Dragon Squadron (An RAF Dragon Corps story) - 20. No Longer a Drill
In an alternate 1939 where dragons are Britain's aerial defenders, an admiral's son defies his naval heritage to join the RAF Dragon Corps...
Late summer sun beat down on the training grounds, turning the packed dirt flight line into a shimmering haze of heat.
Six weeks into training, the surviving recruits had settled into a brutal rhythm—dawn flights, midday tactical sessions, evening manoeuvres, with barely enough time between to eat and tend to their dragons.
Jim leaned forward in the saddle, pressing his weight into Aether’s shoulders to signal a steeper bank.
Aether’s wings adjusted to carry them through the tight turn.
Sweat trickled down Jim’s back beneath his flight leathers, but he kept his focus on maintaining position in the arrow formation as they streaked across the sky.
Sergeant Redfern circled below on his own mount—a battle-scarred grey behemoth named Storm. He’d grown less vocal in recent weeks, which the veterans said was more worrying than his shouting. When Redfern went quiet, he was cataloguing failures for later reckoning.
The summer heat rippled off Aether’s scales, adding to Jim’s discomfort. They’d been aloft for nearly two hours, practicing tight formations and rapid directional changes that strained both dragon and rider.
His muscles burned with the effort of maintaining proper position, arms aching from the constant micro-adjustments to the reins. But there would be no respite until Redfern was satisfied.
To his right, Ronnie and Brutus struggled to maintain the perfect spacing, the stocky brown dragon labouring in the heat.
On his left, Wilson held steady, his experience showing in the effortless way he and his mount moved as one.
Ahead, Marcus led the right wing of the formation, his black dragon Shadow cutting through the air with mechanical precision.
The next command came as a flag signal from the ground—a sharp dive followed by an immediate climb.
Jim’s stomach tightened. Should he conserve energy, knowing they likely faced hours more drilling? Or commit fully to prove his capabilities?
The decision came without conscious thought. He signalled Aether with firm knee pressure and a subtle shift of weight, committing to the manoeuvre with complete focus. The dragon tucked his wings close, angling into a steep dive.
Wind screamed past his leather helmet as they plummeted earthward, the ground rushing up at terrifying speed.
Aether’s wings snapped outward, muscles straining as they pulled out of the dive and began a near-vertical climb. The pressure forced Jim back into the saddle, vision greying momentarily from the g-forces. But he held position, body moving in perfect sync with Aether’s powerful strokes as they clawed their way upward.
They levelled out at around five hundred feet, rejoining the formation with barely a wobble. Jim allowed himself a tight smile behind his goggles. They’d executed the manoeuvre almost perfectly—better than most of the formation, if the scattered positions of the other dragons were any indication.
A sudden, blaring horn cut through the air, its urgent wail carrying even over the sound of dragon wings. The base alarm—used for drills and emergencies.
Redfern signalled for landing. Not the usual orderly sequence, but an immediate return to ground. He circled his arm overhead—the command for rapid descent—then pointed at the flight line.
Something was wrong.
This wasn’t a drill.
Jim guided Aether towards the ground. Around them, the other recruits did the same, the formation dissolving as each pair made for the landing zone.
As they touched down, Jim noticed the frantic activity across the base. Officers hurried towards the command centre, some still fastening uniform jackets as if they’d been urgently summoned. Ground crews stood in clusters, their faces grave as they spoke in low tones.
“Dismount and secure your dragons,” Redfern said as he landed. “Report to the main briefing hall immediately.”
“What’s happening, sir?” Ronnie asked as he slid from Brutus’s back.
Redfern fixed him with a hard stare. “If I’d wanted you to know already, Blake, I’d have said so.”
No one else dared ask questions. They moved with practiced efficiency, removing saddles and securing their dragons to the flight line posts.
Jim worked quickly, hands moving through the familiar routine while his mind raced with possibilities. Training accident? Mechanical failure?
Or something worse?
The dragons sensed the tension, shifting restlessly as they were secured. Aether’s golden eyes tracked Jim’s movements, head tilted in clear question.
“I don’t know,” Jim said, running a hand along the dragon’s jaw. “But I’ll find out.”
The recruits formed up in silence, no one wanting to speculate aloud. They marched towards the main briefing hall, passing knots of enlisted men and officers speaking in hushed tones.
Jim caught fragments—”confirmed reports” and “mobilisation orders.”
The briefing hall doors stood open, the cavernous room already half-filled with personnel from across the base.
Jim and the other recruits filed in, taking seats near the back.
The room hummed with tense conversation, but no one seemed to know exactly what was happening.
At 1130, the base commander strode onto the stage, followed by a contingent of senior officers.
The room fell silent. Group Captain Harrison was not a man given to dramatic gestures or unnecessary assemblies. His presence alone confirmed that whatever news awaited was significant.
“Gentlemen. At 0430 this morning, German forces crossed the Polish border in force. At 1115, Prime Minister Chamberlain announced that Britain has declared war on Germany.”
War.
After months of tension, of diplomatic manoeuvring, of hoping that appeasement might somehow prevent the inevitable—it had come.
“We have prepared for this day,” the Group Captain said. “The Royal Air Force stands ready to defend the realm, as it has always done.” His gaze swept the room. “Each unit will receive specific orders within the next twenty-four hours. Until then, continue your duties with the understanding that this is no longer a drill. This is war.”
He stepped back, allowing other officers to provide tactical updates and preliminary orders. Jim barely heard them. The reality of what had just been announced filled his mind, drowning out the procedural details.
They were at war.
The training, the endless drills, the punishing schedule—it had all been building to this moment.
As the briefing concluded, Redfern stepped forward to address the recruits directly. His face looked somehow older in the harsh lighting of the hall, the scars along his jaw more pronounced. “Training is over. From this moment, you are either combat-ready or you are not. If you’re still here in a week, you’ll be war pilots.” His eyes swept across their faces. “I’ve seen what German dragons can do. Their riders train from childhood. They fly in all conditions, all terrains. They show no mercy.” He paused, the silence heavy. “Some of you won’t make it that far.”
The words weren’t delivered as a threat but as a simple statement of fact. Their final assessment loomed—the combat evaluation that would determine who earned their wings and who was reassigned to ground duties or conventional aircraft.
They were dismissed shortly after, sent back to barracks with orders to await further instruction.
As they walked across the base, the mood was subdued. Even the usual chatter between Ronnie and Wilson had fallen silent.
The barracks seemed unusually quiet when they entered, despite being full of recruits. On Jim’s bunk lay a small stack of mail—a letter from his mother, and beneath it, an envelope addressed in his father’s precise handwriting. His stomach tightened at the sight.
His father rarely wrote. When he did, his words cut deeper than any drill sergeant’s.
Jim sank onto his bunk, staring at the envelope. Did he want to deal with his father’s disapproval today, of all days? The letter had likely been written before the declaration of war, but that wouldn’t matter. His father’s opinion of Jim’s chosen path would remain unchanged—war or no war.
After a moment’s hesitation, he tore open the envelope, unfolding the single sheet inside. The handwriting was as precise as ever, the ink dark and unforgiving on the cream paper.
James,
News of your continued presence in the dragon program has reached me. While I suppose congratulations are in order for not washing out immediately, I remain convinced you’ve chosen poorly.
You could have been a real officer. A man of the sea, as tradition dictates. Instead, you’ve chosen a reckless path, chasing myths instead of serving with honour. The Navy makes men. The Dragon Corps is for dreamers and fools.
I’ve arranged a position for you with Captain Winters should you come to your senses. The offer remains open until October.
Your mother sends her regards.
Admiral H. Ashford
Jim read it twice, feeling heat rise in his face. Not a word of encouragement. Not a hint of pride that his son had survived training that eliminated three of every four recruits. Just condescension and an offer to rescue him from his poor choices.
“Everything alright?”
Ronnie paused in the act of stowing his own gear.
Jim nearly snapped a response, the anger at his father seeking any outlet. But he caught himself, exhaling sharply instead. “Fine,” he said, folding the letter and shoving it into his locker. “Just my father.”
Ronnie nodded, but didn’t press.
Around the barracks, the other recruits processed the news of war in their own ways. Some wrote letters home. Others checked and rechecked their gear, as if expecting immediate deployment. A few spoke in hushed, excited tones about finally seeing action.
Marcus held court at the far end of the barracks, his usual coterie of admirers gathered around him.
“Fielding won’t last the week,” he was saying, loud enough for all to hear. “Did you see him in today’s formation? Nearly collided with Wilson on that last turn.”
“Think they’ll really wash people out now?” one of his friends asked. “With the war on, they’ll need every rider they can get.”
Marcus laughed. “They’ll need competent riders. Sending someone like Blake into combat would be a death sentence.” He glanced towards Ronnie, clearly hoping to provoke a reaction.
Jim tensed, ready to intervene if Ronnie took the bait. But his friend merely continued unpacking his gear, pretending not to hear.
“Put your money where your mouth is, Canning,” Wilson called from his bunk. “A quid says Blake outflies you in the final assessment.”
Marcus smirked. “I don’t take sucker bets, Wilson.”
The exchange might have escalated, but a senior cadet stuck his head through the door. “Mail call’s over. Equipment inspection in twenty minutes.”
The interruption defused the tension, sending everyone scrambling to prepare their gear.
Jim pushed his father’s letter from his mind, focusing instead on the immediate task. His flight leathers needed cleaning, his helmet strap had frayed slightly, and his boots could use a polish. Small details, but ones that might matter in the upcoming evaluation.
As he worked, the reality of their situation settled more deeply into his consciousness.
War. Not just the abstract concept they’d discussed in tactical briefings, but actual combat against German dragons and their riders.
The possibility of death—not from training accidents or mistakes, but from enemy action—suddenly felt immediate and real.
“You think we’ll actually see battle soon?” Ronnie asked.
Jim didn’t answer immediately. The truth was, he did think they’d see combat soon. The Germans wouldn’t wait, and Britain’s dragon forces, while elite, were limited in number. Every trained rider would be needed.
“Depends whether we pass the assessment.”
Ronnie nodded, returning to his equipment with renewed focus.
After inspection, they were granted a brief meal break before evening drills. Jim finished quickly and slipped away from the mess hall, heading towards the dragon enclosures. He needed to clear his head, and somehow, Aether’s presence had become a source of calm amid the chaos of training.
The dragon lay curled in his pen, massive head resting on powerful forelegs. At Jim’s approach, golden eyes blinked open, pupils contracting as they focused on him.
“Hey, big fellow,” Jim said quietly, unlatching the pen gate.
Aether watched him enter, nostrils flaring slightly as he caught Jim’s scent. Dragons were remarkably sensitive to human emotions, the handlers had explained. They could smell fear, anger, confidence—sometimes before the rider himself was fully aware of what he felt.
Whatever Aether sensed now made the dragon shift uneasily, scales rippling as muscles tensed beneath them. He raised his head, regarding Jim with what almost looked like concern.
Jim approached, hand outstretched in the greeting that had become their ritual. “It’s not you. Just a lot happening today.”
Aether allowed the touch, but continued to watch Jim. The dragon seemed to sense the weight of the day’s events, the tension that hummed through the entire base.
Jim sighed, resting his hand against Aether’s scaled neck. The familiar warmth beneath his palm grounded him somehow, a reminder of what was real amid the swirling uncertainty.
“You don’t give a damn about the Navy, do you?” he asked, thinking of his father’s letter.
Aether snorted, turning his great head away as if dismissing the very notion.
Jim couldn’t help but smile. “That’s what I thought.”
He spent a few minutes more with Aether, the quiet companionship settling his thoughts better than any conversation could have.
Whatever came next—war, evaluation, triumph, or failure—this bond was real. In just six weeks, the dragon had become more than a mount. He was a partner, perhaps even a friend.
The evening assembly call pulled him away.
He gave Aether a final pat before securing the pen gate and jogging back towards the barracks to join the others.
The recruits gathered on the parade ground as night fell, standing at attention as they awaited Redfern’s arrival.
Stars began to appear overhead, the late summer sky deepening to indigo.
In the distance, dragons called to each other from their enclosures—low, rumbling sounds that carried in the still air.
Redfern arrived on time, his boots crunching on the gravel as he approached. He paced before them, hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable in the gathering darkness. “Some of you still think you’re training. You’re not.” He stopped pacing, fixing them with a hard stare. “You’re preparing for war. Real war, against an enemy that has spent years developing their dragon forces while our government debated whether we should do the same.”
He let the words sink in before continuing.
“The final combat evaluation will take place on Friday at 0500. You will be tested on every aspect of dragon warfare—formation flying, evasive manoeuvres, targeted attacks, emergency procedures.” His voice hardened. “You will be evaluated individually and as a unit. Failure in either category means removal from the program.”
The recruits exchanged uneasy glances in the darkness. They’d known the evaluation was coming, but Redfern’s tone made it clear—this was the final reckoning.
“What happens if we fail, sir?” someone asked from the ranks.
“Reassignment. The RAF needs pilots for conventional aircraft, gunners, navigators. Your training won’t be wasted. But you won’t fly dragons.”
The words hit Jim like a physical blow.
Reassignment. A fate almost worse than washing out entirely.
To come this far, to bond with Aether, to discover his place in the sky—only to be grounded and sent to pilot a metal machine instead of a living, breathing dragon.
“Sir,” Ronnie’s voice came from beside him. “So we could actually be kicked out? Even now, with the war on?”
“This isn’t charity, Blake,” Redfern snapped. “The dragon corps is the most elite unit in the RAF because we maintain our standards regardless of circumstance. War makes those standards more important, not less. I won’t send incompetent riders to their deaths just to fill a quota.”
Silence followed his statement.
Jim stared straight ahead, mind racing. Would being reassigned to a standard RAF unit really be so bad? He’d still fly, still serve, still fight.
But it wouldn’t be the same. Not even close.
He wanted—needed—to be here. In the Dragon Corps. With Aether. The bond they’d formed over these weeks of training couldn’t be severed now. He wouldn’t let the assessment break him.
“The next three days are your final preparation,” Redfern said. “Every waking moment should be spent ensuring you’re combat-ready. That will be all.”
As he marched back to the barracks, the reality of the situation settled over him. He’d survived six gruelling weeks of training, pushed his body and mind to limits he hadn’t known existed—and it could all disappear in a single day of evaluation.
