The shivering night gave way as Headley Air Base emerged from the overnight blizzard.

Right away maintenance the crew cleared the snow off of the main runway as dawn broke upon
them. Amongst the action John Brahams, a new Royal Air Force recruit, was awoken by the
constant ring coming from his alarm. Climbing out of his cots bed he shook his head, giving his
legs a long stretch. Briskly equipping his pilot jacket and cap, he opened the pilot crew log.
Jotting down John B. under October 17, 1939, Brahams quietly closed the door to his cot,
careful not to wake any other pilots. The war had been raging for only a month, yet more people
had fallen than in any epidemic, rivalry, or natural disaster in the decade. Brahams himself was
recruited for the RAF. He was a tall, scrawny man in his early twenties who had spent much of
his career life in financing until he was recruited for the RAF. Not the ideal start for an ace, but
better than nothing. Slowly closing the log he walked outside, breathing in the cold, refreshing
air. He approached his awaiting his RAF instructor at the barracks, Lieutenant Harbord.
Brahams was to meet with Harbord at 5 A.M. sharp for a mission briefing.
Gmorning, Mr. Brahams, Harbord greeted, pulling out his hand for a handshake. I
have a training mission for you.
Pleased to meet you, Lt. Harbord. Brahams replied, grasping his hand and returning a
firm handshake.
Circle the English Channel border, Harbord ordered, I am equipping you with a
Gladiator scout plane that has a camera mounted to it, its waiting for you in hangar 9. Be
careful not to cross too far into the border so that the German flak can spot you, but make sure to
get some images of a new facility rumoured to be built there.
Yes, sir, Brahams said, finding anxiousness in himself. To more experienced pilots a
scout mission was childs play, but for him it seemed a daunting task. He approached hangar 9,
spotting the small British biplane. as some call it the Pecker in pilot circles. It had a stout
nose with a radial engine, behind it was an open roof pilots cockpit. Upon closer inspection the
plane was composed mostly of cloth skin and steel frame, similar to the old unreliable aircraft
that flew a mere 10 years ago. Not the best plane, but it would get the job done. Eagerly
hoisting himself up into the cockpit, he was relieved to see the biplane had very similar controls
to the Fury MKI plane he had flew in training courses for the RAF. He pulled a red switch
labeled IGNITION and the small biplane roared to life. As the eight-cylinder radial engine
purred, he pulled out of the hangar into the damp air. Brahams felt a surge of worry sweep across
him. What if the engine died out mid flight? What if the german flak cannons spotted him?
What if he embarasses himself in front of the whole crew? His mind was racing with fearful
thoughts until he was interrupted by the radio transmitter above his pilot controls.
The familiar voice of Lt. Harbord barked at him from the radio. Brahams! we
need you to clear the runway for a supply convoy to come through! Take off already!
Shaking the thoughts out of his head, Brahams concentrated on the mission. He taxiied
onto the runway, throttling up the aircraft. The entire frame of the biplane creaked as it raced
down the runway, inching off the pavement until free of the ground. Brahams eased on the
throttle, checking his compass. The english channel was a mere 10 kilometers away, the scent of

sea strengthening as he approached the site. Wind whipped in his face and the cold air making
his lungs feel dry. Brahams clutched the control stick tightly, his muscles tensing and adrenaline
pumping. Out of of fear and curiosity, he ventured closer to the base. Brahams prepared the
camera mounted on the side of the cockpit. Lining the plane up with the German border,
Brahams dipped under the clouds. Just as he was about to take a picture, something horrifying
appeared in his peripheral.
A gargantuan black hangar with a Nazi Swastika painted on the top loomed in his sights. The
hangar had a factory beside it; expelling thick black smoke from its cement smokestacks. But
even more concerning to Brahams was the object slowly exiting the hangar. It was a similar
color to the hangar itself, a flat black color. It appeared to be a giant wing with two jet engines
sticking out the black, spewing a brilliant blue flame out as the wing approached a nearby
runway.
Bloody ell?! Crossing the English channel, he felt a mixture of panic and curiosity.
forgetting what his Lieutenant told him about crossing the German border. Nearing the spotted
air base, Brahams prepared his camera. With a quick burst of white flash a picture reeled out of
the camera base. But before he could reach for the picture, a great explosion shook the entire
plane. Blinded by the sudden bang, Brahams regained his senses, looking over the cockpit to see
what caused the explosion. Flak cannons! They spotted me! Another burst exploded behind
him, damaging the planes elevator. Brahams swiftly turned the plane around, surrounded by
Flak fire. One exploded by his side. Another in front. Another one below him. He radioed in
on the RAF air base frantically.
Under heavy fire! Returning to base!
Right as he said that a Flak burst directly hit the left wing of his Gladiator, causing it to burst into
flames. Wide eyed, Brahams radioed in again.
Mayday! Mayday! Plane is on fire! Attempting emergency landing!
But it was hopeless for Brahams. His only options was to land in German territory and
be killed, or land in the English Channel and drown. With one last attempt to find a safe place to
land, Brahams accepted his certain death. Turning the plane towards the Luftwaffe Air base, he
dived down on it as flames enveloped the cockpit. To Brahams, everything went black.
The next day a search crew flew around the British border until cautiously crossing to the
German perimeter. The Luftwaffe Air Base was reduced to a rubble, burning ashes dying out
from the gentle rain. In the midst of the wreckage was torn and a burned piece of cloth, the
British RAF roundel inscripted on it.