enough to warrant some turning to get a view behind. Alas! Someone was trying to close the distance, but the speed built up in the dive had something to say for that.

"Ah! A valiant effort," I chuckled, gracefully weaving out of the line of fire. "But not quite enough."

I looped up and over with engine power and speed my opponent could only dream of having, and before they knew it I had swooped in and claimed my second aerial victory with some satisfying shots. I might have laughed, but some part of me did remember to retain some dignity. These French planes may have been inferior, but their pilots remained determined.

The French were putting up a good show. I accounted for two already, yet more still imposed in our path. I could sense it, though. The dwindling strength, the tiredness, on their last dregs of stamina.

"Li abbiamo alle loro ultime posizione difensive! All'attacco!" I radioed for an attack.

The three of us came down like a wave intent on finishing them off, but the French weren't finished just yet. As if to summon the last of their strength, they came at us headlong. At high speed, the sharp buzzing of fighters whizzed by the canopy, and we pulled back to meet them once more. There was absolutely no fear in this. If anyone was trying to get behind me, it would have been impossible with my two wingmen watching front and rear. Like an intricate weaving out of a loom, me, Armando, and Leonardo could cover each other's tails while still possessing a potent attack as a singular unit. A visual art for the ages!

As much as I would like to say the French had a chance, within minutes whatever fighters they had in our vicinity was out of the fight. Amazingly, it had all winded down to their last remaining fighter in the area still standing. It remained aggressive with defensive turns, but we were circling around the target like hawks intent on keeping distance for now. Simply put, the problem now was: who was going to place the finishing touch?

Fortunately, we had a volunteer. " Pantera Uno, Pantera Tre. Mind if I take this last one?"

"Right away, Armando," I replied without hesitation, an honorable move as I'd expected from myself.

"Very well." He pulled away and entered the fray with the final opponent whilst I kept my distance.

With the proud opportunity for my wingman to show off his prowess, he never once failed to disappoint. In an equally gorgeous Re.2005, pulling off a series of elongated chandelles, he slowly but surely moved into an advantageous position. The old Bloch MB.152 was simply outmatched, and with some well placed cannon shots, he dealt the finishing touch on his masterful display.

"All Maginot aircraft eliminated! Anzio wins!" We all heard it on the radio loud and clear.

I couldn't have beamed more with pride in the moment. Collectively, our team had come together and triumphed. This was our victory, our Vittorio Veneto. An opportune time to sing to myself-away from my parents' ears of course, "Mamma non piangere, c'è l'avanzata, tuo figlio è forte, su in alto il cuor. Asciuga il pianto, mia fidanzata, ché nell'assalto si vince o si muor."

The landings at the casualty airfield were not so attention-grabbing, so may as well move past the mundane sequence. Once parked and engine shut off, I stepped down and gave my aircraft a loving pat. If it were a sentient being, I may have given it tender words for its efforts today. True to Italian craft, it performed beautifully with expectations to par.

Surprisingly, I didn't feel too sapped from the ordeal. I still had a bit of energy to give today, but for what, who knows.

Oh right, I nearly forgot! There were still the French that weren't too far away.

I picked the nearest group of French, came up to them, and gave each one a firm handshake with a bold smile to complement. Sure, neither them nor I could ever speak to each other, but chivalry had no such barriers. It remains a timeless tradition regardless of nationality, and a duty to be carried out no matter how close or lopsided a match ends up.

After that round of affairs, I of course was adding in words of accomplishment for my own team, "Fantastico, aviatori! Revel in this victory of ours, for our tireless effort is an example for Italy and to the world!"

I was on a high, and why not? The first step of our journey had been taken, and I had a great deal of anticipation for the next even if I didn't know who it would be.

As if to add an extra sweetener to the mix, our commander made a surprise announcement once the majority of us had simmered down.

"That being said from Signor Claudio, the celebrations are yet to be over. Our Anzio host has been kind enough to invite us and the honorable Francese kin to festivities for tomorrow evening. Do not be late! I would hate for any of you to miss out on a sour note!"

Almost as soon as he made his statement, the Italian media that had traveled overseas was all over us. I did my best to look the part, giving big smiles and offering my account of the match. No one back home wants to hear about technical details, are you kidding? No, they want to hear about the harrowing yet daunting splendor of being at the controls of something so magnificent and how it gave the French the flight of their lives.

In the meantime, they were summarizing our actions in short form. To learn that me, Armando, and Leonardo had single handedly taken out the majority of the Maginot team? And in mere minutes? Absolutely astonished. I could not have fathomed that revelation the moment they said it. But eventually, even they had heard all we wanted to say and understood the time to say farewell to us.

"We will continue to stride forward with more victories to come. Thank you, thank you from all of us here!" I said in one last message, waving for the media's cameras before they lumbered off.

"With so much praise, I've never felt so red in the face." Leonardo looked on the verge of fainting. "So what now?"

I laughed, putting an arm around his shoulder. "Amico, good things will come to those that are patient. You'll see soon tomorrow evening."

Tomorrow, we could look forward to a fine evening with warm, victorious hearts…and flavorful Italian delicacies!

Match Grounds, Fukui Prefecture

If only times like now could be a pleasant boat ride down the Seine.

There was no room to show weakness in front of our opponents. They may not be known worldwide for romantic cities or cuisine, but Poland was built upon centuries of persistence. Time and time again, they rose from the ashes of upheaval to proclaim anew. They certainly weren't afraid of us once commanders exchanged messages.

"Bonne chance les polonais!"

"Zróbmy z tego wspaniały mecz, Francjo!"

Worse still, I was shocked at the match results from the previous day. From how the media was covering it, that other French host, Maginot, had been humiliated at the hands of…three aircraft. Three, the same number I could count with my one hand! Whatever the Italians wielded, it was certainly far better than what I imagined Maginot had brought into the fray: 1940-esque designs much like us. The very kind of thing I had been writing on since Maginot's defeat was now on our shoulders to bear.

It was all a whirlwind of thoughts throughout the morning, each idea more pessimistic than the last. What if we weren't trained well enough? What if the Polish had acquired some fighter design we were hopeless against? What if-my head was going to explode overthinking it.

I mulled over everything, and I mean everything. Engine block, weapons, cockpit instrumentation, even down to the fine lines in the leading edge, all of it was necessary. I didn't know what le polonais was going to throw our way, but I was taking zero chances now that our peers in Maginot casted theirs. All in all, "the going gets tough" would be an understatement. Under the banner of BC Freedom, we stood as the final standing participants from France. That much was made more pertinent with our commander's incentivizing words prior to match start, "We won't let ourselves be driven out by le polonais. Allons-y!"

But that was now in the immediate past. Right now, having already long since taken off from our airfield, the future of the match lay ahead of us. Oddly enough, the conduct of match starts felt quite familiar to the old days of the 24 hour Le Mans race. But that was beside the point. Two main groups, five D.520s and five M.S.406s, were tasked with dual roles of forward sweeping as well as escort if necessary. The plan was simple enough. Lead in as the vanguard, take out any visible resistance, and be back for afternoon leisure while the bombers and escorting fighters were given an open airway.

There was that nagging suspicion that something might go awry, and that few would adapt quickly enough. I would just have to be more wary of surroundings, meaning yet another chip on my shoulder.

"Bonne chance," I simply radioed to the rest.

Pushing forward, it was a good day for flying, perhaps too good. Blue skies blanketed by high cirrus and green hillscapes obviously meant easy spotting distance for us and them. Soon enough, we caught our first wind.

"Sighted, enemy planes!" A call went out, and a quick scan ahead confirmed it. Dark shapes scattered above the hilltops, definitely manmade.

"I see them. Glaive, what's your intention?" I asked our other fighter group.

" Sabre, we'll be engaging as soon as possible."

"Compris. Sabre will provide support."

The M.S.406s throttled in, picking up what extra speed they could before committing into battle. We weren't too far behind, poised with extra firepower when they needed it.

Time to put the doubters to rest.

Advancing forward, the unknown shapes ahead grew into more aviation-esque forms. Skimpy profiles I could best describe them with before they drew close enough to identify. It was one of our own. Caudron C.714s? I barely remembered that one from the back of my mind. Training adages ran through my mind. Stick to them like glue, and firepower would take care of the rest.

Enemies whizzed by and I immediately steered around to keep up. I couldn't afford to wait, they'd have something to say if I did. Picking a plane not engaged, I made a line right for them. Even being the best fighter France could conjure in 1940, it still felt like eternity crawling towards my target.

But when I finally got within range, I didn't hold back. Compared to the rapid pecking of machine guns, the Hispano chugged along with weighted thuds. 20mm shells combined with supporting MAC fire made a suitable concoction to deal with late 1930s planes. With one polonais out, I quickly switched over to the next available in my sight. Much like the previous sequence, I went in hard for this next victim unleashing another barrage of fire. Almost expectedly with another C.714 dealt with, the tracers had stopped coming out of the front. The single Hispano cannon, pathetic 60 round capacity it had, had run empty. Now I was just down to the measly 7.5mm MACs.

"Sabre, Glaive! Alerte! More polonais fighters inbound!" One of our teammates radioed.

I just rolled my eyes as if I could ever catch a break out in front. More fuzzy shapes were appearing in the distance, and they weren't here for friendly greetings.

" Sabre, engage les!" I ordered before having to enter a defensive position.

One was coming in right at me from the high side angle. I pulled back on the stick turning towards the attacker whilst avoiding the tracers in my direction. I pushed the engine into emergency power, the extra nudge of speed barely enough to keep out of their line of fire. Holding back on the controls, the increased force of gravity sinking me down into the seat, it was all I could do until a teammate came around to deal with my pursuer. Letting up on the controls, I could take a few deep breaths before reentering the action. Another teammate was under fire, and I powered toward them as hard as the engine would let me. Firing off some machine gun rounds got the attacker's attention, getting them to maneuver to engage me.

I steeled up as I faced them head on. These polonais weren't going to flinch until the last moment. I fired a short burst before veering off sideways to avoid the head-on, and the enemy sped by my left. In the milliseconds that passed, it flew by so close that minute details usually unseen appeared in the briefest of moments. I could've sworn I could actually see the pilot's expression as he was flying his…whatever it was. Radial engine, small airframe, and what looked like pods mounted on the wings? It certainly wasn't a French design.

"What are these things?" someone on our team radioed.

"Figure that out later. Continue engaging," I responded to the unknown. Poor radio discipline, I thought.

Using what extra speed I had, I managed to haul into position behind and started unloaded fire on the target. Sparks were flying off the enemy so I was certainly scoring hits, but it didn't seem to do too much. Without a Hispano cannon, it felt like being handicapped.

"Aller! Je vais t'abattre enfoiré!" I barked as if that would help.

I must have dumped hundreds of machine gun rounds into this one plane and it had only just gone out. All of that fire just for one plane. I ran an estimate through my head. No Hispano ammunition left, probably a few tens of 7.5mm rounds remaining. Not enough to shoot down even a pigeon.

There wasn't much of a choice in the matter for what to do next.

"Sabre, report ammunition count if you can." Two wingmen radioed back conditions much like mine. That settled it for me. " Sabre, return to our airfield if you need ammunition. If you still can, continue engaging."

Heaviness filled my heart once I pulled off from the fight. It wasn't abandonment, but a part of me felt like it was. In the end, it was me and two others in my flight that had to disengage and go all the way back to our airfield. That was the worst part, having to leave behind wingmen for who knows how long. There was admittedly a pinch of guilt having to do such a thing, but without ammunition I wasn't going to be very useful. On the plus side, very little ammunition in reserve did mean less weight and hence being able to fly a small amount faster.

The plan was simple yet hectic enough: fly back, pray the ground crews had fast hands, and get back into the fight as quickly as possible. Every second mattered.

At last, I caught sight of the same field I had taken off from and beat down for a hasty landing. Wasn't the prettiest of any I did, but so long as it didn't break anything important was what mattered. So in a rush I was, I ended up shutting down the engine before I had finished rolling to a stop at one of the designated resupply spots on the ground.

"Bougez-vous, les gars!" The crew chief barked, sending a few armorers in a rush towards my plane.

The crews worked themselves at a feverish pace. The wing and cowling panels panels were taken off, fresh 7.5 mm machine gun belts were slotted in, a full 60 round drum magazine for the Hispano was inserted, guns were recharged, and all panels were reinstalled before receiving clearance to start the engine.

I looked at my clock. About 12 minutes passed from rearm to restart. Was it fast enough? I didn't know, but I wasn't going to wait to find out. I took off for the second time today, and after another few minutes formed back up with the two I had in tow. Even with the throttle opened to maximum, the speed felt as slow as an iceberg.

"Sabre, Glaive, what's your status?" I radioed. The returning news wasn't anything pleasant.

"This is Glaive Trois. There's three of us left, we need support!"

I cursed under my breath. No response from any of my flight I left behind. Two D.520s and two M.S.406s were taken out, and it still looked like a good number of polonais were still in this fight.

"Ce match est serré," I muttered. "Glaive Trois, Sabre Un plus two approaching your position."

"Compris! Please just hurry, eh?" Glaive Trois responded, the tone of his voice partly annoyed.

I wasted no time throwing myself back into action. Charging in, I spotted another one of those weird non-French planes and veered to engage. At the odd high angle I was approaching, I wasn't expecting good results but I was going to try anyway. Pressing the trigger, I could only sit in surprise as some of the rounds landed right on the target's engine block, clouds of red billowing out in response. I'd call that one luck if anything.

But there were still other targets to deal with. Another polonais was on the tail of a teammate and they were getting bracketed by incoming fire. The throttle already jammed to full, I wasn't going to save him in time, but I could take advantage while the polonaise was focused on their target. Apart from the front row seat of watching my teammate get taken out, I was able to maneuver into a clear shot. Letting loose with another barrage of machine guns, the polonaise was eliminated and there was at least payback. Who else was still out here?

Scanning around gave the good news: there was only one polonais plane left. Bad news after another radio check: it was just me and Philippe now. If anything, that was only a fair fight and I hated that prospect. Again, running the memo through my head, just keep it as simple as possible. Make a pass, bring it back around, and repeat until they were done and dusted.

Far apart from each other, the polonais had to pick between the two of us, and thankfully went for Philippe first. I went in after them as fast as I could watching them get enveloped in a series of scissors. The sun wasn't doing any favors, being right in my sightline behind the entangled pair. I approached from the side, anticipating him to stay on Philippe's tail, but having to put a hand to block the light prevented a clear picture. They had to be close now, somewhere ahead, and then I finally caught a break-

The polonaise was coming right at me!

"Merde!" I yelped, shoving the control stick down and putting the plane into a nosedive, and just barely in time.

A brash chorus of ricochets rang somewhere behind me, and the polonais fighter whipped by in a matter of seconds. Pulling out of the dive, I glanced down at the damage indicator. Tail was still holding by a slim margin, but it'd only take another hit in the rear to be finished off.

I scanned frantically behind. Where did it go? I maneuvered back around hard, draining airspeed, but still no sight of it. My grip on the controls tightened up expecting the worst. I caught a glimpse of light in the corner of my eye, snapped up to see, and coming off from the high side my eyes widened at what was staring me in the face. The polonais fighter swooping down with no obstructions and my airspeed low.

Surely the game was up. I was out of options with no escape. I braced for the incoming fire and-it didn't come. Instead, tracers out of a different direction lit up the polonais fighter as plumes of red erupted out of it. Gracefully, it sailed by with its long smoky trail echoing the likes of an aerobatic performer at an airshow.

"All Bonple aircraft eliminated! BC Freedom wins!" an official's voice keyed over the radio.

I sat there for a moment dumbfounded. We had won? I was about to face the end of my time at the hands of a polonais. Surely we were on the losing end! And yet, it was true. We had somehow come out on top, and the match was over.

Moments later, my savior made himself apparent with that annoying tone of his.

"Saber 1, tout va comme tu veux?"

Philippe! If I had some energy left, I would've leapt out of the cockpit to cave his skull in. No, I was just relieved it was finished, but also wanting to kick myself in the head forgetting he existed. Of course, why hadn't I just asked Philippe for help? All that and much more stewing around in the mind on our way to land at the airfield.

Once I landed and the plane secured for the day, it was as if any adrenaline left evaporated in an instant. The second I stepped off the wing, the breathing became heavy and I could barely stand without leaning against the fuselage. They always said that prolonged exposure to the rigors of air combat was going to be exhausting. It's just they never fully prepared us for what it actually felt like.

A few more breaths, and I finally got myself trying to walk. Each step felt as heavy as lead, the legs weak in energy, and my eyes sagged in exhaustion. Off to the right, some of the polonais were off conversing about something.

"Eh, moje ręce się pocą od tego wszystkiego."

"Zawsze jest kolejny rok co nie? Może wtedy będziemy mieć więcej frajdy."

"Spierdalaj…"

I brushed it off. Whatever they were going off about probably wasn't important.

A small group was starting to gather around our one MB.174. Given the red residue on the fuselage, it must have been taken out at some point. That meant-Michel had been caught out and pounced on without me noticing. I shook my head in disgust. With the current quality of our fighters, we couldn't even free up any to protect more vulnerable assets. A D.520 and M.S.406 ended up being deadlocked with the polonais offensive lines. Speaking of which…

"Anyone know what those planes were that we fought?" Philippe asked.

"The C.714s?" Michel offered. For someone who was eliminated during the match, he didn't sound too concerned.

"No, the other ones. I don't remember seeing those around."

"We could ask le polonais for an answer."

"That won't be necessary," an older voice interjected. Coming from behind us, our own commander Maurin. "If you were guessing Néerlandais, that'd be correct. Koolhoven F.K.58s."

"How do you know that, commandant?"

"Armée de l'air had a handful in its ranks in 1940, usually flown by polonais pilots. But that's beside the point. I have news for you all: confirmation for our next match in two weeks time."

"Who are we up against?" I inquired, keen on such pertinent information.

"Depending on who you are, you could see it as a problem or a challenge."

"I don't follow?" Instead of responding, he simply showed me a paper in hand. In bold text, the name lying next to ours widened my eyes.

"Merde," I cursed under my breath. "I would rather face les Britanniques than this."

Schoolship Aquila

"I thought I made myself clear what the consequences would be, but apparently you haven't listened."

"Why would you bother to send me here if you didn't want me doing this then?"

"We had an agreement, don't you remember? You could do this so long as you upheld the one thing I asked of you to continue practicing. And what did you do? Ignore that and consume more of this ridiculous circus!"

"Father, I told you I am not interested-"

"You continue to disappoint me. The path has been laid out for you, yet the only legacy you have amassed pays respect to that rotten corpse of fascismo!"

"I don't care about pursuing a music career! I never wanted to, but all you go on about is how I should be the next Andrea Bocelli. I don't want to! Stai zitto!"

"Claudio! How dare you tell your father to-" I hung up on the phone. I just couldn't take anymore of his poisonous tongue for another second.

I had not waited an entire day and a half to be put on a sour note just before festivities tonight, yet here I was still having to deal with my family half a world away. The only consolation there was being that whatever punitive measure he had in mind would have to wait until I returned home.

I collapsed in my chair, my head buried in my hands. This wasn't presentable for me. I could never show myself out in the world like this. What kind of good sport would I be if I only appeared as fragile as Monte Toc? Better yet, how could it be so difficult to let me pursue what I wanted to do? I just wanted to fly for Italy, that's all I ever asked for. I can't even do that without some raucous symphony.

Alas, the comfort of privacy would only last for so before a rapping on the door brought me back into the present.

"Hello? Claudio, are you there?" a muffled voice came through the door.

"Who is it?"

"Teresio. Festival's starting in about 20 minutes."

I opened my mouth, but hesitated for a moment. Come on, I thought to myself. Telling him off would be imprudent. "One moment, please."

Retreating back into my selection of apparel, I donned myself in something more suitable for the night. Khakis, a dress shirt, and a dark blazer should do the trick. Brush off the long face and put on your best smile, or so I told myself. His words still rung about in my head, as did the other ones gathered from weeks of this same ridiculous act. Right now, I wanted none of that. If I could get even just a smidge of grandiose times with my team, it would be enough for a night.

In moments, I was free from the confines of my room and in full view of my friend.

"Looking good?" I asked.

He gave a quick look over, made some adjustments on my collar and lapel, and only then stepped back with an approving nod. "Now it is. Shall we?"

I nodded, all too keen on putting that previous episode behind-for now at least. Making our way down the quaint streets of the Anzio, we had after some time arrived at the final destination. Awaiting us were the grand gates to which only my imagination could dream of what lay beyond beforehand, and now being open had bestowed that opportunity.

A familiar face was there to greet us at the entrance.

"Salve, amici. I take it you're well prepared for tonight?" In his usual standard, Armando in fine attire stood before us with a courteous smile, but that wasn't the surprise. It was the unfamiliar lady beside him that drew attention.

"May I ask who your guest here is?" I kindly asked.

"Signores, may I introduce you to a member of Maginot's tankery team." He gestured over to her, to which she gave a small wave. I had to admit: a fascination as far as appearances go. Blue hair, blue dress, and it all came together superbly well, but she certainly wasn't of Anzio origin.

"Amici!" Someone called off in the distance. We turned and-of course. Coming to a halt with winded breath from a long jog, our specially challenged team member had arrived. "Sorry. Hope I'm not late." Regaining some composure, Leonardo also took notice of the newcomer. "Ah, if it isn't a distinguished guest of honor?" Brave donkey he was, and what did he attempt to do? Gently took her hand as if some gesture of nobility from the previous century. "Miss, if I would gladly offer-"

Except she wasn't having any of it, pulling her hand away firmly.

"Thank you, but I'm trying to find someone right now," she said before turning foot-but not before one more addition. "The name's Éclair , by the way."

"Éclair? Someone names themselves after a pastry?" Teresio whispered to me, and I did quietly admit it was an…intriguing choice. Unfortunately, we weren't quite out of earshot yet as she pivoted around with a glare at us. We threw up our hands. "We didn't say anything!"

Some more glaring at us ensued until she finally left us for some semblance of calm.

"Aw…"Leonardo sheepishly rubbed his hands. "Was it worth a try?"

"Perhaps you could study the current formalities of our time. Could bring you up to date," Teresio mused.

"Amici, please. Let us put that episode behind us." I tried my hand at restoring things to the way beforehand. "Come, let's have ourselves a wonderful evening!"

Leading my brethren in, we came across a setting that didn't seem too far enough from back home. Picture it if I will: a villa-esque surrounding, warmly lit by amber lights, and a comforting aura. Like something I could find in just the right places in Napoli. Of course, no festivity would be complete without the ones that made it possible in the first place. The Anzio girls roamed about with their quaint attire, asking for orders, serving beverages, and providing an excellence of hospitality. These weren't just waiters. They deserved something above even that title.

Eventually, we found ourselves open seats alongside our kin. No sooner did we get accustomed when that form of hospitality arrived at our table.

"Evening to you all." Standing for us was a new face I hadn't seen before. Her brown hair was tied up in some intricate style for a ponytail. "We are in need of a few extra hands for servings tonight. Any volunteers?"

Unsurprisingly, a few of us were more than happy to help. Don't be too surprised. After all, we are Italians and known worldwide for our cuisine.

I was about to make off as well until I felt a hand on my shoulder. "I'll go."

Turning to see who, I shouldn't have been surprised who had already volunteered. "Armando? I can manage-"

A gentle raise of his hand cut me off. "Claudio, please. You've done more than enough for this team in a day. Besides, accepting an offer for assistance does provide me an opportunity to learn more about our hosts."

I gave it thought before conceding. "Well enough."

Lying back in my chair, it all seemingly played out for me. The idle chatter, the laughter, all of the sights and sounds wondrous to the ears, only briefly interrupted when waiters came by with equally wondrous delectables.

Whilst we were within that process, we did have to contend with Leonardo and his…intellectual ability.

"So I snapped onto the tail of this poor Frenchman, and I could literally park my plane behind him. I believe it when they say it: Italian craftsmanship is the finest!"

Teresio rolled his eyes. "Hmph. If you think technological advantages are going to suffice over any semblance of tactics-"

"They do! I had proven as such already with a mighty engine and…um…shooty things."

"They're called guns and cannons, Leo."

"Whatever! Yesterday showed we didn't need a silly gimmick like some 'strategy'." Teresio seemed poised to make a counter, which might have happened unless someone else barged in.

"Excuse me, is there an open seat here?" We all looked up at who asked, and oh my was I a hair away from joining the rest in laughter.

"Armando? Are you sure you picked the right apron?"

He looked down at his petite apparel. "It appears the chefs in the kitchen did not have apron sizes more…appropriate."

Further laughs ensued until I waved the others down to at least have some saving grace for him. At least he had his time with the girls much like I had already. Going back to our side of things, the pace was one of pleasantry. No need to be in a hurry when we could spend hours enjoying the moment. Eventually, the festivities transitioned from a basis of entrees to one of free, open conversations amongst all present. Well, somewhat. The Maginot airmen weren't too willing to mingle with ours, curse that invisible barrier if you will.

In the meantime, I was introduced to some more of our distinguished guests I could expect to know more in the coming weeks. There was Pepperoni of self-assured facade, Carpaccio the blond with a selfless soul, Amaretto the feisty one who asked for assistance earlier, and others like Panettone and Ricotta.

Then she arrived, and I truly mean arrived. Take the most gorgeous Italian actress you could think of, and Anchovy could nearly outshine them with her appearance tonight. Green sleeveless dress, black party gloves, and matching black heels. Even her unique twin tails had been put aside temporarily for a single, cascading braid of verde. She wasn't just pretty or beautiful. I'm fairly certain there was no word in the dictionary sufficient enough to describe her as she was now, but it still took the breath out of me.

Thus, I had to make it an obligation to greet her. Picking her out of the crowd was not difficult. Trying to get to her, however, was something akin to crossing the Piave. Given her popularity amongst her classmates, it seemed as if every Anzio female became a mobile roadblock. Wading through tens with the occasional "Excuse me" and "My apologies", it felt like ages. Eventually, I did break through.

"Signora Anchovy!" I approached, getting her attention. I respectfully paced myself before offering a light bow. "An honor to be graced by your presence."

She gave me a warm smile. "Thank you, Claudio. I see your team has performed well so far?"

"We have made a bold statement on the world stage, but it is just the start of even greater victories."

"Indeed, it is just the start. You have made us at Anzio and your nation proud in your triumph over your opponent!"

"Oh, I would not discount them. They showed merit worthy of their nation, and they deserve the respect I distinguished upon them."

"Then we shall make it so, for tonight's a night for friendship and comradery!"

A chorus of cheering followed from our people. Even some of the Maginot guests were in on it as well. I suppose that's what really mattered: doing my part for my country and putting on a great show for the honorable girls of Anzio and Maginot. Whoever was next wasn't an immediate concern, not yet anyways. Tonight was just about treating everyone, including our guests, with honor. For the French, their fight was over, but now all could enjoy a spirited evening.

Well, almost everyone. Looking back, poor Anchovy looked like she was trying to go somewhere, but it turns out that's quite difficult to do with an entire entourage in tow. I chuckled a little at the act. I guess there's one downside to high popularity.

Back on our side, we were having our attention drawn to our sole Milanese as he was stroking his chin.

"You're thinking quite hard over there, Teresio," I remarked heartedly.

"I am indeed concerned over…" We waited, suspense in the air over what he could possibly be- "What words would be satisfactory for a toast?"

"I've got it." I sprung up from my chair, raising my glass. "To our first victory!"

He shrugged. "Alright. To our first!"

Toasts were an infectious thing. Once someone entertained the idea, everyone else fell under the spell and followed suit. With sounds of clinking glass, cheers of joy, happy times all around-nonalcoholic choices of course.

And in the heat of jubilation, Teresio still wasn't quite done yet. "Oh, and get this. My father called earlier and congratulated us all on our first victory. Even promised he could get me tickets for an AC Milan game-somehow."

There were further laughs and playful jeers about, but those sounds became muffled. Any appetite I had vanished. The drink in my hand didn't look tasty anymore. Nothing else in the moment mattered but those words ringing in my head. Three. Words.

My father…congratulated…

No. No. Why would he say that?

My head grew heavy. I tried to hide it, but I hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Signore Claudio, are you alright?" Armando asked.

"Oh-uh, yes! Just all this laud of praise and festival does tire even someone such as myself," I managed to rattle off. Fantastic, lying to others. What a great example this Claudio person would be for Italy!

"Amico, are you sure-"

"Do not worry! Couple more hours and I might call it a night." I smiled, or just one I forced myself to put on.

Teresio-he couldn't have known-those kind of words, so innocent to himself. A growing sickness, like a proverbial knife being gouged deeper in me. The walls gave in, and the torrent going back weeks came crashing back in.

Liar! Fascismo! Cowardice!

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Excuse me, amici. Need to use the restroom." I hurriedly left my chair with one objective in mind: get out of here. All the while, more figurative pinpricks in my neck for a second lie to all these great people.

By some miracle, I endured long enough until I had misled my way through the majority of people. Past the main festivities, past all the bustling crowds, and out into something that looked akin to a small lit portico. No one seemed to follow tail. Bounding off, further and further I made my way back to my living quarters, the sounds of laughter and music gradually fading.

The slamming of my door put an end to all the voices. My father couldn't reach me here, not now anyways.

I collapsed against the wall, rubbing my forehead in frustration. Here I was just trying to put my mind off things for the time, and I couldn't even have that. To not think of any sort of familial relations for one night, to just wanting a good time, and that went sour quickly. Teresio, that magnificent bastardo, with a supporting, cherishing family. He couldn't have known how lucky he was to not have to bear the burden of a name like mine. Why couldn't things just be fair for once?

Schoolship Béarn

I'd rather have lost gloriously than to win poorly, but here I was only thinking about the next match. Of all the nations to beat us down, it had to be our neighbors to the east. The Germans were certain to put up all the stops with their repertoire of fantastical engineering and qualitative airmen. We needed every minute advantage we could get our hands on-assuming we even had those to begin with.

So where was I? Where I found myself more often than not. Scouring through my commander's book collection looking for any sort of useful information. After all, he did say they were free to borrow for study purposes. And when I say collection, I do mean a modest assortment piled alongside his work desk located in a corner of one of the hangars. It was clear he was a man of history with the various memoirs and types of country's aircraft dating as far back as the First World War. But no, I was only concerned with analyzing anything French or German from the 1930s and 1940s.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like some people weren't too keen on my plans for tonight. Particularly one of the maintenance crews. "Eugéne, are you finished yet?"

"A few more minutes, please!" I hollered back to the man on the other side of the hangar.

"You said that an hour ago!"

"Just a few minutes!"

"Oh, come on-" Strange, he didn't finish that line as a brief silence fell.

Then a moment later, the reason why the abrupt quiet came up to me.

"Staying in for the night, Monsieur Albert?" That voice was unmistakable. Looking up from my book, it was in fact our team commander. "There's no comfortable sleeping spots here."

"I know, it's just…things I have to do here."

He leaned down to pick up one of the various books strewn about. "It is commendable that you devote yourself as much as you do to this team and its success, but it clearly tires you out. Wouldn't there be more interesting things to do than just…" he gestured at my handiwork, "...this?"

"Commandant, did you see how we performed yesterday? It was poor! I could have done much better, and that's exactly what detractors will tell me. 'You could've done this!' or 'Why did you miss out on that?', that's what they'll say. I have to prove them wrong. I don't want these fools nagging me about my 'mistakes' or the reason that we lose is because of me."

"Is that so? And you continue to listen to what is certainly just a vocal minority issuing their harshest comments?"

I gave a heavy sigh. "They're the only people who talk about me. I just want vindication that I'm on the right path."

"Yes, we have our people who made their marks in aeronautical history. Béchereau, Clostermann, Blériot, Le Gloan-"

"My great grandfather."

He nodded. "Correct. But what if you were to just take a step back from all that glitz and glamor? What do you see then?"

I opened my mouth to answer back, except I had no answer to give. What was I supposed to say? He must have seen the look on me, but he didn't boast or gloat. Instead, just a comforting smile before he continued.

"There's more to people than just what made them famous. They are like us, which means their lives have a great deal of diversity to them. Is Antoine de Saint-Exupéry always remembered for his time as a pilot? Of course not, he's more renowned for his writing."

"What's that have to do with me?" I asked.

"It means never compare your life to one's highlight reel. Think more openly of possibilities. Even the simplest hobbies can provide the greatest euphoria."

I sat staring at him aghast. Where was this part of him before? "I don't understand. You're never like this in our training. It's always you just constantly harping on our teamwork and individual skills."

He chuckled. "Simply put, it's training. Pushing each and every one of you is my assigned job. But we are not in training at the moment, are we? Right now at this moment, I am just Monsieur Maurin much like how you are just Monsieur Albert."

"So what am I supposed to do then if not indulge myself in studies?" I asked, gliding my hand across the book I was holding.

"Let me put it this way, 'time is finite and thus your greatest enemy.' Use it wisely. Perhaps you could find something or someone outside of what you're familiar with."

"Do you know something I don't?" Had he seen the brief interactions I had with Marie?

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Eugéne," he deadpanned as he took a seat at his desk. "So go, enjoy yourself for today and tomorrow like the rest of your kind already are. And yes, I understand that our next opponent concerns you greatly, but recall the last time we settled our differences? It was never one-sided. Leave your constant requests for me to tend."

"You can handle every word I grind into paper?"

"Need I remind you that I retired as a Commandant in Armée de l'air? These kinds of affairs are of little trouble." He gave a sarcastic wave. "Now, adieu."

With that effective end of further conversation, I took the hint and set out for the night. Oh my, it was late afternoon when I began reading. I had been at it with the books for that long? Brushing the thought, I hurried myself back to my housing. It was still difficult to comprehend why the Bearn was constructed the way it was. For some reason, the airfield was constructed on the "prelude to Les Misérables" half of the ship, and that meant I had to traverse through something I rather keep my head down the whole way for.

Yet tonight, I was observing against my inhibitions. The streets were long since empty, but there was no eeriness to it. It was that time of night where the main bustle of a day had passed, but activity continued to carry on until eventual slumber. Streetlights glowed with a pleasant yellow, the windows of apartments upstairs continued to illuminate, and behind all the closed business facades, people fulfilled their final duties for the day.

I hadn't seen this side of the ship in such a light before. It was an oddly comforting serenity. Comforting, the kind of word Maurin would want me to savor more, yet to find such repose outside of my familiar zone.

So there it was, me wandering with no clear plan for the near future. My mother had suggested finding a "raison d'être" after all , yet with the myriad of possibilities this place offered, it wasn't going to be a short trek.

Well, it's like we all say from time to time. C'est la vie.

AN: Woah, woah, woah. Talk about being out for some time. Life has once again gone and come out with a significant change. May was a roller coaster of emotions for certain. I finally graduated from university, and thus bringing a close to a major chapter in my life. It's a joyous moment, but man does it hit like a train when you have to say goodbye to the people you've come to know for a while. To all who've been here since the very beginning, I sincerely commend you. Seriously, how do you guys put up with my notoriously slow progress? I'm impressed. I wish I could get you a cookie or something. Of course, my gratitude for this chapter goes to two individuals that made some of the tasteful non-English dialogue possible!