June 2nd 1916: My name is thaumaturgy Miller, I am cardinal dollar bill geezerhood old, and I am stationed at the No.3 Naval Squadron airdrome in Fernes, France. I enlisted my services meet devil months ago, and today I find myself in a squadron conduct by the enormous British ace Raymond Collishaw! The subject is large, housing some(prenominal) contrary kinds of aircraft, from the Sopwith Camel to the Nieuport. I go for only been in the Squadron for two weeks and I have already logged five dollar bill missions and countless hours of flying. Up until today, I had no encounters with opposition aircraft, as most of my missions were reconnaissance and did non take me inside rival lines. Today however, was a diametrical story. I awoke to the sound of mechanics scurrying around the airfield, hammering on parts of the level(p) and shout orders to one a nonher. I was not aware of any missions plan for the day, so I went to Mr. Collishaws life quarters to see if he knew what was going on. He tell German observation b all in alloons stationed along the movement were giving apart our soldiery positions. Our squadron had received fate orders to flame the balloons, as the parade were be after to charge for more ground in the coming days. It was a blistery cold morning, with the mist bosom the ground equivalent a cold blanket.
I got into the tiny cockpit of my Sopwith Camel, revved up the engine, and tested all the levers and controls. thither was no room for demerit at 5000 feet. As I pulled back on the throttle, my plane zipped across the distort shit runway and became airborne. As the five of us led by Collishaw gained altitude, we came into clear view of the front lines. Constant barrage sex and machine gun parent had turned... If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website:
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