Lieutenant Pete Newin is a Sopwith Pup fighter pilot.

He lit a cigarette and tossed the burning match onto the table. Set the cigarette on the edge, put his fists down and his chin on his fists. Watched the match burn down, then out. The little blue-gray smoke trail curled up. He flicked the match with his finger and looked at the little burn mark. Felt it. Still warm. His contribution to the table’s character. He straightened up and looked over to the bar. The old heads, somber. The newer chaps louder, their arms around each other now and again. Hands flying about—refighting air combats with alcohol-reinforced vigor. The occasional song or argument.

The bartender set up another row of whisky glasses and filled them. Alcohol—one constant of existence in the Royal Flying Corps. Along with cigarettes and castor oil. Diarrhea. Dead pilots and new pilots. Drawn from Britain’s inexhaustible supply of young men.

He pushed his cigarette to the middle of the table. Flicked the end of it and watched it make little red circles as it spun to the floor. Like an airplane going down in flames. He ran his eyes across the tabletop again. There was a tiny, sharp gouge he hadn’t noticed before; the wood was gray where the point had chipped the finish away. Someone had stabbed his knife into the table years before. Had the knife passed through a hand on its downward plunge? More cheating at cards? If he had a microscope, could he see tiny bits of blood and flesh in the hole? Or had the evidence long since been washed away?

Lieutenant Harry Booth is a Liverpudlian fabric store kid turned RFC observer.

Okay, Harry, we can’t stay here. Another push and pull, and another few inches of progress through the sticky mud. Another deep breath, and on the third try, he made it out. Pulled himself onto a knee and looked around, his heart pounding. The visibility had been rotten all day, but right there it had to be at least five miles, and a Hun observation balloon was visible below the clouds. What was it that West Country corporal had said? “We don’t like you chaps crashing nearby. Brings the Hun artillery.”

He looked toward the nearest British trenches, but no one was rushing to their rescue. Looked at the Hun balloon again. Maybe if he gave them a friendly wave? Surrendered? He crawled to the forward cockpit and looked at Norman. His eyes were alert and he was breathing, but he didn’t give any sign of trying to get out of there. There was space between the railing and the mud; he should be able to pull him out. He fumbled with Norman’s safety belt and got it undone. Grabbed hold of him as the first shell hit, which answered the question if a beat-up RE8 was worth shooting at.

The shell landed a few hundred yards short, but was big enough and close enough to rattle the airplane. Likely a seventy-seven. But whatever it was, they needed to get the hell out of there.

Mark Newin is a civilian scientist with an approved exemption from military service.

The whistle blows and Private Mark Newin climbs out of the trench. Charges forward, bayonet fixed. An artillery shell bursts to his right, knocking one mate down. To his left, the Hun machine-gun fire cuts down two more. A bullet slices through his side, he staggers and drops to a knee. Gasps for air…pushes himself onto his feet and keeps going forward. The barbed wire tears at his hands and face, but he fights his way through and jumps into the first German trench. Fires from the hip, bringing a Hun down. Lunges forward with his rifle, just in time to knock aside the plunging bayonet of another, saving his best friend’s life.

And that was about as unlikely a scene as he could possibly conjure up. Twenty-eight-year-old, overweight and out-of-shape Mark Newin, who had never fired a gun in his life—the war hero. If he put this in ledger form, it wouldn’t be a close call. He could do far more good at the Lab than he could trying to play army. But there’d be that one nagging footnote on the “Stay at the Lab” side of the Mark Newin ledger. Had he stayed at the Lab because he was afraid?

Pete Newin is a flight commander in the Sopwith Camel.

The Devonshires held this trench, the Devonshires hold it still.

Pete read the words twice. Ran his fingers over the wood. It was gritty with dirt. He took his scarf out and wiped it off. Traced the words with his finger, the edges still sharp from the chisel. Looked down the row of simple wooden crosses. The line was straight and the crosses evenly spaced. Like their soldiers that day—lined up to go over the top when the whistle blew. The sun was shining but he was in the shade of a little copse of trees, which would have been just beyond the forward British trenches that morning. But word was hundreds of the 9th Devonshires didn’t even make it this far. That the German artillery had destroyed the forward trenches and the attack started from the British second line.

The cemetery wasn’t large, and not very different from hundreds of others in France and Belgium. One little corner of remembrance, to what history would know as the Battle of the Somme. He stood up and looked across the field, across what would have been no-man’s-land that morning.

Harry Booth is still trying to survive life as an observer in the RE8, while having some fun along the way.

“At ease, lieutenant.” Harry relaxed his posture but remained standing as the corporal closed the door behind him. He looked down at the desk without moving his head—their overweight and balding squadron commander was bent over a letter. He was holding a cigarette in his right hand, and flicked the ash in the general direction of an overflowing ashtray as he read. Harry studied the top of the major’s head. Unlike the more typical, shiny apple sort of spot, the major’s bald spot seemed to absorb the light, like aged parchment. If he poked it with his finger, would it go right through? Pull it out and it’d be sticky red with bits of brain—like a candy stick from the circus? Had he ever seen the major fly an airplane…he didn’t think so. It was probably just as well—the wind might peel the top of his head off and blow it back into the observer’s face. The letter had some sort of legal seal at the top, and Harry winced as he read the upside-down heading: City of Liverpool Police.

“Mister Harry Booth,” the major read. “Twenty-seven Thomson Street. Everton. Liverpool. Would that be you, lieutenant?”

Ian Crosse meets his wife-to-be and her little sister.

“But they are terribly boring, daddy’s parties. All these old fellows talking about business and bye-bye elections and taxes. The latest cure for hemorrhoids. While the wives show off their jewelry and vie to see who can look the most under the age of a hundred. Drop little hints to each other about their young playthings.” She licked her lips and ran her tongue around the edge of her wine glass as her eyes roamed about the room. “Young men off fighting a war is much more interesting. I love hearing stories about horses crashing through the poor enemy soldiers—trampling them down as our heroes slash them with sabers. Fellows flying about in airplanes and shooting people with machine guns. Or do you drop bombs on them?” Her bright blue eyes had settled on him again.

“Machine gun in my case. The Sopwith Pup doesn’t usually carry bombs.”

“Ahh, Sopwith. The enemy. Daddy’s so proud of his Bristol Fighter…

Mark Newin battles his way through army training.

“You’re not cut out for the infantry, private. At least not as a common soldier. But the army has many needs, and one of them is junior officers. Most of the ones we send across don’t last long. And as we all just obey orders around here, pack your kit. You’re leaving in the morning for Officer Cadet Battalion, Penrith. I’d dress warm if I were you. That’s all.”

Mark was stunned. Instead of flunking out of Basic, he was going to an OCB? Bumbling Mark Newin would lead men into combat? Their lives would depend on split second decisions he’d make? This couldn’t be. He stared at the captain, who was lighting his pipe. He opened his mouth to say something. Closed it. Still not knowing what to do or say, he saluted and spun around. Took a couple of uncertain steps, grappling with what he’d just heard.

A voice stopped him as he went out the door. “Mark?”

It took him a few seconds to process that word—no one other than a fellow recruit had called him “Mark” for the last two months. He turned around. The captain was looking out the window, puffing on his pipe. His eyes flicked to Mark. Went back to the window.

“You didn’t do well here, but think about how much you did learn. And I’ll let you in on the British Army’s little secret. You don’t need to know much about warfighting to be a good junior officer. The little bit you need to know, you’ll learn soon enough. It’s not hard. What is important, is to take care of your people. Be tough with the ones that need it; show compassion when it’s warranted. But most of all, lead by example. You do that, if you’re the first one up the ladder when the whistle blows, they’ll follow you. That’s all that matters.”