PROLOGUE
Koolkerke, Flandern
10 November 1917
Leutnant zur See Werner Bastian had been up for less an hour but he was already tired. The weariness born from long patrols in an open cockpit exposed to bone numbing cold was hard to shake. He barely recognised himself when shaving this morning. Except where his goggles shielded his eyes the skin of his face was red raw from the wind and freezing temperatures that come with flying at 2000 metres above the Earth. Picking up his goggles and helmet he put on his silk scarf – without it he would not only suffer the cold but rip the skin from his neck as his head constantly moved checking the sky. It was the same ritual – front, above, behind, right, left, below, front – over and over countless times each patrol. The pilot who saw their enemy first was usually the one who lived to fly another day. He buckled on his belt, noting he had lost even more weight. A combination of three patrols a day and the nervousness that comes with the day to day life of a front line pilot was also taking its toll. Sometimes after a patrol all Bastian could keep down was ersatz coffee supplemented by a cigarette.
Walking out of his draughty timber hut Leutnant Bastian wished his Staffel could have stayed a while longer with Jasta 5 at their Schloss in Boistrancourt. The Tommies had put paid to that arrangement with their renewed offensive in Flanders. With the Army hard-pressed to hold the enemy, Bastian and the rest of the Marineflieger soon found themselves back at Koolkerke and up to their necks in English flyers. They were always outnumbered by the Tommies which made life difficult, but the weather had also been terrible. It was a lean time with no claims by the Staffel for more than two weeks.
“Guten Morgen Werner” called Leutnant zur See Paul Achilles, “nice of you to join us.” His words almost drowned out by the throaty roar of a 160hp Mercedes Benz engine.
“Where is Onkel Willi off to then?” shouted Werner over the din, gesturing towards the yellow Albatros D.Va piloted by Leutnant zur See Wilhelm Mattheus as it climbed away from the airfield.
“He‘s escorting a floatplane from the Seefrontstaffel to pick up one of our crews forced down in the water with engine trouble” explained Leutnant Achilles as the sound grew fainter. “He said when he’s done he will fly back along the front and see if he can join us.”
Although Willi Mattheus was only a few years older than either Werner or Paul he had been flying much longer and had already scored three victories. Although at first he protested about being called ‘Onkel’ he had come to accept the nickname with good humour.
Pulling out his map case Leutnant Achilles stabbed a finger at the marked route. “We fly southwest until we hit the main defensive line east of Ypres. We will then turn north and patrol our side of the line up to Langemarck. From there we will turn northeast for home. Alles klar?”
“Ganz gewiss” replied the young Berliner, “Let’s go bag a Tommy or two.”
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