sable_cloak | A meeting of the Aces

A meeting of the Aces

The Black Eagle's feeble craft careened through the night sky, diving between lights hastily aimed upward. Flashes from muzzles welcomed his appearance below as he felt the plane buck as a larger round landed home. He heard bullets whacking into the hastily added metal plate to the floor of the cockpit as he forced the plane into what should have been a deadly dive. He'd done this maneuver before, scouting a flight line and then letting the enemy believe they had shot him down, leaving him free to roam behind enemy lines until he had learned what he desired and then returned home to begin again.

A loud boom from below forced the yoke to buck unexpectedly in his hands, not by a failure of his nerves, but part of his plane was now missing. The brief had not included canons in the list of armaments to concern him, and if he survived the crash, he was certain that intelligence officer who assured him the report was complete would require a day in hospital upon his return. As it was, he could only brace himself, sliding the plate from its spot below him and using it like a shield as the trees smacked into the plane.

The plate saved his life, but in the process had injured his arm. It wasn't broken, but the swelling told him it had nearly been so. Regardless, he dragged his bruised body from the wreckage, taking a small survival kit with him and then set the engine on fire. It would rage long before anyone could come to put it out, destroying any evidence there might have been a body lacking within.

On his crashing path, he had spotted a road nearby, and would make his way toward it. He would have to be careful, but it would ease his navigation until he could find out the exact bearing his plane had taken him on its unexpected divergence from flight on this moonless night.

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The cannons had been something of a surprise. Command had said nothing about them. But in this war, with tens of thousands of guns stretched along a front from Switzerland to the North Sea, a battery of anti-aircraft weaponry was a rounding error to book-keepers.

He had been circling above, ready to pounce. Night-flying was rare, but men of his skill sometimes went up, to see if any targets could be caught unawares. He had been ready to finish off the strange craft when an anti-aircraft crew had gotten lucky. But the man had been lucky - or extremely skilled. He had landed the craft intact.

Which meant it could potentially take off again. And the arithmetic of war left only one response. The turned the Fokker on its wing, roaring down out of the sky like judgement from on high. He waited until the craft filled his gunsight, then the twin spandaus spoke, tearing into the fuselage and skittering across the wings.

And now for the pilot. He took aim at the road, cutting the engine and bouncing lightly, and silently on the dirt surface. Thankfully the winter was coming soon, the road was hard as rock.

He hopped from the cockpit as it came to a stop, pistol in hand. He took the flying helmet off, carefully putting it in a pocket. No light would glint from the surface. The old tricks that kept a man alive. And he slowly moved towards the treeline, to hunt a man directly.

That was another reason to belt his sources. The sound of the plane approaching his wreck and helping his job of destroying the craft meant he had a skilled enemy in the skies, and landing nearby. The moment the engine whined overhead he froze, blending his form into the trees before turning from the road he could hear the plane using as an impromptu runway.

His adversary was both a skilled night pilot and clever. He was mindful to leave as little trail as possible as he worked his way back toward his wreck. There was no fear of cooking ammunition, the plane had been empty, but the destroyed craft would provide a focal point to deal with his pursuer. The approaching cold made vegetation sparse, but his dark, wiry form was used to blending in to the Russian landscape with its pines and snow.

He avoided outlining himself against the growing blaze as he cut away from his path toward the wreck now, a dark gun pulled from his hip and ready as he found a place to hide, and watch. Eyes alert at all times, and ears for where he could not see.

It was in forests like this that he had learned to hunt, to stalk. He took no pleasure in it, unlike some of the other young aristocrats he had known. But it was in such a forest, not that far away, that he had met his friend, the wolf. He wondered if he, too, was hunting tonight, not far away.

But there were darker things in the forest than wolves this night. His opponent was smart enough not to panic - he'd have to keep between him and the Fokker. He could range further if he had brought a rifle, but he had only a pistol.

He did not want to kill the other man. He never did, but the hungry skies left little opportunity to leave a man alive. But if he had to in order to survive, then he would do his duty. Without hesitation. But with just a little bit more remorse added to his burdened shoulders.

He moved silently, staying low so the rising moon would not present him in silhouette. And he stopped, every few paces, listening intently.

The hunt was on.

There were scarce moments of movement approaching his location. Staying would mean discovery, but with the way his adversary hunted (there was no other word for it), moving would provide them with the trail needed for pursuit.

On top of those poor odds, gunfire would draw the attention of the pilot's squad, even if the American did emerge alive and take off in a stolen German craft. An enemy aircraft itself would be a prize, but that was secondary to the potential for the discovery of documents carried by the pilot. All of these thoughts though, were merely delaying him from his greater purpose, which was not here, hiding from his pursuer.

He saw little choice than to force the issue. He called upon every skill he could to move quietly, but cold and significant bruising from the flight made his motions more difficult, and less fluid. The sound would betray his position enough, but perhaps the indication of an approach would convince his opponent that retreat to his plane was the preferable of the options presented.

He heard the slight rustling of leaves, the tiniest betrayal of his presence. Was it a ruse? A trick? Possibly. All could be decided in a moment; the constant razor's edge of combat, in which there was no quarter, and nothing but cunning and instinct would lead to survival.

He paused, casting about with his free hand as he crouched down, finally finding a decent-sized stone. Keeping his eyes focused on the path ahead of him, he tossed it ahead of him, slightly to the left of his path.

Perhaps, just perhaps, his opponent was nervous. Perhaps he would fire, giving away his position. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. He leveled the pistol at the darkness, waiting for the flash of a muzzle.

He stopped after betraying his presence, his adversary went quiet, and he curled back into the depths of a shadow again, awaiting the next move. He was not entirely expecting what happened next. From somewhere, it was hard to see where it came from, an object was thrown.

He hadn't heard the telltale sound of a grenade pin, and it took most of his nerves to keep from leaving his place to escape the potential blast. He curled lower to the ground, his heart pounded out the seconds for a detonation. It was then he noted not a sound from up ahead of his enemy taking cover and he felt the anticipation unwind from his shoulders. This was the worst of stalemates.

He very carefully placed a tree between where he could estimate the general source of what he could only believe was a rock, and himself. He could use the trees to help throw his voice about, better than he could at the moment unaided. It was a skill he was still mastering, but one he had enough command over to feel it was worth using in this situation. He started off with a soft, sibilant, bitter laugh that echoed weirdly around the trees with ease, but only carried as far as he commanded it.

It carried far enough, but it found a target long hardened to the macabre. The war in the air had led to so many garish displays in an attempt to inspire fear, trepidation. Perhaps when he was a neophyte pilot it could have worked. But fear had been burned from his body by the hellish crucible of war.

It was a good trick. But against him, the man who both friend and enemy called the Hammer of Hell, it found no purchase.

He started forward again, hunter's instincts flaring to their full. If he could push his foe back, choose the ground - he could win this engagement. And he had to - flying a strange craft, at night? There was something important going on here, on this night.

The approach, and the lack of response told him much about his adversary. His own instincts for survival kicked in, as he hunkered down carefully in the dark. He was not going to be flushed out and tracked like a fox. He knew the immediate area, what little advantage that gave him.

He steadied his heart, his eyes and ears alert, his muscles ready to spring should a shadow flicker too close. Otherwise, he turned to stone, his breathing slow and silent. The entire ordeal was frustrating his well-laid plans. The longer the night wore on like this, the more hazardous his later tasks would become. Still, there was no moving forward from his current situation without resolving the incident which had come upon him. He would prefer to dispatch his foe without a shot, but the gun remained at the ready should it be needed.

He positioned himself behind a thick tree, and pondered his next step. Flying alone, at night, in a strange craft - that bespoke a 'spy', to him. Which meant there was a potential time limit at play. Good, it was an advantage he could play to.

"Come out!" he called, then shifted position, lower and away from the tree. Once he was behind a thick felled branch before uttering his next phrase. In the night, it might pass for throwing his voice. Sometimes, overestimation was as useful as underestimation.

"These are familiar forests for my pilots! The soldiers saw me landing - they will be coming. Surrender to me, I can guarantee you will not face the firing squad. The soldiers will not be so kind!"

And, just in case, he quickly rolled - never trust a man with a gun in the darkness.

The laugh returned, this time it was almost a mocking challenge to Von Hammer's statement, as if the one uttering the sound welcomed such a turn for the worse. The 'Black Eagle', so he was called, had faced down firing squads before, and also doubted that such a promise of safety could be given to a spy, especially in such a time of war.

"It would be better to permit me to go on my way." The laugh blended into a German reply, which was practiced for the very intent of blending in seamlessly. He was not there, after all, to represent the country to which he had been born. "I flew over your airfield, yet fired not a shot at your countrymen. It will not remain so if I am forced to act."

The mocking laughter and the threat to his young pilots - it overwhelmed anything else. There was very little that could provoke him to anger anymore, for he had seen everything. But he had sworn to preserve the lives of his fledgling pilots, and he so often could not save them from their own mistakes, and the merciless guns of the enemy.

One of the legion of enemies taunting them with the prospect of their demise would not, could not, be tolerated. He moved quickly, accelerating towards the source of the voice. He fired his pistol again and again, to keep his opponent's head down. He leaped over a downed branch, booted feet extending first, hoping to catch them off-guard. His opponent expected caution, he reasoned - and would be denied it.

He would still take the man alive if he could - but if he had to die so that his pilots must live, then so be it.

That barrage of bullets was not what the man had hoped for, and the source, his opponent was rushing for him. He was dressed in black, but in this night tonight it would not be as effective. Still, the man came for him and he took his chances, waiting out the approach of his adversary. The moment he gauged the wild firing was within range, he leaped from his hiding spot, eyes sparking from over an upturned black collar and one hand outstretched for the weapon, the other holding his own black weapon, though he did not fire.

This was his world now, something he hoped a spy would not have experience of. He had fought battles on the ground, in the nightmare land of the Western Front. Sometimes, in that land, a sharpened spade or a war club were better weapons than a rifle and bayonet.

And the other man trying to get his weapon was precisely what he wanted to happen. He rammed an elbow at the man's midsection, his fist rising quickly thereafter to hit him in the face. He stepped inside the man's guard, pushing the other's gun out of line. He kept his own for the moment, but shifted his grip, using it as a club.

The man had threatened his fliers, threatened to almost enjoy it - that man had to die, and every skill in his arsenal was being brought to bear on that objective.

The elbow landed solidly, earning a well-deserved grunt and sparking the realization of what sort of tiger he'd grabbed by the tail in the darkness tonight. In that same instant, an idea brought with it action, as he leaned to take that fist at a glance, but dropped his weapon as he fell back onto the ground, mocking a pained, breathless wheeze.

He raised his hands submissively, as much as he didn't want to, he knew his chances were better with others. He could see even in the darkness, the determination his words had sparked. If only he'd been more wise in his choice of words, but now he would amend his plans tonight. Capture would be the fastest method of travel tonight, and he had a better chance against guards with guns, than he did this battle-seasoned soul.

"Alright." He gasped in German, hooding his gaze in a feint of weakness. "Alright..."

He picked up the man's weapon, regarding it for a moment before cocking the pistol, aiming it at the man's head.

"You are my prisoner," he said, quietly, then fired a shot in the air. His way of directing guards to his location. He held it at his side, staying carefully out of range of the man's legs. There were no rookie mistakes here, no stupid threats or keeping the gun against the man's head where it could easily be dislodged or retaken.

"What is your name? What nation do you serve?"

He stayed perfectly still, remaining in a submissive posture, but keeping his sharp gaze on Von Hammer, and his ears open for the approach of soldiers.

"I am a dead man without a homeland." He spoke lowly. "My purpose here is to see that those who would take advantage of an already bloody war do not profit from their crimes. I will be tried as a spy, and destroyed to keep the sordid affairs of all sides hidden." And yet he made no motion or attempt to escape, to all appearances he was resigned to his fate.

He watched him for a long moment, blue eyes boring into the other man's, without flinching. They were eyes that had seen everything, had seen it far more times than he ever would have liked. They were eyes that knew death, intimately.

"Why should I believe that?"

He pulled back the hammer on the gun, for emphasis. A stupid, unnecessary gesture, but it said more than any number of words about his unwillingness to be led down a merry little path.

"Tell me why I should believe the man who threatened to bomb my fledglings in their beds, without any honour whatsoever?

And there is insult in his voice at that. And a grim determination to protect those lives as best he can.

There was not even a flinch at that added threat, but the eyes narrowed slightly at the insult.

"I threatened only self preservation. Your fledglings are no more than pawns in the greater games being played across the world. Yet, they would still sooner shoot me," he nodded at Von Hammer's weapon which was pointed at him, "than listen to my purpose. I have no desire to harm them, but I doubt you refuse to fight the forces who challenge you on the principle that they are young. Protect your own as you will, but know that I do not come with the intent to harm your fledglings."

The sharpness of his gaze dulled as he heard approaching soldiers, appearing to surrender to the inevitable as he set his head on the ground and averted his eyes. He was to be taken, maybe tried, and then killed for being a spy and seemed content with that reality, a man who had cheated death in the skies only to find it at the hands of a firing squad..

The man was either mad, lying, or correct. In the former case, what profit was there to letting him die? So many died already. So many were made mad by the war, vicious enough and hungry enough that it took far more than just their lives. If he were lying, then to what purpose? He would be shot anyways. At best he could conceal his real mission, though there was no logic to his flight this night anyways. And if he was telling the truth.

The cold blue eyes watched those of the other man for a few moments longer, then clicked the hammer back into position. This man was all act, all shadows and mirrors. But in the end, he was still a human being.

"You were a fool to be flying at night," he started, loudly enough that the approaching soldiers could hear. "An American volunteer, asking for a dusk patrol in some untested mechanics' special. Different craft cobbled together, really. Sitting out the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp should cure you of such notions."

He stooped down, then, so that only his prisoner could hear. "And if any guards fall this night, innocent men who know not what they've captured, there will be no corner of the earth safe for you to hide in."

He straightened, holstering his pistol.

"Get him a hot meal and then out of the sector. The artillery will be starting up again in a few hours."

The man gave a sigh at the instructions, it would complicated matters further but this was not an enemy he needed, nor wanted. He brought his chin closer to his chest in a half nod to acknowledge that he had heard.

The soldiers came, hefting him roughly to his feet with little care how they twisted his injured arm. His eyes narrowed at the pain, but not another motion betrayed him as he was brought to his feet and hands restrained behind his back while he stared at Von Hammer. He provided only enough resistance to the prod of a gun to keep the soldiers ready, but was otherwise obedient to their every shove and unnecessary push of a muzzle as he was force-marched toward a truck meant to carry him to his prison.

The man knew how to be still. That alone made him watch as he was taken away. "Gerhardt," he called to the Captain of the guards, "remember - we are not barbarians."

He turned away after he said it. No, they weren't barbarians. They were just all killers, Allied or German. There was no chance, no escape. And thus, burdened once again by his thoughts, he returned to the airfield, the men staring in awe at the Rittmeister who could so down men in cold blood. If only they knew. He slept fitfully, and was awoken the next morning by a telegram saying that the man they had captured had escaped the guards. Without fatalities, though a few guards would be smarting for a while.

And he thought no more of it. Because the war went on. And on. And on. The darkness unfolded until the last act. And then...and then he faded, retreating from a society he could barely understand. Until his country, until there were lives for him to protect again. And so he served under the regime he despised, and watched his country die for the third time.

Time went on. Almost before he knew it, it was 1968. He almost never left the castle now - a tired old man on his last legs. He knew that the tiredness he had been feeling was going to be it, even though the doctors said otherwise. A few more months, a year perhaps. Then he could rest. But there was the anniversary, the 50th anniversary of the end of the first war. The airmen had gathered, and he had been invited.

Honour alone had dictated he had come. He had, and had shaken hands with old comrades and enemies alike, and had been forced to excuse himself, to weep in his room like a child to see peace between old adversaries. He was to give a speech later, and he wondered idly if his sentimentality would allow it.

He sat, hands resting on his cane, in the hotel garden, watching the sun set.

He was not alone in the garden. Decades of training and practice, along with the trials that followed him like the scars hidden beneath his many masks had made him truly a shadow. He watched that old man, a jacket folded over his own hands which rested on an eagle-headed cane as he remained hidden and watchful. Time was as cruel as war, and though the Shadow did not need the cane, most others there were of such a state. He was not one to mourn for loss, but he had heard of a great pilot who had survived the wars, and a name which he had traced back to that fateful night. A night not long before he began to understand the true lengths to which he had to go to fight evil.

"I beg your pardon, and hope that you don't mind sharing the view, Colonel." He spoke in German, a far more practiced and clean accent with a slight wistfulness as he came to stop a respectful distance from Von Hammer, so as to not sneak up on him too much with his silent approach.

His head snapped around with a semblance of his old speed, and he nodded. He turned back to the view, annoyed with himself. Two years ago, maybe three, he'd have heard the man coming. Sensed it. But the instincts had to fade, eventually. His skills had gone, and very thoroughly.

"Not at all," he said, finally, eyes fixing on the panorama before him again. "Your German is excellent," he replied, in English. "A trace of Swabian to it. You had a good teacher."

He paused, his still-clear blue eyes focused on the horizon.

"You are here for the reunion?" The man scarcely looked old enough.

"I had opportunity to practice." He responded in a rather standard Northeastern accent. He returned to German, by ease of conversation. "And I am." He leaned on his cane lazily, taking in the view before glancing down at Von Hammer from the corner of his eye.

"I was concerned when I heard of your declining health, but I am pleased you are here with us today. I understand you've been asked to make an address tonight." He turned his head, a smile vacant from his lips but the corners of his sharp blue eyes crinkled very faintly. "I am looking forward to it."

"We all die sometime," he replied, simply. He had no fear of the end coming. If anything, there was some surprise that he would live to die in his bed, where so many others had not. "I wonder only what awaits on the other side. I wonder if I will see all the faces. The people I killed. Will they await me? I think they will not hate me, much as I could not have hated them for doing what they had to, to survive."

He sighed, and was silent for a moment. "And here we are. Survivors all, gathered as comrades, friends. The only ones who can understand, the things our children and grandchildren can never understand. That I am supposed to address that memory, that understanding we all have...I do not think I can do it. Not in words."

He shook his head.

"My mind wanders. To absent friends, mostly. Forgive me."

"Sentimentality is nothing to forgive, Colonel. Even today the world could do to have a little more of it." The Shadow watched the sun start to touch the horizon, the skies filling with pinks and oranges. "I only wish for others to hear your words. They saved my life a long time ago, I believe they will touch the generations to follow."

He quirked an eyebrow at him, confused by that utterance.

"I do not recognize you, I am sorry to say. Then again, you look entirely too young to even be here. As for other generations...no, I suspect not. I am a footnote in dusty old books, nothing more. We all are."

A faint smile works its way into the corner of his eyes again.

"I've had many faces. Even this one is borrowed, though with permission of the owner." It was not a bragging statement, more like an apology in the way it was delivered. "Even President Lincoln misjudged the measure to which words may be remembered, alongside the deeds. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here."

The Shadow straightened his shoulders, looking out over the view and then taking a seat on a small wall near Von Hammer.

"There was once a rash young pilot who made flights during the night in the first war. Only in the beginning of his calling, he found himself facing who he thought was his equal not in the skies, but on foot. It was a tense hunt that cold night, but in the end that young pilot made a foolish mistake by threatening those in the care of that soldier. That was the night he relearned the value of a life."

Edited 2012-06-18 04:31 (UTC)

He was silent for a very long moment.

"I remember," he said, slowly nodding. "I remember them all, you know. They say time dulls the sharp edges of memory, but it does not. I remember every encounter, every life I took. Every life I lost. And it was a foolish mistake - I'd killed others for similar ones."

He paused again.

"Then at least something good came of it. Almost nothing good came of that war."

"Much good has come of your words and actions since, Colonel." He reached out and set a hand calmly on the man's shoulder, that smile that was limited to his eyes seemed to grow just a little more. "I have seen to it, and continue to do so to this day. I've had many teachers in my life, but know you were one of the first. I do not forget those who cross my path, whether they enrich my life or intend to take it. The day I acquired my own fledglings, I gained a greater appreciation for how fortunate I was that night." He removed the hand, setting it on top of his cane as he looked out at the view. "And I thank you for sparing the life of that lost boy, and giving him the chance to learn."

He was silent for a very long moment, as his dry eyes glistened for a moment.

"Then something good came of it, after all," he said. "One good thing from my life."

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A meeting of the Aces

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