March, 1918. The war in the air is a cruel and unforgiving endeavor, where the men who take to the skies live by skill, luck, and the fleeting grace of fortune. The latest campaign in the aerial struggle over France saw the emergence of a new ace, Lieutenant Maurice Navarre, a pilot with the spirit of a hunter and the resolve of a warrior. His opening victories were swift and decisive—first felling an enemy scout in a ferocious dogfight, then turning his guns upon an observation balloon over the front, sending it earthward in a blaze. The sky was his domain, and for a brief time, he ruled it.
But war has little patience for kings. On another balloon-busting sortie, Navarre set upon his target with the same deadly precision. The balloon collapsed under his onslaught, its wreckage lost to the earth below. Yet his triumph was short-lived. On his return flight, the black cross of an Albatros D.III loomed against the pale sky. The ensuing duel was fierce, but fate had its own designs. A burst from the German's Spandau shattered Navarre’s guns, leaving him defenseless. Worse still, his machine's starboard struts gave way, and the young aviator plummeted to the fields of France—his war, and his life, ending in an instant.
The squadron mourned him, as they had mourned so many before. The war would not wait. Regulations demanded a pilot stand down for four sorties before a new flyer could take his place. The war machine grinds ever forward. During this interlude, a fresh face arrived—Sous Lieutenant Charles Marinovitch, fresh from flight school, eager to prove himself among the veterans of the sky. His hands trembled not with fear, but anticipation. He was ready.
April, 1918. Marinovitch's first mission was a bomber escort, a task of great importance to the men below and of great interest to the enemy above. He climbed into the chill morning air, his mind sharp, his heart pounding. Yet war is an unkind teacher. Almost as soon as his wheels left the sodden earth, an Albatros D.III descended upon him. The sky became chaos. Tracers ripped through the air, engines roared in agony, and Marinovitch fought as best he could. The struggle was brief but brutal. His adversary’s fire struck true, tearing through his cockpit, his machine, his flesh. The battle was over before it had truly begun.
He lived. It was more than many could say. Broken, bleeding, but breathing, Marinovitch was pulled from the wreckage and sent to recover. Three months in a hospital bed awaited him, the summer sun passing over France without him. The war would continue without pause, and he would return when his body allowed it.
Such is the life of an aviator in this terrible and mighty war. The sky is beautiful, the sky is cruel. Few live long enough to master it. Those who do carry the ghosts of those who did not.
The campaign marches on, and the sky waits for no man.
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