1916

[suckersgame]

Bobby Gadling is a perfectly decent pilot.

Perfectly decent was not enough to save him this time.

He's lying in the wreckage of his plane, face gashed, some shrapnel in his side, slowly clawing himself out and dragging away.

Comments

[the_enemy_ace]

It was one of the early patrols with the Fokker Triplane - a craft that had the ascendancy over anything the Allies possessed. He had struck from above and behind, death on blood-red wings. But, for once, a rarity above all, the plane had landed behind the lines, the signs of life apparent in it.

He lowered the Fokker, cutting the engine, and it bounced to a slow stop. He bounded from the cockpit, priming his pistol. It was time to see if the pilot was going to live.

[suckersgame]

Hob was still in the process of crawling away from the wreckage, caked in blood a wooden splinter thicker than his arm sticking out of his side.

[the_enemy_ace]

"No," he said, approaching the man, in perfect - if formal - English. "Stay still. The splinter might be dislodged."

He did not mention that he had a gun as a reason. That much was obvious. He removed the flying cap and goggles, looking at the man.

"You are now my prisoner."

[suckersgame]

"...That would hurt like hell," Hob acknowledges. Of both potential problems, actually. In either circumstances, his chances of crawling back home will be slim.

"So, nice shooting," Hob growls a little. "What happens now?"

[the_enemy_ace]

"For you, mein herr, the war is over."

And in the voice, there is the slightest of added tones. Regret.

"The soldiers will be here soon. I assure you that you will receive proper medical care."

[suckersgame]

"Well," Hob says with a cough. "As wars go, it wasn't the most worth being in." He grins bloodily up at the younger man.

[the_enemy_ace]

The face looking back at him is impassive, wary. He finds little to smile about in this war, and the people he meets who do smile are the sort who are absolutely, utterly mad.

"No war is worth the lives it claims," he said, slowly.

He looked over his shoulder, hoping a flicker of movement are support troops from the nearby airfield.

[suckersgame]

"Maybe not. How do they get us to keep fighting them, then?"

[the_enemy_ace]

"Conscription," he responded, coldly, "and the lie of glory."

He had seen what some people termed 'glory' too many times to use the term without anger welling up within him.

"What squadron was yours?" He asked. Finding out information was part of his duty, after all.

[suckersgame]

"Oh, there is that, yes," Hob says idly.

"Does it really matter? I'm Robbie Gadling."

[the_enemy_ace]

"Probably not," he admitted, holstering the pistol. "But some charades must be maintained in the name of duty."

"And I am Hans Von Hammer," he added, belatedly.

[suckersgame]

"Pleasure to meet you, Hans. Wish it were in circumstances where I wasn't soaked in blood. You're awfully young to have figured all the sucker's games in these things."

[the_enemy_ace]

"One could say the same of you."

He reached into a pocket inside his flight jacket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth, lit one, then stooped down, offering it to the downed man.

"And you learn quickly in the air, or you die even more quickly."

Two years of war had already removed the idealistic youth who had rushed to the colours in August of 1914.

[suckersgame]

Hob accepts. "Danke schoen. And I've got a few years on you."

[the_enemy_ace]

He held out his lighter for the man.

"Difficult to tell. The war makes us all old before our time."

It is a true enough statement. He produced a handkerchief, using it to help staunch the bleeding around the splinter, not daring to try to remove it.

"The wound is not too serious," he added, reassuringly. He certainly wasn't the image of the hateful, death-dealing Hun of propaganda.

[suckersgame]

That shocked Hob not at all, however much it would his compatriots. War after war, it's almost always just men being men even as they kill each other.

"Shouldn't panic the doctors too much," he agrees, lighting up appreciatively.

[the_enemy_ace]

He had been at this to see that it wasn't a few mad men, it wasn't good versus evil - it was decent men doing what they had to do to survive.

"You were flying a long way from home - tell them you were lost. It will go far easier than if they think you were a spy. There were clouds and high winds earlier, they will believe the excuse."

Because this wasn't 1914 anymore. Some of the knights of the air still existed, with their modernized codes of chivalry - but this was not shared by all.

[suckersgame]

Hob nods. "Thoughtful. Very thoughtful, thanks." A pause, a puff.

"Do you ever sometimes still stop and think about it, Hans? We fly. We actually fly"

[the_enemy_ace]

He sat down next to the man, still facing him.

"I remember when I heard the Wright Brothers had done it. I was only a child. I remember the wonder, the unbelieving wonder. And it never leaves you, really."

His eyes looked away, through the man and into the long distance.

"And now we take things of beauty, the apex of engineering, and try to kill each other with them."

[suckersgame]

Hob nods.

"Worse than bludugeoning a man to death with a Botticelli."

[the_enemy_ace]

Which tells him the man has taste. He looks at the remnants of his plane.

"Indeed. Yet another crime in the name of others that we pay for."

There is the noise of a sputtering engine in the distance, growing closer.

[suckersgame]

An affirming sound. "Well, Hans, it's been interesting. So nice to see chivalry isn't dead, though the world is clearly working hard on that."

[the_enemy_ace]

He nodded, standing up and raising a hand to signal the oncoming vehicle.

"They will treat you well enough. The hospital is comfortable enough. Try not to escape." He sighed. "At least until your wound is healed."

Because there was still duty, after all. Always duty.

[suckersgame]

"Appreciated, but you know how these things go. No promises."

[the_enemy_ace]

He certainly did. You took your chances, and did your duty.

The men were piling out of the truck, rifles at the ready. He gave them a look, and these men knew to obey the Rittmeister. He stooped over the man again, the Pour Le Merite at his throat dangling. He offered his hand.

"To better days, mein herr."

[suckersgame]

"Cheers," Hob said, taking it.