June 6, 1917

Lynde, France

'B' Flight Squadron (No. 10)

The boys and I have completed refueling at St. Omer.

We're order to conduct several patrol cycles to keep out

German aircraft from invading the town of Lynde.

Allied Command are attempting to create a foothold at

Lynde, in preparing for a major offensive next month.

They've already deployed the 'Prince of Wales Rangers'

50th Field Artillery Regiment, the 102nd Battalion 'Irish

Fusiliers', including the 216th Briish Royal Engineers,

to establish a forward base of operations.

'B' Flight's job is to provide air support when they launch

the attack. For now, we're hovering over the mountain ranges.

I find that the Germans were always good at navigating

through treacherous mountain ranges undetected.

If that is the case, then we Canadian Pilots have to work

harder and up the gamble.

~Collishaw

"...I think we'll call ourselves Black Flight. I mean, we're designated with 'B' and our planes are painted black. It think it's a fitting title. Makes us look like the Allied version of the Germans Flying Circus squadron, don't you think Sleipnir?"

“…Huuuurrrk… Uuurrrrrgh.”

"Please don't throw up in your seat. It's next to impossile to clean. Your bile and stomach acid would eat through the leather."

“I-I hate flying. Alright? Happy? Now stop going up and down unnecessarily or I'll...I'll....Hurk—Bleeeeeeegh!”

There were 10 Sopwith Triplanes that were flying over the small mountain range located some distance from the town of Lynde. it wasn't as grand as the alps, but it had enough valleyes and coverage to hide a small enemy plane through the gaps, to prevent enemy detection of high-altitude telescopes.

There was a certain Canadian Pilot leading his own four-man squadron in a large scale V-Wing formation. He would wave his hand to the other squadrons of the Royal Naval Air Service and Royal Flying Corp into different directions, in which they would partition into three equal pieces to broaden their range of aerial detection. His plane with the name Black Maria took his fellow pilots through a small forage of clouds. They reminded him of sheeps back in his hometown.

So it would make sense he felt guilty in shredding through them with his plane's propeller.

He took a moment to steady his controls and pulled out his flight map. With a fountain pen he stuffed in his globe for easy access, he started to make some small scribbles and notes on the side of the map. Point-formed summary of his patrol report at the end of his 3 hour run before the planes have to refuel again. It was his only method of escape from listening to the sounds of a cute girl flipping her guts out over the side of his aircraft,

"...I don't understand, Sleipnir. Aren't Witches good at flying. Couldn't you, you know, turn into a bat and stuff and take to the sky? You're probably a flier than me."

"S-such a prejudice remark! Just because I am a Witch doesn't mean I shove a broom between my legs and flying around like a bee looking for honey! And that last part in your second comment makes me sound like a blood sucking vampire. That's not what I am. I just dislike flying! Having nothing under my feet doesn't sit well with me, so I make it an effort to devote myself to Evocation Style magic and skipped the Flight Spell courses...Uuurk."

"...Why did they pair you with me again?"

"Random lottery. It's a terrible system. Buuurrgrghhll!"

“Not to be rude, but you should have stayed back in Calais or even St. Omer when we were refueling. I don't care if Command ordered you to follow me, seeing how you can't keep your stomach down from thinking about a barrel loop, I don't feel comfortable in dragging you into battle."

“D-don’t, uurk, look down on me! Just because I don't specialize in Fly or Levitation Spell, I can still launch missiles of fireball, drop wall of ice, or even distort the winds with air funnels to give you more aerodynamics. I've endured being cramped in a tin can merchant ship while being shiped over here with 1900 other newly graduated Witches, I can totally tank--BLEEEEEEEEUUURRRRRGHKKK!"

"Seriously, Sleipnir. You need to go to a hospital. You've been wretching for the last six hours, with only a 45 minute break when we landed in St. Omer. And what the h*ll, did you eat? Spider legs and lizard tails!?"

"H-how rude! Only shady Druids who suck on toxic mushrooms would eat spider legs for their Web based magic spell. As for salamander's tail, what's wrong with it? It's a special recipe that involves using British Columbian honey, Alberta barbecue sauce, and maple syrup from Saskatchewan! It's delicious when roasted on an open yulelog fire!......Oh sh*t, uurg."

"Over the side! Over the side! Not at my face!"

Raymond Collishaw kept his eyes on the horizon, in time to avoid a beautiful girl flopping over the side of the air craft and making small noises that would ruin the romantic mood.

The Canadian Pilot was flying a specially designed aircraft produced by the Sopwith Aviation Company. Titled the Sopwith Triplane it succeeded the previous Sopwith Pup model and carried three sets of foiled wings, as noted in its namesake. The Triplane was also designed with an extra set of flaps in the tail, a first in its line, in order to improve elevation and reduce stress in the main wing's aileron flaps.

Modified with a 110 hp Clerget 9Z nine-cylinder rotary engine, it had improved speed as well a lift that mixed engineering and aerodynamics to a whole new level. The aircraft was capable of conducting three vertical loops in rapid success, displaying efficient vertical lifts and maneuverings to get over and behind an enemy craft in rapid succession. However, given how bulky the plane as a whole was, it was noted to have awkward turning features that would make others think of a 'drunk man stumbling out of a pub after happy hour.

Two notable weakness of course, would be how unstructurally stable it could be when experiencing high-gravity pinwheel turns for over long periods of time. The triple wings could potentially collapse on a weak support point in the frame and ultimately cave in if the pilot wasn't careful in taking advantage of weight distribution and stress from Newton Force. It was armed with only a single Vicker Machine gun which was syncronized with the plane's propeller to prevent it from being buzz-sawed by gunfire. It also carried a limited payload for bombing raids, so it was focused on being an air-superiority based fighter plane in high altitude combat.

While the Canadian Pilot was marking off notes in the side of his map, he also kept note of how fast the fuel being consumed, the maximum velocity of the craft after different weather or flight conditions, as well as all the other dials displaed on his console.

All the while the Canadian Witch tried to recover herself from her 'excitement' in sitting in a new craft made by the realm of science.

"...Ray-Ray. My body can't take it anymore. I'm going to jump."

"Please don't. There's only less than 2 hours worth of patrol time before we head back to base and refuel for the next run. If you could hold it in a little while longer, I would be most grateful. Maybe when we get back, I could ask your superior to transfer you to a proper location or--"

"Oh god no. Th-the Director of the B-British Magic Intelligence will tie me to a light post, naked. I won't last 10 seconds in French Winters! D-don't worry. I'm a strong girl. I'm not meant for just cooking and knitting. I too am trained to fight in a war of bullets in order to take down magicians who betray the Crowley Pact and throwing off the balance of our two worlds into chaos. You may have your iron tanks, brave cannon horses, and thousands of men willing to give up their lives for the British Empire - but one careless Fireball spell could essentially obliterate an entire column. In order to reduce that form of casualty, I am hear to create the necessary countermeasure to protect you from enemy magic... It's my duty, so, I shouldn't be complaining."

"..............................."

"...Wh-what is it Ray-Ray? Y-you're staring s-so hard into my eyes. I-is there something in my hair?"

"It seems you're getting used to flying in a plane. You haven't thrown up in the last 10 minutes. I think that's an improvement on your part, don't you--"

"BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEGH! EEEG! UUUURRRRRRRRRRK!... S...save me...Huurrk..."

"God-d*mn it Sleipnir. Not the leather."

Raymond Collishaw frowned at the sound behind him, but he did his best to not show it across his shoulder or body language. In his training with the Royal Naval Air Service, he spent the early days in the First Great War as a naval officer on the HMS Niobe. He remember those days were shipmates would try and get used to serving on a vessel on rocking waves while running around to keep the ship in tip top shape. Mock battles against fake targets, with the cannons rocking and barking in the sailors' ears, didn't help with keeping their breakfast, lunch or dinner down.

He didn't want to be seen as rude or inconsiderate, should there be a newbie trying to get used to flying in high altitude. Even he had head aches while adjusting to the lighter air pressure in the sky at first.

Then, a small and shaking hand reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. It was the quivering in the fingers that made him snap out of his thoughts more than the gesture itself.

“… No matter what. Don’t.. uurhg…. Don’t leave me behind, Ray-Ray. I want to protect you, with all my might. I-it's...uurk...my duty as a Canadian Witch."”

“M-Miss Sleipnir. I appreciate your help. But it's best you stay on the ground from now on. For the sake of your health."

"W-weren't you, uuraggaa...L...listening to meeeeeuurrrrgg... Th-the Director will publicly hang me, hgg, upside by the toe for 10 days and 10 nights... H-her punishments a-are worse than the wish trials m-my ancestors had endured... Ggeehgg."

To summarize the internal, external, physical, and psychological trauma that the Canadian Witch had experienced - she lookedl ike hammered sh*t. Sweat drenched her forehead, hair splattered all over her face, her neck trembling from excessive vomitting, and she tried to keep her next back of yesterday's brunch down by holding a kerchief over her mouth.

"Holy sh*t! Wh-when did my bile turn black as tar!?"

"Oh sorry. That's the towel I used to wipe the fuel stir stick."

A certain pitch black hand towel was tossed out of the side of the plane, left to flutter over hundreds of French mountains like a wingless dove.

“…Miss Sleipnir. Tell me, why are you working so hard to follow me.’

“I don’t want you to die. That’s my reason.”

"............"

"Honestly. Cough. The first time I met you, you seem like a nice individual. You didn't question my background, or not to the point of raising the entire camp on an epic witch hunt after me! Y-you look intelligent enough to avoid re-enacting that tragedy!"

"... I am not sure if I should feel flattered for my patience, or insulted for not being assertive enough about your re-assignment."

"Also, Magic is wonderful. It's a beautiful art that many of use mystical scholars wish to pursue, to master and refine our craft to it's maximum potential. We honestly see it as a form of self-improvement and skill shaping, to help us grow and evolve. To use it as a weapon, it makes me sicker than flying in this plane... I would really, really hate to see our own people using magic for the wrong reasons against you... Fu-fu-fu. It would be sad if you didn't survive this war, live to a ripe old age, settle down with a cute housewife, and raise five children on a small farm full of Blackface sheep....... Uwa-uwa-uwa. Wh-why am I suddenly imagining myself as the small hosuewife in your family potential photo!> Uwa-uwa."

"...Miss Sleipnir. You need to--"

"Oh please, darling. Don't add the fuel to the fire. I-I'm genuinely worried if I might just fall for your good looks, boyish charm, and that Cheshire grin of yours."

"N-no. I need you to get down and--"

"No, no, no. You shouldn't rear sheep. It's too bland. Alpacas, yes, alpacas."

"Sleipnir."

"H-heh!? Y-you dropped the miss!? D-did our relationship just evolved to a new level!?"

"I'm going to do a barrel roll. Please grab onto something and... don't throw up on me."

"...Hmm?...What?... Wait, y-you're serious! No! D-don't turn the plane! Don't tilt the plane! Don't--GYAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Raymond Collishaw suddenly wrestled with the joystick and increased his craft's thruster to maximum. With a swift tilt of his plane, he and his four other squad-mates broke their formation towards the four corners of the wings.

In time to avoid several flights of German fighter planes charging through their patrol lines. They had somehow manipulated the routes within the mountains below the Allied patrol and masked their prescence with echoes negating each other in the mountain pass. By the time they spotted each other in the air, the two forces were suddenly on full collision course.

"All wings, form up! Germans in the air! We got 15 planes in total, so grab your target and keep your wings down. Show them who they're dealing with and give them a h*ll to remember!!"

"NYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

The screaming of a cat caught in a blender like spin was drowned out by the dozens and dozens of airplanes that began to buzz in the air. 10 Sopwith Triplanes and 15 Albatross and Halberstadt fighters planes were now caught in a cyclone of their own making, spiraling up and down, banking to and fro, and trying to out run each other. With the German crafts good at making sharp left and right U-turns, the British planes made up for incredible vertical climbs and loops that out raced their enemies.

"HURRRRRRRLLLL!"

"Hoh!? G-good shot, Sleipnir! You got the Albatross pilot in the face! He's going down! All wings listen up! Nash, you take out the Aviatik, it's tail gun is giving us too much trouble. Reid on me, we're going to clear our the main group. Sharman, Alexander work together and give us cover fire from enemy chasers and watch out for those Halberstadts! You guys got this, you're all the best Canadians we have the air. So let's waltz to the Dance of Death lads!"

And so, begins the first skirmish of the legendary Black Flight Squadron (June 6, 1917).