Love and the Luftstreitkrafte

Part 5: The Deal

As if March wasn't enough, next came April. The cruelest month. The Baron personally shot down 21 Allied 'planes in April, with over thirty people killed or missing, and of course he wasn't the only ace in the Luftstreitkräfte.

Half of all Allied pilots were killed that month. Fifty percent. One in two.

I felt like I was feeding young men to a meat grinder. We didn't have the time to train them properly before they were sent off to replace those who had just died. So of course the cycle repeated. And no matter how finely tuned our Nieuports and Pups, the German Albatrosses (D.IIIs) were just better 'planes.

Incredibly, Archie was still alive. I even got a letter from him. His Nieuport had been shot out from under him, and had been replaced with a Sopwith Pup that he named Porkie. He made a sketch of the nose art for me: an angry pig bursting out of a pie.

This referenced a silly joke from our school days, and it felt like a knife in my heart.

It took me hours to compose a reply. Glad you're not dead yet. I think this latest batch of rookie pilots is the best so far, and I've equipped them all with salt, pepper, and half a lemon for when the Germans catch them. By the way, I might have let slip to your fiancé that I'm in love with her, but on the bright side, she doesn't seem to hate me?

Of course I didn't send any of that. In the end I wrote about Peggy's upcoming wedding—one of those shotgun ones, as the groom was off to the front in a few weeks.

The "wedding" wasn't much different than any other Friday night at Murray's. The happy couple had signed their papers that afternoon. Peggy wore a mostly-white party dress and a flower crown, and the groom had a rose in the buttonhole of his uniform. The usual drinking and dancing was interspersed with increasingly incoherent toasts.

I had learned my lesson, and limited myself to a glass of champagne to sip for the toasts. It felt like I was teetering towards the edge of something dark and bottomless, and I was afraid of what might happen if I lost control.

I still hated crowds, and didn't care for parties, but I'd been going out with that set most week nights. I didn't have much appetite, so I could hardly bother to eat when I was at home. And I just couldn't focus on the usual things I enjoyed. I'd try to read an article on chemistry or photography, and would get to the bottom of a page with no idea what I'd just read. I used to love diving into a complicated problem, now I didn't have the energy to attempt it.

My peers thought I was getting more social. I was just afraid to be alone with my own thoughts. Honestly, the only thing that kept me going some days was the thought that I couldn't leave my mother alone in this hellscape that Europe was becoming.

That night—at Peggy's wedding—it got to the stage when more people were soused than not, and I was looking for an excuse to leave, when I saw Emmaline sneaking out. I followed, and caught up with her in the entryway.

"Miss Whittle? Do you need a cab called?" I kept a conscientious distance from her.

She blinked back at me. "Oh—Mr. Brown. No, I'm alright. I need some fresh air."

It was after midnight, and the street lamps were all dimmed as a countermeasure to German Zeppelins. She wasn't a fool, so she must have been desperate.

"Let me walk with you, then."

"If you like," she replied with a false carelessness.

Out on the street there was a light rain. I opened my umbrella. Emmaline turned up her collar and took off towards Piccadilly. I followed a step behind, not quite able to catch up to her without breaking into a run. To anyone watching we probably looked like a couple after an argument.