Tin mug of tea in hand, Wainwright stepped out of the mess and into the brisk cold air. The wind was high and strong today: challenging flying weather. It suited him; he wondered if it would suit this morning’s flying partner.

He took the gravel path that led towards the back of the outbuildings, where a flat open field stood sparse with brush, edged with rock and heather. At the far end of the field a bonfire burned low and inviting; he trudged his way there.

‘Morning, Percival, sir’, he greeted, saluting briefly before seating himself on a bench close to the warmth. He held his tin mug out to the fire in vain hopes of keeping his drink warm.

The older officer gave a deep nod. ‘Indeed it is. A fine one for your flying exercise.’ He regarded the young man. ‘You are eager?”

‘Oh, it would just been good to be flying again. It’s been too long since I was last up.’ Wainwright chuckled, small and boyish. ‘Especially with someone of your status, sir.’

Percival, again, simply nodded. ‘It will be no different to when you are properly assigned. But I am honoured all the same.’ He stretched, flexing so that he rippled and trembled, like waves of rock and boulder.

It was then that Wainwright noticed, and he debated with himself for a while, sipping his tea here and again. Thinking at last, it couldn’t hurt, he treaded carefully to say, ‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir, how – um. Where did you – ?’ The best he could do was gesture at the scars that marred Percival.

Percival looked down to his flank. ‘These? Oh, these were from the Second World War. During the Battle, in fact.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied, raising a great arm so he could show the full length of the rakings. The lines were deep and crude, like a ploughed field. ‘Though, mind you, I got the other dragon as good as he gave.’

Wainwright could barely imagine it. The scars ran all the way across Percival’s left flank, almost cutting right under his great leathery wing. Everywhere else his scales were bright and luminescent but along those lines, there was nothing but pale, puckered hide.

‘Yes,’ said Percival, as though anticipating the question. ‘My scales never did grow back there. Though I suppose it’s no different with you humans. Your hair certainly doesn’t grow back where you are scarred, does it?’

‘No, sir,’ Wainwright laughed. ‘I suppose not.’ But the mirth was perhaps lost on the dragon;  Percival said nothing and became distant. Wainwright wondered if he had said something wrong, when the dragon began speaking again.

‘It was the day I lost my pilot. A good man, a fine navigator. Of quick mind and brave will. He fell away from me when my harness was torn off of me. I could not go after him as I became heavily engaged in combat, and London needed me above, not below.’

‘Oh,’ said Wainwright, and he knew there was little else to say.

‘Some years after at a memorial service, I met the German dragon who raked me. He, too, attended the service. We recognized each other from the scars we gave one another. And we became friends.’

‘Really, sir?’

Percival nodded. ‘ He also lost his pilot in the Battle, as I had. We were both feeling a loss, and it was good to find another who knew. We meet every so often; we go hunting together, and feast heartily after.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘My German is much better these days.’

Man and dragon sat in silence for a while. Wainwright nursed the last of his tea, now cold. Suddenly Percival gave a short snort of a laugh.

‘Forgive an old soul, won’t you? When you live as long as my kind do, it grows hard to find another – any other – who remembers what you remember, and understands as such.’

The young man – feeling even younger than he had ever felt – shook his head. ‘It’s all right, sir. I think I understand, sort of. It’s like when you think about those last few people who fought in the Great War, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps,’ allowed the great dragon. ‘Though that, too, I remember very well.’

Now feeling young as well as stupid, Wainwright began to stammer, but now Percival laughed much more truthfully as began to stalk towards the centre of the field.

‘Never you mind, young Wainwright. Come now. The morning goes on, and we have much flying to do. After morning exercise you will meet your assigned dragon, and once dusk settles we will do night-flying.’

‘Yes, sir.’