The Scar

‘Hi, I’m Sky Eagle.’ I turned in surprise since I was not aware that anyone was there. He leaned against the wing of a WW1 bi-plane. ‘Well really its Douglas Michael Babbington Smyth.’ He removed the cigarette from his mouth, ‘Fancy a flip?’ I looked around, this could not be happening, he stood there with that upper class lounging air, riding breeches, Sam Brown over a khaki tunic, stern jaw, and that classic blond quiff. ‘Hop in,’ he instructed.

It was quite dark across the airfield, there was a strong smell of petrol in the air as aircraft fuel tanks were being filled. It also looked as if it was inhabited by fire flies. With some misgivings I realised they were glowing cigarette ends, not a good mix with petrol vapour! Props were being turned over to clear the engines for start up. Suddenly long trails of fire came from the exhausts as the call for ‘Contact‘, was made. The night was suddenly alive with crackle and bang as engines warmed up - ‘Chocks away,’ and we trundled across the rough grass. We swung round into the wind. The throttle was forced wide open, brakes off and we lurched forward into the night.

The wind was bitterly cold, I was thankful for the fur lined boots and heavy flying jacket, but there was no escape from the grip the cold had on me. I hunkered down into the cockpit hoping the exhausts running along each side would provide some warmth. As we rose higher and higher the night got lighter and I realised we had started off in the early morn. The engine was still screaming as we reached higher into the sky, I looked down over the side of the cockpit, down into the blackness of the receding night and could see nothing. How did they know where they were, navigating this type of  aircraft is done by recognising landmarks below - we were flying blind! 

I looked up and realised that we were flying east, for there on the horizon was the first signs of the rising sun. Tendrils of light lit the underside of the early cloud with a red glow - it looked as if we might be flying in to hell, and in a way we were!

I was numb, from the cold and from realisation we were still climbing - hell, we would need oxygen soon! I tapped the pilot on the shoulder, and mouthed, ’What is happening?’  He responded with a hand signal which I did not understand at first, it looked like some religious sign, he then joined his hands together, representing a birds wing and swooped them down, making the action of a machine gun. The penny dropped - I remembered the Battle of Britain films, ‘Get height, and come out of the sun!’ Hell, we were flying into the sun!

Suddenly there was the sound of gun fire. Alarmingly the the plane juddered and I realised he was testing our guns. I looked out along the stream of tracers arcing out in front of us and caught my breath as I saw a flight of wings coming toward us out of the morning sun. A moment later and it would be too late, as the sun streamed above the horizon they would be invisible to us.

The pilot turned and grinned. It was the grin of the killer and the to-be-killed, my heart chilled, was this for real? I looked round for the other aircraft, but we were alone. He signalled as if to a flight, down attack! He moved the stick forward and we began a screaming descent into the path of the oncoming aircraft.

I could see the Iron Cross insignia on the wings, and the menace in their design. I realised we were over German lines, and our tactic had gained the advantage, but not the surprise. They must have seen this all before, and, surprisingly, they swung round and headed down with us in hot pursuit. In that movement though they left the tail enders vulnerable, and our tracers caught them, setting their fabric on fire, but not all.

As we passed through their flight we came under attack from their guns. I could hear a feint rat tat, but, unlike films, there was no sound as they hit us, just holes appeared in the fabric, and I felt a searing across the back of my hand where I was gripping the edge of the cockpit. He turned, that grin had a fixed look about it now, and he ran his hand across his throat and pointed downward.

We were diving at full speed, it was impossible to tell what was happening, the wind screamed in my ears, the engine blasted out a trumpeting note, and the structure of the aircraft shuddered as if coming apart. The blackness of the early morn was spread out in front of us, only relieved by bright points of light which belched out toward us, which I realised were anti-aircraft guns - we had been lead into a trap!

The world exploded. Blackness and bright light interlaced the sky as I fell from the tumbling plane. I seemed to hang in space and watched the pilot in that moment of death disregard all pain and fear and continue to fire his guns into what were the enemy trenches.

‘Are you all right sir, here sit down?’ The use of ‘sir’ somehow comforted me. ’You look as if you have had a fright.’ I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked up at the waxwork face of the pilot officer leaning nonchantly against the plane. ’Are you’ve been reading about Sky Eagle - don’t believe a word of it, I don’t think he ever flew in anger.’ Did I catch a twinkle in that eye - I could have sworn it winked!

I’m and old man now, and do you know when the cold winds blow across the night sky that scar across the back of my hand seems to glow a dull red as if had been struck by a bullet - or something.