“Ray-Ray. I don’t like it when it rains.”
“We still have to take off to head to the airbase in the West. Or else we’ll never make it to the campaign at Vimy’s Ridge.”
“…Can I get a rainjacket?”
“No, it’ll cause too much air drag in this weather. It’ll choke you to death.”
“Uuuuuh.”
It was raining. If the mud on the ground wasn’t bad enough from years of being hammered by artillery and thousands of marching feet, the downpour in the French meadows was another issue. It put tank assaults on hold, men in trenches had to find higher ground without being taken out by snipers, and many airplanes were wary in flying through the storm in case of being thrown out of the sky by harsh winds or struck by lightning (that’s the worse). Handling with the awkward torque of their newly installed engines was one thing, but stormy winds... no. Just no.
But a war was still waging on. Rain or shine, men on the frontlines and women supporting from behind had to push forward in order to win the battles they are part of. There was no such thing as a cancellation due to downpour. This wasn’t a sports tournament.
“Achoo!... I-I’m all wet… from the rain of course.”
“…Right.”
On the airfield of a base near Cambrai, there was a certain Canadian Pilot. He was known to be an Ace among Aces, but he wasn’t in the mood to be compared to the British Billy Bishop or the notorious German Red Baron. It was a bad rain and before the winds get worse, he and his selected crew must carry some explosive payload to a strategic front miles up ahead.
He commandeered a specially designed triple wing Sopwith Camel. It was a type of aerial fighter that had good enough engines and multiple-wings to accelerate in lift, pulling off tight sommersault to avoid enemy fire or anti-air guns. It also had the ability to fly at high altitude, perfect for bombing runs. It was also the only sturdy airplane that could withstand the rage of a storm. It was carved with the name ‘Black Maria’ in bright golden letters, even in the dark.
“Double check the ammunition and the fuel. We’ll have to get the horses to tow the planes onto the runway before we can start the engines. And please, don’t touch anything that says ‘firing main guns’. These horses were borrowed from a nice farming family. I would like to give them back.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“Ray-Ray. I can’t see a thing in this dark weather! Even my illumination spell or Hovering Spark enchantment is failing me miserably! See, the floating light ball is being swept away by the wind. No doubt to be raped by a bunch of lightning, poor thing... Anyway - This is plain suicide!!”
“No, Sleipnir! We don’t have time for a tea and snack.”
“I SAID THIS IS SUICIDE, NOT EARL GREY AND SHORTCAKE!!”
"What!? You have to go to the bathroom...now!?"
"EVEN IF THERE IS THUNDER, LISTEN TO ME PROPERLYYYYYYYYY!"
The weather was getting worse. If it wasn’t the down pour that could turn a regular forest into a rainforest, it was the churning winds that were strong enough to bend radio antennaes. But missions were mission, and that was what Raymond Collishaw planned on carrying it out with his No. 10 Naval Squdron (callsign: Black Flight).
Helping him to prepare his flight was his partner. She wasn’t a soldier neither an officer. In fact she isn’t supposed to exist in the regular army documents. She was a member of the Canadian Witch Corp. As magic exists in this normal world, so does the counter intelligence or anti-magic combat involved in this First Freat War. Obviously, witches like her were not trained to confront physical labour. No sir. She was the type of person who couldn't keep a 10 pound dumbbell from dropping on her chest (causing unnecessary bruising). Also, she wore a delicate dress made out of 1000 raven feathers, not at all suitable in a violent storm.
“NYAAH! M-MY SKIRT IS IN MY FACE! RAY-RAY! DON’T LOOK! DON’T LOOK!”
“What? What do you mean we have to dump the spare fuel? We need that in order to cover an entire province! What are you trying to…Heh?”
By chance the Canadian Pilot saw everything that was the Canadian Witch.
"...Blue stripes?"
“I SAID DON’T LOOK!”
“I CAN’T HEAR A SINGLE THING YOU’RE SAYING!”
Dawdling around wil get the Pilot and Witch no where. They still needed to head out within the hour, pack up the right amount of provisions, and any weapons light enough to be stowed onboard their plane. The mission was going to be difficult, even if the enemy was none the wiser of their upcoming assault. So haste was of the essence.
“WAIT! RAY-RAY! RAY-RAY! (>/// “We can’t sit this out Sleipnir. We’re needed on the front lines and to provide air support, we—” “SAVE ME! SAVE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” “…Ah." That is, after a certain Canadian Pilot finished dragging a certain Canadian Witch who was being plucked out of the plane by the hands of the storm. It looked like a giant wanted to play with her doll like body. Maybe it was because of her dress made of 1000 raven feathers, acted a bit like an open parachute. "SLEIPNIR! GRAB MY HAND! NO, THAT'S MY FACE!" "NYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA (@_@)” They obviously were not in Kansas City anymore... wait.