#thewritingkestrel fiction

[the-writing-kestrel-blog]

An Argonian Adoption

This is a series of vignettes about the life of an Argonian warrior and his unlikely adoption of a small human child. I wrote this as a reaction to the bizarre way Skyrim’s children approach the Dragonborn in the game. It started out as a one-off gag and evolved into a 7500 words story, because I suck at brevity. If you like Skyrim, stories about culture shock, or bipedal talking lizards, read on! Warning: some violence and gore, but mostly humor and fluff. 1. In Which Our Hero Encounters a Most Strange Creature

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian stopped abruptly at those words. Turning slowly, not willing to believe what he was hearing, he brought his baleful, reptilian gaze to bear upon a small, grimy, wretched human girl-hatchling.

She had the usual human features – bizarrely flat face, protruding nose, gigantic flaps for ears (not unlike the mammoths he encountered out on the plain). Her hair was long, and it was obvious some attempt had been made to keep it in check, but to an Argonian all hair looked strange and slightly repugnant.

“What did you ask me, human child?” The Argonian hissed, incredulous.

“Will you be my father?” The question was more plaintive this time. The little thing dug the toe of her ragged shoe in the dirt as she averted her eyes. “Please?”

The Argonian had a name that could not be pronounced without a prehensile tongue and a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, but in the common Imperial tongue it was roughly translated as “Runs-On-Water”. Even among his own people he was considered to be independent and aloof, and here in Skyrim among the tiresome Nords he was ever more so.

His answer was as could be expected.

“No.”

He turned abruptly and walked away. A few steps later, he looked back over his shoulder, his gill-slits itching slightly as they did when he was being followed. To his shock, the little girl was following him!

“What do you want, human child?”

“Why are you wearing that armour in town?” The girl asked.

The Argonian stared at her. The mismatch of steel plate and chainmail he currently wore was spattered generously with dried blood and gore, the leather straps dried and brittle from the heat of dragon-fire. “What?”

“Your armour! Why do you wear it in town? Do you not have any clothes?”

The Argonian shrugged (a human movement he had grudgingly grown to like for its expressiveness). “No point in going anywhere without armour in this vile country.” Runs-on-Water muttered.

“...Ok,” the girl replied. “Can I have a septim? I want to buy some bread. I haven't eaten in days. Please?”

The Argonian hissed in annoyance and reached for his purse with a clawed hand. “If I give you five septims, will you go away and leave me alone?”

“Yes, sir!”

Runs-on-Water counted out the septims, placed them in the girl's hand, and leaned his reptilian head towards her until he was inches from her face. “Now. Leave.”

The girl squealed and scampered off. Runs-on-Water snorted and turned away. One of the guards was scowling at him. He made a gesture with his claw that implied the Nord's entire clutch were honourless bastards, but the cultureless human didn't understand.

Runs-on-Water stalked away, in a fouler mood than usual, heading to the armourer to get his armour cleaned and repaired.

* * *

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian whirled on the small human child. It was the second time she had snuck up on him in three days. This time, he'd just arrived back in town, hauling a huge bag of charred dragon bones over one shoulder. He was in a foul mood again – lugging hundreds of pounds of dragon bone down from the mountains did that to a lizard – and was in no mood for the child's games.

“Listen, tiny human hatchling. Look at me! What do you see?”

The girl looked up at him – Runs-on-Water knew what filled her gaze. A mottled green and brown reptilian face, eyes the colour of old blood, a half open maw filled with teeth, and a frill of spines protruding from the back of his head and neck.

The girl smiled sunnily at him. “The nice Argonian that gives me money for food every time he comes to town, and fights dragons and bandits and trolls to keep us all safe!”

Runs-on-Water was speechless. He fought dragons because the Hist-forsaken things seemed to stalk him wherever he went these days, and he killed bandits mostly for loot and because they were an inconvenience to him as he went from town to town. He didn't remember killing any trolls lately, but he killed a lot of things and it was possible he was just forgetting.

This impudent hatchling seemed to think he was doing this for her benefit!

“I am an Argonian warrior of Black Marsh. I am descended from Wades-through-Blood, who delved into the Oblivion Gates to fight the Daedra in their own lands. He was descended from Steps-In-Excrement, who defeated Dagoth Ur at the heart of Red Mountain in Morrowind. Why do you think I am your father?”

The little girl laughed! She laughed right in his face!

“I don't think you ARE my father, I want you to BE my father!” She said. “That's why I like you. You're so silly.”

Runs-on-Water, smelling strongly of fire, dragon's blood, and the reek of the road, was at a loss.

“My parents are dead,” The girl went on, oblivious. She went on tearfully. “My mama died not too long ago... My uncle and aunt took over our farm, but they said I wasn't good for anything, so they threw me out. So I have nowhere to go. I was able to beg for a while to get by but...people have stopped giving me money, or even food. You're the only one who helps anymore...so I thought....maybe, since you're the only one that cared...”

The girl looked up at him. She'd deflated during her story, going from a sunny child stating her fate matter-of-factly to a desperate, despairing orphan. Her thin, fragile mask had crumpled right in front of his eyes. Even for Runs-on-Water, who had trouble reading human expressions, it was obvious that the girl was barely keeping things together.

“Your Aunt and Uncle...” The Argonian warrior said.

“Yes?”

“They are honourless scum. To turn away a clutch-mate's spawn in need is a vile sin. In Black Marsh we would have gutted them and hung them from the highest branches of the Hist Trees, as atonement for their dishonour.”

The girl shuffled uncomfortably. “That's...nice?”

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water said. “It is an appropriate fate for those of that ilk. You backwards savages do nothing about such behaviour. It makes me want to vent my poison gland.” The Argonian shook his head. “I must deal with some merchants. When I have sold my goods, I will give you some money for food.” “Oh, would you? Thank you so much!”

Runs-on-Water showed his teeth. “Do not thank me. I do only what is just. Perhaps you barbarians can learn how to be truly civilized, if I but set the example.”

Later that evening, he sent the girl on her way with a coin purse filled with 20 septims. He watched the girl go. Her name was Lucia (what strange names these humans had!) and she told him she was nine years old. He thought back to when he was her age. Climbing trees with his brothers and sisters in the Hist swamp, hunting alligators with spears and poison, taunting slaughterfish. Good, clean Argonian fun, watched over by the dozens of Argonians that lived in his village. No Argonian hatchling ever begged, or went hungry. Not while the Hist spoke their guidance in every reptilian ear. Not when the bonds of clutch and nest held strong.

Skyrim was truly a wretched place. He would have to do something about it.

* * *

2. In which Severio Pelagio Receives Many Compliments on his Fine Property

Severio Pelagio awoke to the sound of someone rummaging around downstairs. A thrill of fear went through him – he grabbed the cudgel he kept by his bedside, scrambled out of bed, and crept downstairs to confront the thief. He might get murdered, or worse, robbed, but he couldn't just sleep upstairs while he let some scummy criminal (probably a Khaajit!) take all his hard-won gold!

When he reached the main floor, he shouted into the darkness. “Who's there? I'll have you know I'm armed, and I have no problems killing a man if I need to! Show yourself, thief!”

A deeper shadow loomed out of the darkness. Severio could just make out the gleam of steel armour, and the red glow of demonic eyes.

Severio whimpered.

“This is a lovely house,” hissed a reptilian voice.

“What?” Severio stammered. “...what?”

“This house is lovely,” the voice repeated, with an odd emphasis on the s. “And you also have a lovely farm, yes? Inherited from your sister, who died tragically not so long ago?”

“Uh...” Severio had expected the thief to flee, or strike him, not compliment him on his real estate investments. “Uh, yes. Both...lovely.”

“It would be a great shame if this house were to burn to the ground. It would be a great shame if the farm were to burn to the ground as well. It would be a great shame if the fields were sown with powdered dragon bone so nothing would ever grow there again. Is this not so?”

“Are you threatening me?” Severio asked, incredulous.

“A great shame,” the reptilian continued, looming even closer, “If someone were to break into your house in the middle of the night, gut you, and hang you from a tree to atone for your dishonour. Yes?”

“Yes! No!” Severio gasped. “What do you want?”

“Your niece. When she comes of age, this farm will be hers. You will make writings that tell everyone it will be so, witnessed by the Jarl. You will care for this farm until such time as she takes it over. Then, when she does, you will leave Whiterun and never return. If you do not do this, I believe a great many shameful things will happen here. Yes?”

“Yes!”

“Then we are understanding each other.”

The reptilian shadow seemed to simply melt into the darkness, and Severio was alone.

He wondered if he could rouse a scribe and a lawyer at this time of night.

* * *

3. In Which Whiterun Learns a Lesson in Argonian Manners

A week later, Runs-on-Water wandered into Whiterun. As usual, the residents gave him a wide, respectful berth. He had done a great many odd jobs, bounties, and other tasks involving violence-for-gold around the city, and so while he wasn't loved, he was granted an amount of honour that most Argonians in Skyrim couldn't dream of.

Runs-on-Water was sure that the armour and the massive two-handed sword helped somewhat.

Lucia, as usual, wove her way through the crowds and towards him. “Hello! Kill any dragons today?”

“No, not today. Only a pack of wolves, four bandits, and a troll.” Runs-on-Water hefted the sack over his shoulder, full of bloody trophies.

“Awesome!” She chirped. The girl had lost the waifish, hungry look in just the past week. Runs-on-Water suppressed an uncharacteristic warm feeling at that knowledge – his septims were feeding the girl well, it seemed.

“You are eating well?” He asked.

“Yes, sir! And I still have plenty hidden away, just in case. I think I have enough to eat for a week!”

Runs-on-Water felt a pang of sadness. The poor girl looked on such a meagre existence as a gift. It was not right.

He made a snap decision.

“Come with me,” He said.

“Okay!”

After selling the wolf pelts (for half price – the massive sword-cuts into the hides hadn't helped in that regard) and the weapons and armour of the unfortunate bandits, he turned towards Dragonsreach, occupying the highest pinnacle of Whiterun.

“Are you going to see the Jarl?” Lucia asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water replied.

“Can I come?”

“Yes. It is necessary.”

The girl squealed in excitement. “I've never been in Dragonsreach before!”

When the Argonian stalked into the main hall at Dragonsreach, the men and women seated at the heavy wooden tables in the torchlit lower hall looked up. It was a diverse group – men and women in armour, some in rich clothes, and a few in the thick robes of mages and wizards. They quickly lost interest, returning to their rich meals and plentiful mead. The dimly-lit stone keep saw it's fair share of the armoured lizard in his comings and goings – he worked often for the Jarl and others in Dragonsreach, and he was nearly a fixture there.

For his part, Runs-on-Water ignored the humans (for the most part, they all looked the same to him) and headed up the steps to the throne to speak to the Jarl.

Jarl Balgruuf was sprawled in his throne, bored, while two of his pin-headed advisors jousted verbally in front of him, as if for his amusement. His head of security, Irileth. fully armoured and hand on her sword, glowered from nearby. She and the Argonian exchanged nods: Runs-on-Water respected the Dunmer woman, but had no use for the rest of Balgruuf's sycophants. For her part, Irileth did not seem to have the usual prejudice Dark Elves had for Argonians. Runs-on-Water returned the favour.

Runs-on-Water stepped unceremoniously between the two arguing advisors and stared down at the idle Jarl.

“Yes, Dragonborn? What do you need?” He asked. This was what Runs-on-Water liked about the Jarl – he didn't stand on ceremony when things needed to be done.

“I wish to buy a house,” he said.

The Jarl frowned. “Oh? I suppose something can be arranged. Speak with my steward-”

“I wish to buy a house now,” Runs-on-Water said, and dropped a heavy sack of gold at the Jarl's feet. “Your steward is a weasel, and I do not like him. He may handle the money, but we will not have words together.”

“Dragonborn, you have done much for Whiterun, but I must demand courtesy-”

“I would also like to make a statement. I would like your scribes to make words that repeat my statement, so that all in Whiterun may read the words of the Dragonborn. Honourable Jarl, you know I do not make many requests, so I ask that you grant this to me.”

The Jarl narrowed his eyes, then summoned a scribe with a flick of his hand. “I will grant this to you, Dragonborn, as a token of my respect. But do not push me further.”

“Thank you, but I promise nothing,” Runs-on-Water said, then turned to the scribe. “Do you speak Argonian?”

“No,” the skinny, robed man squeaked, quaking under the Dragonborn's gaze.

“This will make things difficult. So much lost in translation. No matter. I will get the point across. Make my words here on that paper. I, Runs-on-Water, Dragonborn, descendent of Wades-through-Blood, descendent of Steps-in-Excrement, lay a charge on the people of Whiterun: You are all honourless scum, of the lowest kind imaginable. You reek of vile sin.”

The hall fell silent. The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock.

“You live in plenty while hatchlings roam the street, hungry and without shelter. You break the covenant of the Clutch and the Nest and do not even have the decency to feel shame. Not even the most wretched of my people, in the depths of skooma addiction, would fall to such a level.

“I, Runs-on-Water, must teach you decency. With Jarl Balgruuf as my witness, let it be known that from this day, the young orphan Lucia of Whiterun, who was left to beg and starve on the streets, is my hatchling. She is blood of my blood, clutch of my clutch, and whoever speaks against this will face my wrath. Any harm that comes to her will be repaid tenfold. Any who gainsay me on this will be gutted and hung on the nearest tree in atonement for their dishonour.”

Somewhere in the hall, a spoon fell with a dull thunk. All else was silence.

“Read that back, scribe,”

In a quivering voice, the scribe repeated the proclamation back, word for word. Runs-on-Water nodded. “Thank you, Jarl, for indulging me.”

The Jarl just nodded dumbly.

Runs-on-Water turned to Lucia, who stood stock still, her eyes wide. “Well, hatchling?”

The girl broke into a wide smile and jumped into the air, throwing her arms around the Argonian's neck. “Papa!” She yelled, then, muffled in his shoulder. “Ow. You're spikier than I thought you'd be.”

Runs-on-Water patted her gingerly on the back. “I am sorry, Hatchling. It is my nature.”

Finally, in the silence of the hall, the steward spoke up. “As to the house you wish to purchase...did you, by any chance, want some furnishings with that?”

Runs-on-Water glared at the steward. “I shall furnish it myself, weasel.”

Perhaps predictably, no-one gainsayed him.

4.In Which The Dragonborn Dabbles in Crafting

“Can I come see yet, Papa?”

“Patience, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water hissed in exasperation. “I am nearly done.”

Runs-on-Water found himself seized with a strange giddiness. The house he had purchased was dusty, drafty, and filled with cobwebs and insects. With minimal prodding and a few veiled threats, he had extracted some work from some of the locals, and the place was much cleaner now, if a bit empty of furnishings. In his many years on the road, he had slept in ditches, caves, tents and ruins. Now he had a house, and some deep part of his reptilian soul was nudging him to make it a home.

His hatchling's voice, muffled through the door, was continually pulling him from his reverie.

Finally, he was done. It had been exhausting work – he would sun himself on the roof this afternoon and try and regain his energy. He beamed down at the results of his labours. He felt a welling of surprising feelings – a familial warmth, love, and pride, so different from his usual inveterate grouchiness.

It was disturbingly pleasant.

“Come, hatchling! You may see your room now!”

“Hooray!” she said, and rushed through the door, a wide smile on her face that quickly shifted and turned to confusion. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

The walls of the room were covered in vines, and long, snaking branches covered in moss and old-man's-beard.  The earthen floor had been covered with almost a full inch of leaf litter and loam, and squished noticeably. Through a window partially obscured by vines, dim yellow sunlight filtered through to splash against a large flat stone in one corner of the room. In the opposite corner was what looked like a massive tangle of branches, grasses and vines, but on closer inspection it was more like a woven mattress, with a large depression in the middle.

Lucia looked up at her Argonian Papa. He was grinning down at her, his forked tongue flickering with pride. “I know it is not a proper nest,” he said, “There are no Hist trees outside of Black Marsh, and the soil here is thin, with no clay, so I could not construct a pond. But the nest is woven in the traditional manner, very comfortable. And the stone soaks up the sun well – you need not worry that your blood will cool with this stone in the room!” He leaned closer. “What do you think?”

Lucia looked around the room, back her Papa, then walked slowly over to sit on the edge of the nest. The intricate weaving was deceiving. What looked thorny and frightening was actually a soft, warm place of safety, a refuge from the world.

She looked back up at her new Papa. He was beginning to look anxious, twiddling his claws nervously.

She sighed and sank back into the nest with a smile. “It's perfect.”

Runs-on-Water's gills flared and the scales around his eyes flushed red. He was suffused with a warm glow. “I am glad you like it, Hatchling!”

5. In Which Lucia Learns to Always Read the Label

Runs-on-Water returned from the smith with a spring in his step. It had been a long day – two dragons had attacked him at once earlier in the day, and while the first one died with an arrow in it's eye, the second had taken much tedious hacking with his greatsword before expiring. He was looking forward to getting home, and seeing the Hatchling.

Much had changed in the past weeks. His nesting instincts had kicked in with a vengeance, and while he still wandered far and wide, he was now anxious to return to Whiterun in a way that he hadn't been before. He felt like he should be worried about going soft, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He opened the door to Breezehome and set his burden down next to the door. “Hatchling, I am back!”

Usually Lucia came running as soon as he was through the door. But today all he could hear was an out of tune humming from the hatchling's nest. “Hatchling? Is something wrong?”

Runs-on-Water approached the door, opening it slowly, and put his head in.

“Hatchling, are you- BY THE HIST!”

Lucia was curled up in her nest, grinning manically with wide eyes, arms wrapped tight around a ball of squirming, hissing brown fur. The giant brown rat – a skeever, the locals called them – was obviously nearly exhausted, but it wasn't giving up anytime soon.

“Papa, you're home!” giggled Lucia. “I caught a Unicorn! It tried to sneak in through the back door but I lassoed it with twisty words and some vines and I caught it and now it's mine! It's mane smells like rainbows!”

Runs-on-Water took one look at her dilated pupils the manic grin, and began casting about the room. His fears were confirmed a moment later – an empty vial lay on the floor. The Argonian picked  it up gingerly – it was completely empty, not a drop left.

He rushed over to Lucia, yanked the raging skeever from her grip, and grabbed her face gently in a clawed hand. The skeever, hissing madly, scurried from the room.

“My unicorn!” Lucia shouted.

“Silence, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water snapped. “What have you done?”

Lucia went from laughing one moment to weeping inconsolably the next. “I slipped on the stairs and hurt myself, so I got a healing potion from the cupboard. I was only going to take a sip, but it tasted so nice, and i felt like I was flying...I'm sorry Papa!”

“Hatchling, that was not a healing potion. That was sap of the Hist! It is for Argonians, so that we may hear the whispers of the the Hist trees when we are far from the Old Country. It is very dangerous for humans! Tell, me quickly, am I your enemy?”

“No! You're my Papa!” she shouted tearfully.

“Good, good. Now, do you feel an overwhelming desire to murder anyone?”

“Of course not! Well, except for Braith. I hate her guts.” Lucia mused.

“Ah, yes. The bully. Those feelings are normal and healthy. But do not murder her. That would bring the attention of the guards.” Runs-on-Water leaned back with a sigh. It appeared the Hist sap was not having a bad effect on the child, though the Argonian couldn't understand why. Hist sap usually drove humans into a blind, murderous, hallucinogenic rage. In Lucia's case, it simply made her wish to cuddle giant rats.

“The effects of the sap will wear off soon,” Runs-on-Water told Lucia. “Until then, I will stay with you. Do not trust your senses. For example, you did not catch a unicorn, that was a skeever.”

“A skeever?”

“Yes. It is now somewhere in the house.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The Argonian and the human child sat in the nest for some time. After a while, her racing heart calmed, her eyes returned to normal, and her manic smile faded.

“Ugh. Papa, I feel awful,” Lucia moaned.

“This is an important lesson: do not drink your Papa's Hist-sap. It will do strange things to your mind. Humans cannot hear the whispers of the Hist, so there is no point.”

“But I did hear the whispers, Papa!” Lucia insisted from his lap.

Runs-on-Water's breath caught in his throat. His gills slammed shut. This was impossible! “What?” he whispered.

“The whispers! I heard them! At first it just sounded like branches moving in the wind, but later there were words! They spoke to me!” She insisted.

“...what did they say?” Runs-on-Water whispered urgently. He had to know if this was a true Hist-Sending.

“They said to tell you that you had done the right thing coming to Skyrim. That you were fulfilling the will of the Hist, and that your ancestors would be proud of you.”

Runs-on-Water swallowed painfully. “...and?”

“And they said not to be sad, but that you would never see Black Marsh again.”

Runs-on-Water bowed his head, taking deep breaths. He had known it, had felt it from his gills to the tip of his tail, on the day that he left, but he had not allowed himself to believe it. He would never see the marshes of Argonia again. He would never feel the caress of the humid air of the deep swamps. He swallowed a harsh sob, deep in his chest.

“They said that you would have to carry the Marsh with you, in your heart,” Lucia continued. “What does that mean, Papa?”

Runs-on-Water looked down at his hatchling, his blood-red eyes meeting her deep brown ones. This should not be possible. Only an Argonian should be able to hear the whispers. Only an Argonian should be able to drink of the Hist and keep their sanity.

But then, what had he said? Blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch. Was she not his hatchling now? Did that not make her an Argonian in all but flesh?

“I will teach you what it means to carry the Marsh with you, as it was taught to me when I was a hatchling. It will take...many years. A lifetime. It will be very difficult,” he said. “But we will do it together, hatchling, and that will make all the difference.

6. In Which Runs-on-Water Has the Talk with his Hatchling

The question came one night at dinner time, during a simple feast of venison stew and fresh bread (found in a nearby cave, as was usual).

“Papa, what were your parents like?” Runs-on-Water’s chest swelled, and the gill slits on his neck flared with pride. “My mother was a mighty warrior, with scales like steel, teeth like daggers and eyes that burned in the night-swamp. All three of my fathers were near to her equal in combat, and caught her eye with their skill with the spear and their cunning in battle, as well as the iridescence of their neck scales, aha! Their clutch was a bold one, and they are in my mind often.”

“Papa, did you say you have THREE fathers?” The human hatchling’s brow was furrowed – Runs-on-Water had learned that this meant that her brain was overheating. “How…how does that even work?”

Runs-on-Water chuckled. “Aha, I am always forgetting that your human females take only one mate! It is different in the Old Country, of course. In Argonia, our females prove their worthiness to spawn by deeds of might and cunning, and earn the right to choose mates from among the males. When the spawning season is nigh, the female and her males go into the Hist-swamps together…” The small child listened, eyes slowly widening, as Runs-on-Water explained, in unrelenting, graphic detail the breeding rites of the people of Argonia.

When he was done, Runs-on-Water beamed down at his adopted daughter. “It is a process both beautiful and majestic, yes?”

The child had a pale look about her – Runs-on-Water suspected her throat sacs were malfunctioning – he hoped she would grow out of it. “So…that’s where baby Argonians come from?”

“Hatchlings, yes!”

The girl blinked. “Do…do humans, um… make babies in the same way?”

Runs-on-Water waved a clawed hand absently. “I know little of human mating rituals- It is all so dramatic and strange. How can a worthy female be satisfied with a single drake, or worse yet, produce an acceptable brood of eggs if she has not tested his strength in open combat? But I assume that the ‘making babies’ itself is similar. Except that humans do it in the bedroom, under the covers, and they are obliged to feel shame after the fact.” The Argonian hissed his disapproval.

The girl-child took some time to digest this before speaking.

“Papa?”

“Yes, hatchling?”

“I think I want to be a nun.”

The Argonian was puzzled. Human children were strange creatures with strange minds.  Runs-on-Water reached down and patted her on the shoulder. “I am sure you will succeed at whatever you put your mind to, hatchling.”

7. In Which Some Stormcloaks Are Exposed to Argonian Culture

Runs-on-Water stared down at the crudely-scrawled note in his claws, his heart cold with rage, his tail flicking violently in agitation. He read the note again.

The note was as brief as it was infuriating.

DRAGONBORN – WE HAVE RESCUED THE CHILD LUCIA FROM YOUR IMPRISONMENT. NO MORE WILL YOU CORRUPT HER WITH YOUR FILTHY ARGONIAN WAYS. WHEN THE STORMCLOAKS ARE VICTORIOUS ALL YOUR KIND WILL BE CAST OUT FROM SKYRIM OR PUT TO THE SWORD. IF YOU WISH YOUR END TO COME MORE QUICKLY, COME TO BROKENFANG CAVE AND FIND US. LONG LIVE ULFRIC STORMCLOAK, TRUE KING OF SKYRIM!

He crumpled the note viciously in a clawed hand. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his tail thrashed. He turned to his Housecarl where she sat on a chair, breathing raggedly.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Lydia muttered. Her black hair was matted with blood, and her severe features were strained in agony. “There were at least six of them.”

“You did well, Housecarl, to slay two of them” Runs-on-Water said, suppressing his anger. “No one could have done better.”

“You could have,” she whispered. “I should have died before I let them take her.”

“No. You are both still alive, and that is good. And the Stormcloaks are as good as dead,” Runs-on-Water hissed.

“My lord, it is a trap! You cannot go alone! Go to the Jarl, take some guards with you!” Lydia insisted, trying to rise before collapsing back into the chair in agony, her face gone suddenly white as a sheet.

“Yes, it is a trap,” Runs-on-Water agreed. “One that I look forward to springing...on them.”

* * *

“My Papa's going to kiiiillll you, my Papa's going to kiiiilll you!”

Agarmir, the Stormcloak leader growled. “Vilhelm, shut her up!” He snapped to one of his men.

The bearded brute he had spoken to threw up his hands. “Every time I try and gag her, she bites my fingers! I think I might be getting an infection.”

Agarmir spun to where the girl sat, tied securely to a chair. She smiled up at him in an unsettling way. “My father is going to gut you, and hang you from the highest branch of the tallest tree to atone for your dishonour,” She said matter-of-factly.

“You better shut your mouth, girl, or I will do it for you!” He shouted. “When that filthy lizard you call 'Papa' comes here, like the idiot he is, we're going to butcher him like an animal. One day, you'll understand. We're doing this for your own good. For Skyrim's own good!”

Lucia made a show of looking around. “YOU GUYS are going to butcher MY Papa? Have you met him? He's the Dragonborn! He kills dragons and eats their souls! For fun!”

“Even a mighty warrior can be overcome by ambush,” Agarmir said, but he could see Villhelm shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. “And what are you fidgeting about?”

“Well...the girl has a point, boss.”

Agarmir turned away from the infuriating moron and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Villhelm, relax. The entire cave is a web of interconnected traps. We have sharpened stakes, rock falls, flamethrowers, pressure plates that shoot little darts. And there are four of us, all with enchanted weapons, waiting in ambush!”

“But boss...*sklrch gurgle gurgle*”

“Don't interrupt me Villhelm! This 'Dragonborn' is just a filthy Argonian, and no match for a true Nord, much less four of them!” Agarmir pounded his fist into his open hand. “We will kill the Dragonborn. You'll see. He's not so tough.”

Agarmir braced himself for more of Villhelm's stupidity. But to his surprise, none was forthcoming. “Villhelm?” Slowly, Agarmir turned, a feeling of dread overcoming him.

Two things were immediately clear to Agarmir upon turning around. One: Villhelm would never say anything stupid ever again. A man had to have an intact throat to speak, after all. And two: The Dragonborn was a sneaky bastard, and was apparently a master at evading traps.

He knew this because Runs-on-Water was standing over Villhelm's slowly-cooling corpse, covered in the blood of the other Stormcloaks, holding an Ebony Greatsword in his hands.

His eyes burned with rage.

“I don't suppose you'd be open to negotiating the girl's release?” Agarmir asked hopefully.

To Agarmir's shock, the Argonian appeared to think about it. “I think...no. I have a reputation to uphold. I must show Whiterun that I am a lizard of my word.”

Agarmir raised his battle-axe. In the end, he supposed, the Argonian was being very reasonable. A man's word was his bond, after all.

* * *

When Runs-on-Water climbed down from the Gildergreen Tree at the centre of Whiterun, the Jarl and his entourage were waiting for him. The Jarl was tapping his foot impatiently, and had a thunderous look on his face.

“Yes, Jarl?” Runs-on-Water asked innocently.

“Is this all really necessary?”  Balgruuf ground out.

“I did warn everyone,” Runs-on-Water pointed out. “We even wrote it down. There was a decree.”

The Jarl sputtered. “Yes...but...we're in the middle of town!”

“Yes. Very visible. Now everyone can see that I mean what I say.”

The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock. “The children will see!”

“I had not thought of that,” Runs-on-Water acknowledged. “You are right. It will be very educational.”

Indeed, a small crowd of children had gathered around the Gildergreen tree already. They were starting to throw rocks and rotten fruit at what was hanging from the highest branches.

“This is the Gildergreen! This tree is sacred!”

Runs-on-Water nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! It is very convenient that such a sacred tree was ready to claw. It will have to stand in for the Hist trees of my homeland. The Priestess of Kynareth was very understanding.” The Dragonborn leaned closer to the Jarl. “She owed me a little favour, if you must know.”

The Jarl looked at the blood-spattered Dragonborn, and then up at the hanging bodies of the Stormcloaks that had kidnapped his daughter. One of them was wearing a sign around his neck, written in blood:

I TOLD YOU SO

The Jarl sighed. “Just...take them down before they start to smell, alright?”

Runs-on-Water beamed at the Jarl. “You are a most wise and just ruler, Jarl! Thank you!”

The Jarl turned away, saying nothing, and headed back up to Dragonsreach. When he got there, he was going to drink a whole barrel of mead.

8. In Which Hatchlings Grow Up Too Quickly

Runs-on-Water stood on the hilltop, looking out over the small crowd of people gathered in the small glade below. There were not many people here...it was a mix of mostly Nords and Bretons, with a salting of other humans, khaajit, argonians and elves scattered throughout. There had been much grumbling when Runs-on-Water had insisted that the wedding of his adopted daughter would be a small affair. He had flatly refused to invite the Jarls of Skyrim, with the exception of the long-suffering Jarl Balgruuf, and even his entourage had been limited to a few people.

Runs-on-Water had been in Skyrim for nearly a decade, and at last, a kind of peace had settled over the land. The land was still lousy with bandits, but the civil war was over, the dragons were gone, and people were getting back to their everyday lives. He was famous  throughout the province, throughout the Empire, even, and though it had been years since his most well-known deeds, he was still a popular figure. If his scales had dulled slightly, and his eyes were not so sharp, none of the multitude who knew his face were the wiser.

It would be a strange human ceremony. Lucia had desired a traditional Breton wedding, and Runs-on-Water had yielded gracefully to her request. It was her day, after all, and he had looked at it with a sense of excitement and growing dread.

And now, Runs-on-Water was feeling reflective.

“I have killed many men and mer,” Runs-on-Water spoke into the cool evening.

“Errr...” Lars Battleborn, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his fine, imported silk clothing, stood just behind the Dragonborn. Almost everyone was a little nervous around Runs-on-Water, except Lucia. And if you were summoned to a dark hilltop, an hour before you were to marry his cherished daughter, you would be very nervous indeed.

“Hundreds, probably. Maybe thousands. Who can keep track?” Runs-on-Water continued.

Lars decided that silence was the best course.

Runs-on-Water spun abruptly, causing Lars to startle and make a distressingly unmanly squeaking sound. “I'm sorry, sir!”

“For what?” Runs-on-Water asked, then waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. I was just trying to explain....I am not...perhaps...a good person.”

Lars found himself nodding before he managed to stop himself.

“I have done my best to raise Lucia. But I have taught her the ways of Black Marsh, and perhaps...perhaps in that, I failed her. This is not Black Marsh...this is Skyrim,” Runs-on-Water shook his head. “If I have done wrong, it is too late to undo. The Hist will judge me, as they judge all Argonians.”

“Lucia is...well, she is very fond of you,” Lars ventured carefully. “I...well I think she's quite happy with how she was raised.”

Runs-on-Water nodded absently.

“And...well, to be quite frank with you, sir, I don't think I've ever seen a Breton woman handle a battle-axe like she can. Why, she puts every Nord woman I know to shame!” He continued. “You should be very proud.”

Runs-on-Water glanced over at Lars. He'd lost the soft cheeks of his youth, and had taken after his father in terms of his height and broad shoulders, but he'd retained his lank brown hair and the eyes of a kicked puppy. No one would guess that the man was a terror on the battlefield. Runs-on-Water wouldn't have believed it, had he not seen Lucia sparring with the boy.

That, at least, had been somewhat in the Argonian tradition. She had challenged (and defeated) Lars in battle, and then immediately afterwords had helped him to his feet and 'asked him out', as the humans called it. She had been mortified when Runs-on-Water had urged her to simply drag the boy out into the nearest swamp and get started on some grandlizards, and insisted on a more conventional courtship.

“I am very proud,” Runs-on-Water said. “Lucia is the only clutch I will ever have. She is no less my daughter than if I had hatched her myself.”

“Yes sir,” Lars answered. “No one doubts that.”

“I have seen to that,” Runs-on-Water said wryly.

“Papa! Papa, are you up here!” Lucia's voice echoed up the hill.

“Here, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water called back. Lars, he noted, looked very relieved to hear his fiance's voice.

Lucia trudged up the hill, holding the green and gold skirt of her wedding dress out of the way as she ascended. The dress was traditional, for the most part, but the pattern had required some modification. For one, Lucia was a little more well-muscled than many young brides, and for another thing, she had needed to be sure she could strap her battle-axe to her back without causing unsightly ruffles. She had grown tall, and strong, but she had kept her sunny smile and laughing eyes.

To Runs-on-Water, she would always be his hatchling.

“Has father been threatening you, Lars my love?” Lucia asked, laughter in her voice.

“No. No! We've just been talking...” Lars replied. “It's been...something.”

“Well, if you're getting along so well, perhaps you would like to marry each other? Or can Lars come down this hill and get married to me after all?”

Lars turned red, and tried to stammer out an apology. Lucia shooed him away. “Go on down, you lump! You have to wait for me at the altar, remember! I'll be down in a moment.”

Lars stuttered out his goodbyes, and headed down the hill at speed, relief evident in every step.

“Humans are strange,” Runs-on-Water mused, when he was out of earshot.

“Yes, they are. We are, I mean,” Lucia replied.

The Dragonborn was silent for a moment, before speaking. “Hatchling, I know things have not been easy for you...”

“Oh, hush, Papa!” Lucia said. “Because of you, I had an unconventional childhood. I was raised by a lizard-man from the darkest swamps on the continent who killed dragons and trolls and Hist knows what else for fun and profit. I've been swinging a battle-axe since I was thirteen. I'm the only human alive who can get by in Argonian, the only one that can hear the whispers of the Hist, and the only daughter of the Dragonborn. I'm not saying it hasn't been...hard, at times. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Would you?”

“No. Well, I could have done with a few less dragons. That became tedious after a while.”

Lucia clapped her father on the shoulder, and then was surprised when he lurched forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. She settled in and hugged him back.

“I worry that I will lose you now,” Runs-on-Water, the Scourge of stormcloaks, Dragon-killer, master of a hundred Shouts, whispered his wretchedness to his only daughter. “You are all that is good in me.”

“Papa,” she whispered back. “No matter what happens, I am blood of your blood, clutch of your clutch, and I will carry the Marsh in my heart.” At this she paused, as if debating whether to continue. “As will my children.” She said meaningfully.

Runs-on-Water drew back, a toothy smile touching his muzzle. “Are you preparing to spawn already?”

Lucia nearly choked at that. “What? No. Well...not immediately. But, maybe...a little sooner than planned. We may have, er, a little bit of a surprise in eight months or so.”

Runs-on-Water beamed. The look on his face reminded Lucia of the day he had built her the little nest in her room. “This is wonderful news!”

“Don't tell anyone else!” she implored, flushing slightly. “The Battle-Borns are a little...traditional about that sort of thing.”

“I will say nothing,” Runs-on-Water agreed.

There was a small, awkward silence. Lucia broke it. “Well, are you ready to escort me down into the glade?”

“It would be my honour, hatchling,” Runs-on-Water said.

As he escorted his daughter, blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch, down to her future husband, Runs-on-Water at last felt at peace. The will of the Hist had been made clear to him at last. He could never return to Black Marsh. But here, with Lucia, he had managed to create a little Black Marsh of his own.

And together, they would carry the Marsh with them in their hearts.

[the-writing-kestrel-blog]

Remembering – A Story of 303 (Polish) Squadron

September 9th, 1940, was a typical English autumn day. High clouds sullenly threatened rain, but the sun gave lie to inclement weather, with bright rays blazing down through gaps in the cloud. The countryside was not silent; birdsong filled the air, the sound of a lone tractor droned on in the distance, and the wind gently stirred the fields of wheat and barley, adding a constant background sussuration to the morning chorus.

Sergeant Josef Frantisek, 303 (Polish Squadron) was not a poet. A poet may have found words to describe his feelings that morning. Josef could find no words, either in his native Czech or in his new-found competence in English. He was content, however, to sit for a while, and simply feel.

There was precious little time for that these days, to be certain.

Josef was sitting, arms around his knees, looking out over the wreckage of his Hawker Hurricane fighter plane, where it lay slightly nose down, a graceful (if damaged) terminus to the ugly rut it had dug into the farmer's field as it came to a halt. He pondered the curving lines of the craft, now ruined by the bent propeller and mud-splattered canopy. The Hurricane was no beauty, at least compared to the  Spitfire, but he found it's working-man quality spoke to something within him. After all, he was not taking a fighter  into the skies of England to impress the Luftwaffe with a pretty plane.

He was going up there to blow them out of the sky.

Of course, today, fate had not favoured Josef. Only a little while ago, the countryside had not been so peaceful...

How had it gone wrong?

*** Some time earlier...

“Dammit Yellow 3, stay in formation!”

Josef rolled his eyes and pulled back gently on the flight yoke, climbing slightly through the grey skies to a position behind and to the left of his irritated flight commander. John Kent (or 'Kentski', as the Poles in the squadron knew him) was a good man, and a hell of a pilot, but something of a stickler for RAF doctrine. Frantisek had no patience for formation flight – he was up here to fight, not impress his commanders with 'discipline'.

“Samolotow wróga, prosto!” Came Sergeant Wunsche's voice over the radio.

“English if you please, Wunsche!” Kent's reply over the radio was sharp.

“Sorry, Kentski! Enemy aircraft, twelve of the clock!”

Josef raised the nose of his Hurricane and tipped his wing a little to see below him. Sure enough, the faint dots of enemy aircraft could be seen against the backdrop of the sun-shattered clouds. Josef started counting and gave up somewhere around thirty...and there were plenty more than that. From this distance it was hard to tell, but it looked like mostly bombers, with the German fighters flying high cover.

Josef smiled grimly. Not high enough – the RAF hurricanes were coming in at a few thousand feet above even the highest of the escorting fighters. They'd already seized the advantage in the coming engagement.

“I'll be. Right where Chain Home said they'd be. I could kiss those ladies.” Kent said. “I could kiss the radar antennas, too,” Josef said wryly.

“Cut the chatter, yellow flight! We do this by the numbers! Yellow flight, Blue Flight, keep those fighters busy if you can. Red Flight, White Flight, you hit the bombers with me. Go for a head on pass, then up and around. Keep eyes on your six, gents!” Squadron Leader Ronald Kellet said in clipped tones. Kellet had a much larger stick in his ass than Kent did. The joke among the squadron was that the stick was installed in the British officers when they received their commission. Canadian officers, like Kent, seemed to get smaller ones.

“You heard the man, yellow flight! Arm your guns and throttle up!” Kent ordered.

Josef hadn't waited; he'd already advanced his engine RPM and throttle to combat power and initiated a shallow climb. He'd claw for every bit of altitude he could without losing too much airspeed. He wouldn't be able to out-climb the German Bf-109s after his first pass, so he wanted as much height as he could get right now. He glanced right and saw Kent and Wunsche climbing alongside him in their own Hurricanes.

With a gentle right tug on the flight yoke, he tipped his wing once more and leaned a little to the right in the cramped cockpit. He could pick out the enemy fighters now. They were climbing desperately, but it was too late – even with the superior climbing ability of their Messerschmitt fighters, the Germans couldn't hope to reach him in time.

He kept tipping his wing as he got closer, keeping a foot on the rudder and a little forward pressure on the yolk to keep from turning too much. He watched as the Bf-109s passed below him, waited a few seconds, then rolled completely inverted and pulled smoothly back on the flight yoke with both hands.

His eyes were glued on the German fighter he'd picked out as he brought his nose around. He half rolled again, and now he was stooping on the enemy like a falcon. His target ceased it's attempt to climb and started a hard break turn to get out of Josef's sights. Too early – the 109 couldn't hope to out-turn his Hurricane, and he banked with his target and did his best to place the crosshairs in the centre of his sight in the path of the enemy.

Josef waited – waited – waited – closing with his enemy at a frightening rate now, but Josef knew that he had to wait until the plane filled his gunsight before firing. He could see the long nose, the lemon-yellow spinner of the propeller, the square-cropped wings. He could see the swastika blazoned on the tail. The enemy was at a 45 degree angle crossing his path, and just before he fired he pulled up a little to give more lead, let the pressure off the stick, and when he felt his aircraft settle, he opened up.

The Hurricane's eight .303 guns roared, and red tracers slashed across the sky. The German fighter flew right into the stream of bullets, and Josef saw the flashes of incendiary rounds burning their way through the craft. The engine burst into flames, and now the Messerschmitt was trailing a twisting ribbon of black smoke and the grey vapour of coolant.

Then he was blazing past at more than 300 miles per hour, his altimeter spinning like a maddened clock. There was no need to panic – he pulled back slightly on the stick, came out of his dive, and started a shallow climb, regaining most of the altitude he'd lost in his diving attack. He quarter rolled the craft and looked back over his shoulder. His sharp eyes found his target shrieking towards the earth in a near-vertical dive, now completely consumed by fire. A little higher up, he could see the enemy pilot hanging from his parachute, floating gently down towards the English Channel below.

Now Josef's head went on a swivel, looking for Kent and Wunsche. He found them at his nine O'clock, Kent leading Wunsche through a climbing turn in pursuit of their own target. As Kent came around onto it's tail, the 109 nosed down sharply into a dive, hoping to use it's superior diving speed and airframe strength to outpace the hurricanes in a race to the earth.

Kent wasn't having that – Josef watched as he half rolled, pulled up sharply to put his nose on target, and let loose with a 3 second burst of his guns. The enemy fighter took hits everywhere, wings, fuselage and nose flashing as bullets struck. Streams of fuel emerged from the wings at the first hits, and a moment later they ignited in the barrage of incendiary rounds. The fighter's canopy slid back, and Josef watched as the pilot jumped from his burning craft.

“Good kill! He's going for a burn!” Kent said over the radio.

“Mine as well,” Josef replied, already looking for his next target.

It didn't take him long. He and the rest of Yellow flight had lagged behind the rest of the enemy formation. A few miles west of him, he could see the blazing streams of tracers lancing back and forth as Red and White flight engaged the bombers. Above him he could see the three Hurricanes of Blue flight chasing a single 109, the leader firing short bursts at the jinking enemy fighter.

One flight of enemy bombers had yet to come under the guns of his comrades though – they were the last and lowest of the flock, and Josef quickly pulled his craft around and set himself up in a shallow dive. He pointed his nose ahead of the bombers, coming in at 20 degrees off their path. Coming across at an oblique angle would confound the tail and dorsal gunners, and give him a shot at at least one of the engines before he dove clear.

He glanced over his left shoulder and saw Kent and Wunsche following him in. “I'll take the one on the left!” He said into his radio.

“Roger! I'll take the leader!” Kent said. “Yellow two, back off a touch and follow me in. I'll hit him first, and you finish him off!”

The three hurricanes raced after the German twin-engine bombers –Heinkel He-111's, bristling with guns, hauling hundreds of pounds of bombs destined for British factories and airfields. Josef closed with the craft at high speed, holding his fire until he could see the dorsal gun turret swiveling to fire at him. The turret's guns spat flame and tracers reached out for his Hurricane. He felt the craft shudder as he took hits on the left wing, and the plane suddenly tugged to the left. With a thrill of fear he dragged the flight yolk to the right through main strength and pressed the trigger. In one long, 4 second burst of fire he watched his tracers stitch their way through the engine, along the wing, and then into the forward fuselage and cockpit of the bomber.

The bomber suddenly entered a steep dive, but just as the Heinkel nosed over the turret opened fire again, and this time the hits were in his engine.

The Merlin engine of the Hurricane went from a purr to a scream as the RPM climbed above 4000 before the sound of grinding metal filled Josef's ears and the engine stopped. The propeller came to a lazy halt in front of his gunsight.

“Hovno!” Josef cursed as he dove past the bomber, the cockpit eerily silent with the death of the engine. “I'm hit, engine dead.” He spoke tersely. Over to the west he could see white cliffs rising out of the sea. At a glance, it seemed the land atop them was pretty flat, possibly suitable for a belly landing, and a damn sight better than ditching in the channel. “I'm going to put down by Beachy Head.”

“Roger, Three. We'll cover you.”

Josef aligned his plane as best he could in a shallow dive – enough to keep his airspeed constant , but not so much that he would under-shoot his landing area and slam into the cliffs. He just had to ensure a smooth descent....

“Enemy fighter on your tail! I have him!” Came Wunsche's voice. Josef craned his neck and could just barely make out the 109 tailing him. Gunfire streaked past his cockpit, and he caught a flash of a friendly hurricane crossing the Messerscmitt's path and opening fire before it was lost to sight. The 109, rather than continuing to chase him, pulled up, rolled and dove again, until it was out of sight.

Josef kept turning back and forth, craning his neck to try and keep track of the two fighters.

Suddenly Wunsche's voice crashed over the radio. “Ja pierdole, I'm hit, I'm on fire...”

“Step out, man! Step out!”Kent shouted frantically.

“Bailing out--”

Josef had outpaced the fight, it seemed – Wunsche had provided him cover at the cost of his own aircraft. Josef could only hope he got out OK. He pushed his worry aside - He had his own problems. Ahead of him, the white cliffs loomed.

The next thirty seconds, with nothing for company but the faint rush of air past his airplane, were some of the longest in Josef's life. He kept looking behind him – what had happened to the enemy fighter that had attacked Wunsche? Where was Kent?

The cliffs rushed towards him – he'd misjudged things, he was going too fast, and if he didn't do something soon he'd overshoot the field he was aiming for and tear through the wooded fenceline just beyond. He dropped his flaps all the way down, felt the aircraft lurch, slow and bob in the air as lift and drag increased. He felt like he was floating now, and the top of the bone-white cliffs passed out of his view as he lined up on the field.

Ten more seconds and he was skimming the ground, only a few feet up. He braced himself...

He regained awareness some time later. He sat up groggily, gingerly prodding at his head – he'd smashed the top of his head into the reflector sight somehow, but had managed at least not to cut himself. The rush of air was gone, and everything was eerily silent in the cockpit.

Moving slowly, he pushed back the canopy, and climbed out of his Hurricane, and into the fresh air.

He walked away from his mud-splattered plane, peeling off his leather flight helmet and goggles and dropping them on the grass. When he reached the top of a small rise, he looked out over the channel. The massive furball was wrapping up. He could see a cluster of enemy aircraft disengaging to the east, some trailing smoke. Most of the Hurricanes had already given up the chase, and they were swinging around and heading back to base at Northolt.

Josef wondered how many enemy they'd shot down.

He wondered how many they'd lost.

He wondered if Wunsche was going to make it.

His hands shaking from fear and exhaustion, he sat down to wait. If no one showed in a couple of hours, he'd start walking and try and hitch a ride.

It was some time later (Josef was not sure how long) when he saw an olive drab lorry approaching. The vehicle pulled over on the road on the far side of the wooded fenceline, and two men stepped out. They scrambled over teh fence and trotted through the field towards him. For a moment Josef considered rising to meet them halfway, but his legs still felt a little weak, and a stumble or a fall would not do wonders for his pride at the moment. Instead, he raised a hand in greeting and waited for them to get to him.

The first of the men was Kent, still in his flight gear, his face still drawn with the strain of combat. The second was Witold Urbanowicz. Witold was something of an old dog in the squadron at 32 years old, but he was a tenacious fighter pilot with a hatred of the Nazis that rivalled Josef's own, and most of the time that was enough to get on Josef's good side. Urbanowicz was slated to be the new Squadron Leader once Rellet was re-assigned – another reason to be friendly with him.

“Everything all right, Jo?” Kent asked, boyish face full of concern. His usually carefully-parted and slick black hair was something of a mess after the morning's combat. Josef would have laughed if he didn't think it would hurt the Canuck's feelings.

“Fine, Kentski,” Jo replied.

“One of the better belly-landings I've seen,” Kent said, glancing at the Hurricane. “The Hurris are tough birds – maybe she'll fly again.”

Josef shrugged. Witold had stopped to inspect the downed aircraft before trudging over towards Josef and John. “A good landing, Sergeant,” Witold said. “But better to land at an airfield, no?”

Josef rolled his eyes. “I shall remember that next time, Witold.”

Witold scowled a little at his sarcastic tone, but couldn't hide the underlying smirk. Witold Urbanowicz was not the humourless bastard he sometimes pretended to be.

Josef looked up at Kent's flushed features. “I heard Wunsche go down. How is he?”

Kent grimaced. “They found him in a field a few miles away – rescue team went to him before you on my recommendation. Sorry.” Josef waved a hand. “I'm fine – just an unlucky bullet in the engine. Wunsche was on fire. Is he...”

“Burned, badly, about the face and hands.” Kent said, looking away. “But he'll live.”

“You've seen him?”

“Just before we came over here. We went there first - we were pretty sure you were OK.”

Witold was shaking his head. “That damned fuel tank again. Right in front of the instruments! And it goes up in flames if you so much as give it a sideways look! And we burn because of it...”

“They're retrofitting every Hurricane they can with sealing fuel tanks. They just haven't gotten to us yet,” Kent pointed out.

“Maybe they won't be getting to us, eh?” Witold shot back. “Just some bloody foreigners! Who cares if they burn to death in their cockpits?”

“That's not fair, and you know it.” Kent replied. “A lot of Canadian squadrons haven't been retrofitted yet. Hell, Kellet's Hurricane hasn't been fixed yet! You're being paranoid.”

“Can you blame us?” Josef said quietly. “The Nazis rolled into our homelands and no one lifted a finger. British promises meant nothing then. What do they mean now? We fight and die for people who look at us out of the corner of their eyes, like we are thieves.”

“They're not all like that,” Kent snapped. “Not me. Not Kellet. No one who flies with you.”

“Must we earn the right not to be hated with our own spilled blood?” Witold asked.

Kent threw up his hands and turned away. Josef looked over at Witold. The man was angry – angry at the loss of another skilled pilot to the fires – who knew when, or if, Wunsche would be back up with his comrades?

Josef jerked his head in the direction of Kent, and gave Witold a harsh look. Witold shifted, then cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Kentski. I am just worried about Wunsche. I do not mean to ...upset you.”

Kent turned around, shoulders slumped, and kicked idly at something in the grass. “I wouldn't be upset if you boys didn't have a point. It digs at me a bit, I'm not afraid to say it. The way your homelands were treated.”

“Perhaps not as much as it 'digs' at us,” Josef said with a wry smile.

Kent laughed bitterly. “Not as much, no. But we're due for the new fuel tanks next week, you know. We're not last on the list.”

“I know,” Witold said. “I know. I am angry these days.”

“That is because you are a grumpy Polish dog, Witold,” Josef said.

Witold shrugged. “I cannot help who I am...you yappy Czeck pup!”

The tension eased as the men laughed together, and Kent reached down to help the Josef to his feet. “Come on, Jo, let's get back home and give the commander our debrief. I counted two for you, and I got at least one, and maybe one of the Heinkels – he was smoking pretty good before I lost him in some cloud. A good day for us, and a bad one for the Hun!”

“Yes, a good day,” Josef said with a small smile, thinking of Wunsche burning in his cockpit.

They crossed the field, Josef and Witold lagging behind as Kent went ahead to start the car.

“Kentski is a good boy, I think,” Witold said.

“Boy? He's the same age as me!”

Witold looked Josef in the eye. “You are all my boys, Josef, and I worry. Even for you.”

Josef shifted uncomfortably. “I fly my own way. I do better alone. You know that.”

“I do not think so, Josef,” Witold said. “But when the squadron is mine, you may continue flying the way you like, just like today. I will not interfere. But don't think we won't worry about you.”

The men walked in silence for a while. Josef broke the silence. “Kentski thinks well of everyone. You and I do not.”

“That is from experience,” Witold replied.

“I think that when this war is over, the British will forget us. I think their promises will burn away like fog, and leave us and our nations nothing to show for our blood.” Josef said. “I think the good men will remember, but the ones who hate us and use us will forget, because it is convenient. They will remember that they won the war, and we will disappear.”

Witold nodded. “I think this also. Most days I have hope that I am wrong.”

“I do not hope much anymore,” Josef said. “We know these things are true. But we should not tell Kentski. We should pretend it is not so. I do not want to break his heart.”

“Let him have his idealism?” Witold asked with a smirk.

“For a time. I would rather it was not we who take it from him.”

“The war will do that soon enough,” Witold replied. “But yes. I agree. We will not speak as we did today again. At least, not in front of him.”

Josef smiled. “We shall be mother and father, and not argue in front of the children?”

Witold laughed. “Correct, Sergeant!”

“Come on you laggards! You bloody foreigners are a slow lot aren't you!” Kent shouted from the car, grinning at them.

“Kentski, if you start talking like an Englishman, your mother back in Winn-pag will not recognize you!” Witold shouted back.

“It's Winnipeg! And she's glad to be rid of me, thank you!”

The two men got in the car, and headed back to Northolt. There would be reports to write, claims to register, and if the Germans were ambitious today, perhaps another scramble.

Josef watched the countryside go by. He thought of home, and he thought of never seeing it again.

* * *

Six years later - London, England, 8th June 1946

Wing Commander John A. Kent wandered the streets of London, his head spinning a little from the day. The official day of Victory Celebrations – the parade, the 300 plane fly-past, the ceremonies and rituals – had blazed by him in a blur that had left him a little shell-shocked. He'd gotten away from the stifling crowds at last.

Marshal Douglas had given him leave to attend the celebrations. He was working now as Douglas' personal staff officer, assisting him in his administration of Occupied Germany. It was not what he was used to, but after five years of the war, three on combat duty and two on training detachments, it was not an unwelcome change. The Germans weren't trying to kill him anymore, at least. The shocking demise of fascism, and the grim revelations that followed, had shaken the German people to their core. Kent couldn't help but pity them.

Everything was a mess, in Kent's opinion. The Soviets, enemies before the war, and allies during, were now moving towards being enemies again. Eastern Europe had exchanged Fascist conquerors for Communist ones. Kent was not sure if that was much of an improvement.

The occupation was going reasonably well, but the collapse of Germany had been faster and more complete than anticipated, and the shortages post-war were staggering. It had to be said that Germany was starving. Harvests had failed, the roads and rails were wrecked all the way from the harbours in France to Berlin itself, and it would be years before everything was fixed, if it even could be. Entire cities had been razed by flights of Allied bombers. What had taken one night to destroy couldn't be fixed in even a thousand days. Sometimes Kent thought that winning the war had been the easy part.

Kent looked around. This neighbourhood had avoided the worst of the Blitz, it seemed, and the shops and buildings seemed well cared for. The streets were pretty well empty, what with the Victory celebrations. He smiled to see a small Polish deli shopfront wedged in with the other shops. The boys in 303 squadron had always complained that they couldn't get proper Polish food in England, but here some enterprising ex-pat had opened a shop, maybe hoping to feed hungry countrymen or introduce himself to the local tastes.

Kent froze in the middle of the street.

A boy, maybe about 14, carrying a bucket of red paint and a brush, was slathering a slogan on the front window. The shop was as empty as the street, and the boy worked with impunity.

A moment later, he stepped back, admiring his handiwork. There, slathered viciously across the window, were three words:

POLES GO HOME

“Hey! You!”

The boy turned, saw Kent standing in full officer's uniform – and turned and ran.

Kent gave chase. He didn't know what he was doing, didn't have a plan. He was filled with a boiling anger and shame. He had a sudden vivid memory of Witold and Josef on a hill on Beachy Head, and his naive denials.

The boy was quick, but Kent had always been a good runner, and he snagged his quarry around the collar as he tried to round a corner into an alley. Kent yanked him back with no trace of gentleness, spun the boy to face him, and pushed him up against the wall.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?”

“None of your business,” The boy mumbled, trying for a defiant look.

“I've made it my business,” Kent growled. “So tell me what the devil you think you're doing, vandalizing private property?” He shook the teenager, more out of his own frustration than any attempt to get an answer.

“Piss off,” the boy spat. “The bloody poles should go back to their own rotten little country, and leave England for the English. We don't need their kind here. What do you care anyway? You a pollack or something?”

“You don't need them? You stupid little ingrate, you needed them a few years ago, didn't you? Cebrzynski! Wojtowicz! Brzezowski! Josef bloody Frantisek! You needed them when the Nazis were knocking on your door! And now they're dead, them and more besides, and you're still alive, you little shit! You're alive because they went down in burning planes fighting for a country that treats them like trash!” He lifted the boy off the ground, and he could see real terror in his eyes now, but he couldn't stop himself. “I've buried a lot of friends. And that was lucky, when there was enough left to bury. Do you understand? Do you?”

Kent dropped the boy and stepped back, breathing heavily. “Poles go home, eh? They wished they could, you know. They wished they could. Get the hell out of my sight.”

The boy scampered off.

Kent leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself down. He looked at his shaking hands. He'd almost struck the boy. He'd wanted to. He hadn't been that angry in a long time. Not even when the war was on, and the bullets were flying.

“What the hell was that about?”

Kent started, and looked up at the approaching newcomer. Another RAF officer, coming from the parade, and he looked somewhat familiar. “Kellet? That you?”

“It has been a few years, hasn't it?” Kellet replied crisply. The man didn't look much different – five years had given him a few pounds, but his moustache was still waxed to a fine point, his eyes were still sharp, and his smile was still quick and fleeting. “You've changed a bit, Kent. I don't remember you beating up schoolboys when you were under my command.”

Kent scowled. “I didn't beat him up. And you and I are equal rank now, anyhow.”

“Yes, you've done well for yourself, it has to be said,” Kellet said. “So I shouldn't have to remind you that you're an officer, Kent, and that...was not becoming.”

“Is that more becoming?” Kent snapped, pointing across the street. You could see the angry red letters blazoned across the deli window.

“That is...unfortunate.”

“It's disgusting!” Kent said, turning to kick the wall.

“Boys do things like that. They get bored and spiteful. It doesn't mean anything.”

Kent glowered at the older Englishman. “Kids don't come up with shit like that on their own. They have to be taught.”

“That's as may be. But you have to keep a cool head about these things. Look, Kent, 303 was the best squadron I ever had the privilege of commanding. Those poles were the most courageous men I ever took into combat. But you have to look out for yourself too. Think of your career! It's a good thing it was me that saw you, and not someone else, or God forbid, a Provost!”

“I'm of a mind to resign my commission, anyhow, after today,” Kent said, leaning his head against the cool brick wall. “Do you know they didn't invite any of the Polish squadrons to the parade? Not one. No one from the armoured brigades, no one from the infantry. Everyone else was here, but not them.”

“They invited some of the boys from 303, you know. Individually. They refused.”

“So they could hide them in among everyone else. So they could placate them and not piss off the Soviets at the same time.” Kent said bitterly. “And the bloody Soviets were pissed anyway, and didn't even come. What a waste. Josef and Witold were right.”

“Josef? Kent, he's been in his grave these five years.” Kellet said puzzled.

“You remember that day over Beachy Head? When Josef crash landed?”

“Yes. We did well that day.”

“When we picked up Josef that day, he and Witold said they were just 'bloody foreigners', and that British promises meant nothing. And they were right, weren't they? The war's been over for a year, and we've already sold them down the river.”

Kellet was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Things have gotten political. We can't take on the Soviets. We don't have the resources. We won't go to war to keep Poland out of Soviet influence, promises or not. And that's the beginning and end of it. Memories are short, especially when it's convenient. That's the way things are,” Kellet grasped Kent's shoulder. “But you and I have long memories, don't we? We'll remember.”

“That's not enough,” Kent said.

“Everyone who flew with them will remember,” Kellet said. “That's all we can do.”

Kent nodded and stood up. “That's not all we can do. Is there a general store nearby?”

“There's one just down the street. Why?”

* * *

The shopkeeper looked up as the bell on the door rang. He was a little surprised to see two RAF officers walk in. One looked a little stiff, the other red-faced and angry.

“What can I do for you, officers?” He said, eyeing the rank badges on their shoulders.

“A bucket, please. And some strong soap, and some brushes. And if you could fill it with hot water, we would be most grateful,” The moustached one said. The keeper nodded.

He rang the men through (with a discount for soldiers, of course, let no one say he wasn't a Patriot!) , they handed over the money, took the bucket and brushes and walked out.

The shopkeeper watched the men leave, and then, out of curiosity, followed them out the door and watched as they walked down the street to the new Polish deli.

He watched for some time as the two smartly-dressed officers scrubbed vigorously at the front window, where some wag had vandalized it with red paint. It was a strange thing to see. But after some time watching, and thinking, he walked over to join them.

The officers looked up as he approached. The shopkeeper looked at the graffiti, then back at the men. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Kowalski and I get along just fine. He's had me and the wife over for dinner a few times, and we've done the same. I think...I think he's quite alright, for a foreign type, so I'd be obliged if you'd lend me a brush.”

Without a word, the younger of the two officers handed him a brush. But something seemed to change for the better in the younger man's face.

When Mr. Kowalski arrived back at his shop a few hours later, he made note of the suspiciously clean window, and the sharply dressed officer standing nearby with the Canada patches on his RAF uniform. The officer greeted him warmly, followed him inside, and purchased a few pounds of Kielbasa.

Before he left, the officer gave Kowalski a scrap of paper with a phone number written on it. “If you ever have any...trouble with the locals, call this number, and ask them to put you through to Marshal Douglas' office. Ask for John Kent. I'll make arrangements and get it taken care of. OK?”

Kowalski was a little puzzled, but accepted the note and nodded his head. He watched this 'Kentski' leave. Perhaps he was a Polish-Canadian with some ties to the old country? Mr. Kowalski shrugged. He wondered what the man had meant with 'trouble with the locals'.

For some reason Mr. Kowalski tucked that number into the cash register. He never had to call it. But after that day, once a month, he got an order for a few pounds of prime kielbasa, picked up by two large, serious men in RAF uniforms, for someone named 'Kentski'.

303 (Polish Squadron) was the highest-scoring squadron during the Battle of Britain. They logged thousands of hours of combat flying in defence of British cities, and destroyed 126 enemy aircraft. They continued to serve with distinction until the end of World War II. Shortly after, they were disbanded, when morale in the unit fell precipitously due to the treatment of Poland by the Allies post-war.

Josef Frantisek was one of the top 'aces' of the Battle of Britain, credited with downing 17 enemy aircraft. He died on October 8th, 1940, after his plane crashed while on patrol over Surrey. He never saw the end of the war.

Witold Urbanowicz returned to Poland after the war, but was arrested by the Communist secret police as a spy. Upon his release he went to the United States, where he lived in New York city. In 1991, after the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe, he returned to Poland. He was given the rank of General in recognition of his service. He died 17th August, 1996, in New York.

John A. Kent – or Kentski, as his Polish comrades in 303 Squadron called him – was born in Winnipeg, and left for England to join the Royal Air Force in 1935. He served in the RAF  until 1956, when he retired to Surrey in Southern England.  He was awarded the Silver Cross of the Virtuti Militari by the Polish government, in recognition of his service. Of his time with the Polish fighter pilots of 303, he had this to say:

"I cannot say how proud I am to have been privileged to help form and lead No. 303 squadron and later to lead such a magnificent fighting force as the Polish Wing. There formed within me in those days an admiration, respect and genuine affection for these really remarkable men which I have never lost. I formed friendship that are as firm as they were those twenty-five years ago and this I find most gratifying. We who were privileged to fly and fight with them will never forget and Britain must never forget how much she owes to the loyalty indomitable spirit and sacrifice of those Polish fliers. They were our staunchest Allies in our darkest days; may they always be remembered as such!"

Kent died on 7 October. 1985, in Surrey, England, not far from where Josef Frantisek crashed.

In 2016, the United Kingdom voted to leave the European Union, after a bitter campaign that often invoked xenophobia and anti-immigrant sentiment. After the vote, hate crimes rose massively, and have yet to fall to pre-Brexit levels. Eastern Europeans, including Poles, have been targeted for abuse. It has become convenient to forget the humanity of those people we think of as Other, those fleeing war and disaster. It has become easy, not just in the UK but around the world, to forget their sacrifices and contributions to their new homes throughout history.

It is time we remembered.

[the-writing-kestrel-blog]

The Truth about the Yak-9T

This is the original short story that started my foray into WWII micro-fiction. There was ...very little research into it. It’s honestly just having some fun with a period that distinctly lacked it. The Yak-9T did exist and was quite a successful fighter, though it didn’t come about in quite the way indicated in the story. The only historical personage in this tale is Lydia Lytvak, who was a famous Soviet fighter ace. She never flew Yak-9s, but I’d recently read about her so when I wrote this story I couldn’t help but include her. *** The year is 1943. The place is the Soviet Union. Our scene is set on a small, grassy airstrip, near the front lines for the Battle of Kursk.                

In the field next the airstrip sits a brand new Yak-9 fighter, straight from the factory, ready to rise into the air and kick the Nazis in the teeth…                 …or it would be, if it didn’t appear to be in the middle of some, ah, modifications.               

Sergeant Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov approaches the aircraft with some trepidation. He recognizes the young man on the ladder, elbow-deep in the nose of the aircraft. “Comrade Vasily, what by Lenin’s beard are you doing up there?”                

The young man jerks in surprise, wobbles atop the ladder for a moment before steadying himself. He turns to his grizzled crew chief with a hesitant smile. “Comrade Sergeant! I…I was…experimenting with the new fighter! I believe I have made a breakthrough!”                

“Have you been thinking again, Vasily?”                

“Yes, Sergeant! You inspired me when you said that I had a mind like the Motherland herself!”               

Ivan Ivanovich stares at Vasily. “What I meant by that is that your mind is composed mostly of vast empty spaces, and is much easier to deal with when I have drunk large amounts of vodka.”                

Vasily deflates. “Yes, Comrade Sergeant.”                

Ivan softens a bit. “So, what is your experiment?”                

Vasily puffs himself up, and launches into an explanation. “I have been thinking about how we can improve the destructive power of our fighter planes. Too often the fascists escape the guns of our brave pilots! So I thought, why not make the gun…bigger?”                

“Bigger, Vasily?”                

“Yes, comrade Sergeant! I have mounted a 37 mm cannon in the nose of this Yak-9. Now the fascists can never escape us!” Vasily beams down from atop the ladder, the sun filtering through his frizzy hair like an unkempt halo.                

The sergeant stared at his subordinate. “37 mm?”                

“Yes, Comrade Sergeant!”                

“Vasily, that is an anti-tank cannon.”               

“Yes, Comrade Sergeant.”                

Ivan spoke slowly. “Vasily, where did you get an anti-tank cannon?” 

 “Well, you know that Il-2 that Pyotr crash-landed last week…? I managed to salvage this cannon from the wreckage.”                

“And how in blazes did you get it up there by yourself? It weighs almost 200 kilograms!” Ivan asks, scratching his beard.               

“My love for the Motherland sets my muscles afire with Patriotism!!”                

Ivan sighs and rubs his face. “Vasily, have you been talking to the Political Commissar again?”                

“Not since this morning, Comrade Sergeant!”                

Sergeant Ivan Ivanovich is a gruff and grizzled man, but inside he is a soft-bellied Russian bear with a certain fatherly fondness for his daft underling. He does not have the heart to crush the boy’s dreams. And looking up at the barrel of the cannon protruding from the nose of the fighter, he cannot help but think that Vasily may actually be on to something. Something about the comically overpowered gun stirs something in his oil-stained, ground-crewman soul. “Vasily, if you can find a pilot crazy enough to fly this plane, then I will have a word with the squadron commander and we will see about keeping this…new configuration.”                

Vasily grins. “I have already spoken to Lydia! She is very enthusiastic.”                

“Lydia?” Ivan asks. “Oh, no…”                

“Oh yes!” Comes a strident voice from behind Ivan. He turned to see Lydia Vladimirovna Litvyak approaching over the field. “I am eager to get this plane into the air, Vasily!”                

“Comrade Lydia, I wish you would not encourage him so…” Ivan mutters as the pilot walks by.               

“Ivan, you must ‘lighten up’ a bit!” Lydia laughs, and with a hop, skip and a jump propels herself up onto the fuselage of the plane, where she strikes a pose with the sun at her back.               

Ivan blinks. “How did you get up there without a ladder?”                

“My love for the Motherland sets my muscles afire with Patriotism!”     

Ivan looks from the pilot to the mechanic and back a few times, sighs, and turns to trudge to the command building to have a word (and perhaps a few drinks) with the squadron commander. He tries to block out the animated chatter on the plane behind him.               

“I cannot wait to shock those fascist pig-dogs with this! Tell me, Vasily, is the recoil bad?”              

“Not so bad for such a powerful weapon, Comrade Lydia! And in a pinch, you can fire the cannon and use it as an air-brake!”                

“You are a brilliant man, Vasily!”               

“Thank you, Comrade Lydia!”               

Ivan Ivanovich sighs again. Perhaps he would need more than just a few drinks.                

And that is the 100% true story of how the Soviet Union put an anti-tank cannon in a fighter plane.

[the-writing-kestrel-blog]

Hugh Dowding and the Mysterious Miss Schilling’s Orifice

Another piece of light-hearted WWII ‘historical’ fiction, this one in the good old UK. Historical note: Everyone mentioned by name in the story is based (loosely) on a real historical figure. For maximum lulz (and some buzzkills) look them up on Wikipedia after reading. Warning: Contains endless innuendo, historical innaccuracy and bad accent transcription.

Air Chief Marshall Hugh “Stuffy” Dowding had had a hell of a summer.

Since the beginning of July 1940, the little isle of Britain had been under constant attack by the German Luftwaffe. Their only defenses: a determined corps of anti-aircraft gunners, and Fighter Command, a melting pot of fighter pilots from throughout the British Empire and their allies near and far: Canucks, Kiwis, Aussies, Indians, Czecks, Poles and even a handful of American volunteers. Flying Spitfires and Hurricanes, they'd risen to meet the enemy wherever Dowding sent them, directing them with the complex network of radar stations and communications relays known as Chain Home.

And it seemed that for Fighter Command, the battle was over.  It was October of 1940, and the Nazis had given up their dream of invading Britain, and their losses in aircraft had been so heavy that they'd been forced to switch to night-time raids to avoid the fighters. The Blitz was in full swing, with nightly bombing raids on London, but the people of Britain were Keeping Calm and Carrying On. Dowding was sure that the fascist attempt to bomb the Brits into submission would fail.

With the tempo of daylight operations slowed dramatically, Dowding had decided to make a little surprise inspection of the Biggin Hill aerodrome. He'd been up to his ears in work for so long that he'd spent less time than he liked interacting with the boys under his command. It would be a true pleasure to walk among fighting men again, breathe in the smell of oil, av-gas and gunsmoke.  

He'd left behind his usual staff entourage and decided to take a stroll around the tarmac. Ground crews crawled all over their aircraft like worker bees on honeycomb, tuning, repairing and tinkering. Some pilots watched from nearby, while others lounged around in groups, enjoying an almost unheard of sunny day.

So far, he'd been unnoticed. He enjoyed the rare pleasure of having nowhere particular to be, no one saluting him, surrounded by his heroic pilots and ground crew. Courageous, noble, dignified, and above all, absolute professionals...

“Cor, I can't wait to get a look at Miss Shilling's orifice.”

Dowding's head snapped around. The voice had come from a growing crowd of ground crewmen, all gathered around a Spitfire parked in the middle of the concrete apron surrounding the hangars.

“I beg your pardon, soldier?” Dowding exclaimed, advancing on the cluster of grease-stained mechanics. With faces filled with rising panic, each man made a valiant attempt at coming to attention and making a salute in the presence of a no-shit-real-life General Officer. Unfortunately, a few months of working non-stop on damaged aircraft had degraded their parade ground capabilities, so the salute was less an impression of military discipline and more of a herd of surprised fainting goats.

“A-a-a-Air Chief Marshall, sir, your lordship, sir!” One young man, perhaps the ringleader, managed in a tremulous voice. “What...I mean...bloody hell sir, where did you come from, begging your leave sir?!”

Hugh regarded this tossed salad of words and honorifics with a certain amount of patience. Once he was certain the man had finished, he chose his words carefully. “What did you mean, when you said 'I can't wait to see Miss Shilling's orifice?”

“Well, sir, your lordship, your knightliness sir...” And just like that, the man froze, a stalled engine cut out in mid stroke. His mouth worked for a moment before he decided the best thing he could do was stay put in mid salute.

Dowding waited for a continuation. When none was forthcoming, he raised his eyebrows. “Can anyone else tell me what the devil the man was talking about?”

“I believe I can, sir!”

Dowding turned, seeing a young pilot approaching from behind him. One of the Canadians. He recognized his face, for some reason, but couldn't place the man...

The pilot gave a lazy salute. “Flying Officer Willie McKnight, Sir, 242 Squadron, RCAF.”

Dowding returned the salute with a slight scowl. “McKnight, McKnight...wait. Weren't you the one we had up on charges of inciting a riot?”

“That couldn't have been me, sir. Must have been another Willie McKnight,” The man said with a remarkably straight face.

“I see,” Dowding said, doubtfully. “Well, what was this man on about with this...vulgarity.”

“Well, sir, I think I can explain it,” McKnight began. “You see, sometimes, you've taken one of the girls here up for some yank and bank, and when you're running hot and heavy, and setting yourself up for the final run, so to speak, and it's time to put your nose down and really get down there, just when you're getting over you'll find the old engine just cuts out, if you know what I mean. It's a real problem for first timers. You follow, sir?”

Dowding blushed bright red. This McKnight was a disgrace, speaking such to a superior officer. “I believe I do, Mr. McKnight,” He managed. “But what does this Miss Shilling have to do with it?”

McKnight grinned. “Well, sir, Miss Shilling reckons she's got a solution, and she's coming out here today to give us a little show-and-tell, a demonstration.”

“A demonstration,” Dowding said flatly.

“Yes sir,” he said. “You're welcome to stay, I'm sure, sir. I'm sure even an...experience dman such as yourself will find it enlightening.”

Dowding was stuck. On the one hand, he felt an instinctive urge to drag the man before him before a Court Martial just on general principle – perhaps for Leering at a Superior Officer. But on the other hand, married man that he was, he couldn't help but wonder about this mysterious Miss Shilling and her, her...well, her unmentionable. What secrets of femininity promised to unfold here, in broad daylight, in the middle of an RAF airbase?

“If you say so, Mr. McKnight,” he said, hoarsely. By all the fairies in my garden, the Marshall thought, what will Mrs. Dowding think?

On some unseen signal, pilots and ground crew began to gather. Most bore themselves a little stiffly around dowding, giving him a wide berth and some nervous salutes. It was clear his inspection had been a complete surprise. What wasn't clear was why everyone was being so open about this. Had Fighter Command descended so completely into depravity that they believed their commander wouldn't bat an eye at the lewd display planned on this very tarmac?

A few polish pilots from 303 squadron approached, tossing him a salute. Even the Poles? Dowding thought. He'd been impressed by their ferocity, courage and professionalism in the battle. Had his own boys dragged them down to their level? Or was it that damn Canadian, McKnight?

One pilot dug around behind his ear and offered Dowding a ratty looking dog-end cigarette. “Would you like smoke, sir?” The pole said in heavily accented english.

Dowding looked at the soggy cigarette, then back at the growing crowd, and said. “Bugger it all, yes, please.”

The Pole smiled as Dowding put it in his mouth, and helpfully struck a match and lit it for him. Dowding hoped it would calm his nerves. The waiting was the worst, his mind going in all kinds of inappropriate directions.

“Good, sir. You look in need of smoke,” the man said with a gentle smile. Dowding smiled weakly – thank God for the Poles!

As the crowd milled about the Spitfire, a distant sound came to Dowding's ears. He turned to look. The sound was coming closer, and soon her recognized the roar of a motorcycle. A few moments later, he could see the bike tearing towards them along the taxiway, slowing slightly as it entered the apron area. It was going fast enough still that when it shot by Dowding it nearly blew his hat off his head, and it turned and came to a skidding stop with a screech of rubber. The figure riding the bike popped out the kickstand, swung it's leg over the bike, and removed it's leather-padded helmet.

Dowding was shocked to see that the rider was a woman – was this the Miss Shilling McKnight had been talking about? He'd never known a woman that rode a motorcycle before. Standing before him, clad all in leather and with a broad, confident smile on her face, he could easily believe that she was capable of any depravity.

He found himself speechless. When her eyes met his, he was red to his ears again.

“Chief Marshall, sir! I didn't expect to see you here!” She said, cheerfully. She gave him the most crisp salute he'd yet received that day. “Beatrice Shilling, sir, Engineering Officer with the Royal Aircraft Establishment. I'm here to show all these boys my Orifice!”

“Ah,” Dowding managed, feeling faint. The cigarette fell from his mouth, One of the enterprising pilots surreptitiously scooped it off the ground and took a drag. Waste not, want not.

“With your leave, Marshall?” She said cheerfully. He gave a vague wave of his hand, motioning for her to continue. Dowding was in a daze now – he felt nothing could shock him.

She climbed up on the spitfire, put her hands on her hips and started to speak. “Alright, you lot. You know why I'm here?” A chorus of whoops and a smattering of applause greeted her words. “Now, for those of you who don't, I'll explain. And you new lads, I'll let you in on a secret. This problem is nothing to be ashamed of. Ask your veteran pilot friends, every one of them ran into this problem once or twice, when things get heated and you can't think, and you just go to tip over and go for it, and boom! Everything just stops working as it should. You may have noticed that our German friends don't have the same problem, but that's all down to the difference in equipment. The Germans have got something that we don't, and that's a fact.”

At this point Dowding was sure he was going to faint.

Beatrice reached into the pocket of her leather jacket, and pulled something out.

Dowding almost couldn't look.

Beatrice held aloft a...a...what the bloody hell was that? A...a washer?

“That's right, lads, Jerry has fuel-injected engines on all his fighter planes, while our Spits and Hurris have carburetors. That means that when you push your nose down to go into a dive, the negative g-forces push all the fuel to the top of the carburetor and starves the engine of fuel, making it stop. Do it for too long and the fuel collects in the top of the float chamber, pushes the float up and floods the engine with fuel and stops it completely. So all Jerry has to do to get away from you is nose over hard into a dive and race away. By the time you've rolled inverted and pulled up to accomplish the same thing, he's escaped! But this little beauty goes in the carburetor and prevents too much fuel from floating up in a dive or when you're flying inverted. Now, you still can't do it for too long, but you'll be able to follow Fritz into a dive now, and won't he be shocked!”

Dowding had gone from faint, to puzzled, to intrigued. He watched in fascination as Miss Shilling instructed the ground crew on the installation of the simple device – little more than a disc of metal with a hole in the middle. When she was finished her demonstration, and the ground crew had moved to do the installation on other aircraft spread around the apron, Dowding approached.

“Miss Shilling, I fear when your purpose here was first explained to me, I...I didn't fully grasp it's import. Now that I have, however, I would just like to thank you. You've offered an elegant solution to a rather perplexing problem. Whether they know it or not, the people of Britain owe you a great debt.”

Miss Shilling smiled warmly at him. “Well, sir, we all have to do our bit. And it's a pleasure sir, a real pleasure, to work for the Royal Aircraft Establishment. I've been fiddling with engines since I was a slip of a girl, and getting paid for it is a treat. Now if you'll excuse me, my husband is going to go off duty in an hour or so, and I plan on meeting up with him and putting a few other orifices through their paces.” And with a wink, a grin, and a flash of steel, leather, and engine exhaust, Beatrice Shilling zoomed off.

Dowding wished he hadn't dropped his cigarette.

Dowding arrived home early that afternoon to get some sleep and time with his wife before he'd have to be back on duty in an attempt to counter the Luftwaffe's nightly raids. He hung up his cap and moved slowly into the house.

His wife glanced up upon his arrival. She was busily directing the Kitchen staff in the preparation of the evening meal. “Hello, dear. How were things up at the Hill?”

“Fine, dear,” He replied.

“Anything intersting happen?”

Dowding thought for a long time about his answer. In the end, he went with honesty. He had never lied to his wife. “I spent a good deal of time getting well acquainted with Miss Schilling's Orifice.”

He prepared for the worst.

“That's nice dear. Supper will be ready in about half an hour.”