Goshawk Squadron by Derek Robinson

here, you chaps,” he said, “I want to do something for you.”
    â€œWell, you can do something for me,” Lambert said. “You can tell that sadistic bastard to cut out bloody gunnery practice in the pouring rain.”
    â€œSorry,” the adjutant said. “Not possible.”
    â€œUseless clown,” Finlayson said.
    â€œTell you what I will do,” the adjutant said, “I’ll get hold of everybody’s score-card and alter it so you all get full marks.”
    â€œBound to happen,” Church said softly.
    Killion stood up and walked stiffly over to Woodruffe. “W-w-w-what I w-w-w-want,” he said, “is a g-g-g-girl.” He blinked seriously.
    â€œYou’re sex-mad, Killion,” Dangerfield said.
    â€œMad,” Church endorsed.
    â€œTell you what,” Woodruffe said. “Can’t get you a girl, but if you get her into trouble I’ll see it’s all right.” Killion walked away, stony-faced.
    â€œI know you’re tight, Woody,” Finlayson said, “but the only thing you could do for us now would be to shoot the old man. It’s time he was put down. Can you do that?”
    â€œBound to happen,” Church said.
    â€œSorry,” the adjutant said. “Can’t shoot the Commanding Officer. Tell you what, though. If
you
shoot him, I’ll get you off the court-martial.”
    â€œShooting’s too good for him,” Lambert said.
    Faintly, above the moaning of the wind, they heard a cracked wheezing, the unskilled sequence of chords of a sea-shanty played at half speed.
    â€œListen,” Finlayson said, “the bastard’s at it again. Celebrating another kill on his bloody squeeze-box.”
    â€œThat p-p-p-poor g-g-g-girl,” Killion said.
    â€œBound to happen,” Church murmured. He slipped out and went to his tent, got his revolver, and emptied it in the direction of Woolley’s tent. Everyone ran into the rain to see what was happening; everyone except Woolley. “By the time I got my boots on it would all be over,” he told Margery. “I don’t suppose he hit anything, anyway.” They found out next morning that he had, in fact, hit an airplane; but not seriously.

Force 5: Fresh Breeze

Small trees in leaf begin to sway
    February was a wretched month. Woolley’s training program was grindingly hard, tent-life cold, wet and colorless, and the news from the Front depressing. One day at breakfast Richards asked Woodruffe what was going on.
    â€œNothing much, officially,” the adjutant said. “All the rumors are that Jerry’s been bringing his troops back from the east by the train-load. Corps think he’ll try a really big push as soon as the rain stops.”
    â€œHe always does,” said Finlayson wearily. “Spring wouldn’t be the same without an offensive.”
    â€œThis will be different,” Gabriel said.
    â€œWhat the hell do you know about it?” Finlayson demanded.
    â€œI read the newspapers,” Gabriel said, unmoved. “Presumably the Germans do, too. They know the Americans are sending troops.”
    â€œThey already have,” Rogers said, “as we well know.”
    â€œOnly a few divisions,” Gabriel said. “Not yet enough to stop a German assault.”
    â€œBull,” Finlayson said. “In case you didn’t know, an American division is twice the size of an ordinary division.”
    Gabriel supped his porridge in silence.
    â€œIn any case,” Finlayson went on, “all those Huns the Kaiseris bringing back from Russia are fagged out. They’ve been fighting out there for bloody years.”
    â€œAnd winning,” Gabriel said.
    There was a gloomy silence.
    â€œWhat d’you think, Woody?” asked Rogers. “Does the Hun have enough troops to do any damage?”
    â€œSomebody did tell me he thought they might be a tiny bit stronger than us at the moment. I