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He'd spent hours on the models. Cut delicate wood so that it matched the pictures in his books. Painted them, slow and exact.
He imagined himself in the cockpits. Reenacting the battles he'd memorized. He'd been in the middle of the battle of St. Mihiel when his father had called for him to talk.
The front door clicked shut. His father needed a smoke. Rupert stared at the Fokker EIV model on his desk. He slammed his fist down on the tiny replica airplane. Shards of newly painted wood punctured the flesh of his hand.
Chosen, but not the hero.