homepage Forums Air Combat & Civil Aviation Wings: Over Flanders Fields Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)

Harry, that is gutting! It took so long to get a good bead on that DH4 and yet he bagged the fatal shot with his second burst. Not fair. We shall all miss Laszlo. I understand how hard it is to get back in the game after losing a great character. But we really need you here for April.

Seb, MFair, smashing story about the attack on the train.

Seb, the story about your return to the front was sobering. It will be interesting to see the long-term effect of his experiences on von Toombs. He certainly returned to the front with a vengeance. And you are approaching the magic number of 20 victories! Well done.

Carrick, I really enjoyed some of the old photographs that you have dug up. I agree with MFair. As long as there is rum…

MFair, I really love the new livery for your Albatros. I’ve never mastered the art of skinning. Really well done!

Lou, I don’t know if your new livery will scare the Hun but it sure scares me! Can’t wait to see Swany back in action.

Full of it, I think Archie is getting more accurate. Glad to see Toby made it. Collins almost didn’t, as you will read below…

Just when at long last I have some opportunities to fly regularly, the weather sets in and then Collins is injured. I was down to 50 health before the crash and thought it was all over. This spoiled my plans for a squadron transfer. Collins will be out until 27 March.


An Airman’s Odyssey – by Capt James Arthur Collins, VC, DSO, MC

Part One Hundred Five: In which I am observed


Cold, sheeting rain rattled our rooftops all day on 5 March. I caught up in correspondence, receiving and replying to a lovely letter from Thérèse. M. Lefebvre, whom I had appointed as a business agent, had concluded the legal paperwork for the sale of the Pétrus vineyard and business. I wrote to him that I was interested in finding another winery close by Pétrus, one that produced a larger volume of lesser wine. I worried that having all my eggs in one basket could persuade me in a bad year to make unwise decisions that result in damaging the label’s reputation. It seemed to me that reputation would be everything in this business, a point with which Davison wholeheartedly concurred.

The rain lifted enough on the sixth that we were able to fly in the morning. I led Child, Orlebar, and Reed on an escort patrol. We married up with three Quirks from 52 Squadron over Doullens and flew with them on a reconnaissance of the Hun lines west of Cambrai. The patrol was long, boring, and cold. After ninety minutes the BE2s signalled their completion and turned westward for home. As we were forming up, Reed waggled his wings and climbed towards the south-west. About a mile off a lone German two-seater was making its way eastward. Our wards were well on their way so I followed behind with Orlebar and Child. The Hun machine was a DFW type, and its pilot did a fine job of moving it all over the sky to avoid our attack. When Reed broke off I attempted to get under the Hun’s tail, but his observer was able to get a good burst off. Two or three rounds poked through my upper wing and one glanced off my machine gun. Surprised by this accuracy, I broke off. Reed, however, had climbed above and in front of the Hun and surprised him with a diving attack from a forward quarter. Embarrassed by my reluctance to close with the enemy, I turned about – just in time to see the enemy machine falling with a trail of dark smoke behind. This one would cost me a drink!


"Embarrassed by my reluctance to close with the enemy, I turned about – just in time to see the enemy machine falling with a trail of dark smoke behind."

The rain returned the following day. Davison and I drove into Doullens, ostensibly for a provisioning run but in reality to consume tea and cream cakes and dream about having the finest winery in France. Thérèse had written again to say she was having a huge argument with her uncle. It seems that the harsh winter had seriously damaged a good-sized section of vines. M. Arnaud wanted to dig them up and replant as soon the frost was fully out of the ground but Thérèse and François, an older worker who had stayed on, were recommending something called a recépage. Figuring this out required finding an open bookstore with a French-English dictionary. It means cutting-back, and Davison explained the value of saving ancient vines if that were possible. If the suggestion did not work, that land would be wasted for at least a year. I decided I would write Lefebvre and instruct him to have the damaged vines cut back. I anticipated resistance.

On 9 March, I went again with Orlebar and Child over the lines near Arras. There was a Hun rail yard that required strafing. We emptied our guns pointlessly at the sheds and wagons, taking hits in all three of our machines in return. Without bomb racks it was a silly show altogether. But a miss is as good as a mile as they say and we returned to Fienvillers intact.

We awoke on 10 March to a fine drizzle. My shoes, freshly polished, were rubbish by the time I arrived in the mess for a breakfast of half cooked bacon and a slice of bread. At half past nine, the Major arrived and surely informed me that we were to return to the damned railyard and shoot it up some more.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “Are they afraid of having too many scouts over here? Or are they all just too bloody stupid?”

Harvey-Kelly stared at me blankly. His face grew long and serious. “Would you prefer that I led the flight today?” he asked. I shook my head glumly and asked what time we should leave.

We took off at ten forty-five, Harvey-Kelly, Orlebar, Child, and me. I set a direct course for the rail yard, which was close to Douai. We approach the lines at seven thousand feet and then glided gradually down until we were within two miles of our objective. The Archie was heavy but there was nothing to do except put the nose down and ignore it. I saw few troops about the yard and only three or four wagons. I selected a large shed and, with a mix heavy on Buckinghams, I prepared to fire. Suddenly my machine was thrown sideways. Without thinking about the possible consequences I pulled hard on the stick climbing out of the dive and turning away to the left. My ears were ringing. Several large tears had appeared in the upper wing. The engine sounded odd and I could smell petrol. A grey vapour trail followed my Spad. I did not dare to fire a Very light and instead simply climbed to the west. The lines were some five miles away.

I felt dizzy. There is something definitely going wrong with the Hisso. The revs were unsteady and odd noises came out of the thing. I climbed to about four thousand feet and levelled off. The engine temperature was rising. One more mile and I could switch off safely. My eyes were riveted to the faint silvery lines of wire that marked our forward positions. The engine began to fail and I switched off.

I probably would have heard the Spandaus with the engine on; with the thing shut off the noise made me jump against the restraining seat belt. I kicked the rudder bar. Could I still make it? Rounds hammered into my machine. I kicked the rudder bar to the right. More rounds. I looked back. Two Albatri. One circling back for another go at me. But the other was diving on me for another go. More rounds, and then a searing burn on my left calf, like a cut from a hot knife. I felt blood on my ankle. Right inner forward strut shattered. I kicked the rudder bar again, jinking left. More rounds. The ground coming up quickly. Impact.


"But the other was diving on me for another go."

I came to on a stretcher, shivering with cold. I felt ill. There were people about, or so I could sense. I was focused only on a muddy heel print a few inches from my face. Then I heard a voice. “Right, you lot. Put those out and get this gentleman the f___ out of here.” I was alive. And they didn’t speak German.

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. I spent some time at a regimental aid post and then was moved to a muddy verge outside a shattered building near Arras. From there I was taken by ambulance to a casualty clearing station at a place called Agnez-lès-Duisans. The doctors there repaired my leg wound. It had felt far worse than it really was. It was my head that gave me the most problem. I continue to feel sick to my stomach and my vision was blurred. There was talk of invaliding me to a base hospital or even back to England. But for now I was to be kept and observed.