Dragon Squadron (An RAF Dragon Corps story) - 7. First Flight

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...

Jim woke before the bugle call, his sleep having been disturbed by dreams of falling through empty air. He dressed methodically, focusing on each action—lacing his boots, fastening his belt, checking that his uniform was impeccable.

Control what you can control, his father always said. The rest will sort itself out.

Breakfast was a subdued affair. Men pushed food around their plates, few having much appetite. Jim forced himself to eat—he’d need the energy—but the porridge tasted like paste in his mouth.

“Flight gear issue in ten minutes!” Redfern’s voice boomed through the mess hall. “Parade ground, full kit!”

The flight gear waited in neat piles—leather jackets reinforced with steel mesh over vital organs, heavy gloves that extended past the elbow, helmet with attached goggles, and safety harnesses that buckled across the chest and between the legs. Jim donned each piece, following the diagrams posted on the wall.

“The harness connects to rings on the dragon’s saddle,” Redfern said as he paced the ranks. “A safety cable will connect to your back loop during first flights. It won’t stop you from falling, but it will prevent you from landing.”

That statement did little to ease the tension in the group.

“Today, you will work with juvenile Wessex Greys again. They are trained for basic commands but are not combat-ready.” Redfern stopped pacing. “Your task is simple—approach your assigned dragon, mount using the proper technique, and complete one circuit of the training area. At no point will you rise more than one hundred feet. Questions?”

A hesitant hand went up.

“What if the dragon doesn’t want to listen?” someone asked.

“Next recruit gets a chance, and you go back to barracks to pack.”

The walk to the dragon pens stretched Jim’s nerves to breaking point. Each step brought them closer to the moment of truth. Ground training was one thing, but actual flight? That was something else entirely.

The training pen came into view.

Inside, handlers led a group of dragons around the perimeter, each beast restrained by leather leads.

“Form a line,” Redfern said. “When I call your name, you’ll approach the handler and dragon. Follow the handler’s instructions exactly.”

The first recruit stepped forward—Peters, a stocky man from Manchester. He approached the nearest dragon with visible trepidation. The beast turned its head, golden eyes fixing on Peters with predatory intensity.

For a long moment, neither moved. Then the dragon lowered its head, a gesture the handler clearly expected.

“Mount up,” he told Peters. “Left foot in the stirrup, swing your right leg over. Keep your weight centred.”

Peters did as instructed, his movements slow and deliberate. Once seated, the handler connected his safety line, then unclipped the dragon’s lead. With a shouted command from the handler, the beast spread its wings and pushed off from the ground with powerful hind legs.

The collective intake of breath from the watching recruits was audible.

Peters rose into the air, his face a mask of terror and exhilaration. The dragon circled once, maintaining a height of perhaps sixty feet, then landed with surprising grace.

Peters dismounted, legs visibly shaking.

“Next!” Redfern called. “Canning!”

Marcus stepped forward, shoulders squared, chin high. He showed no hesitation as he approached his assigned dragon, a large grey with distinctive black markings on its neck. The dragon assessed him briefly, then lowered its head in acceptance. Marcus mounted with ease, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Looks like he learned his lesson from last time,” Jim said.

“His father probably bought him a bloody practice dragon,” Ronnie whispered beside Jim.

Marcus’s flight was flawless—a perfect circuit, his posture relaxed and confident atop the beast. When he landed, he patted the dragon’s neck before dismounting, a gesture that seemed to please the creature.

“Ashford!” Redfern’s voice cut through Jim’s thoughts.

Jim stepped forward, heart hammering against his ribs.

“You’ve met Tempest,” the handler said quietly. “He’s spirited in flight but responsive. Approach slowly, eyes on his—don’t look away.”

Jim moved forward, keeping his gaze locked on the dragon’s amber eyes. The beast watched him, head slightly tilted, nostrils flaring as it caught his scent.

This wasn’t just about walking around an obstacle course, Jim had to establish enough trust for the mount.

He fought the urge to look down, to break eye contact. Everything in his body screamed that he was approaching a predator, that he should run or at least look away in submission. But he held firm.

Three feet away, he stopped, waiting. The dragon’s pupils narrowed to slits, then widened again. It lowered its head slightly—not a full acceptance, but not a rejection either.

“Good enough,” the handler said. “Mount up. Smooth and confident.”

Jim placed his left foot in the stirrup attached to the dragon’s shoulder harness. The leather saddle sat just behind the base of the neck, where it would not interfere with the wing joints. He swung his right leg over, settling into the seat with a rush of vertigo.

He now sat eight feet off the ground, straddling a creature that could tear him apart on a whim.

The handler attached his safety line, checked his harness connections, then stepped back. “Left heel pressure to move forward, both heels to stop. Neck rein for direction. And remember—he feels your tension. Relax, or he’ll think there’s danger.”

Jim nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The handler unclipped Tempest’s lead.

“Ya!” the handler shouted, slapping the dragon’s flank.

With a powerful surge, Tempest pushed off from the ground. Jim’s stomach dropped as they rose, wind rushing past his face.

The ground fell away at an alarming rate, the figures below shrinking to toy size. Panic fluttered in Jim’s chest—they were going too high, too fast.

“Relax,” he told himself. “Show no fear.”

He forced his death grip on the saddle horn to loosen, consciously relaxed his shoulders.

Beneath him, the tension in the dragon’s body ease in response.

They levelled out, circling the training area at a height that made Jim dizzy if he looked straight down.

But he didn’t look down. He looked ahead, feeling the rhythm of the dragon’s wing beats, the powerful muscles shifting beneath him. And in that moment, something clicked into place. This wasn’t just a beast he was riding—this was a partnership. He and Tempest, moving as one through the air.

The circuit completed too quickly. Tempest descended in a gentle glide, touching down with barely a jolt.

Jim sat motionless for a moment, reluctant to break the connection.

When he finally dismounted, his legs felt strange beneath him, as if the ground were somehow less substantial than the dragon’s back.

“Acceptable,” Redfern said as Jim rejoined the group. But the sergeant’s eyes told a different story—Jim had done well. Very well.

Ronnie went next, his face the colour of chalk. His dragon—a stocky grey with a broken horn—seemed thoroughly unimpressed with him but accepted a rider nonetheless.

Ronnie’s flight looked far from comfortable, his knuckles white on the saddle horn throughout, but he completed the circuit without incident.

Not everyone was so fortunate. Wallace, who had fallen during the run, approached his dragon with visible trepidation. The beast reared its head back, wings half-spreading in warning. The handler tried to calm it, but the dragon would have none of it. After three unsuccessful attempts, Redfern called Wallace back.

“Rejected,” he said. “Report to the quartermaster to return your gear.”

Wallace’s face crumpled, but he saluted and walked away, shoulders slumped in defeat. Two more recruits met the same fate before the morning ended.

Back at the barracks, the survivors sprawled on their bunks, physically and emotionally drained. The first flight had taken more out of them than any physical challenge.

“Did you feel it?” Wilson asked the group at large. “That moment when you’re up there, and suddenly it all makes sense?”

Several men nodded.

Jim said nothing, but he knew exactly what Wilson meant. That instant of connection, of rightness.

“We start combat manoeuvres next week,” Wilson said. “That’s when it gets interesting. Diving attacks, evasive patterns, formation flying.”

“Tonight we celebrate,” announced a recruit named Harris. “I smuggled in a bottle of whisky. Medicinal purposes, of course.”

The mood in the barracks lifted slightly. They had passed the first true test. They were still here. Still in the running to become dragon riders.

Jim lay back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, replaying his flight in his mind.

The sensation of power beneath him, of freedom in the air. For the first time since arriving, he allowed himself to imagine a future in the dragon corps. Flying combat missions, leading a squadron perhaps.

Proving his father wrong.

The thought brought him up short. Was that still his motivation? To spite his father? Or had something changed today—had he found something he wanted for himself?

A new letter lay on his pillow, delivered during the day’s training. This one in his mother’s handwriting.

Jim opened it and read.

My darling James,

Word has reached us of your acceptance into basic training. Your father, of course, says nothing, but I caught him reading the Dragon Corps newsletter yesterday. He may not show it, but he follows your progress.

I pray daily for your safety. These beasts sound terrifying, though the recruiters insist they are as loyal as dogs once bonded. I’m not sure I believe them, but I want to believe in you.

Write when you can. Tell me everything.

All my love,

Mother

Jim folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. Tomorrow he would write back, tell her about Tempest, about the feeling of flight. But not about the danger, not about Wallace and the others who had already washed out. No need to worry her more than necessary.

As the evening bugle sounded, calling them to mess, Jim caught Marcus’s eye across the barracks.

The rivalry remained, but something had shifted between them. A grudging respect, perhaps. They had both passed the same test, faced the same fear, found the same connection with their dragons.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Ronnie said beside him. “Another chance to wash out.”

“Or to prove we belong here,” Jim said.

Above the barracks, dragons circled in the darkening sky, their silhouettes black against the fading blue.

Tomorrow, Jim would be up there again. He had found his element. Not the sea his father had chosen, but the sky he had claimed for himself.