Chapter Text
Lewis absentmindedly flicks at the glassy surface that coats the twitching needle of his compass, making it bobble tensely back and forth momentarily before settling again- 23 degrees south of west. He smiles, satisfied. His men are flying just so, and making good time too, even if the top speed of his Supermarine Spitfire is relatively high at 369 mph, the number still pales in comparison to that of the German Messerschmitt Me 262 at 540 mph. In spite of that minor shortcoming, he and his squadron are already halfway to Azeville, Normandy, and it has only been half an hour. A good thing, as foggy skies on their original course had sent them rerouting over enemy airlines.
He adjusts his radio, turning the dial back to a volume at which he can easily hear the genial chatter of his wingmen, accompanied by warm pops of white static that buzz on the lines. Lewis feels in his element now.
"Shot down five Jerrys I think- maybe more, at least that's what he told me. He's a tried and’ true ace now if I ever knew one," Warrant Officer Lando Norris, his rear wingman, barks happily over the comm. Spreading gossip is, perhaps, a punishable misuse of their radio sets, but Lewis lets it slide. He knows his men are good, and sees no need to be overly strict with them.
"Tch- he's a tried and true liar, is what you mean," George Russel (Pilot Officer- left wingman) slacks back with a laugh, and Lewis can practically see him shaking his head in good-natured disagreement. "He hasn't even been up in his plane five times."
"Well I trust him," Norris scoffs back, trying to sound offended in spite of the agreeable wholeheartedness ebbing into his tone.
"Ace or not," Lewis cuts in, fighting back the smile that creeps its way into his words, "I need you all to listen up and keep your eyes on a swivel. We're deep in Jerry territory now, and unless you all want some German ace to fly home bragging about how he downed you, I suggest you stay sharp."
"Thank you Hamilton," Valtteri Bottas (Flight Lieutenant- right wingman) adds, everything sounding a bit strange in his Finnish accent that is so different from the English one of the other three. "I was waiting for you to talk some sense into those two, I might have had to do something myself if you hadn’t said something."
"Oh you know you love us, Valtteri," Russell appeals, smug.
"I like competent men on my wings. The Air Force doesn't pay you for your skills in intelligent conversation."
"Good thing. If they did, you never would never make a cent, Russell,” Lando chips in, uninvited.
"And you would, asshole-"
The conversation sparks to life again, voices riding over one another through the lines, flowing like good drinks- warm and golden amber with a fond grainy taste that buzzes amiably. Lewis doesn't need to join in to enjoy it all, relishing every piece of witty banter exchanged between Norris and Russel, while Bottas occasionally huffs in with his own tired remarks, bothered yet endeared all the same.
This is how a squadron should be: a tight knit team, each man an expert in his specific duty- and Lewis feels more than proud to call this one his own. He loves them all like brothers, and swears to see them safely to end of this war- he owes them that at the very least, if nothing else.
He breathes easy as he lets his eyes sweep over the infinite abyss of fair blue that stretches on before him. His shiny jet cutting through those wild skies like a butter knife, sleek and elegant in her piercing design. His heart feels at it's most free here, most comfortable here; surrounded by good company and a never ending stretch of great vastness that morphs keen about the nose of his plane.
His eyes skim the altimeter with the acquired finesse of a well flown man- alt. 17,000 ft. He can just barely make out the rolling green hills of the French- or rather, German-occupied countryside. Beautiful and foreign as they are, they give him no comfort, only a reminder he is deep within the heart of the enemy now.
As if, perhaps, for God to taunt him and his exact thoughts, when he rakes his gaze back to the void of blues about him, he takes notice of minuscule gray flecks on the horizon, climbing high with billowing smokey trails to follow. They are merely dark smudges against the light canvas, but they are smudges that stand out sorely- dark, mechanical things that are gut-wrenchingly out of place against the undisturbed sky. Cruel and unwavering in their insistent wrongness. The Germans.
"Eyes forward, boys-" Lewis snaps sharp over his headset. "We've got company due west."
"Damn Krauts," Russell growls, angry and unimpressed. "I can make out four of them- an even match."
"Good, that's how I like it," Norris jeers, giddy with the adrenaline of a fight. From the corner of his eyes Lewis watches him adjust his flying position, choking up on his tail slightly in a more strategic fighting formation.
"Don't get cocky now, you'll jinx us!" Valtteri quips hotly, adjusting his flight pattern in turn with the group.
They've all learned how to complement each other that way, knowing the other's flying like the back of their hand and adjusting their own to perfectly balance it out. Again, Lewis beams at the thought that this is his squadron, and gleefully welcomes the thrill of the hunt. He wonders if the German commander opposite of him feels the same way about his boys. Probably not, there is no honor in the Axis side, even between comrades. Besides, he doubts the bonds among any other squadron could at all compare to those of his own.
The Germans cover ground fast, approaching in a similar fighting arrangement- their own just a hair more spaced out and flown at a lower altitude than Lewis’s own. His ears fill with the rumble of their jets, stirring like a cobra's tail, an ominous warning of the danger lurking just barely out of reach, coiled and ready for the strike.
As they approach he is able to make out that the planes are indeed fighters- “Kampfpiloten”- as the Luftwaffe coined it. Focke-Wulf 190s too, second to none and equal only to the top Allied aircraft. That is fine though, Lewis had always preferred relying on true battle tactics and aerial skills over fancy jet engines- a sort of testament to his practiced expertise. He can tell from the beginning that this will be a good fight.
The Germans are quick to the attack. The pilots on either one of their SL's wings sweeping down to undercut the four Allied fighters, pelting up with their machine guns. Turrets of bullets pound against the steel relentlessly, echoing hellish chinking noises as they collide with the metal underbelly of the plane. Russell and Bottas pull upward in a defensive maneuver, drawing the enemy airmen to the higher altitudes that Focke-Wulfs are notorious for failing at.
The two fighters take the bait eagerly, chasing them up only to be cut short as Bottas makes a looping corkscrew spin to engage them on their ascent. Russell is swift to join in on the fray, aiding Bottas in raining down their machine guns on the Fw's exposed fuel tanks in the same merciless manner the German pilots had displayed prior.
As the tides of battle turned to Lewis’s side, Norris had already begun advancing on the third Luftwaffe pilot- sweeping under him in the same strategy the German pilots had used initially. He only gets a few good shots of his machine gun in, merely doing the cosmetic damage of denting up some of the metal, but it serves to pull the Jerry from position as he abandons his place at the SL's fin to pursue Norris. It leaves things just him and the German commander (who is yet to give up his advance on the offensive). Lewis can't help but smile, hungry for the thrill of the fight. He can work with this.
He pulls up hard on the throttle, dragging the German from his element at a mere 17,000 ft. The Fw purses, following the Englishman into the hunt with an elegantly tight loop- a show of his flying experience. Lewis climbs higher and higher, zagging and corkscrewing just enough to keep his pursuer from lining up a proper shot of his guns, the German staying on his tail the whole chase.
Lewis keeps his eyes trained on the altimeter, evening out as they creep up on 20,000 ft.- just barely higher than where Russell and Bottas are engaging the other two Germans, only one now it appears; he figures the other must have been forced into a retreat as he hadn't seen any planes downed.
Focusing on the sky again, Lewis glances to his right, shocked to find his German utterly gone, that is until he hears the distinct rumbling of jet engines cutting up underneath him, and quickly finds himself corkscrewing around the fighter as his counterpart engages with his machine guns. Lewis snaps under in quick barrel roll, the change in direction coming so quick it nearly makes him lightheaded- would if he wasn't so comfortable in the cockpit. Unfortunately, it seems his enemy is just as experienced- and not easily deterred from a challenge.
The German loops quickly to change directions along Lewis, cutting it just barely too short as he almost flies right into Lewis’s tail and is forced to pull up in an emergency bail out. The Allied pilot takes the opportunity, raining hell on the Fw's semi-exposed fuel tanks.
'I've got you now,' he thinks, breathless, adrenaline running on high as the German tries and fails to regain control of his plane and pull up to safety. Lewis keeps him locked in place, the kill all but guaranteed until something throws him completely off track.
A loud bang rings out just some 15 feet up and to the left of him, he looks instinctively, not entirely registering what it is until he sees streaks of orangey-red and brown smoke smearing against suffocating blue. He chokes, stomach dropping in a visceral, disbelieving, reaction. He freezes in place, nothing at all running through his mind for moments on end except that a plane has blown up. George Russell’s plane has blown up. An awful amalgamation of burning, twisted, metal is sent hurdling down through the sky, and Lewis can't breath, feeling like a limb has been ripped from him. Everything at once empty and wrong, the taste of copper heavy where it sits on his tongue.
His view is obscured by the shadow of the German plane above him, seizing the moment of a lack of gunning to get away. His enemy gaining the upper hand in the face of his weakness. He looks about, frantic and not at all himself, only barely managing to dive out of the way as a blown off chunk of the wing comes plummeting towards him.
He pulls up, the despondent feeling of emptiness replaced now by a cauterizing anger. He ascends at foolhardy speeds, climbing high just behind his German, mad and thirsty for revenge.
"SL Hamilton-" Norris’s urgent voice cuts over the radio, the fearful desperation making Lewis want to sob with guilt upon just hearing it. "George- he- they-"
"He's downed." Lewis forces, voice cold and hot in his throat at the same time, the copper taste boiling uncomfortably in his mouth. "We'll send out coordinates to the Red Cross for them to find him. We fight on. Let's finish them off.”
"Yes sir-" Norris and Bottas bark back together, voices drawn to that cold, hard, professionalism the battlefield had so instituted in them.
He looks off to the side again, only for a split second to realize it's now only him, Norris, Bottas, and two Germans who remain. The man who had shot down Russell had been downed too in the explosion. Left with the numerical advantage, Norris and Bottas begin tagging up on the other German.
Focusing on his own pursuit, Lewis chokes down the hot, angry, tears that blur his vision, gaining up on the Focke-Wulf with the aim to kill.
He locks his guns on the fuel tanks again, plotting to send the plane spiraling down in flames just as the German and his comrades had done to George. Lewis stops from taking the shot immediately, intent on locking on to where the protective metal sheets had already been badly damaged. The German must have sensed something amiss, for he quickly loops out and into a dive back to the lower altitudes just before Lewis can take the shot. The Englishman copies the enemy airman, tightening the turn slightly so as to keep under his target- eyes glinting the whole way like some starved predator. This German SL was proving an amusing challenge. An engagement with someone so even in aerial skill was a delight Lewis rarely got to indulge in, he couldn't deny he was gaining respect for his adversary- even more of a shame he is on the wrong side of the war. The RAF could use skilled fighters like him.
"We got 'em, sir!" Norris jumps in on the radios, drawing Lewis’s line of sight to where Lando and Valtteri are pulling away from the now downed German plane they had been chasing. "We're all out of ammo though sir, and running low on fuel."
"Turn back and land in France, the both of you," Lewis orders, not bailing out of his high-flying pursuit.
"Are you sure sir? I didn't mean we wanted to leave you-"
"Just go." He grits out, jaw clenched tight. He has always been one to do things by himself. "Go to Tourlaville- It's the nearest town to the channel. If I don't come back in 24 hours, go to the coast and a rescue plane will find you, there should be Red Cross workers in the town to report to about Russell."
"Hamilton-" Bottas cautions slowly, voice weary with uncertainty.
"I'll be fine. Just go-" Lewis demands, trying to keep all the pesky emotions from drifting into his tone. He has no time for mushy tears and goodbyes while in the fight of his life with a German. "In case this is goodbye, you boys have been the best squadron I could have asked for. I swore to return you home and I already failed George, I won't fail you too. It's been an honor, men."
"It's been an honor for us too sir, but I know this won't be goodbye," Bottas replies over the line, more emotion preying on his voice than in Lewis’s, though expressing well-meaning sentiments all the same. Lewis understands. Bottas had always considered their friendship a close one, and Lewis is proud to say he returns the thought.
"Cheers mate, it's been a damn good time," Norris adds with a sniffle, forcing a brave front in face of the overbearing uncertainty that no one dares acknowledge. "We'll see you in Tourlaville. I'll save you some French wine!"
"Make sure it's white wine, I don't like reds," he scoffs back a bittersweet laugh, taking his eyes off his target for a fraction of a second as Norris and Bottas loop up and away from the fray, disappearing to nothing but small dots on the French horizon as their radio lines cut out on him.
It leaves a minuscule stinging in his heart- even if it was he who had given the order for them to fly to Tourlaville in the first place. If losing Russell was like losing a limb, then this was like having salt rubbed against that open wound. And in his mind Lewis can blame none other than this damned German commander.
'Just you an I, eh Jerry?' He mentally taunts, narrowing a predatory gaze on his target, attention locked full focus. The German had been wasting time trying to throw Lewis off the pursuit with intricate loops and tricks that belonged more in an air show than on a battlefield. 'You're all mine now.'
He turns on point, nosediving to sweep down under the German plane and go in for the kill shot. The German pulls up hard in reply, cutting him short just a hair in front of Lewis’s propeller and almost taking them both down in the escape effort. Lewis is boiling with anger now, making a quick corkscrew spin to tag at the Fw's wing. He rams in close to the Axis fighter, trying to force him to bail out on his ascent. The German doesn’t budge, the horrible scraping noise of metal-on-metal making Lewis cringe and fall back slightly as sparks fly from where their wings had made contact.
The German barrel rolls out of the way, just barely escaping Lewis’s machine guns, and returning to dive back under him. He enters the dive too quick (living proof of the Fw's inferior turn radius) leaving his fuel tanks bared. A still difficult shot for Lewis, forcing him into his own dangerous nose dive, caution and survival lurking far from the forefront of his mind- he wants the German's blood.
He pursues, corkscrewing down into a dive just under the enemy plane, spiraling to the ground at an alarming rate. Lewis does not concern himself with that, instead locking his guns on the severely dented steel underbelly of the plane, a smile tugging on his lips as he feels his plane rattle with the bursts of the machine guns- sparks and shells of bullets bouncing back onto the windows surrounding his cockpit. The churning of the guns and bullets rattles loud in his ears as his mind can only focus on the denting of the metal and taste of charcoal smoke, everything else melting to blurry dissociations of reality around him. He is giddy with delight.
With a resounding bang and momentary burst of white, his tunnel vision is blown to bits. Lewis can’t see anything at first, the noise echoing in his ears, robbing him of all coordination. When the edges of his all white vision fade back slightly, orange and fuzzy at the corners, he finds himself falling- fast. Hit with all the Gs of a nose dive entirely at once he feels on the border of passing out.
The German plane is falling too, moving just barely faster than his own, he can tell the pilot is struggling to even out to a semi-controlled landing. Scared of being met with a similar reality, Lewis grips the throttle with shaky hands, panicking as he pulls back hard to level out of his dive. He sees an aqueduct just several thousand feet away, running over a river on the fast approaching ground. Desperately, he pulls back further, working the lever with so much force he is sure he will break it.
He prays quietly to himself, the sudden altitude change making the corners of his vision spotty, he never wanted it to end here in this way. He wanted to go back with his friends in Tourlaville, not die in a plane crash on some German bridge. He doesn't stop the tears that swell up at his eyes, blurring his vision just enough so he can't make out the concrete that seals together each slab of stone on the bridge. His lungs burn with the altitude change, his face wet with tears mixing with sweat and blood from a stinging cut at his forehead. His ears ringing with the echoes of the German plane exploding. Now, from the corner of his eyes, he watches as it crashes into the far left side of the bridge, half of it hanging off the edge as stone is sent collapsing into the river below. The bridge shakes.
Lewis swallows with difficulty, squeezing his eyes tight shut as he accepts the fate that will soon be made his own. All that he has been bracing himself for comes at once as he is sent lurching up in the cockpit with a hard jerk as the tires make rough contact with the bridge. Waiting for something worse to come, for himself to fall straight through the bridge and into the river, he nearly sobs in relief when it never does. He is, instead, met only with a series of smaller bumps, the plane slowing itself to a stop on the makeshift runway. Free-rolling down the flight-line, the plane comes to a halt after a minute and half of bumping along. Leaving Lewis dizzy within the pilot's seat, coming down from his combined feelings of adrenaline and panic.
He frees himself from the cockpit sloppily, the blinding sun making him flinch where he stands. He leans over himself as he slides out of the plane inelegantly, staggering onto the solid surface below. His stomach disagrees with him, doing flips and making him sensitive with dizzying vertigo. Brown-grey smoke burns his lungs and obscures his sight, the smell of scorched metal making his eyes water further. He lets his body go limp against the ground, coughing up sweat and blood that has run down his face into his mouth. The coppery taste making him feel nauseous all over again. He is sure he could lie against these cold stones in all his boneless exhaustion for the rest of his life, but he knows if he lingers much longer he likely won't get up again. He has to use his adrenaline to his advantage.
Lewis pushes himself up to shaky legs like a deer just learning to walk. He cards a hand through his hair, a feeble attempt at dragging down his headache. It doesn’t do much.
Only a short distance away from him he hears stirring- his eyes darting to it wildly as he is shocked to find the German commander pulling himself out of the rubble that was once his plane. Bloody hands smear against oil smudged steel, drawing forth a series of pained grunts and jerky movements as he struggles to untwist himself from the metal- each little shift making the plane waver closer over the edge of aqueduct.
Lewis is cautious to the approach, unsure of what the German will do to him if he comes too close. Even if he is too injured to free himself from his cockpit, he could always have a pistol on him. Instinctively, Lewis’s hand falls to where his own holster is, comforted just by the feeling of the cool wood grip on his palm.
He walks carefully over to the side of the plane, being so quiet that at first the German pilot doesn't even notice his presence. He watches in apprehensive silence for a moment, finally getting a good look at the pilot who has just engaged him in one of the best battles of his life. It is not often he gets to see the face of his enemy, as air combat does not provide that one luxury ground fighting does. It has a strange sort of effect on Lewis. The lack of any man to man fighting had, for a long time, allowed him to dehumanize the enemy, as though they were all nothing but the machines they flew in. But now, seeing the German commander here- like this- is a jarring, almost intimate, experience.
Browning streaks of dried blood matt the blonde locks that stray from their place beneath his cap, sweat gleaming on his fair complexion, face flushed red with anger and exhaustion. He lets out another grunt, followed quickly by a scraping twist of metal accompanied with a pained groan, and finally a creak of plane as it teeters over the edge. From there the grunting and struggling stops for a moment- hesitant- before promptly restarting again in that cycle. He sounds miserable and perhaps afraid, looking half dead already- a mere husk of the proud ace he had undoubtedly gone into this battle as.
Lewis makes a small noise as he walks closer to the German, accidentally kicking a rock with his shoe and betraying his cover. The pilot jerks his head up in an unnaturally quick motion. Piercing blues locking onto the Englishman’s own brown eyes. His upper lip curls slightly into an animalistic scowl, teeth bared like the rabid predator he is. Lewis freezes, unsure on how to proceed as his hand goes tense around the pistol- drawing it out with such careful hesitance it is borderline unbecoming of a fighting man.
The German's gaze rakes down on the gun in an instant, pupils dilating in a minuscule reaction of fear that betrays his firm façade. They stay like that, in a sort of silent standoff. The creak of the ruined plane and crash of rubble against the tide the only sound passing between the two for an awkwardly long amount of time.
The plane teeters again, dangerously close to falling with the German still in it. He looks wearily down to where the stones splash and sink into the river. Reaffirming himself with a resigned sigh, the pilot looks back at him- half angry, and despondent, and desperate to keep his dignity as he forces a strong look.
It is an off putting sight- the battered man, blood and sweat pouring down his face, trying to wipe grime off his iron cross and find his cap to straighten it out atop his head, setting his jaw as he looks hard at the Englishman and his pistol.
"Schieß," he barks; a command. His blue eyes taut pools of iron smelted by furious anger for the latter. He smiles, the glare of the still burning Focke-Wulf making his bared teeth red, and bloody.
One kick of his foot and Lewis could send him and his plane toppling over the edge of the aqueduct, crescendoing down, to river below. The German laughs, taunting him to, lips twitching into an unwelcoming smile.
Lewis doesn't need a translator, he knows what the German is asking of him. Schieß- Shoot. A challenge, just the same on the ground as it is in the skies. He tightens his fist around the pistol, knuckles going white against the grip of the sidearm trained unwaveringly on the other.
His boot connects with the steel of the wing.