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The Duel of the Sylphs
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
Don de Ciervos and Baron von Kojote courtesy of E.O. Costello and M. Mitch Marmel.
May 1939:
It started, as most things do, with a conversation.
The Spontoons basked in mid-Spring sunshine as the two friends sat on a balcony, sipping late-morning coffees and watching the foot traffic in the street below. Ears swiveled as a plane flew overhead, and one of the mels on the balcony, a Spanish red deer buck, pursed his lips and said, “Pfui!”
The wolf adjusted the monocle in his right eye and took a brief sniff at the carnation in the lapel of his stark white linen suit before asking, “What is this ‘Pfui’ you say, Carlos, my friend of old?”
Don Carlos de Ciervos y Comamenta gave the wolf a sharp glance before saying, “My ‘Pfui,’ my dear Heinrich, is directed at these noisy, modern aircraft. They seek to go faster and destroy the peace of the morning. Pfui.” He sipped his coffee moodily before refilling the cup.
Baron Heinrich von Kojote considered this for a moment. “But, Carlos, my old friend,” the wolf said, “it is progress – “
“Pfui.”
The Bavarian wolf sat back for a moment, sipping at his coffee and absently setting the cup back into its saucer while looking up at the sky. It was progress, of course; he’d been present at the unveiling of larger and more powerful aircraft after the Great War and under the current regime in Berlin.
He allowed himself to crest only slightly at the thought of that Bohemian Corporal, making such a hash of things. It must have been the morphia that induced Dicke Hermann to hitch himself to that particular star – well, that, and all those new, modern aeroplanes.
Hmm.
“I say, my dear friend Carlos – “
“What is that you say, my dear Heinrich?”
“Do you recall when that airship visited, last year?”
De Ciervos thought before nodding. “Indeed, si. It was an awe-inspiring sight.”
“Ach, ja. Slow, stately, and quiet.”
The buck nodded judiciously. “Si. What is this, you are thinking?”
“Perhaps . . . I could have words with the race organizers.”
“What about?”
“Possibly an airship race?”
The buck glanced sharply at the wolf. “You jest with Don Carlos de Ciervos?”
The wolf raised one well-manicured paw in a placatory gesture. “Of course not, my friend of old. But such a race would be slower and quieter – statelier, if you will – than the races later this year.”
There was a pause.
"The audience, you shall lose," de Ciervos grumbled.
“Hmm, ja,” the Baron said, lapsing into a thoughtful silence.
The wolf had to confess that the red deer buck was right. People wanted more action in their sports and diversions nowadays, especially during Speed Week, and after the disaster that befell the LZ-129 Hindenburg two years earlier, airships had fallen from favor with the general public. The Herzogin MacArran still operated her airship, the Republic, but like so many things about the mare, it was unique.
Still, there were – what was that short, vulgar modern word? Ach, ja, fans – fans of airships.
Slowly, Baron Heinrich von Kojote smiled.
***
Despite the fact that Speed Week was almost four months away, members of the Spontoon Island Racing Association were busy with planning for the Schneider Cup races. Applications had to be processed, race criteria had to be established for the planes taking part, and the course itself had to be approved by the Althing’s Ministries of Tourism and Transport.
It was a good thing that Keith Lawton, the Australian Shepherd who was the SIRA’s chairman, was dedicated to his work.
The canine’s ears perked as someone knocked on his office door, and Lawton frowned. “What is it?” he said.
The door opened and a dapper wolf in a white linen suit and sporting a monocle stepped inside. “Herr Lawton?” he asked. “I am indeed sorry for disturbing you.”
“I can spare a few moments, Mister - ?”
“Ah. I have the honor to be Heinrich Freiherr von Kojote,” the wolf said, clicking his heels and bowing slightly.
It took a moment. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard of you, Baron.” Which was true; his aerobatic skills during a wedding reception had been the talk of the atoll for several days after the event. “Please, have a seat and tell me how I can help you.”
“Danke,” and after the wolf had taken a seat he said, “I am certain you are making preparations for the Speed Week races later this year.”
Lawton grinned. “Of course.”
“Having sojourned here in the Spontoons during the Speed Week, I am of course aware of aerial events held before the race,” von Kojote said.
The canine flicked an ear. “What are you proposing, Baron?” he asked, leaning forward at his desk and propping his chin on one fist.
Von Kojote wasted little time in outlining his proposal. When he was finished, Lawton sat back and thought it over.
Finally, the Australia Shepherd said, “No.”
The wolf looked taken aback, nearly losing his monocle as his eyes widened. “’No?’” he echoed. “May I know why?”
“What you’re proposing, Baron, involves two aircraft – “
“Airships.”
“Yes, but they still fit the definition of ‘aircraft.’ You’re proposing a dogfight between two airships, and neither I nor the Association can sanction the risk of a stray shot hitting someone in the crowd.”
“Ah. I had not thought of that. Hmm, no cannon, machine guns, rifles or pistols . . . arrows? Or darts?”
“Again, there’s the possibility that something might fall and injure a spectator.” Lawton smiled. “And what if one of the airships should be damaged and crash? There would be property damage, with both civil and criminal liabilities.”
Von Kojote nodded, his ears canted attentively toward the canine as he spoke. He suddenly grinned and snapped his fingers. “Paint.”
“Paint?” Lawton was honestly surprised. He had expected the wolf to leave in disappointment, and here he was actively trying to compromise in order to bring his idea to life.
“Ja, ja! Both sides, they throw the paint at each other. Or the dye, something that does no harm, but one can see where a hit is, yes?”
“Hmm.” The canine thought, and gradually smiled. Part of his ambition every year was to one-up his American counterpart, who managed the annual Bendix races in the United States. This would certainly have the benefit of being unique.
“Baron,” he said as he took an application form from a drawer and passing it across the desk to the wolf, “I look forward to seeing your proposal in writing.”
Heinrich grinned.
***
The Spontoon Airship Club was a small building near the airport on Eastern Island. It was maintained by the members, and the Baron had spent a few days making inquiries before requesting permission to meet with them and talk about his idea.
"It is not a BALLOON! IT'S AN AIRSHIP! BALLOONS ARE FOR KIDDIE-WINKIES!" someone bellowed before Heinrich could knock, and the wolf stepped aside as the door swung open and an irate weasel stormed out.
“Never mind him,” and the Baron turned to see a beagle with a cheerful look and a British accent standing in the doorway. “Dropped on his head as a child, poor chap. Baron von Kojote, I presume?”
“Ja. And you Herr Washburn are?”
“That’s me.” They shook paws. “Come on in, please. We’re all interested in hearing what you have to say,” and Washburn led Heinrich into the main room of the building. There were maybe twenty furs there, of a mix of species.
The Bavarian wolf smiled as the others in the room finally quieted and paid attention to him. “Good evening. I am proposing, as part of the Speed Week events, that there be an airship battle over the lagoon here.”
The assembled furs gave an impressed “Ooh.”
“Of course, we are at peace, ja? So we shall hurl small packets of dye at each other. There shall, therefore, be a Red Team and a Blue Team.”
He could tell by their faces that they liked the idea, and they started talking animatedly among themselves. However, two wolves near the front of the crowd drew his attention as one of them, with mannerisms that indicated certain proclivities, began to protest.
The slightly effeminate wolf stamped his foot. “I tell you, I want a mauve team! Red is so garish and Unfashionable!”
His partner, dressed unremarkably save for a garish ascot, patted him on the shoulder. “Steady on, Cyril . . . “
“I will not be steady on, Wilfrid! Red paint! Really?” He was really working himself up into a furious crying fit while the rest of the club members rolled their eyes.
The Baron said nothing, apart from adjusting his monocle. He had seen such things before, notably a general in the years before the Great War who had been known for amusing the Kaiser by dressing up as a ballerina. He’d also heard of, as well as seen, certain things while in Weimar Berlin.
Cyril threw himself to the floor and started pounding it with his fists. “YOU BRUTE YOU BRUTE YOU BRUTE! WAAAAAHHH!” he bawled as his partner, Wilfrid, fiddled suggestively with his ascot.
Washburn sidled close to the Baron. “Awfully sorry. Cyril has such strong . . . opinions.”
"What is with them?" von Kojote asked.
"Artists."
"Ach, so . . . " He nodded knowingly as Cyril, sobbing that he now had a migraine headache, left the clubhouse.
Wilfrid came up to him. “Look, I mean, er, really, it’s your do and all, Baron, but, er, could you possibly see your way to be a wee bit generous, and . . . ?
“Mauve is not bright enough to be easily visible,” Heinrich replied. “Red or Blue are.”
Wilfrid sighed. “I see your point. But just you try explaining that to an Omega with Art in his soul . . . “ He put his paw to his chin and thought for a moment. “I say! Err, Baron? Will there be any, y’know, streamers or pennants on the craft? Meantersay, you could put mauve streamers on one ship, and call it Team Mauve, even if they use, er, that other paint . . . “
Von Kojote’s ears and tail twitched. Well, life was a series of compromises. He gave a flip of a paw and said, “Oh, very well.”
“Thanks awfully!” Wilfrid exclaimed. “That’s one of two ways I can cure Cyril of his migraine.”
Heinrich was sure that he didn’t want to know the second method. He shook paws with Wilfrid, who departed in search of his partner.
Other furs came up to him to shake his paw, and the wolf asked Washburn, “What do you think?”
The beagle grinned. “Oh, it’s a completely cracking idea, and it’ll be quite a sight!”
Heinrich talked for a while longer before leaving, and as he rode a water taxi back to his home on Casino Island, he suddenly realized something.
Something important.
A Naval Syndicate fighter seaplane soared overhead, and he grinned.
That would be his next stop.
***
It took him a day or two to arrange the meeting, one where he seriously considered wearing his Luftwaffe uniform. He was visiting a military base, after all.
“Baron von Kojote,” Captain Ian Maxwell said. The commander of the Naval Syndicate’s Moon Island base shook paws with the wolf and ushered him into his office, where three other furs waited. “I haven’t seen you since the Armistice Day dinner. Are you and your family well?”
“Very well, Herr Kapitan. Gentlemen! Ma’am,” he said, acknowledging the sole femme in the room with a correct nod before he took the seat that Maxwell offered to him. “Thank you.”
Captain Maxwell took his seat. “I’ve heard that you’re planning an airship duel, for this August?”
“Ja,” the wolf replied, his ears perking in surprise. “How did you know?”
“Word gets around,” the canine said with an easy grin. “And a few members of the Airship Club are stationed here on base, or know furs who do. But I think there’s one small snag in your plans.”
Heinrich’s ears went down. “Yes,” he admitted. “It will be hard to have an airship duel with no airships.”
One of the other three furs in the room, a lanky rat, grinned. “Then it’s your lucky day, Baron.”
“Oh?”
The femme, a lynx, said, “Brackett Atoll, north of the Spontoons, has a Syndicate base for both the Navy and the Air Arm. We’ve got two Nanaimo-class ships in the hangar up there, slated for decommissioning.” Seeing the look on the wolf’s face, the lynxess added, “They’ll need to have some work done on them, but we can get them down here to Moon.”
“And I think I shall have no shortage of willing paws to help prepare them.” Heinrich’s gaze touched on each one, finally ending at the Captain Maxwell. “Thank you all.”
The canine smiled. “I’ve never seen combat between two airships before. I hope it’ll be memorable.”
The wolf matched the smile. “It will be kolossal, you will see!”
***
July 1939:
“Buenas tardes, my dear,” Dona de Ciervos said to her husband as he entered their apartment. She tipped her head dutifully as he kissed her, and the red deer doe swiveled her ears at the look on his face. “Is something troubling you, Carlos?”
“It is a problem with my amigo, Heinrich,” Carlos said as he sat down and loosened his tie.
“Oh? I thought that things were going well.”
Carlos gave a soft whistling snort of amusement. Heinrich had been telling him almost every day about the progress the Airship Club and the Rain Islanders were making in preparing the two baby zeppelins for their flight. “They are, but that is not my concern. You know, of course, that Heinrich will have the airships fighting.” She nodded, and he said, “And that is what is troubling me.”
“How so?”
He eyed her. “You have heard of how Heinrich becomes . . . excited . . . around machines, and things that fly and shoot.”
His wife nodded sagely. “His wife, Sophia, and I have spoken of this.” At length, she reflected; there were few secrets between the doe and the wolfess.
Carlos’ ears went back. “Um, si. Well, his Sophia and their cubs are to visit her Tio Roberto in Argentina.”
She nodded.
“During the Speed Week.”
It took only a moment before she said, “Ahhh, my dear Carlos, this is what troubles you. That the Baron would cause the scandal.” He nodded. “Leave it in my paws, my dear husband.”
“You – “
“Si. I shall have the talk with Sophia, and all shall be arranged.” His mouth opened in an attempt to speak, but she rested a fingertip on his lips. “Trust me, mi corazon,” she said, and leaned in to kiss him.
***
Der Tag.
The day for the duel dawned hot and bright.
Perhaps not as bright and hot as the Baron’s temper, however.
“Was ist den los?” the wolf fairly screamed at the stolid bull in a RINS-issue dark blue jumpsuit. “I thought of this! I planned this! I – “
“Can’t get aboard, sir,” the bull said. “There isn’t enough room for you.”
“Was!?”
Wilfrid came loping up, attracted by the screaming. He was wearing a boiler suit liberally streaked with dust and grease, but still had a garish ascot. “Good morning, Baron!”
“Good morning! This one,” Heinrich rasped, pointing at the bull, “says that I cannot go up – “
“There’s no room for you, Baron,” Wilfrid said with what seemed like a great deal of patience. Possibly from having to tolerate Cyril’s tantrums. “The Nanaimo class only have room for four furs.”
“Four?” The Bavarian wolf’s anger, while not cooling, at least reduced its boil.
Wilfrid nodded, ticking them off on his fingers. “Pilot, who doubles as the radio operator; observer, who also acts as engineer; and two gunners.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m very sorry, Baron.” Seeing the older wolf’s shoulders sag, Wilfrid said, “But you can do the launching.”
“Launching?”
Wilfrid nodded, turning as the two airships began to emerge from the hangar.
They weren’t technically true zeppelins, but more properly semirigid airships; good for spotting and even light attacks on defenseless targets, but they were yesterday’s aircraft, slow and unwieldy.
Still, the Baron admitted that they were still impressive.
A lot of work and care had gone into revamping each ship’s twin engine pods, along with strengthening the gas cells and replacing the matte gray fabric that covered both. The upper tail fins bore the red and black flag of Rain Island, while the lower tail fins bore the team colors; one was blue, and the other red.
The Red Team also trailed an expanse of mauve cloth, matching an aquamarine banner on its opponent.
Washburn stuck his head out of the hangar, a phone pawset in his paw. “Five minutes to launch!”
“Right,” Wilfrid said as the teams boarded the airships. “Baron, I want you to stand here,” and he led the older wolf to a point in front of and between the two craft. “When we get the high sign from old Washburn, I need you to shout ‘Up Ship’ as loudly as you can. Me and the lads will do the rest.”
“Understood,” Heinrich said, taking his position as the last few minutes passed.
Air traffic had been cleared for the occasion, he knew, and his dear friend Carlos had commissioned a piece of music for the LYRC Radio Orchestra to play as the two airships fought. With it being such a beautiful day, the wolf wished for two things.
One, that he could go up with them.
Two, that Sophia was here, and not in Argentina.
“One minute!” Washburn shouted, and Heinrich’s tail thrashed. The ground crews crouched and grasped handles on either side of each gondola.
“NOW!”
Heinrich’s lungs filled.
“UP . . . SHIP!”
The ground crews stood, pushing up with their arms and letting go as the two airships floated up into the sky. At a certain height and accompanied by a sputtering sound, the engines started, turned over, and thrummed to life. The two airships moved forward and apart, beginning to take their opposed courses to meet over the lagoon.
He stood there, watching the fruits of his labors, all that planning and talking . . . briefly overcome with emotion, Heinrich removed his monocle and wiped it clean, surreptitiously blinking back tears and sniffing.
Trotting over to a wharf near the airfield, he watched as the two craft began to line up for their first attack runs, Blue having a slight altitude advantage over Red. Red was countering by banking to the right and opening fire from long range, the small dye packets propelled by simple slingshots.
“Ja! Ja!” Heinrich shouted, waving his fists as the battle developed. He ran around in circles, pantomiming various maneuvers while gesticulating wildly. The two airships moved about in a stately dance like the elemental spirits of the air that they were.
Blue drew close enough that a small red splotch appeared on the gondola before a fusillade of blue dye packets showered down on its opponent. Red peeled off at full power, drifting sideways and showing a pair of blue spots on its lower tail fin. Blue blundered slightly; in attempting to pursue, it descended slightly, putting it at the same level with Red.
The wolf could hear distant cheers when, after another ten minutes of ponderous aerial ballet, Red conceded the field and drew off, spattered with blue splotches. To underline its defeat, the mauve banner on its tail fin dropped away to flutter down to the waters of the lagoon.
Practically vibrating in place, paws shaking and tongue lolling, Heinrich von Kojote stood watching the two airships as they drifted apart, dipping their bows slightly in acknowledgement of the cheers from the onlookers. He suddenly looked around, his breathing rate increasing.
“Baron, honey?”
He whirled to face a very attractive wolfess wearing a brassiere and a grass skirt, with lovely dark eyes and well-brushed tailfur. “Your wife hired me – “
That was as far as she got, as the Bavarian wolf howled exultantly and charged at her, scooping her up in his arms and heading for one of the empty hangars.
***
Keith Lawton smiled as he turned away from the VIP reviewing stand. The airship duel had been a success, and the tides would quickly cleanse the dye from the lagoon.
Another year, another Speed Week nearly done, and the Australian Shepherd would start planning for the next year.
Nineteen-forty . . . hmm; he would have to find a way to top this year.
Maybe a talk with Captain Maxwell, about those two gasbags; perhaps they could be spared the breakers for a little while longer . . .
end
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
Don de Ciervos and Baron von Kojote courtesy of E.O. Costello and M. Mitch Marmel.
May 1939:
It started, as most things do, with a conversation.
The Spontoons basked in mid-Spring sunshine as the two friends sat on a balcony, sipping late-morning coffees and watching the foot traffic in the street below. Ears swiveled as a plane flew overhead, and one of the mels on the balcony, a Spanish red deer buck, pursed his lips and said, “Pfui!”
The wolf adjusted the monocle in his right eye and took a brief sniff at the carnation in the lapel of his stark white linen suit before asking, “What is this ‘Pfui’ you say, Carlos, my friend of old?”
Don Carlos de Ciervos y Comamenta gave the wolf a sharp glance before saying, “My ‘Pfui,’ my dear Heinrich, is directed at these noisy, modern aircraft. They seek to go faster and destroy the peace of the morning. Pfui.” He sipped his coffee moodily before refilling the cup.
Baron Heinrich von Kojote considered this for a moment. “But, Carlos, my old friend,” the wolf said, “it is progress – “
“Pfui.”
The Bavarian wolf sat back for a moment, sipping at his coffee and absently setting the cup back into its saucer while looking up at the sky. It was progress, of course; he’d been present at the unveiling of larger and more powerful aircraft after the Great War and under the current regime in Berlin.
He allowed himself to crest only slightly at the thought of that Bohemian Corporal, making such a hash of things. It must have been the morphia that induced Dicke Hermann to hitch himself to that particular star – well, that, and all those new, modern aeroplanes.
Hmm.
“I say, my dear friend Carlos – “
“What is that you say, my dear Heinrich?”
“Do you recall when that airship visited, last year?”
De Ciervos thought before nodding. “Indeed, si. It was an awe-inspiring sight.”
“Ach, ja. Slow, stately, and quiet.”
The buck nodded judiciously. “Si. What is this, you are thinking?”
“Perhaps . . . I could have words with the race organizers.”
“What about?”
“Possibly an airship race?”
The buck glanced sharply at the wolf. “You jest with Don Carlos de Ciervos?”
The wolf raised one well-manicured paw in a placatory gesture. “Of course not, my friend of old. But such a race would be slower and quieter – statelier, if you will – than the races later this year.”
There was a pause.
"The audience, you shall lose," de Ciervos grumbled.
“Hmm, ja,” the Baron said, lapsing into a thoughtful silence.
The wolf had to confess that the red deer buck was right. People wanted more action in their sports and diversions nowadays, especially during Speed Week, and after the disaster that befell the LZ-129 Hindenburg two years earlier, airships had fallen from favor with the general public. The Herzogin MacArran still operated her airship, the Republic, but like so many things about the mare, it was unique.
Still, there were – what was that short, vulgar modern word? Ach, ja, fans – fans of airships.
Slowly, Baron Heinrich von Kojote smiled.
***
Despite the fact that Speed Week was almost four months away, members of the Spontoon Island Racing Association were busy with planning for the Schneider Cup races. Applications had to be processed, race criteria had to be established for the planes taking part, and the course itself had to be approved by the Althing’s Ministries of Tourism and Transport.
It was a good thing that Keith Lawton, the Australian Shepherd who was the SIRA’s chairman, was dedicated to his work.
The canine’s ears perked as someone knocked on his office door, and Lawton frowned. “What is it?” he said.
The door opened and a dapper wolf in a white linen suit and sporting a monocle stepped inside. “Herr Lawton?” he asked. “I am indeed sorry for disturbing you.”
“I can spare a few moments, Mister - ?”
“Ah. I have the honor to be Heinrich Freiherr von Kojote,” the wolf said, clicking his heels and bowing slightly.
It took a moment. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard of you, Baron.” Which was true; his aerobatic skills during a wedding reception had been the talk of the atoll for several days after the event. “Please, have a seat and tell me how I can help you.”
“Danke,” and after the wolf had taken a seat he said, “I am certain you are making preparations for the Speed Week races later this year.”
Lawton grinned. “Of course.”
“Having sojourned here in the Spontoons during the Speed Week, I am of course aware of aerial events held before the race,” von Kojote said.
The canine flicked an ear. “What are you proposing, Baron?” he asked, leaning forward at his desk and propping his chin on one fist.
Von Kojote wasted little time in outlining his proposal. When he was finished, Lawton sat back and thought it over.
Finally, the Australia Shepherd said, “No.”
The wolf looked taken aback, nearly losing his monocle as his eyes widened. “’No?’” he echoed. “May I know why?”
“What you’re proposing, Baron, involves two aircraft – “
“Airships.”
“Yes, but they still fit the definition of ‘aircraft.’ You’re proposing a dogfight between two airships, and neither I nor the Association can sanction the risk of a stray shot hitting someone in the crowd.”
“Ah. I had not thought of that. Hmm, no cannon, machine guns, rifles or pistols . . . arrows? Or darts?”
“Again, there’s the possibility that something might fall and injure a spectator.” Lawton smiled. “And what if one of the airships should be damaged and crash? There would be property damage, with both civil and criminal liabilities.”
Von Kojote nodded, his ears canted attentively toward the canine as he spoke. He suddenly grinned and snapped his fingers. “Paint.”
“Paint?” Lawton was honestly surprised. He had expected the wolf to leave in disappointment, and here he was actively trying to compromise in order to bring his idea to life.
“Ja, ja! Both sides, they throw the paint at each other. Or the dye, something that does no harm, but one can see where a hit is, yes?”
“Hmm.” The canine thought, and gradually smiled. Part of his ambition every year was to one-up his American counterpart, who managed the annual Bendix races in the United States. This would certainly have the benefit of being unique.
“Baron,” he said as he took an application form from a drawer and passing it across the desk to the wolf, “I look forward to seeing your proposal in writing.”
Heinrich grinned.
***
The Spontoon Airship Club was a small building near the airport on Eastern Island. It was maintained by the members, and the Baron had spent a few days making inquiries before requesting permission to meet with them and talk about his idea.
"It is not a BALLOON! IT'S AN AIRSHIP! BALLOONS ARE FOR KIDDIE-WINKIES!" someone bellowed before Heinrich could knock, and the wolf stepped aside as the door swung open and an irate weasel stormed out.
“Never mind him,” and the Baron turned to see a beagle with a cheerful look and a British accent standing in the doorway. “Dropped on his head as a child, poor chap. Baron von Kojote, I presume?”
“Ja. And you Herr Washburn are?”
“That’s me.” They shook paws. “Come on in, please. We’re all interested in hearing what you have to say,” and Washburn led Heinrich into the main room of the building. There were maybe twenty furs there, of a mix of species.
The Bavarian wolf smiled as the others in the room finally quieted and paid attention to him. “Good evening. I am proposing, as part of the Speed Week events, that there be an airship battle over the lagoon here.”
The assembled furs gave an impressed “Ooh.”
“Of course, we are at peace, ja? So we shall hurl small packets of dye at each other. There shall, therefore, be a Red Team and a Blue Team.”
He could tell by their faces that they liked the idea, and they started talking animatedly among themselves. However, two wolves near the front of the crowd drew his attention as one of them, with mannerisms that indicated certain proclivities, began to protest.
The slightly effeminate wolf stamped his foot. “I tell you, I want a mauve team! Red is so garish and Unfashionable!”
His partner, dressed unremarkably save for a garish ascot, patted him on the shoulder. “Steady on, Cyril . . . “
“I will not be steady on, Wilfrid! Red paint! Really?” He was really working himself up into a furious crying fit while the rest of the club members rolled their eyes.
The Baron said nothing, apart from adjusting his monocle. He had seen such things before, notably a general in the years before the Great War who had been known for amusing the Kaiser by dressing up as a ballerina. He’d also heard of, as well as seen, certain things while in Weimar Berlin.
Cyril threw himself to the floor and started pounding it with his fists. “YOU BRUTE YOU BRUTE YOU BRUTE! WAAAAAHHH!” he bawled as his partner, Wilfrid, fiddled suggestively with his ascot.
Washburn sidled close to the Baron. “Awfully sorry. Cyril has such strong . . . opinions.”
"What is with them?" von Kojote asked.
"Artists."
"Ach, so . . . " He nodded knowingly as Cyril, sobbing that he now had a migraine headache, left the clubhouse.
Wilfrid came up to him. “Look, I mean, er, really, it’s your do and all, Baron, but, er, could you possibly see your way to be a wee bit generous, and . . . ?
“Mauve is not bright enough to be easily visible,” Heinrich replied. “Red or Blue are.”
Wilfrid sighed. “I see your point. But just you try explaining that to an Omega with Art in his soul . . . “ He put his paw to his chin and thought for a moment. “I say! Err, Baron? Will there be any, y’know, streamers or pennants on the craft? Meantersay, you could put mauve streamers on one ship, and call it Team Mauve, even if they use, er, that other paint . . . “
Von Kojote’s ears and tail twitched. Well, life was a series of compromises. He gave a flip of a paw and said, “Oh, very well.”
“Thanks awfully!” Wilfrid exclaimed. “That’s one of two ways I can cure Cyril of his migraine.”
Heinrich was sure that he didn’t want to know the second method. He shook paws with Wilfrid, who departed in search of his partner.
Other furs came up to him to shake his paw, and the wolf asked Washburn, “What do you think?”
The beagle grinned. “Oh, it’s a completely cracking idea, and it’ll be quite a sight!”
Heinrich talked for a while longer before leaving, and as he rode a water taxi back to his home on Casino Island, he suddenly realized something.
Something important.
A Naval Syndicate fighter seaplane soared overhead, and he grinned.
That would be his next stop.
***
It took him a day or two to arrange the meeting, one where he seriously considered wearing his Luftwaffe uniform. He was visiting a military base, after all.
“Baron von Kojote,” Captain Ian Maxwell said. The commander of the Naval Syndicate’s Moon Island base shook paws with the wolf and ushered him into his office, where three other furs waited. “I haven’t seen you since the Armistice Day dinner. Are you and your family well?”
“Very well, Herr Kapitan. Gentlemen! Ma’am,” he said, acknowledging the sole femme in the room with a correct nod before he took the seat that Maxwell offered to him. “Thank you.”
Captain Maxwell took his seat. “I’ve heard that you’re planning an airship duel, for this August?”
“Ja,” the wolf replied, his ears perking in surprise. “How did you know?”
“Word gets around,” the canine said with an easy grin. “And a few members of the Airship Club are stationed here on base, or know furs who do. But I think there’s one small snag in your plans.”
Heinrich’s ears went down. “Yes,” he admitted. “It will be hard to have an airship duel with no airships.”
One of the other three furs in the room, a lanky rat, grinned. “Then it’s your lucky day, Baron.”
“Oh?”
The femme, a lynx, said, “Brackett Atoll, north of the Spontoons, has a Syndicate base for both the Navy and the Air Arm. We’ve got two Nanaimo-class ships in the hangar up there, slated for decommissioning.” Seeing the look on the wolf’s face, the lynxess added, “They’ll need to have some work done on them, but we can get them down here to Moon.”
“And I think I shall have no shortage of willing paws to help prepare them.” Heinrich’s gaze touched on each one, finally ending at the Captain Maxwell. “Thank you all.”
The canine smiled. “I’ve never seen combat between two airships before. I hope it’ll be memorable.”
The wolf matched the smile. “It will be kolossal, you will see!”
***
July 1939:
“Buenas tardes, my dear,” Dona de Ciervos said to her husband as he entered their apartment. She tipped her head dutifully as he kissed her, and the red deer doe swiveled her ears at the look on his face. “Is something troubling you, Carlos?”
“It is a problem with my amigo, Heinrich,” Carlos said as he sat down and loosened his tie.
“Oh? I thought that things were going well.”
Carlos gave a soft whistling snort of amusement. Heinrich had been telling him almost every day about the progress the Airship Club and the Rain Islanders were making in preparing the two baby zeppelins for their flight. “They are, but that is not my concern. You know, of course, that Heinrich will have the airships fighting.” She nodded, and he said, “And that is what is troubling me.”
“How so?”
He eyed her. “You have heard of how Heinrich becomes . . . excited . . . around machines, and things that fly and shoot.”
His wife nodded sagely. “His wife, Sophia, and I have spoken of this.” At length, she reflected; there were few secrets between the doe and the wolfess.
Carlos’ ears went back. “Um, si. Well, his Sophia and their cubs are to visit her Tio Roberto in Argentina.”
She nodded.
“During the Speed Week.”
It took only a moment before she said, “Ahhh, my dear Carlos, this is what troubles you. That the Baron would cause the scandal.” He nodded. “Leave it in my paws, my dear husband.”
“You – “
“Si. I shall have the talk with Sophia, and all shall be arranged.” His mouth opened in an attempt to speak, but she rested a fingertip on his lips. “Trust me, mi corazon,” she said, and leaned in to kiss him.
***
Der Tag.
The day for the duel dawned hot and bright.
Perhaps not as bright and hot as the Baron’s temper, however.
“Was ist den los?” the wolf fairly screamed at the stolid bull in a RINS-issue dark blue jumpsuit. “I thought of this! I planned this! I – “
“Can’t get aboard, sir,” the bull said. “There isn’t enough room for you.”
“Was!?”
Wilfrid came loping up, attracted by the screaming. He was wearing a boiler suit liberally streaked with dust and grease, but still had a garish ascot. “Good morning, Baron!”
“Good morning! This one,” Heinrich rasped, pointing at the bull, “says that I cannot go up – “
“There’s no room for you, Baron,” Wilfrid said with what seemed like a great deal of patience. Possibly from having to tolerate Cyril’s tantrums. “The Nanaimo class only have room for four furs.”
“Four?” The Bavarian wolf’s anger, while not cooling, at least reduced its boil.
Wilfrid nodded, ticking them off on his fingers. “Pilot, who doubles as the radio operator; observer, who also acts as engineer; and two gunners.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m very sorry, Baron.” Seeing the older wolf’s shoulders sag, Wilfrid said, “But you can do the launching.”
“Launching?”
Wilfrid nodded, turning as the two airships began to emerge from the hangar.
They weren’t technically true zeppelins, but more properly semirigid airships; good for spotting and even light attacks on defenseless targets, but they were yesterday’s aircraft, slow and unwieldy.
Still, the Baron admitted that they were still impressive.
A lot of work and care had gone into revamping each ship’s twin engine pods, along with strengthening the gas cells and replacing the matte gray fabric that covered both. The upper tail fins bore the red and black flag of Rain Island, while the lower tail fins bore the team colors; one was blue, and the other red.
The Red Team also trailed an expanse of mauve cloth, matching an aquamarine banner on its opponent.
Washburn stuck his head out of the hangar, a phone pawset in his paw. “Five minutes to launch!”
“Right,” Wilfrid said as the teams boarded the airships. “Baron, I want you to stand here,” and he led the older wolf to a point in front of and between the two craft. “When we get the high sign from old Washburn, I need you to shout ‘Up Ship’ as loudly as you can. Me and the lads will do the rest.”
“Understood,” Heinrich said, taking his position as the last few minutes passed.
Air traffic had been cleared for the occasion, he knew, and his dear friend Carlos had commissioned a piece of music for the LYRC Radio Orchestra to play as the two airships fought. With it being such a beautiful day, the wolf wished for two things.
One, that he could go up with them.
Two, that Sophia was here, and not in Argentina.
“One minute!” Washburn shouted, and Heinrich’s tail thrashed. The ground crews crouched and grasped handles on either side of each gondola.
“NOW!”
Heinrich’s lungs filled.
“UP . . . SHIP!”
The ground crews stood, pushing up with their arms and letting go as the two airships floated up into the sky. At a certain height and accompanied by a sputtering sound, the engines started, turned over, and thrummed to life. The two airships moved forward and apart, beginning to take their opposed courses to meet over the lagoon.
He stood there, watching the fruits of his labors, all that planning and talking . . . briefly overcome with emotion, Heinrich removed his monocle and wiped it clean, surreptitiously blinking back tears and sniffing.
Trotting over to a wharf near the airfield, he watched as the two craft began to line up for their first attack runs, Blue having a slight altitude advantage over Red. Red was countering by banking to the right and opening fire from long range, the small dye packets propelled by simple slingshots.
“Ja! Ja!” Heinrich shouted, waving his fists as the battle developed. He ran around in circles, pantomiming various maneuvers while gesticulating wildly. The two airships moved about in a stately dance like the elemental spirits of the air that they were.
Blue drew close enough that a small red splotch appeared on the gondola before a fusillade of blue dye packets showered down on its opponent. Red peeled off at full power, drifting sideways and showing a pair of blue spots on its lower tail fin. Blue blundered slightly; in attempting to pursue, it descended slightly, putting it at the same level with Red.
The wolf could hear distant cheers when, after another ten minutes of ponderous aerial ballet, Red conceded the field and drew off, spattered with blue splotches. To underline its defeat, the mauve banner on its tail fin dropped away to flutter down to the waters of the lagoon.
Practically vibrating in place, paws shaking and tongue lolling, Heinrich von Kojote stood watching the two airships as they drifted apart, dipping their bows slightly in acknowledgement of the cheers from the onlookers. He suddenly looked around, his breathing rate increasing.
“Baron, honey?”
He whirled to face a very attractive wolfess wearing a brassiere and a grass skirt, with lovely dark eyes and well-brushed tailfur. “Your wife hired me – “
That was as far as she got, as the Bavarian wolf howled exultantly and charged at her, scooping her up in his arms and heading for one of the empty hangars.
***
Keith Lawton smiled as he turned away from the VIP reviewing stand. The airship duel had been a success, and the tides would quickly cleanse the dye from the lagoon.
Another year, another Speed Week nearly done, and the Australian Shepherd would start planning for the next year.
Nineteen-forty . . . hmm; he would have to find a way to top this year.
Maybe a talk with Captain Maxwell, about those two gasbags; perhaps they could be spared the breakers for a little while longer . . .
end
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Wolf
Gender Male
Size 120 x 80px
File Size 92.3 kB
We can now imagine an alternate universe April 1 edition, which goes something like...
Von Kojote nodded, his ears canted attentively toward the canine as he spoke. He suddenly grinned and snapped his fingers. “Wood. They could chuck bundles of wood at each other. They wouldn't go very far.”
"Get out."
Von Kojote nodded, his ears canted attentively toward the canine as he spoke. He suddenly grinned and snapped his fingers. “Wood. They could chuck bundles of wood at each other. They wouldn't go very far.”
"Get out."
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