A WARBIRD IN THE BELLY OF THE MOUSE
by David Parish-Whittaker
Copyright © 2010, David Parish-Whittaker
Smashwords Edition
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Originally published in Writers of the Future, Volume XXIV by Galaxy Press,
New Edition, 2008
All rights held by author
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More Stories by David Parish-Whittaker
Legacy
The Brazen Spindle
A Fairytale Divorce (coming in Spring 2012)
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Nigel felt a surge of pride as he watched Hitoshi’s replica Sopwith explode in flames. The JAL captain had done pretty well for himself, Nigel thought, and had come a long way in the last week. Hitoshi was a fighter. Even surrounded by flaming dope-soaked linen, the fellow was squeezing off a last burst from his twin Vickers. That shot did little good, but the twenty shots before had taken a couple of triplanes down, cutting short at least one faux-Hun’s vacation.
Zoom-climbing into the sun, Nigel rolled over to get a better look. Three cherry-red Fokkers swarmed about Hitoshi’s plane as its lower wing collapsed. Shortly thereafter, the silver form of a temporal-locked body fell away from the wreckage. Good show, but show time was over. Time to get to work.
Nigel kicked the Camel’s rudder, snapping down and right. Diving toward the three Fokkers, he shook his head as he watched them waddle through an uncoordinated turn. Their camp director wasn’t much of an instructor. Training his charges might take time away from Flying Fritz’s pursuit of twenty-first-century women. At least their lack of skill made Nigel’s job easier.
Absurdly, the Fokkers were heading back to the aerodrome along the top of the morning blanket of clouds. There they were low, slow, out of altitude, and visible from ten miles away. Nigel wondered if they even remembered that there had been another “Allied” plane. Too bad the Germans back in ’17 hadn’t been so thick.
Nigel opened up with a burst of tracers from his left Vicker, purposely aiming to the right of tail-end Charlie. Predictably, all three started sloppy turns to the left. He nosed over, Gnome engine sputtering with the G loss, flying wires humming, watching the tangled mess of tourists in their torque-heavy planes.
The lead triplane finally turned about, giving Nigel something to work with. Couldn’t just stitch them all up and send them home without some play first. This wasn’t 1917. Cold-blooded murder was frowned on by the Park.
For dramatic effect, Nigel aileron-rolled as he passed the lead, then arced left to deal with the chappie who thought he was sneaking up on him. Nose up, zoom climb, cartwheel about, squeeze the triggers, both of his Vickers now slicing off a wingman’s rudder. The lead had split off to gain altitude, somewhat cleverly using the tripe’s climb rate to advantage. Nigel let the lead tag his tail a bit, then tuck-under snapped to address the remaining wingman. Temporal harness or not, Nigel hated lead spraying about his ears.
A real Flying Circus pilot would have spread out to cover his lead, but the remaining wingman was close on and target fixated. Dodging him, Nigel watched the lead tripe overshoot, and decided to let that one escape—he’d done well enough. Anyway, his coffee flask was almost empty.
Nigel dived to the top of the undercast and ducked through a furrow in the clouds. His lead forgotten, the wingman chased Nigel down into the vanishing visibility, twin Spandaus spraying unaimed fire. Nigel found a familiar brown-green ridgeline, overbanked and pulled down the other side, nearly dragging his wingtip on the mountain. He waited patiently, sipping the remnants of his morning mud.
The tripe soared a good thirty feet over his head. He reminded the fellow of his presence with a burst of tracers, then put him to the chase. Occasionally blipping his engine to remain behind this would-be ace, Nigel followed him between trees and rocks as they headed downhill. To give the lad some credit, tripes were the absolute dickens to dive, really.
Nigel was considering letting him get away at some suitably dramatic moment when the fool tried a low-level turn, lost the usual altitude, caught a wing and cartwheeled into a complete mess. Nigel called for the medical team, then turned back towards the aerodrome and breakfast.
Spotting the field’s blimp hangars, Nigel headed that way, hunching down in the cockpit to warm himself off the firewall. Despite the warmth, he could feel his body start to shake. He traded the last of his airspeed for altitude, then cut off the fuel as he reached the pattern entry point. Slowly spiraling down over the artificial hole in the clouds, he leaned back and let himself tremble for a minute or so. It was better than it used to be, but every now and then he found himself reminded of France. Hardly surprising, of course, considering how much effort the company had invested in making this little patch of California look like the front. Nigel liked to think of himself as sensible, however, and sense told him that hardly anyone died sporting about in planes these days, guns or no. But his body refused to realize that. Well over a year or a century had passed, depending on one’s point of view, and he still got the shakes at the end of a mission. Even though nobody ever died. Even though it no longer counted for anything.
At least the shakes only happened afterwards, and almost always finished by touchdown. Besides, God had invented whiskey and cigarettes for a reason. The Camel skipped along the turf a few times, then Nigel hopped out as the Park’s mechanics arrived to push it back to the tiedown. He nodded at them, but without an audience, saw little reason to act the part of a dawn patrol’s sole survivor. He’d already done his acting bit up there in the sky.
“Morning, Captain.”
Nigel turned. Scott, the corporate liaison, had managed to sneak up on him. This week, Scott was taking on the role of adjutant. It was time for Nigel to play the thespian, after all. It’s what he got three squares and a flop for.
“Morning, Adj,” Nigel said. “Jerry gave us a bit of a spanking up there, I’m afraid. Took old Kubota out—not before he gave twice as good as he got, though. Like to nip down to the O club now and raise a pint for the lad. You can do the necessary with the chalk board, can’t you?”
Nigel hated every word. He’d had too many friends plummet into the French mud for real. Still, Hitoshi had flown masterfully. Real or not, taking out a few hostiles in a one-versus-five furball was no small feat. It might not get the Huns out of France, but it was worth buying a round.
Scott shook his head and tapped on his notebook. “Sorry, Captain, we’ve got a fresh load of boys in this morning. No drinking until they’re all checked in.”
“Just a pint, that’s all. Send-off for Hitoshi and all.”
“Honestly, I’d look the other way, but you know the rules. You can get hammered tonight. If you’ve got to drink at work, at least be private about it.”
“Lord love a duck, it’s just a bloody pint of fizzy lager! I’m not some damned sot, and I’d rather you not act as if I am. Anyway, I’m half-starved. Excuse me.” He marched off towards the mess tent.
Scott called after him, “I don’t make the Park regs, so don’t blame me, okay? Welcome aboard is at ten.”
Fortunately, the unrealistically skillful mess cook was a good sort who had a dab hand with eggs and a ready supply of blackberry brandy in the storeroom. After breakfast and a quick smoke, Nigel felt up to facing the newcomers. At least none of them were women. Not that he had anything against modern women, particularly not in tight-fitting flying breeches. The ones who came out here even flew fairly well. But protective harness or not, he didn’t like the thought of girls being pummeled by machine guns. That, and he didn’t care for screaming at them like the Park wanted him to.
“Listen up, ladies,” he snarled half-heartedly, “I want you to look to your left, then look to your right. One of those blokes is going to be shredded by Boche gunfire in the next few weeks. If you don’t want to be pushing the daisies with him, you’ll listen carefully to the following brief. Don’t think I’ve got the time to repeat myself.”
What rot. Back in ’16, his first squadron commander hadn’t talked like that when Nigel reported for duty. He’d had to track the CO down in the O club. He’d gotten a handshake, a “good luck, lad,” and the useful advice to drink blackberry brandy with breakfast. The engine fumes gave you the runs otherwise. The next day, he was supposed to go on a training flight with the CO, but the old man was one of those “flying commanders” and hadn’t made it back from that morning’s alleged milk run. Nigel hadn’t needed some ass snarling in his face to tell him that if the CO could buy it, Nigel certainly could. Fortunately, the brandy helped with more than just the runs.