Roger was born in Belfast, Ireland. He joined the Royal Air Force as soon as he could, having dreamed of flying since he saw his first plane as a kid. The War never was about killing for him - it was the only opportunity to get his hands on the stick, and the military even provided the training. Air combat - as bloody as it got over the Somme - at least had the air of chivalry about it, of honourable combat, and so he never had to experience the horror and mindlessness of the trenches. Yes, sometimes comrades died, sometimes you killed, but in the end, to Roger, it was an adventure.

After the war, the adventure ended. A peacetime life with the airforce, dull training exercises under the cloud covered British skies, could not satisfy Roger. As he had learned to like his French comrades in the war, whenever he had to land on their territory, be it for an emergency or for delivery of documents, he had appreciated the warm welcome, their food, and, well, the women.

Roger is a medium sized, wiry man with a keen eye for detail and a nimble body. He tries to keep in that shape, after all, you gotta give your plane what it demands from you - and planes are demanding mistresses. Despite his young age, his face, sporting a perpetual three-day stubble, shows the signs of constant exposure to wind and sun in the open cockpit of his Jenny. He tends to wear his oil-stained pilot's jacket regardless of temperature, seemingly immune to the heat. His demeanor is open and friendly, though excitable at times. People who don't know him might characterize him naive, but naive people don't survive long alone in the sky, do they?