God, what you needed was a
drink. You'd been leaning toward temperance in college, participated in a few meetings regarding it with friends who took it very seriously, but you'd also snuck your share of drinks into the dorms during finals and right now the idea of settling your nerves with something strong felt absolutely
divine. But you hadn't a clue where you could get something to drink, and it occurred to you some kind of reserve for the future might not be a bad idea.
This was France, there was probably wine around every corner, you just needed to figure out
where. Eventually you scored a single half-empty bottle of cognac off one of the mechanics for a handful of francs, undoubtedly a ripoff, and you drank it straight out of the bottle while heading back to your pantry, sitting heavy against the cot. You were tired already, not sleepy but somehow
exhausted by the scale of it all, how much had happened, and the prospect of doing it again tomorrow. It was exciting and terrifying and awesome and altogether overwhelming and the rich taste of the booze was blending it all together into a warm, messy mush of feelings as you pushed the cork back in to the empty bottle and collapsed against the bundle of civilian clothes that served as your pillow.
If Harriet could see you now she'd be
so scandalized. Beyond the fact you had your hair cut short and were wearing men's clothes and in the military and everything... she had
opinions about drinking. Well, you know what? She could... she could just deal with it, couldn't she? You'd like to see
her get through a battle for her life in an
airplane with her convictions about liquor intact.
Outside, you could hear some folks singing, two people off-key, and it took you a moment to recognize it as
Let Me Call you Sweetheart through their misremembered lyrics and slurred words. Oh, you loved that song! You muttered the lyrics to yourself as you finally pulled off your jacket and boots, dosed the oil lamp you'd balanced on one of the crates, and tried to make yourself comfortable in the cot. God, you know who could call
you sweetheart? That Captain Fournier. That man could give Wallace Reid a run for his money. He oughta be in pictures.
You reached for the bottle and found it empty. Right. You drank it. Wow, that was a lot, but it was a good idea. Helps you sleep. Like when mama would give you a sip of brandy to help knock you out. Same thing. Good idea.
It sure was dark in this little room, and Tom Cash sure as hell couldn't sing.
---
Fuck, your
head.
You staggered out to the field bright and early and feeling like somebody'd walloped you aside the head with a bag of doorknobs. Your only consolation was that everyone else looked just as bad: Lieutenant Hart in particular looked less like he was hungover and more like he was still finishing up being drunk. You'd gulped down the tiny film of liquid that had remained at the bottom of the bottle, filled it with water when you couldn't find your canteen, and stashed it in the pocket of your flying leathers as you made your way to the tent, trying not to lean over too far in the chair as you prepared to listen in to a briefing.
It was something of a relief to see Captain Castex looking a bit worse for wear too as he came into the tent, before he doubled back to you.
"Say, you could you, ah...
translate the briefing for the Americans please?" he asked.
"
Yes sir, of course." you said, and he laughed.
"Y
ou're a good man, Dubois." he said, rubbing his eyes, "
Need more rookies like you."
He sat heavily down just in time for the Major to arrive with today's briefing, the rest of the pilots filing in as he begun. You translated as best you could, trying to ignore the ugly glances he shot your way every time he opened his mouth. The squadron, nine now, would split into three flights of three planes and do combat patrols along the line itself for the morning. The goal was to try and chase off or shoot down any Hun observer planes which tried to survey the line: they'd be sending those up in great number this morning to check on the progress of yesterday's offensive and make their new plans, and every one knocked down was a boon for the defenders of Verdun.
Castex looked over the squadron and swiftly made choices, with a group of three Americans including Tom Cash, a group with two Frenchman and Lieutenant Hart, then indicated to you. You followed him and another French pilot out into the field, talking as you went.
"
Sergeant Dubois, this is Lieutenant Levasseur, you two will be coming with me. I want to make it clear that while our objective today is to shoot down observers, it is most important to me that my pilots come back and my rookies gain experience, understood?" he said, then he looked directly at you. "
I will not have any foolish aggressiveness, because you do not just risk yourself. No tangles with enemy aces!"
"
Yes sir." you said. Lieutenant Levasseur was a man about your age, somewhat heavyset and with dark stubble and sideburns crawling down his face. He looked quite experienced.
"
Good! Your job is to follow and try to learn. Daniel, I want you on Sergeant Dubois' wing and stay shadowing me. In all likelihood, the Boche did their photography yesterday and there will be nothing for us, so we just fly a few circles around the lines and head back, so it will be a good chance to gain some flight experience. If we encounter their single-seaters, we will retreat unless I do otherwise. Understood?"
You acknowledged, and he broke out into a smile.
"
Good. Aggression is important, but aggression without caution is suicide. So let's teach you some caution."
You started to your plane, pulling on your gloves and walking a quick inspection around it to make sure everything was in order, when you quite nearly walked into Lieutenant Levasseur. He was a good eight inches taller than you and loomed like some kind of ancient, sand-worn monolith.
"
Hey new guy, how do you get so close a shave?" he asked.
"
... Colgate shaving cream. Great stuff." you said deadpan. He nodded as if considering it, then walked off to his plane.
---
Roll Combat Patrol. 2d10.
