"What do you mean, my brother hasn't returned?" Doug shouted furiously at Robert's mechanic. "His squad took off four hours ago! This is bullshit!"

Doug turned and stalked off to the hangar where his Nieuport was housed. "Get my plane gassed and ready to go in five minutes." He snapped to his mechanic as he slipped into his flight suit.

Jason stood outside of the large doors of the hangar, his tear-filled eyes failing at first to find his best friend in the dim vastness of the enclosed space. He found Doug quickly - too quickly - as he watched over the hurried preparations with hands fisted impatiently on his hips.

"Shit." Jason muttered when he realized it was his responsibility to inform Doug of the tragedy. Jason wearily rubbed his temples, suddenly wishing he were back in the comfortable surroundings of home. This was a tragedy they never expected. They saw death every day, in some instances they were the cause. The death of a friend, a brother, someone he had known practically all his life, left Jason feeling vulnerable and mentally off balance. He ran a hand through his short cropped hair and took a ragged breath for courage. Jason had heard the news only moments before himself, from Eddie Rickenbacker, as he passed outside the mess hall to prepare his plane for maneuvers.

"Look," Rickenbacker said, pointing a finger at Jason's chest. "Find Doug, tell him, but keep him contained. Campbell and a few guys from his squad took off to avenge Rob." Rickenbacker watched Jason carefully for a moment, fully aware of the history of the three men.

Revenge is what Campbell seemed to live for. Just as he went after the Hun that killed Lufberry months ago, now he was trying to avenge Robert Calvert, an honor Jason felt Doug deserved.

"Doug."

Doug turned around swiftly, startled. One look at Jason's face and Doug began to shake his head in denial. His lean body stiffened noticeably, his usually genial face an unreadable mask. "No Jason. Not my brother." Doug looked beyond him towards the open doors of the hangar. A few men converged there, as news of the tragedy began to spread.

"You're kidding, Jason. Not Rob. Don't even tell me that that Rob is dead!" Doug shouted, his voice echoing and gathering density as it bounced off the hollow metal walls. He turned to his mechanic who had stopped working at the vehement sound.

"Finish my plane!" Doug snapped at the mechanic.

The oppressive August heat struck Doug as he stalked out of the hangar and into the blinding sunlight. The air seemed to shimmer and ripple above the dry flat ground. The teddy-bear suit used for flying was suffocating him from the sticky humidity. He unbuttoned it absently, peeling it off his upper body and tying the arms around his waist as he spun on Jason in fury. Doug's mind was spinning, as he could not comprehend the loss of his brother. Why could he not get a clear picture of Rob in his mind? He had eaten breakfast across from his brother only a few hours ago. What the hell happened?

"When did the report come in? Who took it? How are they sure it was Rob?"

"Mike O'Reardon was the only member of Rob's squadron that returned. He saw him go down, Doug. From what I've heard so far, they think he caught a bullet in the fuel tank. The plane burst into flames and fell to the earth. Maybe Rob had no idea what hit him. O'Reardon said he saw him fall forward over the cockpit. He probably never felt the impact or the flames."

Jason paused as he stared up at the hazy, white sky. "Rob wasn't the only one. We lost six men today, including him." Jason could not help himself as he slumped down onto a pile of discarded tires. "Oh Jesus, Doug." He groaned, as he leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. He felt as if someone had physically punched him in the gut.

"Campbell and a few others went up as soon as the report came in. He was pretty tight with Rob and the men in his formation. They vowed revenge." Doug stood silently with his eyes closed, pinching the top of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. A sensation of intense sickness and desolation swept through him like a sharp edged sword. His mouth felt like old paper, dried and turning to dust. "Jason, my mother. Christ, Charlie-Jesus. This is going to kill them. Rob was going to marry Phoebe as soon as he returned home. My God. This is real isn't it? My baby brother isn't coming back. My bro-" Doug turned away from Jason when he found he could no longer speak and kicked the side of the hangar. He let out an inarticulate howl of grief and anguish as he kicked and punched the hangar again and again, denting the thin metal and bruising his feet and fists. He pretended it was the artillery cannon, or the man operating it, that in his fevered mind cut short his brother's life. He could not feel any pain as he felt as if part of himself went down in flames with his brother. His broad shoulders heaved from the exertion of damaging anything in front of him to compensate for the strong emotions he was unaccustomed to feeling. The tears slid down his face unnoticed, landing unceremoniously on his sweat-soaked undershirt.

When his strength left him, he leaned against the hangar, pressing his wet cheek to the cool steel. His body slumped in despair, his mind plagued by a sudden whirlwind of memories. Rob's first steps, viewed through the eyes of a disinterested four year old. Fishing at twelve, laughter as Doug pushed him into the ice-cold stream. Bedtime stories curled alongside of Charlie as he read them to sleep. Late night talks when they shared a bedroom as teenagers. Discussing with much reverence the dream of owning and operating an airfield. Rob was his best friend as well as his brother.

"Who else is gone?" Doug asked, his voice choked with emotion when Jason stood to clasp him by the shoulder.

"Bryan Anderson, Kenny Williams, Steve Horbeszwski, and John McManus." Doug nodded in defeat as his body slid down the side of the hangar wall to the ground, elbows resting on his bent knees. He rested his forehead in his hands and cried silently. His hands moved down through his hair to clasp the back of his neck tightly. He stared blindly at the dirt as tears blurred his vision and pooled on the ground. Jason stood guard a few feet away to make sure that Doug was left alone. He was certain that although no one else had lost a brother, the other men of the aerodrome were grieving the loss of six comrades in one day. It was a hard number to fathom; it would take an even longer time for the eventuality of sudden death to sink home to the newer men. They would keep their distance, only of that was he sure. Jason lit a hand rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply. Eddie Rickenbacker approached him as quietly as he could.

"We were just notified. The wreckage has been found." Rickenbacker declared, his face ashen with shock.

"Where?"

"Not far, maybe five miles beyond the lines. We're going to inspect the damage. Will Doug want to join us?"

Jason nodded his head solemnly as he turned to look at his friend's bent back.

"Yeah, give us ten minutes, okay? Have they found the other wrecks?"

It was Rickenbacker's turn to nod. "Campbell's plane returned about five minutes ago. He also has requested to come along. O'Reardon's going to join us, if only to explain what the hell happened."

"Nobody else, Ed. Doug is going to need some peace, okay?"

Rickenbacker nodded and walked away.

As they drove hell-bent towards the wreck site, Michael O'Reardon began to tell the story of the doomed flight. Miraculously he had returned the airfield virtually unharmed, leaving Doug to wonder why Mike was spared and his brother dead. Doug watched Mike in the motor car with growing hostility, the other man's only crime was that he was alive and Rob was not. Did Fate play a part in war? Or was Death the only Fury that walked among the battlegrounds?

Mike found he had to shout to be heard over the continually howling wind, which threatened to swallow his words from the speeding open-topped motor car. "We reached the aerodrome at the Richtofen Circus without incident. It started out as a beautiful day for flying. We strafed the hangars and billets of the Richtofen until our ammunition was gone. But we had traveled fifty miles to reach the enemy aerodrome. As we turned to go home, we found the wind was suddenly against us. We'd been out over an hour; there was no way we'd have enough fuel to get home in the gale winds. They were tossing us all over the place. It must have been blowing at least forty miles an hour!"

Mike paused for emphasis; belatedly realizing this was not a group who wanted to be entertained by his tale, they only wanted to hear the cold facts. He cleared his throat after seeing the hard faces of his companions and continued.

"Rob must have decided to try and land us at closer aerodrome, just across the lines 'cause suddenly he started leading us north. Halfway there we encountered several formations of Huns. They were fully aware of our situation. How could they have known? They must've been waiting for us to fly overhead. Rob tried, God, he tried. Back and forth and up and down, he tried to break us through their ranks. I don't know how he did it, but suddenly he was through.

"They were relentless as they shot at us. He took the brunt of a lot of shots from the Huns, enabling the squad to break through the lines. As his plane began to spin out of control, Kenny was shot through the fuel tank and fell almost parallel with him to the ground. But it wasn't enough. Why wasn't it enough? Christ on the cross, I've never been that scared in my life.

"Rob was a great leader and he died trying to get us home. One by one our planes began to run out of fuel and spiraled to the ground. I pressed my plane on, praying to God, praying for it to run on petrol fumes, anything to get me close to the lines. I saw Bryan and John's planes crash and burst into flames upon impact. I don't know what happened to Steve. My plane-my plane began to sputter when I was a few miles from the front. I began to descend when the others crashed. I didn't know what I was going to do. When the engine died, I tried to keep it even with the ground. But I was approaching too fast. The nose of the plane dived, and I was holding onto the stick for dear life, to keep it steady. When I hit the ground, the wings dislodged and the fuselage slid about another thirty feet. I must have blacked out on impact 'cause when I came to, I realized I wasn't far from the aerodrome and began to set out on foot. I was picked up by the French police and driven back home."

Rob had made the ultimate sacrifice for his men. Could he have been so brave if he had known the outcome? If he had known almost his entire squad would be wiped out would he have had the courage to relinquish his life so easily? Would Doug have been as brave if faced with the same situation? Doug rubbed his throbbing temples; he felt as if his brain was straining against the confines of his skull. Why had he chosen to come along to view the wreckage? Wouldn't Jason have been sufficiently able to verify that it was indeed Rob?

Oh, Mother, I am so sorry that I failed to keep him safe.

The car screeched to a halt. They did not have much time. Soon the sun would be down and the need for lights to find their way home would be upon them. Robert's body had been recovered from the wreckage by the grim-faced and weathered townsfolk. There was no comfort in seeing the charred and wrecked remains of the fuselage. The plane had disintegrated upon falling from the sky and slamming into the earth from such a high altitude. The small group of men moved sluggishly into the church where Rob's broken body was entirely covered with wildflowers. Doug approached him tentatively, suddenly shy of the task before him. As he knelt beside the body, he found his brother's hand and held on to it tightly. Uncontrollable sobs seized him and he slumped to his knees, covering his eyes with his free hand. He lost all sense of time as he said his final good-bye. As far as he knew, he might have been kneeling there for five minutes or for five hours, when Jason gently lead him away.

"Eddie left instructions for Rob to be sent to the American Hospital near the aerodrome. The funeral will be tomorrow."

Doug nodded absently, too distracted by mourning his brother to give much notice to the details of the impending funeral. They returned to the aerodrome in silence. The plots for Rob and his fallen comrades had already been dug in the dry earth. Rob was to be laid to rest alongside the much-missed Major Lufberry.

The following day the entire aerodrome stood eerily silently for the funeral of their fallen friends. The empty wreck of Steve Horbeszwski's Nieuport was discovered only this morning. The consensus of the aerodrome was to believe he was still alive and making his way home. Rickenbacker's squad flew past, fifty feet above in the sky, raining flowers onto the open graves.

Twenty miles away, the almost musical sound of machine gun fire and exploding shells floated to the graveside on the wind. This was closest the aerodrome had ever been moved to the front, exaggerating the fevered apex of the war.

Doug Calvert stood stoically alone alongside the grave, some what apart from the other mourners. His eyes were dry now, for he felt impervious to any show of grief. His gaze always fell ten to twelve feet away from the empty hole where his brother was to be interred. He found that the only way he could endure seeing Rob was to keep him in the periphery of his vision. He was immune to the words of the chaplain, and to the many friends who spoke of Rob's benevolent demeanor. The time for tears and pain had passed. He was going to need to be strong for himself and the rest of the squadron. It would have shattered the last of his group's control to see him plunge off the deep end of a nervous breakdown. The quiet, introspective Douglas Calvert who had entered the war almost three years ago was gone.

In his place stood a hard man with cold, dark eyes, a man who only had one agenda for the remainder of the war: avenging his brother's untimely death.

Jason stood by Doug, if not immediately beside him. He could feel the rage radiating like heat from his friend, could sense the coiled anger inside Doug, awaiting the opportunity to be released, to strike the enemy down.

If the only requirement of his mission was to shoot down as many Germans as humanly possible, so be it. He vowed to go across the front everyday, as many times as he could get away with it, methodically searching and destroying enemy formations that dared to cross his path. When his time came, if it came in the air while at war, Douglas Calvert's covenant was to meet it with the same unending courage and faithfulness of his beloved and lost younger brother.