Encounter Over Flanders
27 October 1917. Royal Flying Corps 56 Squadron Airfield.
“Hullo, Arthur. What’s up? Voluntary patrol?”
Lieutenant Yates was sprawled out on the turf in front of the hangar looking up at the undercarriage of his S.E.5a biplane. When he realized it was Major Blomfield who was addressing him, he jumped to his feet and dusted off his flight suit.
“Yes sir,” Yates said, “if you don’t mind. Got a call from a friend in the observers. A Fokker triplane has been stalking our two-seaters around Wipers. He’s too high up for the Camel escort to reach. But I’ve tuned the compression on my engine for high-altitude flight. I think I can get over top of him.”
The major nodded. “Well, keep an eye out for glowballs.”
“Sir?”
“My turn for news,” the major said. “B Flight spotted a glowing ball high up over Roeselare returning from patrol. They were low on petrol, so they had to land without looking into it. Could be a new kind of balloon. I was going to ask your dawn patrol to investigate tomorrow.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Good luck then, and good hunting. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
The roar of the engine, the freezing blast of the prop wash on his goggled face, the rush of speed, the vibration of the stick in his hands.
I live only for this now, Yates thought.
He knew very well the war was idiotic. A waste of money and blood—a meaningless slaughterhouse down below with equally pointless carnage in the air. Yates didn’t expect to survive the war. He’d seen too many fall around him—masterful pilots and green rookies alike.
It was a long, slow climb to 18,000 feet. The SE’s engine began to labor as the air grew thin. A layer of scalloped clouds was just overhead here, perfect cruising ground for a lone hunter. When Yates broke through the clouds, the sky above was cerulean blue shading toward azure in the east.
As always, he felt the call of the heavens, a yearning desire never to return to the dull mechanical world below. The great ace, Georges Guynemer, had gone missing the month before, and Yates had heard it said the Frenchman had flown so high he’d forgotten the way back down again.
If only it were possible, he thought.
The air was bitterly cold, even through a silk scarf wrapped three times over his mouth and nose. Yates felt light-headed due to the altitude, but he knew it would pass.
He spotted the German hunter almost at once, a fleck a few miles to the east visible against the white surface of the cloud layer below. Yates lined up with the sun, low on the western horizon, and then he turned his machine toward the enemy. After a minute’s flight he was much closer, only a mile away. The black Maltese cross was clear on the pale blue fuselage, along with the unmistakable triple wings of a Fokker DR.1.
“Tally ho, old chap,” he muttered, and nudged his throttle to fully open. The engine’s roar ascended a major fifth, and the tachometer needle inched up to just below redline. He adjusted his fuel mixture and readied his guns.
Yates had hoped the sun would mask his approach, but the enemy turned to meet him almost immediately. They came together head on at 200 miles an hour in combined speed. Yates decided to hold off shooting until the German fired. 500 yards, long range, and still nothing. Closing at a hundred yards a second. 300 … 200 … point-blank … They roared by one another without firing a shot, wingtips almost brushing. The silk scarf had slipped down from around the Fokker pilot’s face, and though he was hunched behind his windscreen the prop wash was forcing his mouth into a rictus.
The instant the two planes crossed paths, Yates broke right as hard as he dared, knowing the German would be doing the same. This was it, a pure dogfight, the two pilots following almost the same course around the opposite points of a circle, each striving to pull around into the tailing position that would send the enemy spiraling down into oblivion. The Fokker was the more maneuverable machine down near sea level, but Yates’s engine compression ratio should favor him at this altitude.
It only took two turns around the tight circuit before Yates knew he was up against an enemy at least as skilled as he was himself. But was that a slight easing of the German’s banking angle? Maybe he was on the verge of stalling out and had to relax the tautness of his turn. Yates grinned ferociously. They were both slowly losing altitude as they tried to achieve a tailing position. He had to try to finish things before they got much lower and the Fokker’s Mercedes engine found some thicker air for its carburetor.
Then it happened: Yates’s engine stuttered. It started coughing and missing strokes. Airspeed was already dropping. He glanced at his instruments.
What the hell?
The needles were bouncing around on their gauges. He reached to tap the tachometer, which was reading zero RPM despite the hammering roar of the engine. A fat blue spark leaped from the dashboard to his outstretched hand. Yates cursed and jerked it back. His hand and arm up to the elbow felt all pins and needles.
A fault in the electrical system? Whatever it was, he was done for now. Even though his engine was still running it wasn’t putting out enough power to support a dogfight. Soon he’d have to level off to avoid tumbling out of the sky, and then the enemy would be behind him.
Yates raised his eyes from the instruments, looking over his shoulder at the enemy. At where the enemy should be. But no one was there. For a frantic few seconds, Yates looked wildly around him. Then he spotted the Fokker spiraling downward in an out-of-control spin 500 feet below.
Yates barked a laugh, though it cost him some pain in his throat from the raw, cold air he took in. The German had cut his turn too sharply and stalled out, or else he’d suffered some engine fault of his own. Now all Yates had to do was dive after him and the hunter would be cold meat.… Or perhaps he should just force him down? No, they were too far east over enemy lines. There’d be flak and infantry machine guns down there. He’d go for the kill.
Before Yates could make a move, the world turned white. During the height of the Zeppelin panic the previous year Yates had been recalled to England to defend against nighttime airship attacks. He’d flown through a searchlight beam a few times and it had been something like this, but not as bright.
Yates realized after a beat the light was coming from above, and he craned his head to see. Even a quick glance was enough to dazzle him, but there was a strange shape up there, a rounded conical object with a row of disks in a belt around the middle, definitely not a balloon.
The major’s glowball.
The Fokker’s fate no longer seemed important. Maybe the German would pull out of his spin and maybe he wouldn’t. Yates leveled off and pulled gently back on the stick. He slowly gained a thousand feet, during which time he pulled some distance away from the strange craft. His engine resumed its normal rhythm. The gauges on the instrument panel stabilized, and it looked like they were reading true again.
All right, he thought, let’s get over top of it.
19,500 feet.… 20,000. Higher than Yates had ever tried to fly before. His engine was complaining again, this time because the air was too thin for it. He tried tweaking the mixture and it didn’t help. The engine was losing power in a big way now due to the thin air, and Yates had to level off again. His head was buzzing, and his heart beat fast in his chest. And there it was a mile away, a glowing shape floating a few hundred feet beneath him.
It took him a minute to close the distance. The whole time, Yates was rapt—fascinated by the glowing vehicle. This was no aeroplane or airship he’d ever heard of, not with a metal body, and not with no propeller or gasbag. Certainly not British or French. Could it possibly be German? But it had no markings at all, no insignia. Something out of H. G. Wells, perhaps? A visitor from another world? He almost laughed at his own folly, then shook his head.
Could be.
Approaching from above, his SE suffered no electrical or engine faults. As he drew closer Yates got a better sense of the scale of the visitor, if that’s what it was. It was well over a hundred feet in diameter, not big compared to a zeppelin, but huge for anything heavier than air, especially as it appeared to be made out of solid metal. From this vantage, he could see a cone of light shining from the base of the thing. Had it come to view his dogfight? He wondered what a Martian observer would make of all these aerial engagements over the front. Would it even recognize them as expressions of hostility? Perhaps beings from another world wouldn’t understand the idea of war.
Thinking these deep thoughts, focused entirely on the strange glowing craft, Yates was shocked to see a stream of tracers whizzing by from behind on his left side.
He broke hard right instinctively before he realized he wasn’t the one being shot at. The German flier had pulled his Fokker out of its spin and he had found comrades as well, two more triplanes now flying in company. But the Germans were gunning for the glowing vehicle. They must have assumed it was British, perhaps because Yates was flying peacefully nearby. The three had managed to achieve a slight height advantage and were coming in over the top, as if on a strafing run. Peering over his shoulder back toward the action, Yates saw the sparks of bullets ricocheting off the top surface of the glowing craft. No effect apart from that, though.
Yates didn’t hesitate. The one-versus-three odds didn’t dissuade him. He had to continue all the way around the circle before he could engage the Germans. It seemed to take forever, but at last the combat swung back into view.
The Fokkers’ first firing run had no effect, but they were returning for a second pass. This time instead of flying over the top they were coming straight in. Again the long streams of tracers lashed out, and now the shots played against that band of disks around the middle of the craft. Several disks exploded in a brilliant flash of electrical fire. The Germans broke hard right to avoid running into their target, while black smoke trailed from the belt of the glowing craft. The cone of light beneath the vehicle flickered.
Yates bit his lip. The visitor was vulnerable after all, and it wasn’t fighting back. A noncombatant. And yet it was going to be a victim of this stupid, senseless war. He put his nose down a little and took his machine back into the fray. This time the Germans turned to meet him: another head-on engagement.
Yates opened fire at 500 yards, pressing down on both trigger buttons, directing his fire at the leader. No immediate effect. From ahead he could see flickers from the Germans’ guns: they were firing back. 400 yards, and the Vickers gun on the nose of Yates’ machine jammed, but the Lewis gun over the wing was still firing; 300, and he was conscious that several bullets had struck the steel radiator on the nose of his plane. Whether they’d punctured the engine block or just ricocheted off he’d know soon enough.
He tapped the control stick down a touch, then bobbed back up, hoping to throw off the Germans’ aim. 100 yards and the Lewis gun mounted over the wing was out of ammo. He’d fired for five seconds straight at the enemy with no effect whatsoever. And then the two flanking Fokkers roared past him on either side, breaking left and right, while the leader barely avoided a collision by ducking beneath him at the last moment.
Yates grinned even as he pounded at the breech of his Vickers gun, trying to clear the jam.
It would have been a good way to go, he thought, head-on.
Nothing doing with the gun. Wedged solid. If he had the time, he could yank the Lewis gun down from its mounting and give it another drum, but there was no point in bothering with it now.
Then Yates relaxed. It would be a few seconds before the Fokkers got themselves organized again and were able to turn to engage him, but he felt like there was nothing he really needed to do anymore. He thought he might as well just keep cruising, as if the combat was already over. In a flash of realization, Yates understood he’d given up.
Why not, he thought.
He’d done his best, and it wasn’t good enough. No shame in being outgunned. And this way, he’d never have to land again—never have to give up the freedom of the skies.
For another few seconds Yates just flew straight on, but at last curiosity got the better of him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the two flanking triplanes were still not on his tail; they seemed to be struggling to maintain their altitude.
Rookies, he thought, and smiled.
But the leader was above and behind him now. Turned around in his cockpit, Yates watched in fascination as the German steadily closed on him without firing. Perhaps the other pilot was puzzled at Yates’s behavior; or perhaps he simply wanted to make sure of his target.
And there it was: the flash of tracers. Yates turned away to sit comfortably in his seat and closed his eyes, He felt more than heard the bullets striking at his SE’s tail, moving up along the fuselage, and then—
Nothing. Knowing by rights he should already be dead, Yates turned again in his seat to look over his shoulder.
What the bloody hell?
The enemy triplane was engulfed in flames, turning over and falling away, trailing fire and smoke behind it like a comet. Twin lines of tracers were still riddling the Fokker from above even as it tumbled out of the sky. Yates peered upward to see what it was, and a biplane roared past in a power dive. It was a SPAD, a French fighter, though where it had come from, Yates had no idea.
He blinked, reflexively pulled his machine around in a tight turn to better see what was going on. The two Germans who had been trying to form on their leader both hesitated. They could either dive after the SPAD or come around after Yates, but after a few seconds first one and then the other turned back to the east, diving to pick up speed but clearly out of the fight.
The French pilot soared into a zoom climb to regain his lost altitude. The performance of his aeroplane at this high altitude was astonishing. It seemed the Frenchman had somehow slipped the shackles of gravity completely, flying faster at 20,000 feet than Yates could manage even down near sea level. The French pilot sideslipped effortlessly closer so they were flying almost wingtip-to-wingtip.
Yates stared. The stylized stork insignia on the SPAD’s fuselage was unmistakable. Everyone knew Les Cigognes, the elite French hunter group. Even more shocking were the words Vieux Charles painted below the cockpit. This could only be Guynemer, the French ace of aces, who’d gone missing the previous month. The Frenchman waved at Yates, then gestured broadly in the cockpit. He extended his fist, thumb down, gesturing below, then inverted his hand, pointing above.
At any other time, Yates might have found it hard to interpret, but here and now he understood. He could go back down, return to the ground, or he could follow the Frenchman. Higher.
He looked up, following Guynemer’s gesture. There was something very bright overhead, something larger by far than the visitor vehicle, which had stopped belching smoke and now just hung there a half mile away. The whole area was illuminated in light from above, and the visitor began to rise upward, slowly at first, then faster until it was a mere speck vanishing into the sky.
The Frenchman gave Yates a wave that looked like a beckoning gesture, and then he too began to ascend. It was only a minute before the Vieux Charles had risen so far up it was lost in the brilliance of the light.
Yates pulled back on his stick. The SE responded to his guidance, despite the rarefied air. Something was drawing him upwards, far above any height that could possibly have been attained with an internal-combustion engine. 25,000 feet. 30,000. Yates should have been unable to breathe, should have blacked out from anoxia, but he felt fine. He could see it clearly now, an enormous spherical craft so bright with light it was almost blinding. The Vieux Charles was circling just below it, and as Yates drew nearer, the SPAD turned upward, flying into an entrance port at the base of the huge vessel and again passing out of sight.
There was no question in Yates’ mind what to do. His heart felt free, lifelong bonds shattering and falling to earth. He was suffused with a sense of immanence, the likes of which he had never imagined. Even if this would be his last moment—even if the visitor would annihilate him utterly for his hubris—he knew this was his destiny now, and a profound joy overtook him.
Yates turned the nose of his aeroplane upward into the light. And he never came down again.
* * *
28 October 1917. 56 Squadron HQ.
The general pounded the desk, hammering it so savagely with his fist that the drink the major had poured him tipped over, spilling whiskey over a scattering of documents. The tumbler rolled off the edge and fell to the floor. Neither man paid it any attention.
“Major!” the general shouted. “Restrain yourself!”
Major Blomfield bit off what he was trying to say, almost choked, and took himself in hand.
“Yes, sir,” he said at last. “I’m sorry sir. But you’re telling me to forget the whole thing—.”
“Yates was lost to enemy action. There will be no more talk of lights in the sky. Your man was on voluntary patrol pursuing an enemy Jasta over Roeselare. He was outnumbered, shot down in a daring high-altitude engagement. We will record in due course that the Luftstreitkräfte notified us of his death. He died with all the gallantry that could be expected of such a valiant and courageous pilot.”
Major Blomfield bit his lip. He’d lost far too many men this year, but at least the others had received proper acknowledgement of their deaths.
“But why—”
“This is war, Major. 250,000 died on our side this year in the Nivelle offensive. More than that are dying right now, at Passchendaele. We can afford no distractions. Nothing must take away from our commitment to the fight. Do you understand me?”
“Very well, sir, ” Major Blomfield said. “But what about the shaft of light? A dozen other pilots reported it, just on our side, and the Germans must have seen it too. Just like when Guynemer went missing. And who knows how many civilians—”
“No problem. We were testing a new illuminating star shell. We’ll make sure to brag about it in the Times, and the Germans will read it too.”
Blomfield shook his head. The general let him take his time.
“All right sir,” he said at last. “I know I have no choice. I’ll go along with it. I suppose I have to write the letter?”
The general nodded once, stood up and left without another word, not even waiting for a salute. Blomfield set the tumbler back on his desk. He hadn’t finished pouring a fresh drink when he heard the rumble of the staff car departing.
Later that night Blomfield woke up at his desk, a headache pounding in his temples—empty bottle by his hand. He struggled to his feet, opened the Nissen hut door, and walked heavily out onto the field of the blacked-out aerodrome. The night was chilly and quiet, and the sky was clear overhead. For a minute, the major stood there gazing up at the stars. Then he shook his head and went back inside.
Laurence Raphael Brothers is a writer and a technologist. He has published over 50 short stories in such magazines as Nature, Galaxy’s Edge, and The New Haven Review. Check out his other books and stories at http://laurencebrothers.com/bibliography, and follow him on bluesky: @lrb.bsky.social.
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