Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) (2 page)

Major Bartlett, the commander of the 5th RAF Brigade, which was stationed just behind the front lines, knew that fact all too well. What to do with Captain Ashton?

Captain Ashton had shot down four German planes in less than a fortnight. Not slow moving bombers or observation planes or even the increasingly obsolete early Fokker models but the Albatross, the Germans top flight fighter.

Major Bartlett surmised that Captain Ashton would soon be an ace. An ace was a pilot credited with bagging five or more enemy planes. He wasn’t sure where that distinction came from or who came up with the idea of counting downed enemy aircraft. But that didn’t matter, it could have been ten planes or twenty; young pilots who fancied themselves as great warriors would strive to reach that mark or die trying.

Most pilots didn’t worry about becoming an ace; they were interested in staying alive. But there were a scant few who never thought for one second about getting shot down or killed. All they cared about was getting five kills and becoming an ace. Accolades would inevitably follow, replete with delicate ribbons and shiny medals. And then there are the women, who are attracted to such a man. Surely, that was a bonus. Men such as these had big egos and nocturnal needs.

The commander was sure Captain Ashton longed for all of that. The young man was talented, but that was a small part of the equation, in trying to stay alive above the battlefield.

Through attrition and wartime necessity, Captain Ashton was now in charge of four Sopwith Camels, and there was nothing that Major Bartlett could do about that. Even if there was, he wasn’t sure if it would have changed one “bloody thing.” War was like that. It begged for uneven compromises.

Major Bartlett brought Captain Ashton and the pilots who were mostly new and cocky, to attention in the main room of the farmhouse. Some drank coffee; others smoked pipes as Major Bartlett drew on a makeshift blackboard. “Gentlemen, today you will escort the bombers on a surprise raid. The target is the German airfield just north of Amiens. If all goes as planned, we will hit the Huns while they are eating breakfast.”

The pilots in the room laughed and blew smoke. One of them said, “I’m glad someone in this war is getting a good proper breakfast.”

Major Bartlett carried on. “Well, you volunteered for His Majesty’s Flying Circus. Remember that and the fact you have a bed to sleep in at night. Don’t think command hasn’t seen the French country girls sneaking in and out of your quarters.” There was more laughter, and the same pilot pulled up his collar as if fixing himself for a date. “But I must admit the 5th Brigade has exquisite taste in woman. If I wasn’t happily married...” The room broke up in laughter.

The pilot lifted up his cup of coffee, “Here, here.”

“Now, the task at hand. Captain Ashton, of course, will lead the flight, but this will be a small operation, five Sopwith Camels and just the three bombers. The German aerodrome in Section 4 is the target. Do the job, and be quick about it.”

The same pilot said, “Major Sir, and what if we run into a flight of Germans out for a morning stroll?”

“Then, unlucky for them.” Major Bartlett looked at his watch. “Liftoff at 0900 hours. Good luck and get cracking.”

Captain Ashton saluted, “Sir.”

* * *

The flight left the sleepy farmhouse on time that Sunday morning when most residents were at church. The church in the nearby village had been the tallest structure in the community. However, that all changed when a German artillery barrage weeks earlier, turned it into kindling. The services from that point on were held in the cemetery, which was filling up with unwilling permanent occupants.

Captain Ashton’s flight passed over the church, and some of the parish members made the sign of the cross. The German airfield was of course across the frontlines. That was a mere ten minutes away by air. In the calculation of trench warfare on the battlefield, ten minutes by air was two years in time and 500,000 in casualties.

The flight left the British sector and entered no man’s land. That dangerous and uncertain area was covered in seconds. The German front lines gave Captain Ashton and his flight a morning hello, which consisted of pot shots from all calibers of guns. Mostly, this was a rank nuisance as the Sopwith Camels were above 8000 feet and climbing.

The three bombers were in formation behind the Sopwith Camels as the entire flight veered toward the east and the German airfield. Captain Ashton kept the flight together as they cleared the German front lines.

In the distance, specks appeared in the sky. Soon they grew larger in size. Some of the pilots hoped they were a flock of birds, perhaps heading south for a warm stay during the approaching winter.

They were a flight of German Albatross fighter planes. Captain Ashton pressed on as the airfield was now in sight. The German fighter planes rolled down from 9000 feet and made a pass at the British formation. A Sopwith Camel was shot up and went into a death spin.

It was now apparent to Captain Ashton that he was outnumbered by at least 2-1. He couldn’t very well break off the bombing run; it was much too late for that. He signaled for the bombers to continue to the target. More German fighters joined the battle. They came up from down below and poured machine gun fire into the belly of two British bombers. The planes simply came apart and disappeared from the sky.

Captain Ashton went into a right turn, and all sense of order in the RAF battle plan was torn apart. It was now every man for himself in a desperate struggle to stay alive. A wayward Albatross slid by the Sopwith Camel’s nose, and Captain Ashton banked even further, and the chase was on.

The Albatross headed for the deck, and Captain Ashton followed the German fighter as if he was in a trance. The allure of getting his fifth kill was all that mattered now. That would make him an ace. Pilots would walk by, salute him and wish they were him.

The Albatross flew across the German front lines. The men in their trenches cheered for their comrade in arms, even though they were mired in the filth of trench warfare.

Captain Ashton pressed his attack and drew ever closer to the Albatross. He opened fire and smoke poured from the German’s engine. Seconds later the Albatross pitched downward and crashed into no man’s land.

I have done it
, thought Captain Ashton. He banked his Sopwith Camel and headed toward the German airfield. His flight formation was nowhere to be found. The aerodrome was also fully intact. Captain Ashton thought,
So much for Major Bartlett’s grand morning raid. It seems the Germans skipped breakfast or better yet saw fit to chew on the RAF.

Captain Ashton circled the German airfield one last time and headed toward his lines by himself.

A week later Captain Ashton found himself inside not a simple farmhouse outside of Amiens, but at RAF headquarters in Paris. He waited in the corridor for when Major Bartlett came out the door of the auditorium. RAF headquarters was located inside the former medical school in downtown Paris.

The auditorium once used for medical lectures would now be the venue to decide if Captain Ashton had disobeyed orders and caused the destruction of the flight he commanded.

Major Bartlett put his uniform cap on as he stopped by Captain Ashton. He said, “I’m afraid you’re next to testify to the military board.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“All of us have people that we report to. I must tell you; the fact that you were the only one who came back looks appalling indeed. It smacks of ineffective leadership or even cowardice.”

Captain Ashton took exception at such a vile comment. In a different place and time, he would have struck Major Bartlett. But this wasn't the place or time. “I’m shocked that those words were uttered in my presence.”

Major Bartlett sighed.
You were always full of yourself. I’m afraid that is now your undoing
. “The matter of dogfighting far away from the target, over the front lines, instead of protecting the bombers and directing your fellow pilots, speaks to the fact that you were out for your personal glory. I must tell you the RAF high command isn’t keen on matters such as these. They’d rather see this ace designation go in the bin. Better that, than have the Kaiser taking up residence at Buckingham Palace.”

“Major, surely you don’t believe I would abandon the mission or the men. I can’t fathom that is what you’re saying. I must kindly ask that you at once rescind such statements.”

“Captain Ashton, forgive me, but you have it upside down. Seven planes and their crews lost under your command, and you demand an apology. Perhaps I should pin a medal and parade you around Big Ben for becoming an ace. Is that what you want!”

“No sir.”

“I thought not.” Major Bartlett walked a few steps stopped and said, “Captain Ashton you’re an excellent pilot, but only you can answer the question if you left the others without proper command, in your headlong pursuit to become an ace.”

“I will fly again?”

Major Bartlett narrowed his eyes, “I’m sure you will... just not for the RAF, Captain Ashton.” Captain Ashton saluted and Major Bartlett left the building.

Winston Churchill sunk deeper into his mid morning bath. Winston chomped down on a Cuban cigar, as he read the London Times. He grunted in obvious disapproval more often than not at what he saw. As Winston quickly digested each page, he discarded it on the bathroom floor, where they stacked upon each other.

The pages piled up, and Winston's smoldering cigar became shorter. It was a race to see which would prevail. Winston had another cigar on the edge of the tub, so that question was settled. Articles about the recent German reoccupation of the Rhineland were spread across the front page of the Times.

The Rhineland was a region between Germany and France. France demanded that it be demilitarized after the end of the First World War. In essence, the Rhineland was to be a buffer between France and what they thought and knew to be a hostile Germany.

The bold move by Adolf Hitler and Nazi Germany was the first outward rejection of the Treaty of Versailles and the subsequent Locarno Treaties. It was nothing less than a slap in the face to the victors of World War I. It was also a daring and provocative gamble by Herr Hitler, who thought the Allies and their people were worn out from the Great War.

He was more than right. 73% of the over eight million men mobilized by France during the war had been killed or wounded. And that number was made all the more shocking by the fact that a million and half of the injured were permanently maimed. It was no wonder that France didn’t have the stomach or political will to fight another war.

France was tired, and Germany knew it. Germany, on the other hand, wasn’t weary; they sought retribution for the harsh terms of the Treaty of Versailles, which they saw as humiliation personified. Ever so slowly, they were rebuilding their military. The pundits and politicians on both sides of the Channel were making excuses for Hitler.

The excuses were many. “The German people had been trampled by the Treaty of Versailles, and compromises must be done to bring Europe back into balance. Who could live with such draconian mandates from the Allies? No one.”

And thus, the very war that Europe prayed to avoid had already been set in motion. No one knew it at the time. Oh, there would be more years of peace and men enjoying the holidays at home with their families. Christmas carols would be sung, and babies bounced on non-amputated legs...but that would change. Men would be sent to war, never to be seen again and children would grow up without their fathers.

Scholars in later years would beat their chests and boast that World War II was just a continuation of World War I. That kind of hindsight was useless. Perhaps the academics and scholars should have taken their rightful place in the front lines, like the uneducated class.

Winston shook his head as he reached for a bar of soap. It slipped thru his fingers and disappeared into the bottom of the tub. His hands probed under the water. Finally, the hands and the bar of soap surfaced, and he smiled. “Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.”

In the next few minutes, Winston devoured the rest of the Times. When he was done, the papers were scattered at the foot of the tub. Now he started to talk to himself. That was more than appropriate for a person who had been summarily relegated to the back-benches in the House of Commons. “My warnings don’t count for much if left to deaf ears and pacifist imbeciles. Of course, I detest war and all of its unbridled horrors. But to foolhardy play the ostrich and ignore the realities of one’s situation is akin to jumping into the fountain at Trafalgar Square in the nude.

“I for one will refrain from such practices as I do not have the physical body or lack of intellectual capacity required to perform such an endeavor.”

Winston’s wife Clementine put her head thru the door. Clementine was Winston’s partner in life. She saw Winston for what he was...a complicated man, who could be brilliant and full of seemingly clever ideas at the same time. The seemingly clever ideas had been his undoing on more than one occasion.

It was Winston Churchill as Lord of the Admiralty, who had championed the ill-fated invasion of Turkey, which culminated with a stalemate and then abandonment at Gallipoli in 1915. The debacle fairly or unfairly was placed at the feet of Winston Churchill.

The disaster threw the government into crisis. It was a foregone conclusion that Winston would be relieved of his duties as Lord of the Admiralty. Most in Winston’s situation would have retreated to their country estates to drink scotch and lick their wounds. Winston Churchill wasn’t like most people.

The government wasn’t sure what to do with Winston. So Winston abruptly resigned and rejoined his old regiment at the ancient age of 41. He went to France and the front lines. He commanded the 6th Royal Scots Fusiliers battalion of the Ninth Division. His service may not have been heroic in nature, but he was in the trenches, with the mud and filth like the common soldier.