PROLOGUE
Koolkerke, Flandern
1 Januar 1918
For the first time in almost a month Leutnant Werner Bastian pulled on his fur lined flying trousers and jacket in readiness for the morning mission. He felt the usual mixture of exhilaration and trepidation. Part of him was glad to be back with the Staffel, but it had been hard to leave his wife and his son Helmut, not yet two years old. His Christmas leave had been welcome but Bastian had been disturbed by what he had seen back home in Spandau – food shortages, street demonstrations where soldiers and sailors were abused and spat upon by protesters. Even talk of revolution….
The hardships of this war were felt not just by those in uniform but by all the German people.
Bastian had returned yesterday, the last day of 1917. 1918 was a new year, a chance to finish this war. The Russians were in retreat everywhere and suing for peace as the old Tsarist state collapsed, torn apart by Bolshevik revolution. Bastian flinched at the thought of Germany going the same way…..
‘Nein’ he thought to himself, ‘we cannot let that happen. The war must be won, anything else is unthinkable.’
As Bastian wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled on his helmet and goggles his thoughts turned to his brother officer and friend Paul Achilles. When Bastian got back on New Year’s Eve he expected Paul to be three sheets to the wind already, but he had not touched a drop and in fact did not take a drink all night. Achilles had been happy to see him, but he could tell immediately that something was wrong. The Staffel had a bad day the previous week with Leutnant Meyer and Vizeflugmeister Goerth both shot down and wounded. Goerth’s injuries were slight, he would be back on flying duties by the end of the week, but Meyer was lucky to be alive. Paul wouldn’t talk about that day, but he seemed very keen to repay the enemy in kind.
“The ‘neighbours’ dropped Christmas mail as well” he told Bastian, “They are as mad as we are!” Achilles had then narrowed his gaze and continued grimly “Some of it landed on our side, so we are going to send it back.”
“What do you mean?” Bastian asked with a puzzled look.
“I mean we are going to take them back and drop them on one of their airfields. And we’ll throw in a few 10 kilogram sausages for good measure” he added with a decidedly menacing air.
“And just how are we going to return their gifts there? I don’t think St Nicholas will let you use his sleigh!”
“Nagel and Krüger will drop them from their Halberstadt” Achilles had explained. “Hopefully the Tommies will be so excited they will come up to play as well. I have been trying to find one all week and it seems they have lost interest in the game” he said with no small degree of disgust.
Now it was 0745 hours the following morning, the first day of 1918, which dawned cold and clear. The four German naval aviators took one last look at the map as Achilles finished his briefing.
“Yesterday one of our Rumplers spotted a number of aircraft on this field at Les Moëres, between Furnes and Dunkerque. We’ll cross the front at Dixmude, over the line of the Loos Canal, and drop our packages. Hopefully they will come up and we can bag a couple before we cut north and back across the lines.”
“Lothar and Kurt you have your Halberstadt, Werner and I will take a Pfalz each as your escort. Keep your altitude to at least 1200 metres, out of range of their airfield defences. If you get into trouble break off and head for home, remember we will be in the ‘neighbour's' yard this morning.”
Achilles folded the map as the Schwarze Männer brought their aircraft out from the hangars.
“Hals und Beinbruch meinen Herren.”
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