Flight Lead Doyle puzzled over the new Leftenant's bickering. The man's North Atlantic accentuation certainly made him sound like he was in control, but Doyle knew it was a mere matter of time before Sopwith disposed with that fantasy.
"You goddamn posh nobodies had better have a good reason to be stopping for tea, of all things, in the middle of an offensive!"
The yankee delivered his diatribe to a squadron of the Queen's finest pilots, and their deaf ears. Simons offered him a pint, perhaps his ration of cider would cool the man's temper. This of course only caused him to escalate in the cadence of his vocalizations, a vexing cascade of fine-tuned anti-royalist insults and stern refutations of the crown; really the usual fare for an American.
"Leftenant, uh, Bailey was it?", Doyle drew the fire his way, in hopes of sparing his beleaguered colleagues, "You are aware part of our portion of the Treaty includes provisions for Tea. I'm the ranking N.C.O. for this sorry lot, and we've a duty that is dreary enough even if afforded a morning's pause."
The American was staring daggers at Doyle, maybe more accurately through Doyle. Still, undeterred he maintained his heritage's traditional stiff upper lip and curt sense of duty.
"Out there at this instant is a squadron of unmanned combat Mechanicals the likes of which neither you, nor I, could hope to replicate or even augment the performance of. In but a few short moments, Sopwith will issue an advance order, we'll pack up our little breakfast, and we'll stomp through formerly-USSR held territory full of blown out tanks, twisted Mechanicals, and scorched corpses. Then, you will have all the data required to report to your superiors about the performance of our undead chap and his array of personal killing machines."
Before Leftenant Bailey could open his mouth, Doyle took a piece of toast from his kit and set about dressing it in the fine standard-issue raspberry jam the Queen ordered included for his squadron. As Sopwith's tenders, Doyle's Flight of Mechanicals were afforded some of the finest luxuries that the pencil-pushers in Parliament could tolerate. The American quietly smoldered, returning to his own Mechanical after some final attempted jabs at Doyle's Flight.
Not more than 10 minutes later, one of Sopwith's auxiliaries returned a communique with notice to advance. Dutifully, Doyle's Flight escorted the Yankee Leftenant past the blown out pillboxes, veritable mountains of corpses and twisted machinery, and unharmed civilian population. The town of Stuttgart was liberated from the Red Menace, and its population rejoiced. As usual, Sopwith did his job with ease, the Control Module equipped Mechanical gently striding about the rubble of the enemy's command post, a swarm of autonomous Mechanicals, airborne drones, and robotic infantry accompanied its imposing visage. The Auxiliaries went about assuming a host of patrol, repair, and holding actions as the Yankee Leftenant surveilled the impossible scene.
Crackling over the radio, the familiar static-y rasping of Sopwith's simulated voice filled the Flight's ears:
"Doyle, how was today's Tea?"
A neglected longing shadowed his words, clinging to them as-if an inky cancer.
"It was splendid, old chap. The Earl Grey had floral notes, lavender, bergamot; and of course a rich English breakfast of eggs, raspberry jam and toast paired with it.", Doyle strained himself to conceal the bitter aftertaste of sympathetic pain.
Sopwith would never again taste the fruits of his labor.
"Delightful."