The Last War Wing

Schöneluft Log, 1900.07.05

Ulrik Manfred Adler, acting Captain

I clung to the ladder, blown backward by the blast of the Mongol’s hydrogen. Each bag exploded in turn, but I lost count. The front of me was dry and the back wet, and I found that to be so funny I laughed out loud. Below me the ladder burned. This was interesting to watch, and so I watch it. I wondered if it would reach me, or if the rain would put it out.

I realized then that someone was speaking to me. I looked for the Khan, but his ship was falling, was nearly to the ground. I watched the impact before the voice again interrupted my thoughts. This time I remembered to look up. It was Chef.

“Ça va, mon brave bête?”

I thought what a fine and brave fellow he was, and an excellent chef. I grinned at him, and waved. He pulled on his mustache (which is a very fine one) and gestured at me to come up. Lightening struck again, but it was nearly a mile away, already heading out to sea. I laughed again forgetting all about Chef.

I lurched downward. I thought my ladder might have burned away, dropping me on my final flight, but I still held on. I came around a bit then. The lashing rain had extinguished the ladder fire a dozen feet below me. That had me grinning again, until something sharp hit me in the head.

“Ow!”

I rubbed at my scalp, feeling for blood. Someone was yelling above me again. One of the boiler crew leaned out of the hatch, screaming unintelligibly and waving a spanner. I looked around. No crewman (or lady) would throw a spanner unless it was important. They love their tools.

A lone Wing was approaching, flapping madly and gaining altitude. I fumbled at the rifle slung on my back, then in my pockets for shells. I searched the sky for others, but they were all far below. One determined Mongol dying to avenge his Khan, and damned if I only had one shot left!

I raised the barrel and aimed. As I squeezed the trigger something silver hit my rifle. My shot went wild. My last shot! What the Hell was that monkey playing at?

I drew my sword, knowing that the blighter would have an arrow through my chest and blow up Mein Herr’s ship before I could get in a single blow.

I looked for my iron-tipped fate. I saw instead … an accordion? The rider had no bow, no axe, but what appeared to be a concertina he was pumping earnestly as the wings flapped. And then I knew why I’d had spanners thrown at me. War Wings glide; they don’t flap. Mongol airmen don’t have adorable heart-shaped faces, a riot of curls poking out from their leather flying caps, or sparkling brown eyes behind their goggles.

I sheathed the sword and held out my arms. Philomena von Hedwig flew into them, accordion wheezing a protest in our embrace.

“Gosh it’s good to see you, Ulrik!”

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