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It's weird that a plane with such a thin airfoil has maybe the worst view in the entire sim. From the cockpit, it looks like a cheese wedge!


“With Major Lawrence, mercy is a passion. With me it is merely good manners. You may judge which motive is the more reliable.”
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Robert, I guess that's true. but isn't that sort of like saying, "kidney stones aren't all that bad, it's just the pain." biggrin


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Here is the status report from last weeks action. Looks like it was a difficult week for everyone, we lost a pilot and had two others wounded. One thing Robert, you don't have to put anything in the duration field unless you are wounded or captured.

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Last edited by Banjoman; 04/09/17 03:34 PM.

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Fritz von Tarlenheim
FA 250


April 9, 1917.



The morning flight went fine, but the afternon one was a mess. Our 2 a/c ran into a few French fighters N-17 s ? Both the gunner and I took hits so its off to the Medics for 7 days off.


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Originally Posted by Banjoman
Oh, how I hate the SPADs!

Banjoman, do you mean flying them, or flying against them? wounded


"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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Thanks for the latest stats, Banjoman.
I'm wondering if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion? In the heading, where it says when each group started, perhaps it would be more useful now to state which week are these stats for. Example - Period: Apr. 2-8, 1917. This way, one needs only to refer to your stats screen to know which week they're supposed to be flying.


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It's great to see many of the DiD diehards posting again. Welcome back, Robert and MFair. Carrick, keep up the great photos. Lederhosen, wonderful illustrated story! Fullofit, best of luck with Urbain's new Spad! And Banjoman, thank you for your constant support and contributions. I hope you're getting some flying time while you're away.

And Macklroy, I hope to see your stories here soon. Welcome!

I'll be away in England for two weeks visiting my son and his family. So Colin Urquhart has this big catch-up story and then he's off on leave. With luck, he's seen the last of his Nieuport Bebe!

A journal of the Great War – By an Anonymous Aviator (Colin Urquhart)

Part 16

With the beginning of December the weather turned foul again. I wanted to join the others in the cabin for a jaunt into Doullens and dinner at Quatre Fils, but I was duty officer and had to stay back while the fellows took off. I spent the afternoon of the first preparing for my role as French language instructor to the lower deck. The classes were going well, and my special project, AB Dalgliesh, was actually picking up on a few phrases and grammatical concepts, although to hear his Glaswegian tongue bludgeoning the language of love was a Hunnish bit of torture indeed. He was most interested to learn phrases that one would use while courting, things like “I picked these flowers for you.” It was disconcerting. Dalgliesh was a scruff, as my father would say, big and brutish-looking, with a broken nose and a scar over one eye that split his eyebrow. And I’d learned that he’d left school at nine to work with his uncle in a forge. Here in the squadron he followed his old calling; he worked as a helper to the squadron blacksmith. I should point out, in case one day someone reads this, that we did all our own maintenance, unlike the RFC boys across the way. They sent anything complicated back to an aircraft depôt.

Dalgliesh was not the only one who harboured thoughts of love. There was a lovely young maid named Marie-Paul, a farm girl from down the road a way. Every morning she brought a hand-cart of produce and milk to the wardroom and messes. My cabin-mate Simpson was besotted with her and insisted on walking her home whenever he was not on duty.

Galbraith reported ill. It may have been nerves, but he seemed to lose all ability to focus. He was sent away for a rest. Squadron Commander Bromet made a little speech about him that night in the wardroom, praising his aggressive fighting spirit and example. I shall miss Galbraith, as he was the only other Canadian I knew well in the squadron. There was another Canadian, Trapp, in A Flight, but he was a very quiet type.

On the 2nd we sent the tender into Boulogne to shop for the messes and I managed to get D’Albiac to assign me to lead the foraging party. The city was a marvel. In two years we had managed to turn this French seaside resort into a bit of England. The Union flag flew everywhere and nearly all the signage was in English. The docks were a thrill to see. Cranes swung horses from ships to dry land. Sergeants-major bellowed. Two Scottish pipe bands vied with each other. And tens of thousands of soldiers marched or paraded or loitered about. The haul of the day included twelve bottles of Scotch whiskey for the wardroom, three barrels of beer, a case of champagne, and a half case of gin. I bought a pound of Stilton and a bottle of port, and then wondered how I would ever manage to get some for myself once I unpacked it back at Vert Galant. My work party were energetic, as I promised their PO that they could have an hour to themselves, no questions asked, if we got everything bought and on the tender by two o’clock. When they returned their sly looks and sheepish grins betrayed their debased pastimes.

The rain continued through the 3rd. A replacement arrived and set up in our cabin – a Canadian too! His name is Luke Edmund, from somewhere in Alberta.

Plans are underway for a Christmas Revue. WO Brice, the stores officer, and Leading Mechanic Black were the impresarios in charge. The squadron commander reminded us that the wardroom was not to be undone by the lower decks, so an “all-girl” revue of Wood, Jenner-Parson, and Thom was put together. Such affairs are difficult balancing acts. One has to find material raunchy enough to suit the audience, yet tame enough not to embarrass the commander in front of his assembled, brass-hatted guests.

4 December 1916 dawned a beautiful clear day with scarcely a breeze and we put up many patrols. For some reason I was given only one job, a line patrol south of Arras to be led by Compston. We tooled about for more than two hours without seeing a single Hun. Strangely, Goble and Little escorted some Fees from 32 Squadron in nearly the same area an hour later and were in no fewer than four scraps! Little bagged a Halberstadt, although he got back late, only after we’d nearly given up hope.

Corbett, a friendly fellow I hadn’t yet got to know well, fell that afternoon – our second loss.

I found my nerves beginning to bother me. It was a combination of two things: I no longer trusted my little Nieuport to get me back if we ran into any half-decent Huns, and I knew I was up for leave on 12 December. I’d made up my mind to go to England, although I fancied getting out of London and seeing the countryside. Soar kept on about the countryside. I needed some time alone and I wanted to see bits of England without aerodromes and classrooms.

5 December 1916 – Asquith stepped down today. They say Lloyd George is in as PM. Can’t say it means much to me. They’re probably all as idiotic as ours back in Canada. Grange led a line patrol. West of Arras I spotted two Hun observation machines about two thousand feet above us. I pulled ahead and signalled, and then began to climb. After twenty minutes I gave up. The Nieuport just didn’t have the guts to catch them. But when I turned about the others were already gone. I patrolled the line alone for a half hour. It’s a strange feeling, being all alone. My neck ached from looking about. But I’m glad I did. Just as I was turning back west near Monchy I looked back and spotted a lone Roland two-seater diving on me. We tangled for nearly five minutes, and to my surprise the Hun two-seater handled better than my machine. He put about eight holes in the Nieuport and I spun out of the combat and headed home. When I landed, Air Mechanic Evans told me that I’d stretched the airframe badly and it would take at least two days to repair the thing.

On the 6th we attacked an observation balloon near Courcelles. I was first in and emptied my drum into it and let loose my rockets. The LePrieurs were impressive things. They fired electrically, one after the other, with an intense whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh! You had to dive rather steeply at the balloon to have any chance of hitting the thing. And then you had to continue straight on to let the last rocket clear your machine before turning. Inevitably you missed the balloon by inches as you banked vertically and hauled back on the stick. So far, I have not got the knack of the things. Compston, however, hit the balloon.

[Linked Image]

I have been gazetted for the Distinguished Service Cross! I will get the ribbon up and have my picture taken in uniform while on leave. I want to send it to my father.

I had a day off on the 7th. The Navy term is a “make and mend” – a chance to relax, sort out your kit, and pay visits to nearby squadrons. But the day was called for when the RO, John D’Albiac, told me I’d be “prisoner’s friend” for a summary trial. And I’d been specifically asked for by the prisoner!

Of course, the man under close arrest was Dalgliesh. The damned fool had head-butted a local farmer. I went to see him. He was detailed to clean the lower deck cabins and I brought him over to the squadron offices in the Bossu farm, where we found a place to speak in private.

“It’s no bluidy fair,” he protested. “The froggie had it comin’. He’s a bluidy theif, he is, see?” Amidst much swearing and nose-blowing, Dalgliesh told his sorry tale. It seems the object of his affection was one Marie-Paul Renard, the same milkmaid that Flight Sub-Lieutenant Simpson walked home.

“Yon Mister Simpson, he’s a right numpty, him. He thinks wee Mary’s fond of him, but she’s no. Wee Mary lives wi’ her auld mum, an’ her faither’s aff tae the war and disna write. He’s prob’ly deid, the auld sod. But Mary’s right fond o’ me, see. An’ I think she’s smashin’. I ken how t’ fix things on her fairm, and I’m good wi’ the coos and her wee duggit likes me. I help oot there when I can.”

Dalgliesh, it seemed, was the squadron Casanova. I asked him about the assault.

“Wee Mary’s best coo got oot the gate on Wednesday. An’ the manky auld sod that runs the fairm across from her found it and kept it, see? Said it was his, but it’s no. It had all the same marks, an’ it had a pink patch under its belly, next to the udder, see? I ken that coo, ‘cause I’ve helped tae milk the thing a hunnert times. So I go to the fairmer, a big bawfaced lout, him. An’ I tell him tae gie wee Mary her coo. But he says something in French, see, something ye haven’t taught me yet, surr. An’ it was no nice, because he does this with his hand.” Dalgliesh made a Gallic gesture of contempt.

“And?”

Dalgliesh puffed out his chest. “Well surr, I pit the heid tae him.”

“You did what?”

“I gave him a Glesga kiss. Whacked him wi' ma heid. Broke his nose, surr. An’ I took the coo back tae Mary an’ her mum.”

“So you plan to plead guilty to assault, then?” I asked.

“No sir,” he said. “See, the squadron pays Mary at the start of the month for all the milk it needs. An’ the milk’s in the coo, see? So when that #%&*$# of a fairmer stole the coo, he stole the squadron milk. An’ I stopped the theft of squadron goods, surr. An’ Commander Bromet should be told that.”
“And you want me to present your defence?” I asked.

“Aye surr. Yer a fine one wi’ the words, surr.”

I stood in awe of this brilliant bit of argument. For a moment I imagined Dalgliesh in a powdered wig and black robe, clutching his lapels and addressing the court. But then he was convulsed with a smoker’s cough and hacked up something into a stained handkerchief and the image was lost.

The case was heard that afternoon. Dalgliesh told the story and I explained to Squadron Commander Bromet how this blacksmith’s helper risked life and limb to reclaim the squadron’s milk. He was given two days’ stoppage of grog and the duty officer, Booker, was dispatched to warn the farmer to leave Marie-Paul and her mother alone or risk the wrath of the Royal Navy.

On 10 December we flew an offensive patrol deep into Hunland and ran into three Albatri near Pronville. I got a crack at one, but it pulled away. The others in the patrol had Pups and carried the burden of the fight, which proved inconclusive. That afternoon, Flight Sub-Lieutenant Trapp crashed his Pup and killed himself. We were losing our Canadian contingent.

The next day we aborted a reconnaissance when the snow and low cloud threatened to blind us completely. We were lucky to get back to Vert Galant. We buried Trapp at Beauval that afternoon. I was detailed as a pallbearer.

And then came the day I had waited for so long. On the morning of the 12th I picked up my papers from the RO’s office and got a tender to Calais. I would embark on the destroyer HMS Laforey and be in Dover by one in the afternoon...





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Fullofit, that's a great idea and I'll make that change for the next report.

I meant flying them.

Last edited by Banjoman; 04/10/17 02:14 AM.

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A fine farewell to arms from Colin, Raine. I daresay we will miss those reports for a spell.
He and you enjoy your leave, and if by chance you have the time, try to get to Stow Maries. It is the only remaining WW1 airfield left. It is currently in the process of restoration and there will be a full re-enactment there this year.

Stow Maries airfield link


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Albert Earl Godfrey

3 – 4 Dec 1916 Sopwith Strutter familiarization and flight trials

After a hearty breakfast at St. Omer in the NCO mess, I was taken on rounds of the airfield. I was impressed by the immensity of the facility. It is the main aircraft depot, assembly and repair area, and is massive. There are very large fuel and munitions storage on the base and an extremely large conglomerate of Squadron Hangars and Barracks for several squadrons Two separate intersecting runways for incoming defunct aircraft and outgoing replacements to the squadrons. There is also a separate adjoining runway for active squadron use. Attention must be paid on approach, that the proper runway is utilized. or one could easily come a cropper.

The rest of the morning entailed instructions and orientation on the Strutter and in the afternoon my instructor took me up for a spin. I was impressed with the handling and stability of this two seater craft and it seemed very nimble and stable in flight. On top of this she could handle 4, 25lb bombs. I only wished I had been in one when we had to deal with the Huns back at Auchel. When we came down he handed over the operation to me and told me to take her up for a spin, and practice takeoff and landing a few times. It was a rather thrilling afternoon. Upon completion of my practice session I commented that this craft was an outstanding performer and would make a good scout. The instructor laughed and said, “If you think the Strutter is top notch, wait until you step into the Pup lad. You will undoubtedly be trying one back in old Blighty at Farnborough. They are testing all sorts of new stuff there.”

I had the rest of the early evening off and was invited to join some members of 35 Sqn for a jaunt into St. Omer. The lads indicated that the Café Vincent had a waitress called Jeanne who kept most of the mens hearts fluttering. She was described as having the comely look of an Angel and the eyes of a wanton woman. Descriptions of her other attributes followed and I was quick to jump into the Karrier lorry and head to town. The Café Vincent was the local watering hole for the airfield staff and any other squadrons within a reasonable distance. It was very busy every night.

[Linked Image]

It was a rather rowdy evening and except for my recollections of the accuracy of the description of Jeanne, I can’t much recall anything else of the night. I know I was feeling rather under the weather the next morning.

Youtube Vid:




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Last edited by Robert_Wiggins; 04/10/17 03:28 AM.

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Robert,

I'm not sure if I can get to Stowe Maries since we'll be heading to Cornwall for much of the time. But my son lives about 15 minutes from Hendon and the RAF museum.

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9 April 1917 and Cecil finally pays a visit to FA13 and his counterpart

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Originally Posted by Banjoman
Fullofit, that's a great idea and I'll make that change for the next report.

I meant flying them.


Thanks Banjoman!


"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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Albert Earl Godfrey

5 Dec 1916 Sopwith Strutter B1 familiarization and flight trials

The morning was spent in course learning some basic combat manouvers and techniques.
In the afternoon I had the opportunity to take up the Strutter B1, a single seat scout. A darling of an aircraft. I at once fell in love with her. She had all the handling characteristics of her sister but without the added weight. I would be pleased to be in a scout squadron with her as my mount. I spent an hour putting her through the paces and applying some of the manouvers from the morning class. Regrettably, I had to bring her down. The boys were again, heading in to town for a night at the Café Vincent. I however thought better of it since I had to fly out to Calais and then Farnborough early next morning. I accepted the lift explaining my situation and told the boys I would be taking a leisurely dinner at the L’Hotel de Ville, which I had been told served some fine meals.

Arriving at the Hotel I was shown to a table and presented the menu. I chose the fois gras torchon as an appetizer, followed by Canard au romarin et à l'orange with Pommes de terre et épinards. A bottle of Châteauneuf Du Pape and for dessert Poires Belle Helene.
As I was leaving the hotel, I noted a dispatch rider stopping at the entrance. I asked of transportation back to base and he indicated that was his next stop and would I be interested in riding in the side car.
I indicated I was for it for sure. He said to hop in he would be right back and so I was back at base within an hour. I cleaned up and tucked in for the night.

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Last edited by Robert_Wiggins; 04/12/17 02:19 PM.

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Great reports and screenshots gents! Glad to see you are in a Pup Robert, I was getting worried after your last flight.


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Originally Posted by MFair
Great reports and screenshots gents! Glad to see you are in a Pup Robert, I was getting worried after your last flight.


Tnx MFair. Actually it is a Strutter B1 single seater, and Albert is on his way to Farnborough for pilot training. Hopefully he will get a Pup one day.


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Great reporting, everyone. Scanning the reports while drinking coffee has become a daily routine for me.

Everyday I tell myself "Tomorrow I'll join DiD" but then I see a shiny thing outside and I forget.

Great stuff, guys.


I got fired as the door man at a sperm bank.
Apparently it's in poor taste to tell leaving customers "Thanks for coming."

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Albert Earl Godfrey

6 Dec 1916 Transfer from St. Omer to Farnborough

I had a good sleep last night, having avoided the usual high jinks that take place at Café Vincent. It was damn cold as a result of not attending to the tent stove, and I could see my breath forming wispy trails as I exhailed. Climbing out of my bed I felt the cold hit me and plunging my feet into my flying boots was no relief. It felt like they had been stored in the deep freeze. I broke the ice on the water jug and quickly washed my face in the cold water. The experience so far, was an encouragement to make it over to the mess as soon as possible for some hot tea and warm food. This would likely be my last warm meal before arriving in Farnborough. I made a mental note to pack some food for the flight and fill my thermos with hot tea. Approaching the mess I could hear the jaunty laughter coming from within. Seems 41 Sqn was in fine spirits. I trudged in with my flying gear and made my way toward the stove, flinging my coat and pants over a couple of hangars and set them nicely above the stove to warm up. My boots, I set close the side of the stove and placed my hands just above the red hot surface. It felt heavenly. I stood there for a time, alternately warming my hands and then rubbing my face with them. I felt the heat penetrating to my legs and in no time I was ready to take a seat and have a nosh.

I had just finished breakfast when an orderly stepped in to inform me the Strutter was ready and waiting on the field. I hurried to dress, picked up my kit, haversack with my thermos of hot tea, biscuits and sausage sandwiches, and headed out to my kite.

The flight to St. Inglevert field west of Calais was an easy jaunt if not a cold one and once there. I took advantage of the moment to relieve myself and have a hot tea while the Strutter was being refueled to the max. There would be no stopping from here until I reached Farnborough.

I headed west just after takeoff and soon was over the coast. Cloud cover was from 3000 to 6000 ft with big fluffy cumulus. I was in and out of cloud cover and coming down to break free of it when I spotted Folkstone just ahead of me. My course was true. I picked up the road heading SSW which would lead me Aylesford, and hence Guildford, at which point a change of direction WNW would soon have me at Farnborough. The flight was rather uneventful if not exceedingly long.
Cloud cover had forced me down to 2000 ft so I enjoyed some of the scenery along the way and filled my boredom with my thermos of hot tea, sausage sandwich and biscuits. It helped to divert my mind from the bitter damp cold that was setting into my bones.

I has just tucked my haversack away behind my seat when I passed over Guildford. In minutes I spotted Farnborough in the distance. One could not mistake those airship hangars.

I circled the field and started my approach nice and easy. The Strutter touched down nicely and then I spotted a dog running across the field directly in front of me. Damned dangerous situation but fortunately the dog was well out of the way when I crossed it’s path. I made a mental note to comment on this but not to be too forceful. There was no way to know if the dog belonged to an officer and it would be my luck to get off on the wrong foot.

I cut the engine, unloaded my kit and headed to the Reporting Office. It felt great to stretch my legs.



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Dudley Duckett
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Dudley is finally in the war! On a DOP his flight encountered some Halbs over a Hun airfield. Diving in into the fray he latched on to the tail of one with an "F" on his fuselage and saw him go into a spiral and crash into a field northeast of the aerodrome. Upon his return he was congratulated with his victory and then raked over the coals for following an EA low over an enemy airfield.

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Drago Duntz
My new German pilot scored his first victor over a Strutter on the same day. Attacked them over the lines near their airfield. One of B flight saw it all!

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