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Originally Posted By: Fullofit
He and his wingman are the only ones to fly these crates while everyone else, including the lowest rank pilots fly the N17.


This is what confused me. You wrote N17, but I think you meant N11.


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If the lower ranks are flying the Nupe 17 and you have been burdened with the N.16, you need to get yourself demoted ASAP! The Nupe 17 is perhaps the best of the Nupes, overall, while the N.16 was a failed experiment with a bigger engine using the N.11 fuselage. smile

IMO, the N.16 is barely flyable.


"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."

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Historically N17 was available to Esc. N 57 since May (according to Wikipedia), which is modeled correctly in WoFF. Unfortunately it is only available to the HA's even the lowest ranks. The rest of us mortals will probably get it when it shows up incorrectly on the pilot recruitment screen, sometimes in October? Oh well.


"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain,
From out of my arse take the camshaft,
And assemble the engine again."
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Ok sorry, I was going by what was in WOFF.


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Here is the latest status report.



Here is the latest Roll Call of Honor.



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wave

I say, posted to two Sqn as a replacement pilot


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Yea! Glad to have you back.


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Originally Posted By: Banjoman
Ok sorry, I was going by what was in WOFF.

No worries Banjoman. Glad you're checking these things. Thanks for the latest stats!


"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain,
From out of my arse take the camshaft,
And assemble the engine again."
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Alright! Carrick's back!


"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain,
From out of my arse take the camshaft,
And assemble the engine again."
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reading

Thanks guys, I am hoping for better luck then I had in the DiD campaign. thumbsup

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Beau Brummel
Sgt,
2 Rfc Sqn.

4 July 1916.


Went out to look at my assigned Kite. What a Beaut, She can do 70 mph level and a little over 100 mph in a dive. My flight school teachers said that the Be2's are War Winners no Hun a/c can touch it.


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Beau Brummel
Sgt,
2 Rfc Sqn.

July 5, 1916.




No flights due to weather.

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Hello fellows. I'm somewhat late joining as I've been active in the other campaign (where my pilot is out for three weeks), but meet Sgt Alfred Keers, my "Intrepid Flyer."




And here is Alfred's first journal entry.

5 March 1916, Pevensey Bay. Cold, snow and frost.

Today is the end of the first part of my journey. I should have started this journal at the beginning, but I simply didn’t think of it. The beginning was at home in Seaham Harbour, where I was halfway through my apprenticeship as an engine fitter at the Seaham Harbour Dock Company when the war broke out. The work consisted mainly of keeping four antiquated locomotives in running order. When the war started, I didn’t rush to enlist as the priority seemed to be infantry and I hadn’t learned a trade only to spend my days digging holes and living in them.

In January 1915 the call went out for people with mechanical skills I made application for the Flying Corps. They wanted to know about my experience with internal combustion engines, and as there are not likely to be many steam-driven aircraft in this war, I left off talking about my civilian work and stressed my experience tinkering with motor-cycles. It did the trick, and I found myself posted to the shops at the Royal Aircraft Park at Farnborough.

By the autumn I had managed to bother my way into about a dozen hours as a passenger in Farmans and BEs. One particular officer, a Captain named Gooding, vouched for me when the door opened for the training of NCOs. I was accepted (mainly because I wasn’t as skilled as most of the other mechanics) and trained at Farnborough, Gosport, and Netheravon.

Thus on the cold morning of 5 March 1915, as Flight Sergeant Alfred Keers, I mounted a brand new FE2b along with a Lieut. Alice, my orders for France in one pocket and a Michelin road map of the Pas de Calais in the other, bound for a place called Clairmarais and No 20 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps. This was only the second time I’d flown an FE. With its massive 120 hp Beardmore behind me, the machine was simple to keep in the air compared to the Farmans I was used to. A small brass plate told me the machine was built by G&J Weir of Cathcart.

We took off and set course for Southampton, passing just to the west of Stonehenge. We picked up the line of the River Test and followed it until the coast was in sight, then turned due east. There was a chance of making it the whole way without landing, but it would be close. I needed to give myself the option of putting down at Dover to refuel.


Leaving Netheravon


The non-stop option disappeared suddenly just east of Eastbourne, when the Beardmore gave off a metallic bang and shut down. Lieut. Alice’s worried face looked back at me and I shrugged. A road ran parallel to the coast straight ahead. It was a simple matter to put down.


Putting down on the coast road

We waited until dark for a tender to arrive from Dover. The lads were taking no chances, for they’d brought a complete new engine. We worked in a field with the FE pegged down against a stiff wind blowing hard off the Channel, our only illumination from the headlights of the Crossley. The officer thought that perhaps we should avoid showing so much light because of Zeppelins, and we could get rooms in Eastbourne, perhaps. We ignored the toff and got the engine installed and turning over by three in the morning.

I was chilled to the bone. We left a guard for the aircraft and drove to Pevensey Bay, where the local police gave us tea and sandwiches and put us up in their gaol cells. The lieutenant insisted on sleeping in the tender and missed out.

6 March 1918

At seven this morning the wind died down and we were off. It was a short hop to Dover, but we’d just enough in the tank after the engine change to make it. An hour later we were climbing over the ancient harbour towards the sunrise and the war. Land was out of sight for only about twenty minutes. There was heavy cloud at 7000 feet, and it came as a surprise to see the unmistakeable shape of Cape Gris Nez off to our right side. I turned east towards Calais and then southwest to Saint Omer. As we approached our new station I leaned out the engine until it stalled. Mr. Alice turned and I motioned for him to tighten his lap belt. He raised a thumb impatiently. I put the Fee into a long full-throttle dive towards the aerodrome at Clairmarais and waited until I was 800 feet above the hangars before pulling the control stick back into my stomach. The Fee looped perfectly, as I had once been told it would. The overall effect was quite dramatic, although Mr Alice spoiled it by flailing his arms about wildly and threatening to have me shot once we touched down.


Making a first impression


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Ha ha! Cleaning latrines for you Raine for that stunt. You'll love the Fee in combat just be patient with your gunner. He's a little slow. Welcome to the slow combat.


"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain,
From out of my arse take the camshaft,
And assemble the engine again."
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Welcome, Raine! As always, a well-written story! Looking forward to more. smile

Compared to the summer of 1918 that we have going in the other DID, things are still a bit quieter in this period of the air war. But it can still be quite deadly, as proven by the casualties suffered by our people here.

My pilot has been lucky and has not encountered any real French scouts yet. That will probably change soon though, as the Battle of Verdun progresses and the French begin to concentrate more serious air power in the sector...


"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."

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Yea, Raine has joined us. Now with the two story telling giants(Raine and Hasse) we are in for some literary treats.


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The Diary of August Ege.

FFA 71. Frescaty-Metz.

Mitterwoch, 8.III.16, 8.00 Uhr nachmittags.


The push at Verdun shows no signs of ending and we're flying like madmen in support of the ground troops, weather permitting. It's been snowing a lot in the past few days, making artillery cooperation missions more than a little challenging. We have to go much lower than usual - only a few hundred meters - to see anything through the snow that the strong winds keep throwing at our faces. This is of course quite dangerous, as it exposes us to all kinds of fire coming from the French positions, but fortunately there have been no casualties among our men yet. The French air service's response to our actions has been quite limited so far. I've only spotted a few Nieuport two-seaters with my observer, Oberleutnant Balthazar, and they've left us in peace to pursue our objectives. We don't mind that and have returned the favour!

Things are very different on the ground. It seems like this battle is turning into one of the bloodiest in the whole war; maybe even the bloodiest? Obviously we don't know any casualty figures here at FFA 71, as it's all very top secret stuff. But our chief mechanic Görlitz returned from Metz last night (he was getting treatment for his bronchitis there) and told us that the hospitals in the city are absolutely full of wounded and sick infantrymen, with more being transported there all the time by lorries and trains. Görlitz is an old professional NCO like me and he's definitely not wet behind the ears anymore; yet he seemed quite shocked by all he had witnessed at the Kriegslazarett.

We can only hope that such sufferings and sacrifices by our men will not be in vain. The fall of Fort Douaumont on February 25th must have been a serious blow to the French - it certainly lifted everybody's spirits this side of the front!








"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."

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Beau Brummel
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2 Rfc Sqn.

6 July 1916.

B Flight's 3 BE 2's took off into a soggy looking sky to do a Recon of the Front Lines. My machine got up to 4500 ft then the Engine Packed up and became U/S. Nosing over , I put her down on a road.


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Thanks for the warm welcome, fellows. And Hasse, great to see you working your historical magic in this campaign. Can I ask what is your first language? I understood you to be Finnish, and if English isn't your first language you are right up there with Joseph Conrad as a literary hero!

The continuing journal of Flight-Sergeant Alfred Keers, RFC

My introduction to 20 Squadron began as I dismounted at Clairmarais. A visibly wobbly Lieut Alice cursed at me, saying that I should be court-martialled and shot for doing “twirly things” in a Fee and that he had been ordered never to try such nonsense and he was certain that if officers received such an order, NCO pilots certainly would have received it too. I honestly hadn’t realised until then that he was a pilot too.

I was rescued by the arrival of the disciplinary sergeant-major, and imposing man named Goddard who made up in volume what he lacked in height. He was also something of a seer, for he claimed intimate knowledge of my parentage, my education, my romantic inclinations, and my future. He then ordered me to retrieve my cap from my kit and follow him to the CO’s office.

I was marched into the office, fortunately with cap on and at the quick time. I’d rather expected to be doing the hatless dance at double-quick time. The CO eyed me as though I were a stray dog found digging in a graveyard.

“My name is Major Wilson,” he began, “and you are the bloody fool who looped an FE at low altitude. How did you know you could pull it off, Sergeant?”

“It seemed possible, sir,” I replied weakly.

“Sergeant-Major, this man has just agreed to be duty sergeant until the end of the month.”

“Right, sir,” Sergeant-Major Goddard said. “But I think I should mention that Mr. Alice, the other new pilot, wants him charged, sir.”

“And I want him as duty sergeant. That will be all, Sergeant-Major.” Sergeant-Major Goddard snapped off a proper guardsman’s salute, turned about, and marched out. The CO motioned for me to close the door.

“Good to see you have grit, Sergeant,” he said. “Now, show me your papers.”

I gave him my travel papers, but there was a problem. Apparently we were to ferry the Fee to 20 Squadron, but Mr Alice and I were posted only to the pilot’s pool. The CO said I would be staying here until he sorted it out with HQ. In the meantime I was to get settled in and do some familiarization flying.

I took a Fee up the next day for some circuits of the surrounding countryside. The front seat was occupied by a lieutenant named Whieldon. He made it clear that if I tried looping he would turn the Lewis gun on me, mid-air or not. The morning went well until it was time to put the machine down at Clairmarais. I stalled it five feet off the ground and damaged the right lower plane.

That same afternoon, 8 March, I joined a flight of three other Fees heading 20 miles east to Bailleul, a town near the front lines. They patrolled over the lines, but I was under orders to stay on our side, so I flew south 20 more miles, then back again to rendezvous with the returning patrol. The squadron’s senior observer, Captain Dawson, pointed out the sights. He brought with him a small slate and some chalk and held it up to tell me what was going on.

The ground below shocked me. The green fields had given way to a morass of earthworks and trenches mottled with shell craters, in each of which lay a disc of icy water. Grey-yellow eruptions danced in some areas – artillery concentrations. In the far distance off to the east, several sausage-like balloons were silhouetted in the morning sunlight. Captain Dawson held up the slate: “Turn east.”

We crossed over our trenches and within a minute a loud bark startled me. Dawson pointed off to the left and below. A greasy black ball of smoke hung in the air. The Germans were firing at us! Two more balls appeared to our right, one close enough to rattle the aircraft. Dawson signalled to head west. We landed thirty minutes later, and the mechanics pointed out a tear in the vertical fin where a piece of shrapnel had passed through.

As Duty NCO, my secondary job was to be a general dogsbody. I inspected latrines and mess tents, compiled a roster for sick parade, ran errands for the sergeants-major and the duty officer, checked the guard, and wrote a number of tedious reports about stores and equipment for the Recording Officer. I accompanied the Duty Officer on his tours as well. And all this was in addition to my duties as a flight sergeant. I was relieved of my Duty NCO work only when flying or attending lectures or on parade.

Worst of all, I couldn’t sleep in my own tent. I was required to remain on call throughout the night, and therefore bedded down on a cot in the guard tent. No that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that I could have a drink in the Sergeants and Warrant Officers’ Mess only after I finished my last checks and closed the other ranks’ mess, and once I was allowed a drink I couldn’t get tight.

It could be a long war...


"Captain Dawson held up the slate: 'Turn east.'”


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Originally Posted By: Raine
Thanks for the warm welcome, fellows. And Hasse, great to see you working your historical magic in this campaign. Can I ask what is your first language? I understood you to be Finnish, and if English isn't your first language you are right up there with Joseph Conrad as a literary hero!


Finnish is my first language. I also speak English relatively well, and German and Swedish adequately enough to get by. My French is absolutely outrageous though, with pronunciation worse than Mr. Churchill's, and I also know the Russian alphabet. That was thought to be useful in case World War III ever broke out. biggrin

Thanks for the compliments, and what a fine new entry in Flight Sgt. Keers's journal. He really seems like a fellow who knows how to get in trouble. biggrin


"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."

James McCudden, Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps
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