Title	Esprit de Corps Anthology
Author	Victor J. Banis
	Josh Lanyon
	Samantha Kane
	George Seaton
ISBN#	978-1-934531-03-7 (print) $14.99
Release Date	November 2009
Cover Artist	Anne Cain
Paperback:	220 pages
Available At:	Barnes & Noble (paperback)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

In stories from four different wars and four different locales, four different writers honour men who chose to serve their country. Josh Lanyon, Samantha Kane, Victor Banis and George Seaton look at love when lives are at their worst and men are at their best.

This book is dedicated to those gay men who by not telling continue to serve our country with pride and honor. To those gay men who found the strength to tell and the courage to hold their heads high while being discharged in disgrace. To those gay men who have sacrificed their lives to maintain our freedoms while sacrificing their freedom to be heard.

Till we are judged for the honor and strength of our character and not by the prejudice and weakness of others…

I wish you Fair Seas, Following Winds, Safe Harbor & Silent Running.

***************************

One of the best pieces of flying advice Bat got was from his brother Algernon who flew reconnaissance at the start of the war.

“Think down to the gunners,” Algie had said. “Treat it like a game. You’re pitting your skill against theirs. It’s a kind of sport, really. And remember, a chasse machine is rarely brought down by Archie. You’re too fast for them. There are plenty of ways to outfox them. The best pilots are the best sportsmen.” He’d ruffled Bat’s hair, adding grimly, “Or the chaps who learn to stop feeling anything at all.”

At the time Bat couldn’t imagine what he meant.

The first two weeks were the most dangerous to a new pilot. They didn’t see anything — and what they did see, they didn’t understand. Shell fire scared the devil out of them and the Hun pilots they ran into were all hardened pros with several weeks experience in Russia or the Balkans. By 1916, the RFC was losing nearly a pilot a day; Gene worked it out once and told Bat the average life expectancy of an allied aviator was eleven days. Of course there were the old hands like Gene and himself who defied the odds. But no one defied them forever.

Bat knew Jackson was for it from the moment he was up in the air. Bat had given orders to rendezvous two thousand over the field and once they assembled, he’d headed northeast with the rest of A Flight falling into formation behind.

The new fliers got the oldest machines, and Jackson was in one of the battered Spads. It climbed slowly. Tubby and Varlik did their best to shepherd Jackson along, diving under and climbing up again to keep him aligned. Ambrose was on Bat’s left, in Gene’s former position. Cowboy was a dark silhouette on his right as they reached the cloudbank and began to climb.

As they rose into the crystalline air and the rising sun gilded the fleecy floor of clouds beneath them in amber and rose gold, Bat felt a spark of the old joy to be flying once more. All around him the rest of A Flight surfaced at widely scattered points through the drifting cloud cover. Cowboy crested on his right and gave him that little nod.

Bat nodded back.

They formed up once more and turned northward. Far below them were the green valleys, dark forest, shining rivers of France…and then the lines. Although they were too far up to hear anything one could see by the thousands of tiny bursts of light that the day’s business had already begun. Shell bursts and muzzle flashes winked and sparkled miles beneath them. But they weren’t crossing over enemy lines until the replacements had a chance to get the lay of the land; instead A Flight headed west along the sector.

The twinkling lights faded and the battle front — a jagged, winding scar of desert slashed through the green and pastoral land — lay beneath. They were now four kilometers within the French lines. Clouds of smoke bloomed like scarlet-edged roses — interrupted at intervals by puffs of black and white shell bursts.

A Flight turned northward and then back. Bat glanced in his mirror and Jackson was gone.

Just like that he had dropped out of the sky.

There was no time to react for at that moment a patrol of Spads and Fokkers came out of the sun like a swarm of hornets out of their hive. The air was alive with the deafening roar of engines as aircraft maneuvered for position, climbing and dropping, spinning, diving, banking and all the while the webbing of white streamers from machine gun bullet tracers wound around A Flight while they dodged each other’s machines and tried to make sure they fired at black crosses and not the roundels and tail cockades of their own planes.

Bat spared a quick glance for his altimeter, temperature and pressure dials, and when he looked up again a Fokker was coming at him, looming up like a freight train on a motion picture screen as it drove straight toward Bat firing as it came. Bat responded with the familiar surge of aggressive anger, opening the throttle and hurtling forward — and he’d have rammed the other plane if the German hadn’t lost his nerve and dived.

Making a tight turn, nearly on his wingtip, Bat shot after him and managed to settle on his tail, firing five or six rounds while the Fokker zigged and zagged until he finally lost control and plummeted down, engine smoking.

Bat looked around and saw Ambrose in hot pursuit of a Spad, machine guns blazing. Tubby was doggedly chasing another into the blue distance. Varlik was still in one piece, and Heath…

Fuck.

Cowboy glided into place beside him and nodded. Bat tightly nodded back, his mind mostly on Heath. Bit of a surprise, though; generally Cowboy preferred to hunt on his own. He’d stayed with the pack today. Expecting a repeat of Bat’s shaky performance of the day before? He needn’t have worried. Bat had resigned himself to seeing dawn patrol out at the least.

He looked again for young Jackson, hoping that he had missed him in the maelstrom of the battle, but there was no sign of the khaki and tan Spad.

Already the dogfight was breaking up, the Boche planes out of ammunition and raveled out by the wind. Most aerial battles didn’t last longer than two or three minutes as they only all carried enough ammunition to fire for about fifty seconds. But Bat’s fuel tank was still a quarter full, he had plenty of ammo and, unlike Cowboy’s bullet-scarred machine, his plane hadn’t sustained any new damage.

Bat signaled to Cowboy to make for home with the rest of the patrol, and gave her full rudder, heading back to see if he could spot where Jackson had gone down. There was always a chance the boy had managed to land safely.

The wind was kicking up now — rain clouds rolling in from the north.

Cowboy stuck to Bat’s machine — irritating as a burr beneath one’s saddle — but Bat knew he couldn’t endanger the other pilot or risk losing his plane by trying to shake him. In any case, it wasn’t necessary for he quickly spotted Jackson’s shattered plane in an open field. It was in flames.

Bat circled round once more to see if there was any sign of life. There was nothing but fire and smoke.

He turned toward homeward once more.

¹ ¹ ¹ ¹

“So your daddy’s a duke,” Cowboy said, blue eyes watching Bat over the rim of his glass. He drank, set the glass down. His lips were wet from the ale, and Bat had a sudden, uncomfortably vivid recollection of what that firm mouth had felt like pressing his own.

“An earl, actually,” he replied quellingly.

Cowboy was not quelled.

“So what’s that make you?”

“The youngest of five sons.”

Cowboy grimaced. “What do they call you? What’s your title?”

“The Honourable, but no one calls — ”

“What kind of a moniker is ‘Bat’?” Cowboy interrupted. “What’s your name?”

“Aubrey.”

Undisturbed by Bat’s terse response, Cowboy offered that wide, white grin. “Aubrey? That’s sweet.”

“Go. To. Hell.”

Cowboy laughed.

They had arrived back at base after first crawl without further incident. Bat had made his report to Major Chase, grabbed a quick kip, and taken out the afternoon patrol for an uneventful foray behind enemy lines. Now A Flight was done for the day.

Captain Sears, broad shouldered and dark with a long seam of scar down his tanned face, stopped by the table. “Hard luck about…” he trailed vaguely. These days it was always hard luck about someone or other.

Sears was 19 Squadron’s A Flight commander. He shared a friendly rivalry with Bat — Sears currently down two kills. Three if — once — Bat’s morning’s work had been confirmed.

“Jackson,” Bat supplied automatically.

“Replacements?”

“By tomorrow, according to Chase,” Bat said.

Two patrols a day, two hours each patrol. Now and again they put in as many as six hours, but Wing discouraged it. Pilots at the front were burning out fast enough and someone had to be in shape to go up every single day weather permitting.

When they weren’t flying, they slept. Or drank. Or read. Bat had grown very familiar with the works of Zane Grey and Max Brand. Some chaps played cards or wrote letters, but mostly they slept a good deal.

Sears moved off and Cowboy said, as though there had been no interruption, “So what are your brothers doing these days? One of ‘em’s a big muckety muck in the War Office, right?”

“Archie,” Bat said reluctantly. He didn’t feel like chatting with Cowboy. He didn’t want to spend any time with him at all if he could help it. What he’d have liked to do was sleep, but he was still too wound up — and then there were his dreams. “Algie and Cyril are gone — since the first year of the war. Dorian is with the Grand Fleet in the North Sea.”

“And you were at Cambridge when you decided to join up?”

“Magdalene College, yes.”

“What were you studying?”

Bat shrugged a negligent shoulder. “I was eventually headed for the Foreign Office, I suppose. That’s what the pater wanted.”

“You always do what the pater wants?”

Fastening a cool eye on him, Bat said, “Clearly not.”

And Cowboy grinned. He seemed — as usual — very relaxed. His own nerves strung far too tight for far too long, Bat found this…insouciance grating.

He said, “You haven’t yet told me what you did about…him.”

Cowboy’s white grin broadened. “You don’t really want to discuss it here?” He glanced meaningfully around the crowded mess.

No one was paying them any mind. Varlik was once again singing “Roses of Picardy” in duet with the gramophone. Ambrose and Heath were engaged in some drinking game. Tubby was busily cheating at solitaire. Everyone else seemed riveted by the antics of a half-starved monkey that B Flight’s Berckman had brought back from leave.

Bat said slowly, “According to Sergeant Lamb, Orton is supposed to have scarpered. AWOL.”

The smile faded from Cowboy’s face. “You didn’t question him?” he demanded.

Bat shook his head. “Orton was assigned to my bus. Lamb had to fill in for him. He happened to mention it.”

Cowboy was eyeing him with a dark and doubtful gaze. “You know to keep your trap shut, right?”

Bat managed to contain the flash of anger he felt. The unpleasant idea occurred that he could not afford to quarrel with Cowboy. Could not afford to fall out with him. Not given the secret they shared.

Perhaps some similar idea cropped up in Cowboy’s mind. He said, “Why don’t we get out of here and go some place we can talk.”

It was not a suggestion. He stood, waiting. Bat stared up at him — and realized that here too he had no choice.

He followed Cowboy out of the mess, and the last notes of “Roses of Picardy” died behind them as the mess door swung shut.

“Let’s walk down to the lodge,” Cowboy said. “You look like you could use some shuteye. When was the last time you slept? Really slept, I mean?”

“How is that your affair?” Bat burst out, his resentment of this high-handedness growing momentarily.

Cowboy’s big hand wrapped around Bat’s upper arm, warningly. “It’s my affair because if you make some stupid mistake ‘cause you’re too tired to think straight, we’re both sunk.”

Bat roughly freed himself, uncaring of who might be watching — knowing as he did so, that Cowboy had a point. He was too weary to be careful, his emotions dangerously near the surface.

He said, “I can’t stay on at the lodge. Those were Gene’s digs, not mine. Not officially.”

“The old lady won’t care, will she? Could probably use the extra dough.”

He thought of Madame Fournier’s kindness — most likely due to the infirmities of age. A God-fearing woman, Madame would not knowingly have sheltered Gene and him if she’d any notion of what they got up to in that little room where her son once slept. There was always a foolish — dangerous — temptation to believe that there was understanding, perhaps sympathy, in silence when in fact all there was, was ignorance.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t care. I can’t stay there now.”

“Don’t be too hasty,” Cowboy said cryptically. “A little privacy would be useful.”

They walked down to the lodge in silence filled only by the crunch of their boots and the occasional song of a woodlark.

“You think the birds talk to each other in French?” Cowboy asked, and Bat smiled, forgetting his earlier annoyance.

“Possibly.”

Cowboy was also smiling. His eyes slanted Bat’s way, and Bat felt his face growing warm though he wasn’t sure why. He looked away hastily. Luminous white mushrooms grew at the roots of the ancient trees forming the leafy tunnel overhead. Wild berries lined the road, glossy purple and scarlet in the gloom. It smelled richly of damp earth and moldering leaves — and the leather of cowboy’s jacket and the soap he used.

“It’s a lot like home,” Bat said suddenly, forgetting his earlier annoyance. “Like Kent. Feels different, though. Feels…French.”

Gene had said you could see the Flemish influence in the village names and architecture.

The red roof of the hunting lodge appeared before them, smoke drifting from the white stone fireplace. Cowboy touched Bat’s arm, and they left the path and cut across the field to the gazebo where they could be assured no one would overhear their conversation.

“I’ll have to think what to do about Digsby,” Bat was saying distractedly as Cowboy pushed open the rickety door. “Gene’s dog. I suppose Madame — ”

He broke off as startled doves took wing through the holes in the roof. The door slammed shut behind them closing them in with the musty scent of decaying wood and dead leaves and bird nests, and Cowboy’s arms went around Bat.

Shocked into immobility, Bat recovered fast and shoved him away. Cowboy eyed him narrowly and then shoved back — harder — pushing Bat against the rough wall, big fists locked in Bat’s tunic, one knee thrust between Bat’s long legs.

Bat’s simmering resentment crackled into life, but beneath the anger was excitement. Part of him welcomed the idea of fighting Cowboy, part of him…

It was confusing. He told himself what Cowboy needed was a good thrashing, and what Bat needed was to deliver it, but…as his eyes met that dark blue gaze, he felt strangely irresolute. Cowboy’s breath was warm against his face. His mouth tingled recalling the feel and taste of Cowboy’s, and he wondered what would happen if he let Cowboy put his hands on him.

The idea alarmed him — but not nearly as much as it should have. In fact, maybe he wasn’t alarmed so much as…stimulated.

Cowboy pulled Bat close again, and Bat knew a kind of relief that he wasn’t being given a choice, that this was taken out of his hands; all he had to do was not fight too hard.

He closed his eyes, raising his face — leading with his chin, in fact. Cowboy’s big hands ran over the long lines of Bat’s body, tugging at his tunic, and Bat groaned, wanting the bulk of cloth removed from between his trembling body and the warm weight of Cowboy’s hands.

“Easy, easy,” Cowboy murmured, like he was soothing a nervous colt, undoing the fastening at Bat’s tunic collar, fingers warm against Bat’s throat.

Bat swallowed hard as Cowboy suddenly pressed a soft kiss in the naked hollow of his throat. He opened his eyes and Cowboy’s face was absorbed, grave. His lashes raised and he met Bat’s gaze. He seemed to be waiting for something.

What?

Seemingly of their own volition, Bat’s hands rose and he responded in kind, shoving aside Cowboy’s heavy jacket, working the fastenings of Cowboy’s tunic — careful of buttons, careful with His Majesty’s property — they couldn’t afford to explain untoward damage. Through the coarse wool of their uniforms, their groins ground urgently against each other, and then their hot mouths met in frenzied hunger.

The night before Bat had been too startled to truly acknowledge what was happening, but now…he was almost stunned by the intimacy of it, the silky rasp of Cowboy’s jaw against his own, the pressure of two mouths, the mingling of breath and saliva, the unaccustomed taste of another man, the slick surprise of tongue —

He was about to suffocate beneath the impact when Cowboy tore his mouth away, breathing hard. His hands slid down Bat’s long, thinly muscled back, finding his way to Bat’s waist band and fly. His hand slipped inside, rough but caressing, feeling Bat up with gentle but thorough expertise. Bat hissed but didn’t speak, didn’t say the words, even as Cowboy worked his way through layers of cloth to bare skin. Then Cowboy’s hard, unsteady fingers found the entrance to Bat’s body.

Bat jumped. “No,” he said hoarsely.

“Hell, yes,” Cowboy retorted a little unevenly.

“No.” And Bat started to fight him.

Cowboy let him go so abruptly Bat staggered, falling back against the wall.

“He’s dead,” Cowboy said. “You’re still alive, whether you like it or not.”

Rage washed through Bat’s body, but then…

“You don’t understand,” he said. “Gene and I…we never…did that.”

Cowboy went so still he merged with and vanished into the shadows, leaving Bat feeling as though he were alone. It was an awful feeling.

“Say something,” he said.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

The bubble of emotion that never seemed to leave Bat’s chest expanded and he couldn’t seem to breathe. He struggled with it.

So it was mostly relief when Cowboy’s powerful arms folded him close once more.

“You must’ve done more than hold hands,” Cowboy muttered. He bent his head and his lips grazed the nape of Bat’s neck. Bat shivered and pressed his face into the strong column of Cowboy’s throat.

Of course they had. They’d held each other, they had kissed, they had — but this, no. Bat, less experienced, had suggested certain things, but Gene had been very clear. And that had been all right by Bat — he’d been slightly ashamed for suggesting it.

Heat flooded his face which he kept it buried in Cowboy’s neck. “We tried to keep to the…the Platonic ideal.”

“Jesus.”

“I mean, we tried — ”

“I know what you mean,” Cowboy said astonishingly. “I read the Symposium. I went to Harvard.”

And it was Bat’s turn to be speechless. He raised his head, staring at Cowboy’s face in the gloom.

Cowboy laughed. “What did you think? I rode in from the plains on Old Paint?”

Hadn’t Cowboy rather acted that way? Was it perhaps his strange sense of humor? “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“What do I care what a bunch of English stuffed shirts think?”

Bat tried to throw him off, but Cowboy held him in place, back to the wall, and despite the cool words his hands stroked the other pilot in long tremulous caresses, warm hands sliding down Bat’s flanks and back.

“Not you. I care what you think,” he muttered.

“Oh, jolly for me,” Bat snarled. But it felt good. Very good to have Cowboy touching him like that. Despite his anger, Bat clutched Cowboy tightly, not wanting it to end, and when Cowboy’s hand slid down over his taut buttocks, he tried not to tense, tried to relax. The brush of fingertips on bare skin felt startlingly nice and started a peculiar ache in his chest. This was something he had not foreseen. That he might enjoy Cowboy’s sexual trespass. That he might welcome it. He struggled with guilt and pain and loyalty to Gene while Cowboy stroked him and whispered soothing things like he expected Bat to start bucking and biting any moment.

“Yeah, you’re beautiful, aren’t you? Sharp and shining like the edge of the sun.” He kissed the corner of Bat’s mouth, his erection thrusting aggressively into Bat’s groin.

And Bat began to move against Cowboy, longing for — needing more. Cowboy’s finger slipped right inside his body and an odd thrill shot through Bat. He shuddered all down the length of his body and half-swallowed a protest.

“Easy, easy,” Cowboy whispered hotly against his ear. “You want it and you need it. Hell, we both need it. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. Why should it?”

He kissed away any objection Bat might have made while all the time his finger kept stroking inside Bat’s body, nothing tentative about that touch, fingering Bat up with tantalizing expertise while he kept him pinned against the wall, not letting him move. And Bat turned his mouth from Cowboy’s and heaved in great gulps of air like he’d flown far too high, putting all thought away and opening his thighs to give Cowboy greater access.

Dear God that felt

…it made him melt inside, made him ache, made his body keen silently, desperate for more — much more. Embarrassing sounds escaped him, abject sounds, and Cowboy kissed them all away, smiling, seeming pleased as Bat grew more frantic.When Cowboy withdrew his hand Bat was aware of stinging disappointment. But then Cowboy guided him around to face the wall, and Bat planted his hands against its splintered roughness, spreading his legs, instinctively readying himself.

He heard the rustle of cloth and then Cowboy’s fingers were back but now they were slippery with oil. Blunt fingers cupped his balls, cradling them, caressing, and then one blunt finger traced the quivering entrance of Bat’s body once more.

“Ready as you’re going to be,” Cowboy said. “Just relax…that’s it…”

Bat swallowed dryly. He knew a moment of dizzy alarm. What was he surrendering to? What liberties was he allowing Cowboy? The big American was warm and solid all down the length of his back, the open flaps of his tunic tickling Bat’s bare skin as he leaned over him, his breath hot on the nape of Bat’s neck, his knees pressing into the back of Bat’s, hard hands locked on his hips. Cowboy’s cock lanced lightly between the cheeks of Bat’s arse, and the implicit threat, the tease of alarmed pleasure focused Bat’s thoughts. This was no betrayal of Gene. This was lust. Animal lust. Nothing to do with what had been between himself and Gene, and perhaps he did need it — this disconcerting proof that he was still alive. He didn’t care if it hurt; he rather hoped it did.

Bracing himself as Cowboy’s cock pushed slowly into him, Bat was astonished to find his body grudgingly accommodating the larger man’s organ, though he had to grit his jaw to keep from crying out. It did hurt. Not unbearably so, however, and the pain freed him of guilt.

Slowly, slowly Cowboy shoved deep into Bat’s body until Bat could feel the softness of hair against his buttocks. Cowboy thrust against him once, and Bat shivered. They were locked so tight that he could feel Cowboy’s heart hammering against his back.

He wriggled, pushing back a little, trying to find himself a bit of room to breathe. To think. But one of Cowboy’s hands moved its grip from Bat’s hip, coming beneath his belly and finding his cock, closing around it with easy expertise, pumping as though caressing a rifle. That helped, and again Bat’s body responded eagerly, his cock filling and lengthening.

Cowboy kissed the back of Bat’s neck and it was sweet. Bat relaxed into Cowboy’s hold, resting his forehead on the wall, smelling the biting pungency of wood and sweat.

Cowboy was thrusting into him now, steady, rhythmic thrusts, his heavy cock like a piston pushing into the cylinder of Bat’s body. It was unbelievable — unbelievable that Bat would allow this, and yet he was standing docilely permitting Cowboy to take him. Cowboy was grunting fiercely in Bat’s ear and oddly it began to excite Bat: the honesty of that rough animal pleasure. He groaned into the knotholes of the paneling.

“Yeah, that’s right, Aubrey,” Cowboy rasped. “That’s right, sweetheart. You know it, don’t you? You know you belong to me now.”

Bat shook his head. “Y-you’re…fucking mad,” he jerked out as Cowboy shoved into him, but Cowboy laughed.

“You’re only fooling yourself.” He used his knee to push Bat’s legs further to give himself better access, making Bat take him more deeply, and astonishingly Bat acquiesced, pushing back on Cowboy’s engorged organ with a helpless moan.

He let Cowboy fuck him, submitted to Cowboy’s rough and thorough possession until his legs felt weak and wobbly. Then Cowboy changed his angle, drove into Bat one more time and it was like lightning striking.

A white blaze lit up Bat’s body, nerves igniting. His breath caught, he shuddered all over, releasing his seed over the larger man’s hand, flooded with physical sensation — and unexpected emotion. At nearly the same instant, Cowboy groaned deep down in his chest and grabbed Bat tight against his torso, spilling blood-hot semen into him. That splash of liquid heat recalled Bat to himself.

What had he done? He had given into the basest of desires. He had let Cowboy use him, mark him like a wolf spraying its territory. He knew only too well what Gene would make of such brutish behavior, and yet…he felt very little. Perhaps he was simply numb.

Bat slumped against the wall, panting. After a time Cowboy’s cock slipped out of him.

Bat’s limbs were trembling — hands too — and his cock was suddenly unbearably sensitive. The odd thing was Cowboy seemed to understand that and he became tender — almost woman-tender so that Bat could have wept with humiliating gratitude. It was unmanly but he wanted this, wanted to be gentled, cared for. He breathed quietly against his arm as Cowboy cleaned him off with his soft linen handkerchief and then tucked him back inside his trousers. Then he drew Bat against him and they sat down — half collapsing on the faded old cushions of the dilapidated furniture.

For a time they sprawled there and Cowboy rocked Bat against him in a funny soothing way. Bat closed his eyes. The traitorous wish occurred that he and Gene would have done this, and then, even more traitorously, he realized he wanted nothing more than to sleep against this strong warm body and not think anymore.

Cowboy kissed his hair and his face and rocked him some more and Bat let himself drift.

He must have fallen deeply asleep because the next thing he knew Cowboy was saying softly, “Rise and shine, Aubrey. I gotta get back and you need some real sleep.”

Bat blinked at him, nodded, and sat up. He ran a hand through his hair.

“All right?” Cowboy asked, and though he spoke brusquely, there was some remaining trace of that unexpected tenderness in his voice.

Bat nodded again. He had no words to express his confusion, his astonishment at what he’d done — what they had done.

They rose and dressed quickly, and then Cowboy went back to the air field and Bat let himself into the lodge.

Madame greeted him with pleasure and Digsby with outright joy. It was not until Bat had been persuaded into sitting down and eating a bowl of hot stew that he realized that Cowboy had still not told him what he had done with Orton’s body.