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I finally have a chance to catch up with Geoffrey's story. Fullofit, I really enjoyed Aldi's last adventure. And Dark Canuck, good to see you posting!

This has been a really eventful few days for Geoffrey Corderoy!

Diary of 2/Lieut. Geoffrey Corderoy, RFC
Part 26: 4-7 September 1917

4 Sep 1917 – Filescamp Farm

Rain. Spend a depressing day putting things in crates for the move. Word is in that we are bound for Ste-Marie-Cappel, near Cassel. The new field is slightly farther from the lines, but it is in the Ypres sector. We shall be expected to clear the skies over the never-ending push at Passchendaele Ridge. It is no longer a push, to tell the truth, but a slow drowning in an infernal soup of mud, death, steel, fire, and poison. How the fellows on the ground stick it is beyond me.

Richthofen, the squadron pig, is with great ceremony handed over to M. Tetus. We once again paint the poor creature, this time in khaki with roundels. A newly-promoted flight commander, the pig sports a red streamer on its tail. The old farmer feigns appreciation, but his face hints that he suspects the pig was his to begin with.

5 Sep 1917

Flew an OP along the southern sector this afternoon but saw nothing. More rain tonight.

6 Sep 1917

Great day today!

In the air before six in the morning, leading a patrol with Rutherford, Horn, Soden, and a new chap, Hamersley. We are to marry up with three Harry Tates and waltz between Mossy Face Wood and Cambrai, taking pictures of wayward Huns. The day is sunny with towering cumulus clouds. If the cloud doesn’t hide them, one can spot Huns a long distance off. There is haze down low.

On our way south over Monchy, the Huns welcome us with their usual hate and it is necessary to change altitude frequently. The trick to throwing them off their aim is to make flat turns with only the rudder. If the Hunnish gunners can’t see our machines bank, they assume we are flying straight. It’s grand fun to be shot at without success!

After some time the RE8s seem to finish their work. We fly southwest to our lines, but then their leader decides to do it all over again. Far too keen. We turn northeast and head back from Mossy Face towards Marcoing. After about twenty more minutes, the leader signals to head home. Just then I see a stream of black smoke stain the haze below – a machine is burning! The sky above is clear of Huns so we turn to explore. Quickly it all becomes clear. A half-dozen French machines are in a scrap with a large group of Albatri and a smaller scout. It is one of the new triplanes the Huns have introduced. We dive to the attack, wires screaming. I see the triplane on the tail of a Nieuport and close quickly on it. The Hun has not seen me and I fire all the way from 150 yards to point-blank. The little green-grey triplane shudders and erupts in flame.


"The little green-grey triplane shudders and erupts in flame."

Up and away I soar. We have put the wind up the other Huns who are now tearing for home. I head west, searching for our two-seaters and spot them west of Mossy Face. A lone Hun triplane is tangling with a Nieuport close to the RE8s.

Hamersley has formed up on my wing and we join in. The Hun tries for home, but our SEs are quicker. My first burst causes pieces to fall away from the Hun’s upper right wing. I move aside and Hamersley finishes him off – his first kill. My first impression is that these Fokkers are like butterflies, pretty and nimble, but delicate.

In the afternoon I lead another show, escorting more two-seaters east of Monchy. We mix it up with some Albatri and lose a new lad, Aldaine. I damage two of the Huns, but a near miss by some Archie forces me to turn home. The petrol tank is holed and the engine packs it in as I cross the lines. I land close to Lechelle and make it home to Filescamp late. There is much news.

Horn has seen my flamer. I now have eleven confirmed victories. Major Patrick tells me I have been promoted temporary Captain and will lead a flight permanently. To top it all, I am to drive to Candas and bring back a new machine, one of the improved SEs with the 200 horsepower geared engine. Oh, and I’ve been put in for another decoration, although the Major is playing coy about it. I buy several drinks for the RO, but he is sworn to secrecy.

7 Sep 1917 – Ste-Marie-Cappel

We leave in the morning. My old squadron, 46, began to drop in shortly after first light. They are overjoyed by the accommodations at Filescamp, and are only too please to inform us that we shall be under canvas at Ste-Marie-Cappel, from which they have transferred.

Major Babington landed around eight o’clock, and Major Patrick assigned me to show him around. There was a lovely touch of evil to Major Patrick’s idea, as he knows how Babington and I did not exactly see eye to eye when I was at 46. I think he wanted Babington to see my three pips and MC. I must confess, however, that Major Babington was extremely gracious and expressed sincerely pleasure at my success with 60. He went so far as to confide that he’d been a little quick to judge me back in England.

At nine-thirty, I lead the second group off the ground and turn slowly over Filecamp Farm to salute the place. My greatest regret is that I am leaving just when my promotion would have given me a private room in the Abode of Love, our flight commanders’ Nissen.


"I lead the second group off the ground and turn slowly over Filecamp Farm to salute the place."

We make our way north at 5000 feet on a clear morning. The River Lys passes beneath and I confirm my position from the configuration of roads and rail lines. Just then Jenkins pulls alongside, waggling his wings furiously. He points up and to our left. Two Hun two-seaters are approaching and are set to pass directly over us. I turn eastward and open the throttle. The 200 hp Hisso sounds wonderful and I catch up quickly.

The nearer Hun is the one on the right. I am behind and below. I begin firing long bursts at 300 yards and close quickly, breaking off at 150 yards before the gunner can get his sights on me. In the new SE5A, it takes only seconds to pull again of the enemy machines, DFWs. I turn towards my target again, this time firing from abeam. I hold the triggers down and let the Hun fly through a stream of Vickers and Lewis rounds. I turn for another pass, but the DFW is spiralling down. In a dive, I hit him again with a full deflection shot from directly atop. The spiral continues, lower and lower. Below, a road runs parallel to the Lys. A long line of lorries is heading eastward toward the front. The enemy aircraft makes one last spiral and slams into the field, barely 50 yards from the lorries. I can make out Tommies waving their tin hats to me.

Chidwell-Roberts was close behind on my last to cracks at the Hun. This one is confirmed as number twelve!


"The enemy aircraft makes one last spiral and slams into the field, barely 50 yards from the lorries."