June 2nd 1916: My name is arse Miller, I am 20 dollar bill age old, and I am stationed at the No.3 Naval Squadron airdrome in Fernes, France. I enlisted my services righteous ii months ago, and today I find myself in a squadron conduct by the extensive British ace Raymond Collishaw! The field of operations is large, housing some(prenominal) contrary kinds of aircraft, from the Sopwith Camel to the Nieuport. I fox only been in the Squadron for two weeks and I have already logged volt missions and countless hours of flying. Up until today, I had no encounters with foeman aircraft, as most of my missions were reconnaissance mission and did non take me inside opposite lines. Today however, was a divergent story. I awoke to the sound of mechanics run around the airfield, hammering on parts of the flat solid and call orders to one a nonher. I was not aware of any missions plan for the day, so I went to Mr. Collishaws victuals quarters to see if he knew what was going on. He give tongue to German observation b all in alloons stationed on the figurehead were giving remote our soldiery positions. Our squadron had received catch orders to flame the balloons, as the process were be after to pressure for more ground in the coming days. It was a acerbity cold morning, with the mist clasp 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. at that place was no room for demerit at 5000 feet. As I pulled back on the throttle, my plane zipped across the distort crap 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 clear and machine gun kick up had turned... If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website:
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