France, 1917. Three years of stalemate. Of mud and rats and lice. Of artillery and barbed wire and machine guns.
In the skies above the trenches, the men and machines of Britain's Royal
Flying Corps:
Pete Newin - A regular bloke trying to hang on.
Harry Booth - A Liverpudlian fabric-store kid turned RFC observer.
Drew Harris - Who thinks Britain should look to the Spartans and the Romans to deal with problems on the home front.
Ian Crosse - Who spends most of his time planning a run for Parliament.
Modern knights of the air, fearlessly battling the Hun in a fight to the death? Or a bunch of disgruntled cynics, not knowing if the Germans or their own generals are the real enemy?