Duel Over the Somme

It is April 1918 and the war has finally turned against Germany. The end may finally be in sight. After four years of seemingly endless bloodshed there is a guarded sense of hope that is permeating the Royal Flying Corps aerodrome. To outsiders, the word aerodrome conjured some very romantic images but in reality it was a small arrangement of ready made squat, steel structures that looked very much like tin cans that had been bisected vertically and then laid on their side with the cut surface down. These bisected cans housed barracks, garages, canteen, and all the necessary items needed by the aviators of the 3rd Aerial Attack Squadron. These pilots were stationed near Perrone in the Somme river valley of Northern France, halfway between Brussels and Paris. Pilots in The Great War enjoyed a somewhat better quality of life than their comrades who fought in the trenches, but in exchange for such luxury came a much shorter life expectancy, six weeks or less to be exact.

Patrolling the Somme had become increasingly more perilous for flyers as the Germans (some said out of desperation) were increasing the activity of their own airborne sorties. Every pilot no matter what his experience level had a very clear image of the one adversary they did not wish to see. At just under nineteen feet long with a twenty-three and a half foot wingspan, a maximum speed of just over 100 miles per hour and an average ceiling of about 14,000 feet, the Fokker DR-1 triplane was the newest and deadliest aircraft in the German arsenal. As formidable as the triplane was, it was the man inside the DR-1 that truly struck fear in the hearts of Allied pilots. His name was Manfred von Richthofen. He was only twenty-five years old and had been flying for two years, but he was already a legend. A pilot was considered to be the best of the best when he had notched his 30th victory. That was enough to garner the coveted Blue Max decoration. Richthofen had seventy-eight confirmed victories to his credit at the time and managed to even survive a bullet wound to the head. He had painted his DR-1 a deep blood color so that every pilot he faced would know that he stood opposed to the dreaded “Red Baron” of Germany. His reputation for being a cold and deadly pilot was well deserved as he had defeated many celebrated pilots in his career, including renowned British ace Lanoe Hawker. The airmen of 3rd Squadron kept a picture of him in their barracks at all times. If nothing else it would serve as a constant reminder to them that the bloody “Red Baron” was indeed only just a man.

On the evening of April 20th, the pilots at the Perrone aerodrome were awaiting the return of their commanding officer, Major Richard Raymond-Barker from a patrol over the frontlines. Major Barker was a year younger than Richthofen and had six victories logged. He also won the Military Cross for conspicuous gallantry. Apart from being an excellent pilot, he was far and away the best card player of the group. It was difficult to get him to sit at the table as he felt his energies might be better spent in other more productive endeavors. He wrote a great deal to his family, especially his mother whose smiling picture adorned the makeshift nightstand next to his bunk. Whenever he did join a game however the men always held the occasion with high regard.

The pilots truly liked Major Barker as well as his adjutant, Captain Lawrence “Horrid” Harrod. Captain Harrod was a fine pilot in his own right who had four victories so far and had managed to survive more than his fair share of grievous combat wounds. The most serious of which was suffered in a crash where his nose was broken and his face heinously scarred thus earning him the half joking nickname “Horrid” Harrod. More than a few pilots wondered how Captain Harrod remained on active duty but they were glad to have him. Much like Major Barker he had the knack of gaining the men’s respect without lording his rank over them. The squad all agreed that no one was better than Captain Harrod at keeping their spirits up no matter how bleak the circumstance.

Harrod had arranged a game of darts and even though he did not play, he knew it would take the men’s minds off the fact that Major Baker was an hour overdue. This in itself was not totally out of the ordinary but it was best not to take chances. Not long after the second leg of the first game the sound of multiple nine-cylinder engines belonging to allied Sopwith Camel aircraft could be heard approaching. The door of the barracks swung open and Lieutenant Stuart Saunders entered. Saunders was a tall, lean man with sandy colored hair and grayish-blue eyes. He carried himself with an ease of grace and confidence of bearing that betrayed his aristocratic roots. It was said his father was a distinguished member of the Reform Club as well as the House of Lords. Saunders himself was at Cambridge when the call for volunteers came in.

Saunders immediately went to Captain Harrod and whispered in his ear. Harrod’s head sank and just as quickly he composed himself. He could not allow the men to see him distraught.

“Alright Lads, gather round.” The squadron approached, darts in hand.

“Captain let’s ask the Major if he wants to have a round of darts.” Harrod cursed inwardly. This would not be easy.

“Lt. Saunders has brought word. Major Barker has been shot down,” surprised gasps escaped the men “the plane went down in flames and his body is missing. It is believed that von Richthofen is the killer.” A murmur thrummed through the room. Some of the pilots crossed themselves. It was thought that if a man’s body was never found and he went unburied that his ghost would wander the frontlines forever. Major Barker was too good a man for such a dismal fate.

“We’ll have a memorial service for the Major tomorrow. Those in my group keep in mind we are on alert status tomorrow. Those of you that flew this evening will be on reserve status. Lt. Saunders may I speak with you a moment please? As for the rest of you, dismissed.” The men dispersed and Saunders drew close to Harrod.

“Sir?” Captain Harrod didn’t know quite how to word his request so he just came out and said it.

“Lieutenant as you know, I have to write to Major Barker’s mother. I would greatly appreciate any assistance you could offer in this.” Saunders quickly nodded. His Cambridge education would be infinitely more eloquent than Harrod’s Liverpool brickyard upbringing.

“Anything else Sir?” Harrod thought for a moment.

“Yes. I need a witness for when I open the Major’s desk. The key is with him.”

“Shall we open it now then?” Harrod sighed. He was in no mood for any official duties right now, but it had to be done and perhaps it was best to just have it over with.

“Very well.” Taking a penknife from his pocket, the beleaguered captain began to tinker with the lock. His brow furrowed in concentration and he blinked hard a few times as if to remove a piece of grit from his eyes.

“Something the matter Sir?” Harrod shook his head quickly. He sat for a moment and his vision cleared. There was no question about it. His symptoms were worsening and had been ever since the crash. With his sight having returned to normal the opening of the desk was soon accomplished. Harrod pulled out the narrow horizontal drawer and placed it on the desk.

“Any personal items we’ll send to the Major’s mother, agreed?” Saunders nodded as the two officers began to sort out their dead commander’s papers. They found a letter addressed to a Miss Ann-Marie Dern. Saunders deduced that Major Barker must have had a sweetheart back home. He could see her weeping together with the Major’s mother. Harrod began to wonder how close any of them were to having a house back home filled with mourners. He knew that his home would be very empty indeed. His mother had died of influenza and with a face like his a sweetheart was not on the cards. At least the French had a special brigade of honor, the Union des Gueules Cassees (literally translated as broken mugs) for veterans with mangled faces. He did not think his country had any equivalent. Perhaps his brother would arrive if he too did not get killed during his tour in the infantry.

“Captain, this looks official. It’s from RFC command headquarters.” Saunders held up an unsealed envelope.

“Read it please Lieutenant.” Stuart quickly scanned the paperwork. His face paled as he read.

“It’s a medical report, your report Sir.” Harrod smiled a wry, almost mocking grin as best as his features would allow. He slowly stroked his long dark moustache and replied,

“Well now you know why I did not join the darts game this evening.” Saunders finished reading and then asked,

“How long have you been sick Captain?” Harrod sighed.

“Well, I am sure it started after the last crash. At first it was just dizziness and the occasional headache. Soon after it turned to nausea.” Lieutenant Saunders was listening intently.

“And now?” Harrod leaned in closer and whispered in a conspiratorial fashion.

“Well of late my vision has started to blur now and then for short spells…and my hands have begun to tremble.” Saunders found he was unable to say what he knew must be said. Harrod verbally prodded him.

“Go on Stuart, finish your thought.” The reply came very flatly.

“You should not be flying Captain. You know that.” Harrod’s voice lowered even more as he answered.

“Yes Stuart. The rulebook says I should not be flying, but you saw the looks on those men’s faces when I told them that Major Barker had been killed. We have to make sure that we keep them going until they’ve adjusted to the new commander.” Lieutenant Saunders snorted in derision.

“Bullshit. And you know it.” Harrod’s reaction was more passionate than he intended.

“I am no good to anyone if I can’t fly Stuart. What sort of life do you think I will have after the war’s end…if I survive? You know what the hospitals are like.” No argument could be made against that.

“You know it’s an awful risk Lawrence.” Harrod nodded his agreement.

“Yes it is,” he quietly said as he took the paper from Saunders’ grasp, “but as interim commanding officer of Royal Flying Corps’ 3rd squadron it is one that I am willing to take. On your honor Stuart, not a word about this to anyone.” The Lieutenant sat motionless for the longest minute of Harrod’s life.

“Alright, not a word,” he paused “but if you get any worse you could become a danger to our boys up there. If that happens you stay on the ground, agreed?” Harrod nodded his consent.

“And I’ll be watching you Captain.” Harrod nodded again impatiently. He disliked the idea of having what amounted to a manifestation of his conscience staring at him.

“Let’s finish this up Stuart.” The two officers spent the rest of the evening sorting through Major Barker’s desk. After the job was finished Captain Harrod exited the office with the Major’s personal items in a box. The men had all gone to sleep. They must have been at it longer than he thought. In the dark silence of the barracks the tired officer pondered what the future held for him as well as the young men under his command. The box he carried shook.

The next morning the pilots gathered on the runway to say good-bye to Major Richard Raymond-Barker. The men remained silent as Lt. Saunders played Amazing Grace on his bagpipes. When the hymn was finished Captain Harrod stepped forward to speak.

“Lads, we are gathered here today to bid farewell to Major Barker. I don’t think that any of us could ever lay claim to having a finer commanding officer in our time in the service. As your temporary commanding officer I have decided to honor our departed friend by officially changing the nickname of 3rd squadron to Barker’s Bloodhounds.” A murmur of approval emanated from the assembled party.

“We now have another bit of ceremony to attend to.” With that pronouncement Captain Harrod picked up a bucket and walked over to his Sopwith Camel aircraft. The newly christened Bloodhounds followed. Harrod pulled a piece of tarpaulin off of his aircraft and emblazoned on the side was a painted picture of a snarling black wolf’s head with red eyes. It looked more like the Hound of the Baskervilles than any sort of bloodhound.

“Now lads, what do bloodhounds do?” After a few moments one of the men spoke up.

“They hunt.” Harrod’s face split into a crooked, broken smile and from within the bucket he grasped a brush and proceeded to paint the nose of his aircraft a deep blood color. The symbolism was not lost on anyone.

“That’s correct. Bloodhounds are hunters. Now we all know who was responsible for Major Barker’s death.” The men nodded.

“We all want to set things right. So I call on each of you to step forward and color the nose of your aircraft with this to show the Huns exactly who it is that we’re hunting.” The men all lined up and each in his turn painted the nose of his aircraft with the crimson pigment. When the last plane had been painted Captain Harrod gathered them together again that they might bear witness to the last part of Major Barker’s sendoff. A framed picture of the late commanding officer was hung above the door inside the barracks. To the great delight of the Bloodhounds, Manfred von Richthofen’s picture found a new place of residence at the center of the dartboard. A raucous round of applause followed but was quickly drowned out by the alert to scramble aircraft. Enemy planes had been sighted over the front.

Six of Barker’s Bloodhounds charged toward their aircraft and within moments the airfield was awash in the sound of 9 cylinder Clerget engines roaring to life. All of the pilots had their control sticks firmly planted to the right as they sped down the runway. This was to combat the vicious spin problems generated by the tremendous torque of the camels’ engines while the planes were on the ground. It was said that more men had been killed by this engine quirk than by German bullets. Once the planes were all airborne they came together in a loose wedge formation and flew towards the front. Harrod checked all his instruments and relaxed for a moment. He knew that his plane had two and a half hours of flying time so fuel would not be a worry for a time. The enemy patrol had not been sighted yet so for now he would simply enjoy the freeing sensation that flying gave him. The skies over the Somme valley were a bright azure as the sun climbed high toward midday. Harrod smiled contently as the sun warmed his ruined face. For a moment he almost allowed himself to forget things for a bit.

The front was relatively quiet and the only sounds he heard were the engines of the aircraft when a burst of machine gun fire suddenly tore through the air! Harrod whipped his head around but it was evident that none of his men had fired as the sound came from the front. Where had those shots come from? He scanned the sky in search of the enemy planes. If only the sun wasn’t so damnably bright. More gunfire strafed the cockpit. The sun! Harrod shaded his eyes and looked toward the sun as best he could. There they were! Coming out of the sun he spotted five German Albatross D3 biplanes. The enemy aircraft were diving toward them in staggered formation with all guns blazing. Harrod immediately pointed toward the enemy aircraft to signal his men as to where the shots were coming from. Another second and the D3’s were in amongst them. The sky erupted in another hail of gunfire as the Bloodhounds dove and spiraled away from the Germans. Harrod was far enough ahead of the pack to where he was able to circle around and assess the situation. This would not be easy. The D3’s looked so much like the Sopwith Camels at a distance. His vision began to blur slightly.

“No not now.” Harrod prayed as he sped his plane into the fray. As he got closer a trail of smoke streaked toward the ground. No stripes on the tail. It was a German. That was one of the few telltales beside the newly painted noses. Red, white, and blue stripes on the tailfin differentiated the Camel from the Albatross at a quick glance. A plane passed in front of Harrod’s view. His twin Vicker machine guns roared to life and sprayed the passing D3. Harrod saw the plane’s tail segment come apart.

“That makes two,” he whispered to himself “there should be three left.” He scanned the sky in search of the remaining enemy planes when a splash of color flashed before his eyes. It was a stark crimson red. He looked again and he just caught a glimpse but there could be no mistaking it. Another plane had joined the fight. Harrod wished there was a way he could signal the men, as they seemed not to notice. He blinked and looked around but now there was no sign of von Richthofen’s red Fokker DR-1 triplane. He could not have slipped away from the melee so quickly. Unless Richthofen was now behind him! Harrod snapped his head violently around in search of the elusive baron but was greeted instead by a burst of machine gun fire coming from in front of him. An Albatross was streaking toward him with a Camel in hot pursuit. Both planes were firing and Harrod jammed his controls forward. He dove out of the path of the oncoming aircraft as bullets from the D3 and possibly the other Camel perforated the rear of his plane. An explosion sounded above him. Harrod gunned his engine to avoid any falling shrapnel from what he hoped was the engine of the Albatross. That was three down, but the red DR-1 was still out there. Richthofen could easily tip the balance of any battle in a short amount of time, but where was he? How could a bright red plane possibly disappear like that? Harrod’s vision started to blur again and when it returned, he saw it. The Fokker was in his sights! He instantly pressed the fire control on his guns and unleashed dozens of rounds toward Richtoffen’s plane. Nothing! Not a single hit. Surely his aim wasn’t that bad, but the ache in his head had increased and his vision was worsening. Damn! The DR-1 was gone. Harrod looked around and there was no sign of Richthofen. He pushed the camel higher into the sky to try and spot the remaining enemy planes. The two surviving D3’s were fleeing the battle. Harrod exhaled loudly and inspected the sky again. There was nothing but Allied planes.

The Bloodhounds all flew back to the aerodrome relatively unscathed, which in itself was a small miracle. Once all the planes were safely landed cheers went up and a bottle was produced. Each of the men took a drink and a festive mood quickly washed over the whole gathering. Captain Harrod listened intently as the men recounted the fight to Lt. Saunders. No mention was made of von Richthofen being in the scrum. They had to have seen him. How could that plane be missed? Much later Harrod had opportunity to talk to one of the pilots in private. Chadwick he knew would not say anything about their conversation. He was steady and not much of a talker.

“Good evening James. May I speak with you?” Chadwick put down the book he was reading and snapped to attention.

“Yes Sir.” Harrod sometimes forgot that he was a captain and that certain protocols never fully went away in spite of his familiarity with his men.

“Stand at ease Chadwick.” The pilot immediately spread his feet slightly and placed his hands behind his back.

“I wanted to ask you about the battle this afternoon.” Chadwick smiled.

“One of the observers saw the plane you downed Captain. How many is that for you?” Harrod suppressed a grin as he answered.

“Five.” Chadwick smiled even wider. Harrod knew what was coming.

“Well Captain let me be the first to congratulate you. Shame you didn’t become an ace by shooting down Richthofen.” Harrod’s smile evaporated.

“Let me ask you James, did you see anything out of the ordinary during the battle today?” Chadwick’s brow furrowed in thought.

“I don’t believe so Sir.” Harrod continued his questioning.

“Do you recall the exact nature of our opponents?” Chadwick quickly answered.

“Yes Sir. We encountered 5 Germans flying D3 Albatross aircraft. The enemy came out of the sun and fired first. Three Germans were shot down and the remaining two fled.” Harrod sighed.

“Nothing more?” Chadwick shook his head.

“No Sir.” A frown crept across the captain’s damaged visage.

“Very well Chadwick. Dismissed.” As the young pilot departed, Harrod walked into Major Barker’s…no his office and sat behind the desk. The observers’ report of the battle matched what Chadwick had to say. There were five Albatross aircraft and nothing else. No red Fokker DR-1 and no sign of von Richthofen. Had he had some sort of delusion up there? He could swear he saw him. The plane was impossible to mistake, unless of course von Richthofen really was not there. Harrod’s head throbbed and the pain steadily increased until it became unbearable. Finally he submitted and swallowed two aspirins. Surely he could not be that sick that he was seeing things, but there could be no other explanation. The report of the observers was the clincher. If the Baron were there they would have seen him. These very troubling thoughts were Captain Lawrence Harrod’s only company as sleep finally overtook him.

As consciousness slowly crept back over him, Harrod could hear a bunch of men talking loudly. He wiped the sleep residue from his eyes and donned a clean uniform. When the captain entered the main area of the barracks he saw Lt. Saunders holding a dispatch from RFC command. The pilots were clamoring for a look. It had to be something important. Perhaps an armistice had been signed. When Saunders noticed Harrod’s approach he immediately handed him the dispatch. Harrod perused the paper and his jaw dropped.

“Has this been confirmed?” Saunders nodded.

“I just got off of the radio with RFC fighter command. They found Manfred von Richthofen’s body near the wreck. Two parties are claiming credit. A Canadian pilot was chasing Richthofen. They say Brown is his name. Anyway, this Brown is claiming credit, but the observers are saying he was at the wrong angle to have delivered the killing shot. An Australian unit on the ground is saying they fired up at him and should be credited.” Harrod sat stunned.

“When? Where?” Saunders checked the notes that he had scribbled from the dispatch.

“Yesterday at the Morlancourt Ridge, about twenty miles from your last patrol. You look displeased.” Harrod’s voice lowered.

“Dismiss the men.” Saunders did as he was ordered and Harrod led him into the office.

“During the battle yesterday Stuart, I saw a plane. It was a red plane.” Saunders remained hopeful.

“Well keep in mind Captain, Richthofen’s brother Lothar also flies a red DR-1.” Harrod quickly shook his head.

“No Stuart. The observers say there was no DR-1 in the fight at all. Definitely no red ones.” The Lieutenant frowned.

“Yet you saw one all the same,” Saunders paused “So now you’re seeing things, along with the headaches and the trembling.”

“Don’t say it Stuart,” Harrod interrupted “I know what you have in mind. In the middle of the fight I shot at a nonexistent aircraft and could have hit one of ours.” Lt. Saunders sighed loudly.

“Lawrence, I’m speaking to you as your friend now. You’re a sick man. You should not be flying. You are a danger to yourself as well as the other pilots. You’ve done your duty and you’ve nothing left to prove. Even if you had managed to shoot down the Baron, that won’t bring Major Barker back, or heal your injuries. You can still have a life. You can train our new recruits.” A siren blared out over the airfield. It was the signal to scramble all aircraft. Harrod stood up, smiled and immediately bolted out of the room shouting something about combat situations taking precedence over administrative duties. Stuart charged after him.

“Captain!” but Harrod was sprinting toward his waiting aircraft. By the time Saunders reached the runway, the engine on Harrod’s Camel was already started. The lieutenant raised his voice but to no avail as Harrod gunned his engine and sped down the runway. Saunders swore violently and dashed toward his own plane.

Even at his present altitude Harrod could hear the booming sound of the artillery echo through the sound of his engine. Looking down at the battlefield he could see the awful carnage of trench warfare in its entire gory spectacle. He observed lines of men on either side waiting for their turn in the meat grinder. With the fire, the smoke, and the bodies Harrod wondered if this is what Hell looked like. He hoped that he would not find out. Sometimes he wondered if the men in the trenches were envious of him. He doubted it. True he did not have to sleep in the mud, but the RFC was not called “The Suicide Club” for nothing.

A loud explosion went off next to Harrod’s plane, but it was just the “Archies”, artillery guns that had been modified and placed in an anti-aircraft capacity. If one was cautious they posed little threat. Harrod signaled the bloodhounds to watch for the “Archies”. The pilots climbed higher knowing the guns had a limited effective range. It seemed as though every weapon on the field was firing at once. The smoke was so thick down there, too thick actually. Then he knew. It wasn’t smoke. Someone had launched a poison gas attack. Beneath that cloud, men who didn’t get their masks on fast enough were dying a miserable, agonizing death. Harrod’s thoughts turned to his dead friend. Like most of those men down there, Richard Raymond-Barker would have no grave marker, no place of remembrance. He would have to organize some kind of memorial monument, if he survived.

Since the battle had been raging beneath them, Harrod knew that the enemy planes had to be close at hand. He looked behind and saw Stuart’s bright, royal blue scarf flapping in the wind. It was just as well as he knew it would be damnably hard to spot gray aircraft on such an overcast day. He gave the hand signal for the Bloodhounds to climb higher. If they encounter the enemy perhaps they could actually gain the element of surprise, but it was not to be. Coming straight toward the bloodhounds were half a dozen German fighters. Shots rang out but Harrod did not move. He knew this was one of Richthofen’s tricks. Fire when you’re still too far away to try and get your opponent to fly curves, thus allowing your plane to close the distance and gain an advantage. He was too smart for that. Captain Harrod kept his plane steady, knowing that this was going to end up as an awful game of chicken.

“Steady…steady.” Harrod whispered, as the Germans got closer. A bit more and he would climb over them. By the time they realized what had happened Stuart’s formation would have opened fire.

“Closer…closer…just a bit more.” Harrod braced himself for the climbing roll. His knuckles tightened on the controls when gunfire erupted from right behind him! The Bloodhounds were roaring up from behind and pulled in front of him. What the hell was going on? More gunfire. Harrod looked behind and saw another six German planes closing fast. They were about to be the stuffing in an Albatross sandwich. Harrod jerked the controls back and pulled his Camel into a steep climbing roll. The engine whined in protest at the strain being put on it but the plane held it’s path and Harrod climbed over the oncoming Germans. Machine guns blazed to life beneath him. The sky was filled with a swarm of hot lead. One of the Camels spiraled earthward. Harrod thrust his plane straight downward and fired his guns. His shots penetrated the upper wing of a D3. The enemy plane shimmied for a second before plummeting to the ground. Harrod let the momentum of the dive carry him before sweeping up to climb toward the underside of another Albatross. As he closed he unleashed another volley from his twin Vicker machine guns. The bottom of the D3 splintered apart. Harrod spun away as the plane fell in flames toward no man’s land where it crashed in a fiery wreck. The trenches seemed to erupt in response to this attack from the sky as both sides’ artillery barrages increased in ferocity. Anti-aircraft fire pockmarked the sky as Harrod climbed once again at an extreme angle to get above the fray.

“Please don’t stall.” He quietly begged, but the aircraft was solid and the engine continued to hum as he banked to his left and slid behind another enemy aircraft. A flash of bright blue passed beside him. It was Stuart. He had a German right on his tail! Harrod swore to himself as he broke off his pursuit and sprinted after the Albatross that was hunting his friend. Stuart was weaving his plane back and forth slightly to try and avoid staying in the D3’s sights. Harrod closed in on the enemy plane and steadied himself for the killing shot.

“Fuck! Come on Stuart, turn!” Harrod shouted at the top of his lungs knowing full well his friend could not hear him. If he opened fire now there was a good chance that his bullets would hit Saunders as well as the German. All he needed was for Stuart to bank one way or another then he could shoot down the Albatross. Only now of all times Lt. Saunders was holding his course. And what was worse, the German was closing. Harrod’s brows knitted in concentration. He knew he would have to take the shot. He waited until he saw Stuart start to weave to the right and pressed the trigger. The Vickers unleashed a torrent of bullets, but to his horror he saw Stuart’s plane veer back to the left right into the line of fire!

“No, no, no!” His shots ripped apart the D3. The plane exploded in a ball of fire and Harrod watched helplessly as bullets tore into Stuart’s Camel. He could see the rear of Saunder’s plane start belching smoke. He couldn’t tell if the German had opened fire before he died or not. They could have been his shots or the Hun’s.

“Come on Stuart, land it!” The moment Harrod spoke he saw Stuart’s plane fly apart into three pieces, torn to bits by anti-aircraft guns.

Harrod swore and cursed as he circled low over no man’s land. He could see the body of Lieutenant Stuart Saunders still wearing his bright blue scarf, bleeding out and hung up in a coil of barbed wire like a hellish marionette. As the “Archies” opened fire once again Harrod pulled back on his controls and climbed back out of their range. He made a quick survey of the battle. It looked like the Bloodhounds were drawing even, but it was an ugly mess. A few pairs had broken off from the main tumult but there was still the aerial equivalent of a hornets’ nest in front of him.

The engine’s pitch raised an octave as Harrod turned his Camel into a slight banking dive. He was coming downwards at an angle toward a pair of D3’s. Harrod could see the nearest pilot in his sights. With a vicious sneer on his lips Harrod pressed the fire buttons and watched the German’s head explode in a rain of what looked like strawberry jam. Hearing the shots ring out, the second German reflexively veered his plane away from his fallen comrade. Harrod smiled at the opening his opponent provided for him, and let the Vickers blaze away at the tail of the retreating Albatross. The pilot lurched forward and slumped in his seat while his plane tumbled toward the ground. Harrod was keeping a silent tally in his head and calculated that he had dispatched five Germans in this one fight alone. Even the mighty Richthofen never had five victories in one day. Surprisingly, the accomplishment offered him no feeling of triumph but rather a slight, almost incomplete satisfaction like drinking a warm glass of water.

Harrod’s concentration immediately returned when he spied a flash of crimson at the corner of his vision. His head began to throb. He didn’t have time for one of these delusions now. Besides, Manfred von Richthofen was dead and buried and he knew it. Still, the shape of the blood red Fokker DR-1 triplane was clear in his vision and coming closer from his right side.

“Come on! Snap out of it!” Harrod chided himself. He turned his plane to get back into the midst of the fight when the red DR-1 opened fire. To his amazement Harrod felt his plane get rocked by the shots.

“Jesus Christ it’s real! It can’t be him!” Harrod pushed his controls forward and dove out of the Fokker’s line of fire. His mind went into an instant tailspin. Could the dispatches have been wrong? No, that was impossible. A mistake of that magnitude was unthinkable. Then what? The DR-1 passed overhead and Harrod suddenly remembered. This was not the “Red Baron”. This was his younger brother, Lothar. As he pulled back on his controls and the battered Sopwith Camel climbed, Harrod recalled what little he knew of the dreaded “Red Baron’s” younger sibling. The one item that stuck in his mind was that Lothar von Richthofen had forty career victories and like his brother had won the Blue Max. He was a lethal opponent to be sure, and here Harrod was taking him on in a plane with the nose painted the same blood red color as his dead brother’s aircraft, not to mention his own.

Harrod reached a comparable height to his opponent while Lothar circled wide for another attack.

“Ok, calm down. Steady. Keep him in view. He’s not as fast as you are. He’s more maneuverable but cannot climb or dive as well. Make sure he doesn’t get behind you.” Lothar’s DR-1 finished it’s arc and now directly faced Harrod. The Fokker’s machine guns opened fire but Harrod just smiled. He knew Lothar was too far away. He wondered if all the German pilots used Richthofen’s tactics. It was tough to argue with eighty victories, but that piece was becoming predictable. He had to be cautious not to let Lothar get too close, lest he be able to shoot away the exposed support wires that held the Camel’s wings steady. Harrod knew from experience that such a thing could mean disaster. The trick would be to let Lothar get a bit closer then push the Camel into a steep dive. If the Baron’s brother chose to follow, Harrod could turn and pull up hard. If the engine didn’t stall and his timing was correct he could get an open shot at Lothar while he was still in his dive. If he did not follow, Harrod would have to turn quickly and be sure that he did not leave his rear open when he climbed again. His speed could make the difference and could allow him to dictate the pace of the fight. That was the biggest edge he held over the Fokker.

“A little more. Closer…closer…he’s not stupid. He knows all the tricks. He knows what to do. He knows what you’re going to do.” Harrod suddenly pulled back on his controls and instead of the expected dive, the Camel climbed hard over the DR-1. At the sight of his opponent’s unexpected turn; Lothar banked the triplane hard after the camel. His tighter turning radius allowed him to close quickly. Harrod saw the Fokker on his rear.

“This won’t be easy…Fuck it.” Harrod yanked back hard on his controls and the camel flew higher into the sky and then curved over into a hard vertical loop! He listened to the engine scream as the pressure increased and the world turned upside down. When his equilibrium had finally righted itself Harrod found himself in tight pursuit on Lothar’s tail. He immediately fired his guns and bullets laced the Fokker’s rear.

“Gotcha ya bastard!” Harrod shouted as he watched the damage wrought by his shots. Lothar forced his plane into a banking turn, but Harrod would not be shaken loose. He gunned the Camel’s engine and the plane’s superior speed closed the gap to his prey. Harrod fired again. He could see that his bullets visibly rocked the Fokker. Lothar pushed his plane into a steep dive but Harrod did not follow. Instead he climbed wide to the right, knowing that the DR-1 would have to quickly climb back to a sensible height lest the “Archies” or regular machine gun fire from the trenches send Lothar to an early reunion with his brother.

“Just keep him in sight and you’ll be fine.” Harrod instructed himself. He knew that panic killed more pilots than anything else. Just as he predicted he saw the bloody DR-1 begin to rise up toward him. The younger Richthofen must have realized his perilous position near the ground as the Fokker climbed hard and fast. In fact it was much faster than Harrod anticipated. The triplane opened fire.

“Fuck!” Harrod banked the Camel to the left, but he was a half second too late. The Fokker’s bullets sprayed the left side of his plane. He heard the telltale snapping sound of a broken support wire. The Camel climbed high as Harrod inspected the damage. He could see both halves of the wire being thrashed about by the wind like a pair of ferocious whips. A cursory glance told Harrod that the German had only managed to sever one wire. No need to panic. He peered over both sides of the cockpit to try and spot Lothar’s plane. He hadn’t realized how far they had strayed from the heart of the battle. It was eerily quiet. Only the sound of the Camel’s engine could be heard. Where was he? Harrod took a deep breath. He spotted the triplane below him. It was in a perfect position. If he dove towards it from the rear there was very little that Lothar could do, provided he didn’t see him coming.

“Nothing ventured.” Came the whisper as Harrod slowly pushed his control stick forward. The pitch of the engine rose as the Camel picked up speed. He could feel the drag on the aircraft increasing as he hurtled toward the ground. The angle of his descent was just past what would be considered safe but it was too late to worry now. Faster, faster the plane streaked earthward. The red shape of the German triplane was rapidly growing in Harrod’s gun-sight. A moment more and he would be on top of him.

“Don’t look up. Don’t look up.” Harrod pleaded. Without warning Lothar’s DR-1 lurched upwards in a steep climb right into the Camel’s flight path. The British pilot’s eyes bulged as he almost broke his control stick trying to avoid the imminent collision, but not before they both opened fire as well! Harrod felt a burning in his shoulder quickly followed by a knock to his head caused by the lurching impact of the glancing mid-air collision. His plane’s wing assembly was severely damaged. The DR-1 was also badly crippled and smoking from the engine. Harrod fought to maintain consciousness long enough to land. The controls were fighting him the whole way. He knew the rudder might be damaged, or God knows what else. He quickly spotted a field to the west. Harrod eased down the engine until finally as the world was going black he felt the thud of his wheels touching down. It was a rocky landing but the plane eventually crawled to a stop. The injured pilot looked at his wounded shoulder and knew that he had one of Lothar’s bullets as a souvenir. He removed his scarf and used it as a makeshift bandage and tourniquet. After that, all he wanted was to sleep.

When he opened his eyes Harrod noticed that the sky was a deep orange color. It was either twilight or sunrise. He didn’t know which. His shoulder was still in terrible pain, which made getting out of the airplane exceedingly difficult. Before his feet touched the ground he saw the ruined shape of Lothar’s plane with its propeller in the ground and tail sticking into the air at a steep angle. Not far from the aircraft Harrod could see the body of Lothar von Richthofen laying face down in the grass. Very slowly he walked over to the prone figure of his opponent. He could feel the cold steel of his sidearm in his coat pocket as he approached. Harrod nudged one of the arms with the toe of his boot. A long deep groan emanated from the body. He stepped away and watched Lothar roll onto his back. The German pilot slowly sat up. He took a look at Harrod and let out a frightened scream. God I must look like the devil to him. Harrod immediately put both hands out, palms up and slowly approached.

“Jesus Christ he’s just a child.” The battered pilot said to himself. He reached into his pocket and once again Lothar backed away. Harrod smiled as best as he was able and produced a small silver flask. He took a sip and held the brandy out to the exhausted German. With considerable effort Lothar von Richthofen stood unsteadily and took the flask from the strange looking Englishman with the mangled face. He sniffed the mouth of the vessel and smiled. He took a long pull of brandy and handed the dram back to Harrod.

“You speak any English?” Lothar laughed a bit.

“Nein English.” The young man replied.

“Well that’s alright. I don’t speak any German so I guess that makes us even.” Lothar laughed again. Harrod took another drink and offered his companion a second helping. Lothar smiled and accepted the brandy. Before drinking he set it down and fetched a pouch from within his coat. He rolled two cigarettes and passed one to Harrod. The German then produced a packet of matches and lit up both smokes. Harrod pointed to himself and said,

“Lawrence.” The younger pilot took a drag and pointed to his own chest.

“Lothar.” Harrod grinned and continued to smoke and drink with the man who not long ago had tried to kill him. He was sure that RFC command would call this fraternizing with the enemy but he didn’t care. Both planes were in ruins and neither man bore any visible national insignia. Lothar pointed to Harrod’s bleeding shoulder and said,

“Entschulgigung.” To Harrod it sounded like an apology. He clapped his hand on Lothar’s shoulder and smiled. It was frightening to think how easily he now socialized with this man. He never really understood how British soldiers had a Christmas truce with German soldiers in 1914, but he did now.

Harrod opened his pocket-watch to look at the time. It was after seven and the sun was in the west. He showed the watch to Lothar who nodded and then sat back down. He was obviously too tired for the long walk back to his unit. Now that he thought about it, Harrod was exhausted too. It was not long before he heard loud snores coming from the young German.

“What a good idea.” Harrod laid back and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again morning mist had spread itself on the field. His shoulder ached horribly. Lothar was gone. Harrod stood and stretched as much as his shoulder would allow. He walked toward the southwest and eventually found his way back to a road he had spied on the way down. After an hour of walking Harrod was overtaken by a farmer with an ox cart.

“Monsieur…Perrone? Perrone?” The farmer nodded and pointed to the back of the cart. Harrod sat down as the conveyance slowly wound its way toward the aerodrome. He winced every time the rickety cart ran over a bump that jarred his injured shoulder. The farmer eventually stopped his vehicle and pointed down a small road.

“Perrone.” He said. Harrod gingerly got out of the cart and handed the farmer a few gold sovereigns. The farmer smiled widely and took the cart off toward the woods. After a bit of walking Harrod could see his squadron’s barracks. His pace quickened and before long he reached the sentry post. The guard on duty snapped to attention when he saw the instantly recognizable Harrod. He noticed the pilot’s wounded shoulder and led him immediately to the medical officer. It did not take long before word got out that Captain Harrod was alive. Doctor Kensington however had all the other pilots ushered out of his field hospital until he could properly attend to the officer’s wound. By the next morning, Harrod was sitting up in bed and surrounded by his comrades.

When he was strong enough Captain Harrod returned to the barracks and took account of the losses. Six aircraft had been destroyed, including his own. Five pilots had been killed including his friend Stuart Saunders. Harrod sighed to himself as the pilots waited his orders.

“Memorial service for the fallen will be tomorrow. Can anyone here play the pipes?” The men all shook their heads.

“Very well we’ll have to do without. Dismissed.” The members of 3rd squadron departed in silence. Captain Harrod sat down at his desk. He took out a brandy bottle and proceeded to write out his account of the battle to the RFC command. He reached the part with Stuart’s death and paused. While he was still recovering the observers said that the German’s shots hit Stuart but he well knew that it was impossible to tell. He took out a glass, filled it and drank it down with a gulp. He quickly poured another. How many more? How many more friends would be killed? He knew that he should get back in the barracks with the men and cheer them up but he did not have the energy. He could not ever remember feeling so tired. His brother had always thought he was mad. He grinned as he took a sip. Why else would he have joined the RFC? What did it say about him? True now no one would know about his condition, but what of it? He now would be able to fly until the war’s end, or until he was killed. He could retire right now. He would be honorably discharged and as an ace to boot. Even that sounded hollow. Richthofen had eighty victories to his credit, but what did that matter to him now? He’d bet that Lothar would trade all forty of his victories to have his brother back. He wondered if a hundred years from now anyone would even remember 3rd squadron. Would they know what Major Richard Raymond-Barker meant to his men, and how deeply his death had wounded them? Would they know about Manfred von Richthofen? Would some other ace eclipse his record? What was Lothar doing right now? They had come within a hair’s breath of killing each other. Was he sitting in a dark room drinking alone? Perhaps he was staring at a picture of his brother and wondering about his own place in this mess.

What would he do with himself if he managed to survive his membership in “The Suicide Club”? What would life be like for a horribly scarred and broken down pilot? Maybe Stuart was right. Perhaps he could stay in the RFC as an instructor. His thought once again turned to Manfred von Richthofen and Major Barker. They had no need to worry about tomorrow, but he wondered if they ever did. Maybe that was the trick. Worry about today. Tomorrow would take care of itself. They were all one gunshot away from eternity anyhow and you never knew when your number would be up.

“Fuck it.” Harrod said aloud to no one in particular. He stood, grabbed a deck of cards and confidently strode into the barracks.

“Alright Bloodhounds. Who wants a game of cards?” A few heads popped up as Harrod sat at the card table and began to shuffle. Some of the men smiled as they sat down to their commander’s impromptu game. For this one evening the war, the Germans, and the Grim Reaper could wait. The only battles of any concern would be fought on the card table. After Captain Lawrence “Horrid” Harrod dealt, he picked up his cards, saw the ace of spades in his hand, thought of Stuart and Major Barker and smiled.



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