Chapter 4: Anachronistic Anarchy

The sun was by now peeking above the roofs of the buildings that comprised RCAF Station Willow Lake. The ranks of airmen of No. 468 Squadron "City of Ajax" and infantry of the First Squad of the Second Platoon, Third Company, RCAF Regiment stood in At Ease formation on the comparatively tiny main parade square, Captain Buckler acting as Parade Commanding Officer. The airmen were struggling to keep straight faces, whilst their ground-pounder counterparts were conflicted between embarrassment and amusement.

Private Charles Boucherville and a second RCAF Regiment soldier stood helplessly at the base of the flagpole. The two were supposed to raise the flag at the appointed time, but their job was thwarted. The lanyard which was supposed to raise the flag had mysteriously vanished overnight, having been replaced by a thick coating of grease covering the bottom three quarters of the pole. The lubricant prevented all attempts of scaling to the top.

Beside the flagpole stood General Chennault, Major Dupree and Lieutenant Solway. Solway stared at the top of the heavily-greased flagpole with dismay. "I know it's Whitefeather. I just know it."

"No," Major Dupree contradicted, "no you don't. This has to be the oldest prank in the history of military forces worldwide. I've seen it at least a dozen times, and I'd bet that the general has seen it far more often than I. There are written reports of it happening at RCAF Station Trenton in World War II, and at the time it was Canada's largest air base." He cocked an eye up the flagpole. "You'll never find out who did it no matter how hard and long you investigate, and my recommendation is that you don't waste your time. You'll only make yourself look ridiculous and undermine your own authority."

"But ... but..." On top of the fireworks and graffiti and music blaring from the loudspeakers the night before, this was just the last straw.

"Let it go," Major Dupree ordered gently.

With that, the timer ticked down and right on time, "O Canada" blared from the base public address system. Captain Buckler ordered, "Paraaade! Preeesent ARMS!" The men of the RCAF Regiment thrust their C8 carbines in front of them, changing their grip and foot stance with a snappy one-two-three-one. The airmen saluted. The three figures near the flagpole came to attention and did the same.

From the top of the flagpole, where normally the Maple Leaf would be welcoming the morning sun, a matching set of hot pink bra and panties proudly flapped in the gentle morning breeze, accepting the salutes of all ranks assembled below.

Harry sat in the cockpit of his four-engined bomber, trying to control his excitement as he waited his turn to take the nimble antique into the air for the first time. His pulse was beginning to accelerate as first one three-plane flight and then a second took their turns barrelling down the runway. The modern radio installed in his craft crackled with instructions from the tower and his fellow pilots' clipped acknowledgements. Finally, he heard his craft's call sign.

"Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf, Willow Lake Control. Permission to taxi to Marker Alpha One Three, hold short of Runway Two-Six."

"Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf taxiing to Marker One Three, holding short of runway," he replied. "Rolling."

"Lima Alfa Foxtrot Hotel, Willow Lake Control. Permission to follow Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf. Lima Alfa Foxtrot India, permission to follow Lima Alfa Foxtrot Hotel."

"Razor" Sharpe confirmed Lima Alfa Foxtrot Hotel had heard the instructions. The deceptively calm voice of "Digger" Doyle did the same for Lima Alfa Foxtrot India.

As his Lancaster passed her two sisters, each bomber followed in turn. Upon reaching the taxiway nearest to the far end of Runway Two-Six, the trio stopped and waited patiently.

Finally, the tower called again. "Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf, Willow Lake Control. Permission for your flight to take off from Runway Two-Six."

Harry felt his pulse speed up as he fought to control his excitement. "Lima Alfa Foxtrot Gulf, roger, permission to take off from Runway Two-Six. We are rolling. Lima Alfa Foxtrot Hotel and Lima Alfa Foxtrot India, acknowledge and follow."

His gloved left hand thrust the throttles forward, and the Lancaster lurched forward onto the runway. Once there, he paused to run the engines up to full power. Releasing the brakes was like firing off a starter's pistol at a sprint race – the Lancaster reached V1, the takeoff decision speed, in no time at all. Pulling back on the stick, Harry could feel his aircraft change from a ground-bound vehicle into a creature of the air, her natural environment.

"God," Harry averred under his breath, "that was better than sex!"

"Yeah, man! You can say that twice!" Harry recognized Digger's voice.

Obviously his remark wasn't as "under his breath" as Harry had thought. He felt his face redden as the controller's voice called out, "Can the idle chatter on this frequency."

A quick scan of his instruments confirmed that his systems were running properly, and that he'd reached the altitude for this exercise. A quick check confirmed his wingmen were in formation and likewise problem-free. He turned his plane's nose toward the station's namesake, Willow Lake, some miles to the south, Razor and Digger following eagerly.

Back at RCAF Station Willow Lake, Lieutenant Solway was on an inspection tour, Private Charles Boucherville in tow making notes. Second Squad was manning the guard posts – towers and front gates. Although armed with C8 carbines, the men at the main gate didn't have rounds – the platoon was still so raw from Basic Training that neither he nor Captain Whitefeather felt issuing ammunition was wise. The soldiers at least feigned being attentive toward the woods that surrounded the outpost for miles in all directions.

First Squad was reviewing first aid under the tutelage of the base fire captain. Third Squad was clearing yet more brush from the north fence. Fourth Squad was having a lesson in the C-9 from a visibly unimpressed Captain Whitefeather. As Lieutenant Solway passed the squad, sitting on the ground between two barracks, they were field-stripping the weapon yet again. Solway actually found himself wincing at the biting language of the Van Doo officer.

Beyond the barracks on the northeast side of the station lay the supply depot. Aside from two warehouses roughly the same size as an arm of the H-huts, the supply seemed to consist largely of piles of various sized and coloured blocks stored neatly around their compound, fenced off from the rest of the base. As he checked the inner perimeter fence, one of the logistics staff noted his presence.