June 3, 1917

Allied Airbase in Calais, France

No. 10 Naval Squadron

231st Royal Flying Corp

I have just been promoted to Flight Commander of

my own squadron. Our call sign is 'B' Flight. I want to

be excited, but it's not possible.

The Red Baron and his Flying Circus are shooting

down our morale. Ever since Bloody April, Everyone

is losing hope for winning the war in Europe.

Recruited some good pilots to make the team. Ellis Reid and

Marcus Alexander from Toronto, J.E. Sharman from Winnipeg,

and Gerry Nash from Hamilton. I'm the only BC guy, so got

to make a good impression for the boys.

Hope the boys from Canada and I could make a difference.

We want to at least get back home with heads held high.

Last thing we want is our future kids looking down on us.

Command is giving us new planes to fight the Germans.

We're excited, heard they were the latest fighter models ever

to be made for the War. Can't wait to fly them.

Got a strange letter this morning, that command will be giving me

one more person, but he doesn't have a plane. I wonder who he is.

Is he Canadian too?

~ Collishaw

“Hello darling. I’ll be your wife for the remainder of this war. Please take good care of me.”

“…………What?”

Raymond Collishaw was born in a small town on a small island off the mainland coast of British Columbia. He always wanted to join the Royal Navy, but he didn’t heard back from them, so he decided to enlist his services to the Royal Naval Air Service.

From 1915 up to this year of 1917, he had been working hard to make a difference to this war. Now, he was the leader of an important squadron that would change the face of aerial combat history in the months to come.

Yet, his first day as squadron leader started with a beautifully strange woman knocking on his office door. He had just woke up, he didn't get a chance to grab a comb to calm his bed hair.

“…Wh…who are you, miss? And... is Halloween early in France? Wh-what's with the fluffy costume?”

“Did you not receive the letter? I am a member of the Canadian Witch Corp, Newfoundland Regiment. My duties will be strictly to counteract against magicians serving the German army. I hope to be of use for you in the future campaigns together. Tee-hee.”

“……………………………………………………………”

“… Are you a man?”

“The last time I checked in the shower, yes I am.”

“Then what do you say to a lady when she is holding onto a large valise in her two small hands in front of you?”

“…Um...How much does it weigh?”

“Th-that is the worse response possible!”

Raymond Collishaw didn’t understand. The first thing he had planned all night, was to begin full maintenance of the new model planes he was given for his squadron. He heard they were specialized for high-aerial combat, with increase acrobatic performances. They were being shipped oversea from Folkstone Harbour of Great Britain, where they will be delivered via trainway to the nearest Allied Air Base in Calais.

Based on experience, he knew the production models were not enough to keep up with the German Fokkers D.VIII the or the Gother G.V bombers that were given superior light-weight and tactical design. He had to improve the specs of the planes before they could even dream about encountering German aces close to the Red Baron.

Having fought him and barely escaping alive on numeours occasions, the Canadian Pilot knew how necessary it was to be at his best game with the best weapon on the playing field.

Yet somehow, he felt like he screwed up somewhere in his detailed plan by showing up to answer a knock on his office door with only his tanktop and uniform pants. He didn't have times to find socks.

The girl standing in front of his room with a large travelling bag tried very hard to not stare any lower than his belt.

“… Sorry. I don’t have enough pocket money to buy cookies. You can try the Field Commander’s officer, right next to the hangar with the British Mark V tanks. He has three children back in London, so maybe if you ask nicely and use the right words, he'll buy your entire inventory.”

“I TOLD YOU, I AM A WITCH! NOT A F**KING GIRL SCOUT SELLING COOKIES TO SHADY STRANGERS DOOR TO DOOR! C-can you please just carry this heavy @ss bag for me!? A magician of my stature is not meant for physical labour! Hurry, the nerves in my fingers are going numb from dragging my clothing and magic equipment for 6 hours!"

"...Oh. Right. My bad... Wait, this isn't heavy at all. See, one hand is doable."

"Repeat that sentence after I polymorph you into a girl who had just turned 17."

"............I-I'll be quiet now...Sorry."

The Canadian Pilot eventually submitted. He picked up her bags and put them aside. There wasn't much room, his quarters were smaller than his bedroom back at home. A single bed, a work table, a lamp, an independant bathroom with working shower.

Although he was on the edge of France in the middle of the First World War, the room itself kind of reminded him of a boarding school space. Dim and dreary with only one window to keep up with the daylight. He himself had just moved in soon after receiving his promotion to full class officer, so he hand't unpacked his own things. Meaning it was going to be cramped if he unpacked, eventually.

When he tried to take a moment to understand what was going on, something caught him off guard. It was best described as this wierd girl marching into his officer cabin... as his quarter belonged to her since the day she was born. She even kicked off her long heeled leather boots and sighed when she stretched her sore feet.

Somehow, the way she moved reminded the young man of a raven... a very lazy one.

“Hm. This bed isn’t comfortable. Please put in a requisition for a softer mattress, oh with goose down. You see, I have acquired a bad back during my training in Nova Scotia, so I can’t sleep on something that’s like a white brick.”

“……That’s my bed.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Are you suggesting that should I sleep on the floor from now on? Even when this is my own quarters?”

“You don’t think I would be doing that in your stead right!? I may be a Witch, but I’m still a lady!”

There was this steep silence. Like when a plane takes a nose dive from a high altitude, not making any gestures to pull up from its suicide drop, then it pulls back up at the last second to conduct three major loops in quick succession. Something that would make audience’s hearts just up and stop beating for the duration of those three loops.

…Then Raymond Collishaw spoke up.

“Sorry. But you need to leave. This is a military base, not a playground. I ask that you leave the premises or you will hurt yourself from heavy machinery.”

“NuwoooH! D-don’t just up and princess-carry a girl in order to toss them out like dirty laundry! I-I’m really a Witch! Didn’t you read the god-d*mn letter explaining about our background!?”

“Frankly, I only skimmed the first introduction page out of the 30, I'm anticipating the arrival of the new Sopwith planes that are being transported all the way from Britain. I don't have the luxury to read through all the thick layer of documentation, or serve you tea and scones as you explain to me your complicated backstory."

“I-I would prefer bacon slices and maple syrup. I heard the wine in this part of France has a rich texture, we could try that for starters.”

“In all kindness - get out.”

“WAIT! LISTEN TO ME! TH-THIS WAR ISN’T ABOUT BULLETS AND CANNONS ANYMORE! TH-THE ENEMY ISN'T JUST THE GERMANS OR THE OTTOMANS, I-IT'S A LOT MORE COMPLICATED THAN THAT NOW! TH-THIS IS SUPER SERIOUS!”

The Canadian Pilot was known by his peers to be a nice man. If a soldier was breaking down from the stress of a firefight, he would tell him they were going to get through it with a smile. When a pilot was in trouble from enemy anti-air machine guns, he would gun them down with a smile. When he would face three German planes at the same time from different angles, he still would face them with a smile.

Smile, smile, smile. Whether it be rain or shine, being yelled at by his superiors, he would clench his teeth with a grin. It was unclear if he was naturall optimistic on a 24/7 basis, or this was a psychological defense mechanism that Sigmund Freudn would have trouble to explain in full. Often times, his kind gestures would p*ss off the wrong people at the wrong time.

For once, this was not the case anymore. Facing a beautiful girl who showed up as his door step, claiming herself to be a Witch who could use spells and magic... made him think of an old novel he read, where the protagonist was greeted by a stranger who claims she was his daughter... and how his grandson had a fever.

So, he had to be rough with this new situation. He had no choice. The way he was trying to kindly push the girl out of the front door - was exactly how a grown man would attempt to push a cat into a bath tub. With her long arms and legs bracing the frame and her body refusing to budge... it was hard to keep fighting with a smile to endure the pain.

“AREN’T WE CANADIANS! WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE NICE TO EACH OTHER, RIGHT!? RIIIIGHT!?”

“THIS IS A BATTLEFIELD! THIS IS NO PLACE FOR WOMEN AND CHILDREN TO HURT THEMSELVES! LEAVE IT TO THE MEN TO FACE THE HORROR ON THE WESTERN FRONT!”

"SEXIST! SEXIIIIIIIIST! YOU HAVE ZERO FAITH IN WHAT A SCORNED WOMAN CAN DO! WE'LL MAKE A GERMAN MAKE A RUN FOR HIS MONEY IF THEY MESSED WITH US! LET ME GO! PUT ME DOWN! PUT - ME - DOOOOOWN!"

Raymond Collishaw wasn’t against women and their pursuit for equal rights. Back in his hometown, he would always offer an old lady his seat on the electric trolleys, bow to a young mother, and let girls go out the door first. It's just that, how to put it as accurately as possible... he panicks when he sees a girl cry.

"I had high hopes for you as a fellow Canadian! Y-you're nothing but a bully!...Sob."

"Nuwooh!? W-wait! I-I believe you, y-you're a Wizard. Y-you can fly on broomsticks and keep black cats by yourside. I-I totally believe you j-just please don't cry in front of me!"

"YOU'RE STILL MAKING FUN OF ME! I'M A WITCH GOD-D*MMIIIIIIIIT!"

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I'M TRYING TO SAY! PLEASE CALM DOWN AND LISTEN TO MEEEE!"