The Scourge of Zwarte Piet

A Sebastian Collins Christmas Adventure

Traditions forgotten in the New World 
include Santa's helpers who punish naughty Children

It was cold, a slight breeze past through the air caused some to shiver. The sky looked through that it threatened to snow. In the hush of Leverington Cemetery, Sebastian Collins sighed as he looked down at the headstone of the grave he was visiting that day. Years of acid rain had but erased the name from the white limestone. Collins fondly remembered the deceased buried beneath the headstone. Those precious moments together like liberation Flanders from the Kaiser’s Army or bolting from a New York Speakeasy before the Feds came to shut it down.

As Collins chuckled to himself, he felt the dried tears on his cheeks. He always shed a few, walking through a graveyard. The holidays had that effect …so many old friends. So many that he could never rejoin, not for many, many more years yet. Collins often found Christmas to be the most bittersweet.

Collins knew before he saw that he was being watched. He glanced up and saw two women looking at him from a respectful distance. One was taller than the other. They were bundled up in the fashion which befitted their age which was fairly old.

It took a moment but Collins recognized the pair: Mrs. Leslie Salaignac and Mrs. Bernardette Pechin. Both were old time residents of the neighborhood. Collins liked Mrs. Pechin, who was the shorter one. She was a quiet woman who baked a pretty good repertory of pies, cakes, etc. She was also on the neighborhood’s Historical Society. Collins had been good friends with her husband and they had played Cricket together for some years before Mr. Pechin passed away over a decade ago. Collins was less inclined toward Mrs. Salaignac. He often found her to be a pushy, self-opinionated, shameless self-promoter.

“Let’s get on with it,” he mumbled to himself.

Collins placed his homburg back on his bald head and fixed his trademark black, maduro cigar into his mouth. He could have chosen to walk back to his office by another route. A graveyard is only an open field dotted with small obstacles but Collins was never one to shy away from such an obvious enquiry of his services.

“I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Collins,” said Mrs. Salaignac as he walked toward them. By the tone in her voice, their disrespect had grown to be mutual.

“Oh really, then please take a number and get in line,” said Collins, continuing to walking toward them on the gravel path that served as the graveyard’s roadway. Collins doffed his hat to Mrs. Pechin, who smiled and nodded back.

“What are you going to do about these missing children,” demanded Salaignac, her European accent grating.

“I will wave my magic wand and hope for the best,” said Collins.

Collins was indeed disturbed by reports of children going missing from the neighborhood, especially so close to the holiday season. His paper had been one of the first to report on the pattern.  The suspect was described as a tall man carrying a staff and a sack. His face has been covered in blackout makeup. The children taken have often been those who bully other people or have been known to be troublemakers. The suspect has been considered by some to be a hero. Then others started going missing, children not normally considered bad; not like the earlier victims. Despite the major media outlets sinking their fangs into the ratings-rich story vein, the story had cooled somewhat but Collins continued to keep vigil on any new developments.

“Well, I think you should do a front page story on this issue,” continued Salaignac. “There are so many people who are afraid for their children. I think it is a disgrace that the Police have done nothing to find them.”

“We have done several front page stories and continual updates on the Police Blotter section,” said Collins. “While I cannot speak for the police, I am sure they are doing the best that they can.”

He looked over to Mrs. Pechin, who looked up to Mrs. Salaignac, rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders in show of solidarity with Collins.

“My grandson is still missing. His mother cries every night. Perhaps you should put more pressure on the Police to do something,” barked Salaignac. “I see them all the time in their cars, doing nothing…”

“Those officers are patrolling the district, they are doing a decent job from the data I received which shows crime going down,” said Collins, getting annoyed. “It is the detectives who are working the missing person cases, which is backlogged in city this sized. I am sure with a pattern this big, it is a serious priority. I am sorry for your daughter and her husband, I truly am but there is nothing more that can be done at this point.  Now, if you’ll excuse me ladies, I must get back to the office.”

Collins strode away as Salaignac grumbled to Mrs. Pechin. 

Jake McIntyre hung up the telephone for what seemed to him like the twentieth time that day. It was another call from a “concerned citizen” demanding action over a trivial matter. This time, they were concerned by the ‘pagan’ ritual creeping into the economic activities of the neighborhood. One neighborhood development corporation has been hosting an annual Winter Solstice event for a number of years and the same crackpot calls in to complaint despite many local church leaders attending the event for what it is: community building. McIntyre wondered why some people thought the newspaper had some sort of civic authority over the neighborhood. It was the foremost mission of The Guardian-Sentinel to inform the populace. It has been involved in activities such as fundraising for local charities or as a donation point for Operation Bedding which sends goods to soldiers overseas.

McIntyre and his chief, Sebastian Collins, have also been involved in more covert activities over the years. They have saved the world among other things from evil toymakers, esoteric cults, and mutated canal sludge.

But you needed to pay the bills somehow and having a day job is one way to make a living, even if it is an old-fashioned newspaper.  Collins was always keen on being ahead of the curve and embraced ‘new media’. His paper had a modest staff; the office was not busting with people but it was full enough. McIntyre had worked his way up, eventually serving as Collins right hand man, Deputy Managing Editor/Digital Content Director. This week’s stories included the first phase of the Manayunk Bridge was completed; Shawmont Station reopened as a museum; and Cardinal Jacob Radzinski was celebrating Mass for the safe return of the missing children at the Manayunk Cathedral of St. John the Baptist.

McIntyre heard his boss’ footsteps come toward the editorial department, where Collins’ office was also located.

“Status report, Jake,” said Collins.

McIntyre informed Collins of the coming stories of the next edition and what was popularly trending on their websites and social media pages. McIntyre also reminded Collins that they were invited to the annual North Star Community Fundraiser that evening.

“Will need to stop home first,” asked Collins.

“No, I can directly from here,” said McIntyre, looking at himself in Collins’ office mirror. He was dressed in navy blue corduroy trousers, white shirt, brown tweed jacket with a red and blue striped ascot.

“You look a little like Thurston Howell III,” said Collins, with a little twinkle in his eye. He was garbed in a double-breasted wool navy suit with thin gray pinstripes. Collins had on a yellow floral necktie and solid yellow pocket square.

“Well, you look like Mr. Monopoly,” said McIntyre.

“There are a few more properties along the Ridge I would like to buy,” said Collins, fiddling with his moustache.

“Pity, you didn’t snatch up the Union House in time,” said McIntyre.

“True, it is an even bigger pity; it was demolished for a Chi-Chi’s. A Wendy’s would have been more palatable,” said Collins. “But enough of this idle banter; send in Peterson. Ask him to bring the police reports dating back to the first disappearance of the children. Don’t worry; I’m not questioning his reporting, just curious, that’s all.”

McIntyre left Collins’ office and fetched Peterson.

When McIntyre returned a few hours later, Collins’ jacket was off and his sleeves rolled up. Papers were strewn across his desk. He was puffing smoothly on a cigar as he looked upon the computer monitor that formed the top of his desk. Collins waved his hand to scroll through the document.

“Have you ever heard of Zwarte Piet, Jake” asked Collins, without up.

“I can’t say that I have,” said McIntyre.

"Zwarte Piet is something of a holdover from the Old Country," said Collins. "Like Santa Claus, Zwarte Piet is a hybrid stock character of pagan origin."

Collins explained that Zwarte Piet and his equivalents in European folklore started life as an enslaved devil, forced to assist his captor. Like many legends, stories change over time. Santa, seen now as a nice and saintly character was once quite severe. Santa would beat naughty children with a birch rod or put them in a burlap sack and take them away. Many of these characteristics were given to Piet. Over time, these characteristics were also softened and his task at festivals is mostly to amuse children.

Collins noted that there has been some controversy of late over the character which is seen as perpetuating racial stereotypes.

“The old Dutch Reformed Church used to celebrate St. Nicholas Eve,” said Collins. “Zwarte Piet made an appearance then.”

“Does this have to with the children’s disappearances now,” asked McIntyre.

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Collins, thoughtfully. “But I feel like Obi-Wan Kenobi right now…”

“There’s a great disturbance in the Force,” asked McItyre.

“There are voices, Jake, crying out and they will not be silenced,” said Collins. He looked down at his watch. He pulled a cigar from the humidor, also hidden in the top of his desk and put it his shirt pocket and stood up straight.

“I believe it was time we were leaving,” said Collins. 

The holiday season was aglow inside the Water Club Room of the Manayunk Brewing Company. The restaurant was a converted warehouse along the neighborhood’s revitalized commercial corridor. The room was reserved for private parties, such as this year’s holiday gala for the neighbor’s oldest community center.

An eight-foot tree radiated with the light of a rainbow of an LED sting. The multitude of baubles, handcrafted by the children of North Star, hung on its branches. Holly and garland hung along the walls around the room.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Kwanzaa,” Collins hummed to himself, in a parody of a popular Christmas tune.

Founded during the Great Depression, North Star has enabled people of all ages and abilities, especially those most in need, to reach their full potential as productive and responsible citizens through initiatives that support and enrich children, teens, and families. North Star's vision to support and strengthen this diverse set of neighborhoods by meeting the evolving needs of individuals and families, working to develop the whole person from education to providing sustenance, and thus, cultivating a vibrant community. Their current services include a year-round childcare for school age children, tutoring, youth development programs, arts and recreation, emergency supports, parenting workshops, teen employment, and neighborhood access to technology.

“The trouble is no one has been the center in weeks,” Jane Giordano, executive director of North Star, told Collins. “Families have told us how much they are scared that their child might be the next to be snatch. Despite our offers of volunteer chaperones, no one comes, even our evening programs are starting to suffer.”

Collins was making his rounds throughout the evening, meeting with local businessmen, all supporters of the center. Some are more than happy to give back since they benefitted from North Star when they were children. Collins saw McIntyre standing at the bar on the other side of the room. He was not alone. Jake was with athletically-built brunette. Collins recognized her at North Star’s new Director of Institutional Advancement, Dina Holmes. Her title was just fancy way of saying, “I’m the one who looks for wealthy donors.” But Collins liked her anyway. She was a fierce, independent woman, exactly the sort of woman, Jake McIntyre needed in his life. Jake looked over and saw Collins. They nodded to each other. McIntyre worked his way over with his evening’s companion.

“It is indeed a terrible shame,” said Collins. “I shall be sure to write a column about it in the next edition. We should not let some coward make us afraid to go out of our homes.”

“Indeed,” said a new voice. It was heavily-accented. “What should good people have to fear except punishment if they do wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I do not believe we have met,” said Collins, introducing himself. McIntyre and Holmes joined the group.

“Andreas van der Rijn,” said the man, in his thick accent, “I have the holiday pop-up store, ‘De Zwarte Speelgoedkist’.”

“The Black Toybox,” said Collins.

“You speak Dutch,” said Van Der Rijn, slightly impressed.

“een beetje,” said Collins, with a smirk.

Collins and Van De Rijn began talking to each other exclusively in Dutch.  The others looked on bemused as their conversation became joyfully animated; both men gesticulated wildly at times while making a point. It was as if the two men had been old friends for ages and not only just met.

“It so nice to know someone with intimate knowledge of The Netherlands,” said Van Der Rijn. “But Ms. Giordano, there was something I wanted to speak with you about.” He started to walk with Giordano away from the little circle of people to another part of the room.

“Some late Sinterklaas event complete with Zwarte Piet, to coincide with Christmas, no doubt,” Collins called after him. Van Der Rijn started, then turned with a smirk. “Not a bad idea,” he retorted.

“I didn’t know you spoke Dutch,” said Holmes.

“It’s among my many talents and one of a dozen or so languages I am still fluent in,” said Collins, keeping his eyes on Van Der Rijn and Giordano. Judging they were out of ear shot, he turned to McIntyre and Holmes, lowering his voice, just to be certain.

“If he’s a purebred Dutchman, then the Queen of Spain is Russian,” said Collins.

“How do you know,” asked McIntyre.

“During our conversation, Van Der Rijn mentioned a few places in Holland that he used to frequent. Places that aren’t there anymore,” said Collins.

“How do you know,” asked Holmes.

“Because I blew them up myself during the Second World War, they were never rebuilt,” said Collins.

McIntyre closed Holmes mouth his hand.

“There is also something else amiss about him,” said Collins. “I try to give people the benefit of the doubt but after that conversation, I noticed things about him. He moves too slickly. His mouth is a little too red.”

“He also had some rather large canines,” said Holmes.

Collins and McIntyre looked at Holmes. She stared back at them, puzzled.

“I thought you noticed. I assumed they were a body modification from his euro-clubbing days,” said Holmes.

Collins looked at McIntyre and said, “I really miss when Christmas was a quiet time of year.” 

Collins’ Bentley wasn’t the most inconspicuous vehicle for a stakeout but it was pretty warm and  comfortable. Jake McIntyre knew it beat other surveillance methods he had been engaged upon for others. Mannheim Steamroller played quietly over the sound-system.  They were both dressed like Boondock Saints, Peacoats over t-shirts and blue jeans. Collins and McIntyre kept an eye on the shop, currently occupied temporarily by Van Der Rijn.  It had been a few days since the fundraiser and Collins suspicions of the Dutch merchant had grown.

“You know the Cardinal’s mass will be celebrated at the Cathedral in a few hours,” said McIntyre, looking down at his pocket watch. It was a gift from Collins after their first adventure together.

“This should all be over in plenty of time,” said Collins.

There was a tap at the window that startled McIntyre a little. Collins rolled down the window. It was Dina Holmes. Steam blew out of her small mouth as she spoke.

“Hey,” she said. “What are you boys, doing out here?”

“We’ve only just arrived,” Collins bluffed.

“No, I’ve been watching you from the café. You’ve been on this block for almost an hour, now,” said Holmes.

“He’s coming out,” said McIntyre.

“Are you watching Andreas,” asked Holmes.

“Yes,” said Collins.

“Are you going to follow him,” asked Holmes.

“Yes,” said Collins.

“Can I come,” asked Holmes.

“I don’t know, let me ask your boyfriend,” said Colllins, who pressed the button to unlock the doors.

The trio followed Van Der Rijn to the edge of Valley Park where they had to leave the car. Collins went to the trunk and removed a ruck sack. They then continued on foot, going slowly, not make too much noise.

“How do you know where you’re going,” asked Holmes.

“I can smell him,” said Collins.

The moon was bright in the cloudless sky and the lack of leaves of the trees helped increase the low visibility of the wood. They had come to a trail and the bottom of a hillside. McIntyre was about to say something when a howl pierced the silence.

From a behind a large hemlock, there was devilish figure. The tall beast in the half-light was brown and very hairy, with cloven hooves and had the horns of a goat. Its long pointed tongue was lolling out, flicking this way and that as if smelling the around toward them. Chains were wrapped around a staff of Birch; they jingled like rusty bells as he brandished it at the trio. McIntyre moved in position to shield Holmes from the creature. Holmes picked up a nearby rock and threw it at the massive hulk. It brushed it off like it was a marshmallow.

There was then the sound of a cannon shot and the head of the figure ahead of them exploded. More cannon fire and more destruction of the beast. The lower torso and legs of the figure fell with an anti-climactic flop. Instead of animal offal, as McIntyre was expecting, McIntyre saw metal parts and smelled oil. The pair saw Collins holding his trusty Webley revolver.

“Krampus automaton, we must be close,” said Collins, putting down his rucksack. “Now, time to get changed.”

“Wait, I know a little about guns,” said Holmes, “how did that thing explode when you hit it?”

“Magic bullets,” said Collins, opening the rucksack. McIntyre saw what was inside.

“You can’t be serious,” said McIntyre.

It was a Santa suit.

After Collins was satisfied with his attire, the trio set off in the direction that the automaton was guarding. Collins picked up the chain that was wrapped around the birch staff and put it in his rucksack. He put the staff under his arm.

“You never know when it might come in handy,” he whispered as they continued on.

They didn’t have to go very far until they found something important. It was Holmes who heard it first. It sounded like a child whimpering. It didn’t take long to find a small boy, quietly sobbing in some rhododendron. The boy tried to flee before McIntyre tackled him. Besides the boy’s grimy, tattered and careworn appearance, it was obvious that he was frightened. The trio worked to calm him down. They learned that he had escaped from a pit where children had been sent to mine for gold and other materials. The boy, whose name was Jim, said that a man was in charge; dressed in ‘strange clothes’ and would beat the children f they didn’t work hard enough. He would yell at them and remind them of the bad things that they had done and repeatedly told them that they deserved this treatment. Jim told them that this man had servants. Jim described the Krampus Automaton that Collins had recently dispatched. Just then, a couple of howls filled the night. Holmes cried out.

“It looks like there are two more of those things coming over here,” she said.

“We have to run,” said Jim.

“They don’t get tired and they never give up,” said Collins. “I’ll deal with this.” He stood up and gained a bearing on each Krampus figure. When they got close enough, he fired his revolver caused the hulking figures to crash down to earth.

“Jim, I know it is difficult for you but I need you to show us that mine,” said Collins. “Do not be afraid, I am going to do them, to whatever gets in our way.”

The entrance of the mine was overgrown with brambles and fern. It was barely noticeable, a perfect bolt hole, thought Collins. Moving some plants aside, Webley in hand, he squeezed through the hole. The others followed. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the tunnel. He saw a brighter light up ahead and walked toward it. It was large cavern, below were dozens of children, chained to the wall, chiseling the rock; their faces grimy and sullen. Krampus guards watched over them.

“It’s almost like something out of Dante,” said McIntyre.

In the center of it all seated on a dais, was a man dressed in Renaissance garb, he was eating from a silver platter with his bare hands. He would point to one child or another and a guard would punish them. It took a few moments for everyone to recognize the man.

“That’s...” started Holmes.

“Yes, it is and it’s gone far enough,” said Collins.

“It’s over, Van Der Rijn,” shouted Collins. “Take off the mask and show everyone who you really are. Yes, I know who you are, Zwarte Piet. Show us the real face behind the one you’ve been hiding behind.”

Van Der Rijn stood up, his face a mask of contempt. He pointed to the foursome, now that young Jim had joined them. Four Krampus came toward them. Collins dispatched them with his revolver. He then fired a shot at Van Der Rijn’s feet, which sent up a large amount of sparks.

“I will not warn you a second time,” said Collins, his voice colder than the rock around them.

Van Der Rijn reached behind his head and pulled off his human mask. Zwarte Piet looked like a devil in pantaloons, with short curtly, black hair like a spaniel; a dark swarthy complexion; with a mouth like a dog but with red lips and serpent tongue.

The demon giggled and then spoke in Dutch, obviously directed at Collins. Collins parried also in Dutch, then Van Der Rijn lunged for him. During the struggle, McIntyre urged Jim and Holmes to start freeing the other children. He knew that others had underestimated Collins. Beneath his bulk, Sebastian Collins was a skilled fighter. He soon had the upper hand over Van Der Rijn and had him in chains.

“Start taking these children back to the car, won’t you, my dears,” asked Collins. “I’ll join you in a few moments.”

Collins reached into his ruck sack and pulled out what looked like to McIntyre demolition explosives.

There was a faint rumple when they all arrived at the parking lot where they left the Bentley.

Van Der Rijn mumbled something. Collins swatted him with a birch bundle.

“Mind your language, there are children and a lady present,” said Collins.

“So what do we do with him,” asked McIntyre, indicating the chained Van Der Rijn. 

“I’m about to make a phone call to The Ruby City,” said Collins. “They’ll send a transport to take him to the facility. We’ll also need their help in getting these children to the Cathedral.”

“The Cathedral,” asked Holmes.

“Of course, it is Christmas, a time for miracles and what could be more miraculous than Santa bringing all the missing children back to their families,” said Collins grinning as he reached into his rucksack for a cell phone and fake white beard.

FIN

The Circus

A Sebastian Collins Christmas Adventure

France 1917

Major Sebastian Collins yawned as he sauntered out of his tent in the early morning. He noticed his breathe as he exhaled. It was never cold like this when I was in India, he thought, but it was certainly colder in the Yukon territories of upper Canada. Collins thought of his stint with the Northwest Mounted Police and smiled.

The sun was just peaking over the horizon. Collins had on his boots that went up nearly to his knees, his jodhpurs, his suspenders hung down from his waist and had an undershirt on. The chill on his skin made him feel alive but he really detested having cold feet, physically and metaphorically.

"So this is Christmas," Collins said solemnly to himself, "another year over and a new one to begin."

There was a mist over the field of tents around the aerodrome. Collins gave an involuntary shudder. He thought about that incident on the front just over a year ago. He and a group of Canadian commandoes raided a German trench and found a horrible new weapon. There, Collins and his team met a nemesis from Collins' past. His name was De Klerk, a South African mercenary who delighted in finding ingenious and depraved ways of killing all living things. Collins and his commandoes found a way to destroy the weapon De Klerk invented and the bloody springbok with it. Thankfully, the gas weapon they saw then was never spotted again; at least not in the Allied trenches as far as Collins had understood. Collins looked at his shoulder that had been grazed in the incident. The scar healed quite well there was a faint trace of the bullet's path on his exterior. After that raid, Collins requested a transfer to the Flying Corps because he has his fill of blood, mud, gas and rats.

He had got the hang of it all in a few short months and proved a very apt flyer. Not much too them, Collins first thought from the inside of an aeroplane cockpit, just balsa wood, canvas and wire. Collins was not quite an ace yet, one short but he would get there. Mercifully, planes were fitted with an interrupter mechanism that allowed them to shoot their front mounted Vickers machine guns without blowing off their own propeller. Collins saw other aeroplanes in the corps with machine guns still mounted on the wings.

Collins had originally trained on the Sopwith Pup and had flown in a few engagements with it. He really enjoyed the aircraft but his new ride was quite the beast.

The Sopwith Camel was manufactured by Sopwith Aviation Company. It had a combination of a short-coupled fuselage, heavy, powerful rotary engine and concentrated fire from the aforementioned machine guns. Collins noted that the biplane design was more evolutionary than revolutionary, featuring a box-like fuselage structure, an aluminium engine cowling, plywood-covered panels around the cockpit, and fabric-covered fuselage, wings and tail. A metal fairing over the gun breeches created a "hump" that led to the 'Camel' nickname. The bottom wing had dihedral but not the top, so that the gap between the wings was less at the tips than at the roots.

Sadly, the Camel had gained an unfortunate reputation with other student pilots. The Camel owed both its extreme maneuverability and its difficult handling characteristics to the placement of the engine, pilot, guns and fuel tank, which accounted for almost, if not more than 90 percent of the weight of the craft; all within the front seven feet of the aircraft and coupled with the strong gyroscopic effect of the rotary engine. The Clerget engine was particularly sensitive to fuel mixture control, and incorrect settings often caused the engine to choke and cut out during takeoff. Many trainees crashed due to mishandling on takeoff when a full fuel tank affected the center of gravity.

In level flight, Collins found the Camel was markedly tail-heavy. Unlike the earlier Sopwiths, the Camel lacked a variable incidence tail plane, so that the pilot had to apply constant forward pressure on the control stick to maintain a level attitude at low altitude. However, Collins found that the machine could also be rigged in such a way that at higher altitudes it could be flown "hands off"; but a stall immediately resulted in a spin.

But Collins had had some experience; he felt the controls were light and sensitive. He did think that the Camel turned rather slowly to the left, and resulted in a nose up attitude due to the torque of the rotary engine. But the engine torque also resulted in the ability to turn to the right in half the time of other fighters, although that resulted in more of a tendency towards a nose down attitude from the turn. Because of the faster turning capability to the right, to change heading 90 degrees to the left, Collins saw many pilots preferred to do it by turning 270 degrees to the right.

So it was slightly harder than a horse, but it still scared the schnitzel out of a lot of Huns, thought Collins.

Collins had just barely survived what the papers called "Bloody April" earlier year when the RFC suffered particularly severe losses - about three times as many as the Luftstreitkräfte, the Imperial German Army Air Service, over the same period - but continued its primary role in support of the ground offensive. A new war fought by old soldiers, thought Collins, bloody typical.

Collins did meet the Canadian commander, Arthur Currie. Collins was impressed with the regard Gen. Currie had for their welfare. Collins flew sorties helping to cover scout aircraft from German counterattack before the Battle of Arras. Collins had a particular hairy time over Vimy Ridge. The Royal Flying Corps launched a determined effort to gain air superiority over the battlefield in support of the spring offensive. 'Determined effort' usually meant flinging everything the Allies had at the Central Powers and hoping spunk and luck would follow.

The Canadians considered activities such as artillery spotting, and photography of opposing trench systems, troop movements and gun emplacements essential to continue their offensive. The Royal Flying Corps deployed 25 squadrons totaling 365 aircraft along the Arras sector, outnumbering the Imperial German Army Air Service by 2-to-1.

Aerial reconnaissance was often a hazardous task because of a requirement to fly at slow speeds and at low altitudes. The task was made all the more dangerous with the arrival of additional German flying squadrons, including Baron Manfred von Richthofen's highly experienced and well equipped Jasta 11, which led to sharp increase in Royal Flying Corps casualties. Although significantly outnumbering the Germans, the Royal Flying Corps lost 131 aircraft during the first week of April alone.

Despite the losses suffered at the hands of the 'Bloody Red Baron", Collins and the Royal Flying Corps carried out its prime objective, supplying the army throughout the Arras Offensive with up-to-date aerial photographs and reconnaissance information. He was glad to hear that the Canadians held tenaciously to their hard-won ground, especially Vimy.

The morning guns firing at the German lines broke Collins from his reverie. He looked down at his wristwatch. It read quarter to seven. It felt later to Collins. He looked at his device. He bought it in Paris when he was last on leave. He saw it in a little shop. An old lady with a soldering iron was welding bizarre things together. But that’s a story for another time. This new watch was much easier to get at when he was up in the air chasing the albatrosses.

Collins walked back into his tent, it was only slightly warmer than the outside air. Collins grabbed his tunic from the chair. It was different that than his last one. This one was double breasted with a stand-up collar. He didn’t have to wear a tie. On his left breast were his pilot wings. On his dress uniform his award ribbons would be located beneath it. Of course, Collins could have just put the wings on the left breast of his old uniform but that would put his tailor out of work.

His rank insignia, a single brass crown, was found on each shoulder strap. Like his old army uniform, he also had the regulation Sam Browne belt. On his belt around his waist was his trusty Webley service revolver. After finishing putting on his uniform, he sat down in his chair and grabbed his meerschaum pipe. He filled the bowl with black Cavendish tobacco from a jar by his desk. He lit his pipe with a single match and inhaled deeply the sweet smoke. Collins was at his most relaxed. It would still be a few minutes until breakfast would be available in the officer’s mess.

"Merry Christmas to all," Collins muttered. Collins heard the drone of an engine. He assumed that it was an Allied craft because it sounded so close by. He looked up at the ceiling of his tent anyway.

"Go get them boys. Give the Boche a Christmas to remember," said Collins."Not like we did in 1914."

Then he heard a high-pitched whistle, it shrieked above him and then there was an explosion. Collins felt the concussion as he the flaps of his tent blew open revealing a small explosion in a field directly in front of him.

“Another drill,” Collins said out loud. “With live…experimental munitions?”

Collins could hear the rata-tat-tat of machine gun fire and ground shaking thumps of anti-aircraft fire. There was another whistle and Collins saw a fast streak of black make a beeline to the Officer’s mess. It blew up spectacularly as if it were made with match sticks. That was certainly what was left of the wooden structure. There were airmen in various states of undress running all about. Collins spotted a young junior lieutenant, Hawke, Collins believed he was called. It was an apt name for a flyboy. The young man looked dazed and ran headlong toward Collins. Collins grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

“Hawke, get this fire under control,” said Collins, pointing to the remnants of the mess hall.

The boy stood. Collins slapped him once across the face, soon Hawke eyes became clear and he recognized Collins.

“Hawke, fire control, at the double,” repeated Collins.

“Right, Major,” Hawke said, saluted, turned around and started barking orders to anyone nearby.

Collins turned and ran to the aircraft hangar. He was glad that he left his flight jacket and helmet in the cockpit. A few of the other officers had the same idea and were running to their planes as well. Collins quickly suited up and jumped into the cockpit. His leg touched one of two mills bombs strapped to the inside of his cockpit; little gifts he tossed to enemy trenches. Two of the air crew were pushing his plane out to the open field. Collins heard another shrieking whistle but didn’t look to see where it at landed.

“Contact,” said Collins, his engine beginning to roar to life. One of the air crew pulled down the propeller and soon his machine was roaring into the sky.

The sensation of rising up into the sky always made Collins’ heart sinking down into his boots. He thought it may have had something to do with that commando. He had to blow up an ammo dump, the resulting explosion blew him clear into No Man’s Land and he cracked a couple of ribs.

Collins saw the air field fall below him. On his right there was another explosion. He looked left and saw an Albatross D. III starting to make a climb. He remembered them well from Bloody April. Collins quickly noted that this type had tubes on the tips of its wings. In two of the tubes, there were what seemed to be to him oversized Chinese firecrackers.

“So that’s what their firing, bloody rockets,” Collins shouted, but he words were lost to the air rushing past him.

He pushed his control stick to follow. Still being this close to the ground the controls were a bit sluggish but Collins willed them to move. Soon he saw his prey above him, and then he noted a speck on his peripheral and saw another plane diving toward the aerodrome. Collins focused back on his target. Let the other pilots deal with him. Closing in, he looked through his sights slowly the enemy Albatross drifted between the crosshairs.

Collins calmly squeezed the trigger on his control stick. His machine guns rattled off a belt of ammunition. Collins noticed the pilot try to look back at him. Collins looked through his crosshairs and fired again. This time he saw smoke rise out of the engine and the plane began to dive sharply. The area they were over was an empty field dotted by trees; ahead of them laid the front lines and No Man’s Land. The German aircraft screaming noise as it plunged back to earth falling at the speed of gravity. Collins could see the fuselage and the start of the wings catch fire. The burning aircraft hit the earth at some speed and skidded along and ground to a halt. A few seconds later, there were was a double explosion. Collins banked away and rose again to the slightly clouded sky. He saw in the distance a dogfight; one of the other Royal Flying Corps Pilots tangles with the other German plane.

Collins moved his control stick to join the fight even though they were still a good distance. He saw the planes flay toward each other in a game of aerial chicken. Knights of the Air, the Flying Corps was considered in the press. Now Collins and another pilot were jousting with the enemy. The only thing that had changed was the technology. The final result was still the same; people died.

Just then Collins noticed something flash past from behind him. It then exploded brightly in front of him. Collins then realized it was a rocket.

“Son of a Kitchen Dutch wench,” Collins exclaimed. They would prove prophetic words for Collins

He missed the clues of a third aircraft. Now, it was behind him. Collins turned right relying on the speed and maneuverability of his aircraft. He looked up and spotted his pursuer. It was another Albatross, it had the wing markings of the Imperial German Air Service but its markings and color scheme were not one he was familiar with. The plane was painted hunter green with a yellow stripe around the center of the fuselage. On the side, in place of the roundel, there was painted an animal in mid-leap. The animal gripped a death's-head flag in its mouth. He had seen this animal before; it was a Springbok, national symbol of South Africa.

“De Klerk,” Collins hissed.

So it seemed that his old South African enemy had apparently survived their last encounter just as Collins' had. Now he was following him into the skies. De Klerk followed his prey closely. Collins heard ricochet off his one of his struts then faintly heard the sounds of machine gun fire. Collins opened the throttle all the way and gained more speed over his opponent. He also swerved left then quickly right.

Both turns came not a moment too soon when he saw a black streak past right then left. He dodged the aftermath of both explosions and broke off left and down. The enemy followed. Collins then noted that an object was following him. It collided with this left side struts and bounced a bit. Its propellant putted out and the object fell behind him and exploded. Collins felt the concussion pass through the plane and his own body and stick became harder to control. His cockpit grew a bit colder despite the lamb’s wool lined leather trench coat he had on. It was also breezier, especially the wind rushing between his knees. Collins glanced back. The rocket had torn a hole in his fuselage.

Great, he thought. De Klerk’s finally got me. Well, I’m not going down without taking him with me.

The controls were stiff but he pulled up and performed a circle maneuver getting behind De Klerk’s aircraft. Collins looked into his sight. It was dead on target. Collins pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pulled it again. Nothing. Gun jam, in Collins’ greatest moment of need, his often dependable twin machine guns had failed him. Collins screamed into the air. Collins noticed their little run had brought them over No Man’s Land. This brought a new series of dangers; such as German soldiers taking pot shots at him from their trenches. He looked down into his cockpit and got an idea.

He moved his craft alongside his enemy. The Albatross eased off its speed. The pilot looked over his would have been executioner. It was surely De Klerk. He looked over and smiled smugly at Collins. The South African native wiggled his finger at Collins like he was a naughty child. Collins smiled. He then pulled out his revolver and fired it at his nemesis. Collins struck his opponent. De Klerk veered right Collins followed alongside. The bullet hit De Klerk but not in the head or neck. Collins saw a hole in the side of the fuselage where his enemy’s legs should be located. Collins saw the man wince in pain. He grabbed a grenade with his hand pulled the pin with his teeth and lobbed it at the plane opposite.

It missed; falling well short. Collins steadied the controls again. He grabbed the other Mills bomb; he pulled the pin again and threw it harder. Collins agonized over the second it took before he saw the pineapple looking metal ovoid land squarely inside the cockpit of the Albatross. Collins saw De Klerk’s mouth open in a scream before he saw the aircraft fall toward the ground, spinning like a falling leaf. A few hundred feet before hitting the ground there was an small explosion and the plane landed in ground in two pieces between the Allied and German front trenches.

The world then exploded around Collins so he didn't notice if De Klerk was alive or dead. Collins' now worried for his own survival. Little black clouds bloomed in front of Collins; the Germans were pouring the anti-aircraft fire on him. To pilots, it was informally called The Hate. It could tear a man into Swiss chard if he was not careful. The controls though stiff turned right. Collins also saw holes begin to appear on his wings. Then there was a loud crack and his engine sputtered. Smoke trailed out and his propeller stopped rotating.

All this hate in the air and I get hit with some private’s pea shooter, bloody typical, thought Collins. There was only the sound of rushing air as Collins glided his plane down toward his own lines. As he fell, he heard a crack and a tearing sound. There was a jolt, and then the stick became loose. He turned and saw his tail had fallen off. The plane began to fall sharply into a nose dive. Collins turned and stood up in his cockpit. He leaned over his broken fuselage in a desperate attempt to level his aircraft. It barely worked. The aircraft hit the ground levelly but skidded over the earth toward the lines. It struck a crater and bounced over the first line of trenches. It tossed Collins a few feet into the air. The aircraft ground to a halt as Collins landed into a trench on his back.

When Collins opened his eyes again, there was a soldier pointing his rifle at him. The man’s uniform was olive drab with a stand up collar. There was a badge it had two letters, “U.S.”, inside a circle. Collins then noticed others. These were American soldiers.

“Who are you, mister,” asked a voice behind him.

Collins slowly sat up and turned to the soldier. He had three chevrons pointing upward and a diamond beneath.

“Major Sebastian Collins, Royal Flying Corps, 16th Squadron,” said Collins.

“Were you involved in that dogfight overhead just now,” asked the Sergeant.

“Yes, sergeant. I was,” said Collins.

Soon a young private came running down the trench.

“First Sergeant Myers, that aircraft debris had Limey markings all over it,” said the private.

The first sergeant nodded. The private with the rifle pointed at him quickly pointed it away. Sgt. Myers smiled.

“You Brits certainly know how to make an entrance. You normally fall out of the sky like that,” asked Myers.

“It has been known to happen to me occasionally but I try not to make a habit of it,” said Collins.

Myers and the other Yank soldiers laughed. Collins took off his goggles and helmet and stuck then in one of his pockets. In another he reached for a briar pipe he kept there. As he felt for it, he frowned. He pulled out two pieces.

“I didn’t realize you flyboys got dirty up there in the sky too,” said a soldier.

“War is always dirty business,” said Collins.

“Truer words were never spoken,” said Myers. “Something wrong with your pipe?”

“Yeah, looks like I’ll have to get a new one,” said Collins. He was about to throw it at the other side of the trench when Myers grabbed his hand. He gently unclenched Collins’ fist and took the pieces from him. Myers examined the pieces then called over his shoulder.

“O’Leary,” barked Myers.

“Yes, Sarge,” said a private a few men away.

“I got a repair job for you. A pipe; show our ally here what the Irish solider, Peterson, taught you.

Myers handed the pipe to O’Leary. O’Leary looked at it carefully then took out a jackknife. He picked out a broken part of the stem out of the shank of the brier. He folded the jackknife and put it back in his pocket. He took out his bayonet and starting to whittle the shank; tapering it slightly. When O’Leary was pleased with his work, he put his bayonet into the soil. The American reached into his tunic breast pocket and pulled out to spent shell casings. There were holes punched in the bottom of each cartridge. O’Leary placed the larger cartridge over the tapered shank. O’Leary tapped down the larger cartridge with the butt of his bayonet. The smaller cartridge over what was left of the stem. Both now fit snuggly. O’Leary jammed the cartridges into each other. O’Leary put the bit of the pipe in his mouth and blew. He handed the repaired pipe back to Collins.

“There. Good as new with the added bonus that you can now detach stem and bowl from each other or worry about breakage again,” said O’Leary.

“O’Leary, you’re a wonder,” said Collins. Collins reached into his pocket and grabbed some bank notes and held them out. Both Sgt. Myers and Pvt. O'Leary waved him off. "But you should be repayed somehow."

"Merry Christmas, from one ally to another," said O'Leary, before adding, "Sir."

“Would you like some wooder,” asked Myers.

“Pardon men, some...what,” asked Collins.

“Wooder,” said Myers, offering a canteen.

“Oh, water,” said Collins.

“That’s what I said, wooder,” said Myers.

“Sorry, you have a distinctive accent. What part of the States are you boys from,” asked Collins.

“Philadelphia, in general but most of us are from Manayunk or Roxborough,” said Myers.

“Ah. I was there once. Lots of farm land. Tell me, is the Wood’s Barn still standing,” asked Collins.

The boys laughed. Myers looked at him slightly quizzically.

“How long ago were in Roxborough,” asked Myers.

“It’s been long time,” said Collins, which was partially correct.

“Well, as a member of Grace Lutheran Chruch, I can tell you that the Wood’s Barn hasn’t stood in decades, possibly a century or more,” said Myers

Realizing his mistake, Collins evaded, “Sorry, I must have been mistaken. I toured the States when I was little. My father pointed to a place on the Ridge Road and said, that’s Wood’s Barn. My ancestors were said to have participated in that skirmish.”

“Yeah, at Leverington Cemetery, on Ridge Avenue, we got a memorial to those Virginia soldiers in a cemetery nearby,” said Myers.

“I should like to see it and more of your area whenever this damn war is over,” said Collins.

“We would be delighted to have you as our guest,” said Myers.

Everyone smiled. Collins found his tobacco pouch and light up his pipe. There was a high-pitched screaming whistle overhead.

“Incoming,” yelled a soldier.

There was a thud then the ground shook; there were screams and some dirt, debris and body parts fell into the trench. A playing card blew toward him landing face up. It was the Ace of Spades.

“God damn this war,” said Collins.