Sopwith Camel

June 6th, 1917

"Cadets! Line up, front and center!"
Our instructor bellowed out to a group of air cadets, including me, relaxing, smoking, and/or playing cards until we were to be lined up. Packs of cards were shuffled together, and cigarettes hit the ground and were extinguished by boots. A line of 16 cadets were in front of the instructor. I stood toward the leftmost side. I was the tallest, thinnest one in my class, giving me the nickname "Lamppost". My moustache was thin and dark, a simple line over my upper lip. My hair was brown, and my eyes were green.

I looked quite different to my best friend at the time, a man by the name Charlie Albert. He was short, barrel chested, fair haired, and clean shaven. However, he was one of the funniest, nicest guys I knew. He was also a hell of a pilot.

Our instructor paced in front of the line, looking st all of us. He then began to speak.

"Congratulations, men, you've succeeded in passing flight school, and are now officially Second Leftenants in the Royal Flying Corps."

The instructor gazed over us, his face stone as he spoke.

"By now, I'm sure you all know how dangerous being a pilot is. In April, we had over 300 deaths by the end of the month. Over 300 young men lost. Over 300 devasstated families."

The cadets certainly did know about Bloody April. In fact, it was when the majority of people who weren't cut out for the corps dropped out. Mention of the death figure caused several nervous glances to occur, everyone suddenly aware of their mortality.

"But fear not, gentlemen, as I believe you will do better. All of you preformed outstandingly well during your training. Hell, a few of you are men I'd like up there with me. Just remember your training, and you'll live to see another day."

The nervous glances stopped, everyone looking straight ahead.

"You all have 30 minutes to gather your belongings and report back to prepare for transfer. Dismissed."

Everyone fell out of line, and I walked abreast with Charlie.

"Well, we finally did it."

He looked at me, smiling a bit.

"That we did, Henry, that we did."

Our boots clumped on the dirt path out of tandem, his steps faster than my own. I opened the door to the barracks, heading to my bunk and popping my footlocker open. I reached under my bed and grabbed my suitcase, packing in my clothes. I rolled up my shirts, trousers, and my socks, folding up my underwear st the bottom.

Then, I put in my small bag of toiletries including my toothbrush and razor. Beside that I put in a couple books, and lastly, I put the picture of me with my mum and dad in the left breast pocket of my fatigues. Everyone has their little trinkets, me included.

I reported back to the parade grounds, suitcase in hand. A couple transport trucks were waiting for us, which we climbed into. I saw our instructor give us a salute as we left, which many returned.

A couple hours later, our truck arrived near a port in Dover, hopping off the trucks in our new Second Leftenant uniforms with newfound swagger. People looked st us longer than normal, and many women eyed quite a bit of us. We entered the terminal building, and we saw a section labeled for military personell. We were told to line up at it. After a few minutes of waiting, I got to the front of the line. The female behind the counter asked me for my name.

"Henry Evans."

She reached into a filing cabinet, rifling through it until she found my name. It was a folder containing my military ID, medical papers, all of the formal paperwork. She then hands me a boat ticket.

"Looks like you're going to France, sir."

I then had an 'oh shit' moment.

I was going to be on the front lines.

I thanked her and left the line, carrying my folder. I didn't see Charlie anywhere, but through the grapevine I had heard he got stationed in London, acting as reserve.

Lucky bastard.

After a lengthy boat ride to Northern France, I arrived at an airfield in Calais. After I was given a tour of the place, one of the mechanics was assigned to show me my new aircraft. He lead me to a hanger full of planes, and led me to one in particular.

It was a cream colored Sopwith Camel outfitted with two Maxim machine guns at the nose, a single targeting reticule between them. The wings had the RFC roundel painted on them, one on the tail section as well. As I looked at my new craft, the mechanic was explaining some of the things about it.

"You might want to be a little careful on takeoff, she's tail heavy at full fuel load. Also, the propeller torque is higher than normal, so account for that too."

I talked with him for a little while longer, sitting inside the cockpit of my new plane. I grasped the controls, getting a feel for them as the ailerons and flaps actuated to steer the plane in a currently non-existstant strong wind.

I then decided to take my family photo out of my breast pocket. I sighed, taking some tape the mechanic left and attatching it in a free space on the control panel. Suddenly, I hear a voice in my ear.

"So, you're my new pilot, huh?"