Acre smoke still clung to Gabriell's uniform. Each breath tasted of burnt oil and fear. He had killed a man. A German pilot, screaming as his plane spiraled into the earth. The silver compass, heavy and cold, pressed against his chest inside his tunic. It was identical to Leonel’s. The thought had been a spear through his gut since he found it.
His mind raced, a relentless loop of what-ifs. What if it had been Leo? The possibility twisted his stomach into knots. He had stared at that compass for hours after they pulled him from his damaged Nieuport, the image of it burning behind his eyelids.
Could he really shoot down his friend? The question was a venomous whisper in his ear. Duty demanded it. Patriotism screamed for it. But his heart, that loyal, foolish organ, recoiled from the very idea.
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of patrol, report, and restless sleep. The Marne sector was a cauldron. Rumors of fierce aerial battles and devastating artillery bombardments flowed back to the airbase with every returning pilot. Each day Gabriell scanned the skies with a new, agonizing intensity, half-dreading, half-longing to see a familiar face among the enemy wings.
He watched the ground troops leave for the front, their faces grim, their packs heavy. Judith was out there somewhere, fighting in that muddy, chemical hell. Her letters were infrequent, terse, filled with a weariness that chilled him more than any detailed horror. He worried for her constantly, a dull ache behind his ribs.
One afternoon, a runner burst into the mess tent, mud-splattered and breathless.