He crossed over the channel, the prop buzzing as he moved from England to France, a little nervous as he flew towards the front. It was blustery, but he skillfully kept the Sopwith Tabloid level as the crosswinds buffeted him. His leather cap and his goggles were tied on as the rain spat coldly at him. Miserable, but this was weather that favoured the British, he believed.

He was a hedgehog, a squat, round fellow that had been slimmed by the military training, but retained the slouched, broad shape that was comfortable to his species. When his spikes rose in intense moments, he filled the seat like a cork in a bottle.

Today, he was transferring forward to France, to Filescamp Farm, near Arras, only a few miles from the front lines. He was nervous, of course; who wouldn’t be? Soon he’d be flying bomber runs, while the buggers with their iron crossed machines looked to slip by fighter guards and get a quick kill for Huns. Not that it mattered. He’d make others pay on the ground for any attempts on him in the air.

He curiously checked his bombing crosshairs. Just grey ocean yet, whitecaps whipped up into a froth by the wind. He was loaded down, of course. No sense just bringing him and his gear when he could bring extra supplies forward, so his plane lumbered under the extra weight. The slower speed gave him more time to think, and worry. Rumour had it there was some movement on the German side; more planes being brought to the front, newer models. He supposed he’d find out from the commander.

Land slipped under him as he passed over Dunkirk, eyes watching ahead now. It wasn’t far. He watched for the landmarks as instructed, and corrected, rolling left a little. This was what he wanted. Battle and glory, honour to impress the ladies of home and stories to tell, just like the stories said. It was a surely better than the trenches; ten feet deep and the last two of those mud, always on edge, a day away from going over the top to try to claim a few inches of that muddy gunk. It was a damn sight cleaner up here.

His new home came into view: the planes lined up outside, the great hangars and the outbuildings that he would sleep and eat in. He considered circling over to have a look; but no, not this close to the front lines. He brought it down on the runway, landing softly and smartly despite the crosswind, and taxied up to the front of the hangars before he turned off the engines.

“Sergeant Smith,” called the ground crewman, a gull, as he saluted then helped the Sergeant down off the wing. “Fine day for flying, I think.”

“It is, Corporal,” he said. “Favours us more than the Huns, I think.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the bird replied. “It’s a funny thing a gull keeping a hedgehog in the air, though.”