I hope everyone had a happy Christmas. I've been catching up with Corderoy's career tonight, so here is the latest...

Diary of 2/Lieut. Geoffrey Corderoy, RFC
Part 24: 25-31 August 1917

25 Aug 1917 – Filescamp Farm

With Molesworth gone for HE, there is an open flight commander spot and I am hoping to get the nod although it will be a long shot as I have just been made up to Lieutenant. The Major has not shown his hand yet, and he is allowing being to lead C Flight sometimes and Horn others. This past week, however, I have led every patrol I’ve flown.

Our hut is wonderfully cozy. After Beck left we got a new boy, Randolph. He is an Etonian and innocently insufferable, but he is regular receipt of Fortnum and Mason hampers so the hut is a genuine tuck shop.

Today, 25 August, I had Randolph over the lines for the first time. It was to have been a gentle indoctrination. We married up with three RE8s west of Arras and followed our lines down to Bapaume, where we dashed over to let the Harry Tate merchants drop some bombs on a body of troops in a wood just behind the Hun lines near Havrincourt. They wasted no time and regrouped, and we all made our way joyfully homeward. The mud of the front passed beneath us and the RE8s made for the field at Bapaume. I relaxed for a moment, for as everyone in France knows, Huns never appear on our side of the lines.

That was when five big, nasty Albatros DVs decided to dive on us from out of a fluffy great cloud. Oh, what a scrap it was! For several minutes it was all one could do to avoid bashing into one another, but at length I found a nice purplish Hun and followed it down to under a thousand feet. The fellow had the wind up terribly and was weaving one way and the other, trying to make his own lines. Horn was my 2 I/C and locked onto him as well, but I was able to cut inside him and bag the Hun for my eight confirmed kill. I owed Horn a drink that night. There was no big celebration, though, for Randolph was missing.

Just as the evening was breaking up, the fellow waltzed in grinning from ear to ear. He’d been a guest of the French for the afternoon and was driven back to us in style in a Renault staff car, quite drunk.

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"The fellow had the wind up terribly and was weaving one way and the other, trying to make his own lines."


26 August 1917

This morning I lead a patrol to attack a balloon down near Cambrai. Unfortunately the engine goes wonky and I glide to the French field at Lechelles, very close to where my Hun came down yesterday. I am happy to learn from the “capitaine” that the German pilot was uninjured despite crashing heavily and had been entertained over lunch in their mess before being bundled off. Horn, who took over command of the flight, bags a balloon while I am enjoying coffee.

We go back to the Cambrai balloon lines in the afternoon. Randolph leaves us with a dud engine before we cross the lines. I am determined to get a balloon to match Horn, but despite leading the attack and firing nearly a hundred rounds, the balloon I target does not burn. And to make matters more frustrating, Horn follows behind and flames the sausage with his first burst.

Randolph puts down at Courcelles. His machine stalls as he approaches the field and he hits a tree, killing himself.

27 August 1917

This morning I lead a long offensive patrol along our southern sector but see nothing.

In the mid-afternoon, Caldwell lets me lead his flight as we escort three Strutters from 43 Squadron. There is not enough praise for the chaps who fly such obsolete machines into Hunland day after day. They are taking frightful losses, but never flinch.

The sky is hazing over as we take off, and towering clouds are building up like grey galleons, promising rain. We rendezvous with the Strutters near Arras and head across the lines south of Monchy, where Archy is thick and accurate. There are some nasty bumps that throw our SEs about and I give the sign to spread out the formation. The Strutters turn southwest at Marcoing, a little northwest of Cambrai, and begin their photo run. Ten minutes later they turn northeast to do it all over again. Their task complete they head home.

Visibility is not good, but what little sun there is catches the wings of a Hun two-seater heading east as we head west. Two Albatri escort the machine and I lead our SEs to the attack. The Huns put their noses down and dive away, except for the rearmost, who turns to meet us. He is a gallant fellow, for it is five against one. For several minutes he ties us in knots. We are afraid to attack, for the Hun is in the middle of our group and we are afraid to hit another British machine. Finally, I see him pull up to take a crack at Pope and manage a full-deflection burst straight down into the top of the Albatros.

The Hun spirals earthward in big loops, an obvious feint. I follow him down over the mud of no-man’s-land as he swoops lower and lower. He is drawing me onto the Hun lines, and I level off at 2000 feet to wait for him to pull out. He will have a run of four or five miles to reach Pronville and I should be able to catch him. But to my surprise, the spiral does not stop. The Albatros hits the mud with its left wingtips and cartwheels across the shattered terrain, disappearing in a ball of flame. Caldwell has followed me down and confirms my claim. I now have nine confirmed victories.

31 August 1917

It has rained for four days without respite. The field is sodden and the huts swarm with earwigs. A new man, Pellyn, has taken Randolph’s place. His family isn’t as well heeled, though, so we must fend for ourselves when it comes to fine dining. He is a bit shy, but may have a sense of humour.

Last night we attended a concert at 11 Squadron across the way. Some very funny acts, especially one sergeant who did a perfect send-up of General Trenchard. Even the Wing Commander was doubled over.

There are rumours of a move. We shall hate to leave Filescamp if they are true. This place is as close to home as one can be in war.

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