Sgt. Albert Mayes, MC No. 3 Squadron R.A.F, 2 Victories.
August 20th, 1918.
We had another replacement arrive today, a Londoner like myself! He introduced himself as "Nathaniel Hurst". We immediately became friends, being from the same place. I also received a letter from my younger brother, Brian, mentioning that he had just undergone his training as a Scout pilot. The damned young fool! Hopefully the war will end before he gets his chance to meet the hun.
I'm back in my Bolton & Paul machine for now. 'Mistress' is with Franklyn. We're being sent to bomb a hun airfield (Focuacourt), and in all honesty I don't fancy the job one bit...flying so low in Hunland seems downright suicidal. To make matters worse, the weather was very poor, with low clouds really hampering our visibility. At one point, I had to bank away violently to avoid colliding with Cpt. Hughes as we flew through a cloud. We crossed into Hunland at below 4000 feet, and I admit that I was sweating bullets by this point. I should think we all were, maybe except for Hughes.
As we neared Bray the Archie got quite bad and, being so far in Hunland, I could only pray that I didn't take a knock. We cleared the city and proceeded over to Cappy before doubling back and heading North-East towards our target. We first dropped our bombs, then went down to strafe the hun machines on the ground, all the time surrounded by a storm of Archie. I strafed one Albatros on the ground, and was rewarded by seeing a large cloud of steam hissing out from the engine. We turned back for a second pass, and I targeted the same Albatros. However, I had misjudged my speed and was headed straight for a hangar! I pulled up hard, but felt a sickening lurch as I passed. Looking to the side, I saw that my lower right wing was practically smashed to pieces, the wingtip being completely gone, but, by some miracle my machine was holding together. Dread surged over me, and I have no shame in saying my nerve went completely.
I immediately turned for home, my thoughts racing. Landing now meant salvation, but this far in Hunland I stood no chance of getting home. Carrying on was an unlikely gamble, the prize being my life. Beggaring my own belief, I decided to try and get back to our side. The hellish Archie bursts followed me like a pack of beasts, and I knew that I was for it. My mind suddenly went blank, and nothing at all seemed to matter to me. I simply looked ahead, and let fate run its course. After some minutes had passed, I was snapped out of my haze by a great barrage of artillery to my left, tearing up the mud...the mud!
My senses flooded back to me in an instant. I was almost over the lines! Just a few more miles, I urged my wounded machine, and we're safe...it was then that I looked down and saw a mass of Tommies, all lazily regarding me flying overhead. Some were waving. Relief surged over me in such a crashing wave that I almost lost control of my Camel! But I wasn't down yet.
Ahead of me lay green and yellow fields. I picked one out and cut the throttle back, my heart working in double-time. After what felt like an eternity, I hit the ground, hard. My machine rolled onto its right and I skidded along on one wheel and one wingtip. I stared out the front of my machine helplessly, as a picket fence rushed towards me at 40 miles per hour...there was no pulling up to clear the fence, my wing was completely destroyed by this point...I turned my head away as the fence rushed up to greet me...
I woke up in a hospital bed several hours later, my whole body in agony. Smoking cigarette after cigarette to keep my mind away from the pain, I awaited any news of my flight's fate. At maybe 8 PM, Cpt. Hubbard made an appearance. He had found out my whereabouts when the C.O of the Tommies that had pulled me out my wrecked Camel had telephoned Valheureux. As Hubbard explained, poor Lt. Sigismund, who had been my wingman since my arrival at No. 3, had been seen to crash right on the German airfield, and was presumed to be dead. Apart from that, everybody had made it home safely.
My Camel was as shattered as I was in the crash. The engine had been torn from its cowling, the lower wing spars on the right side were splintered to matchwood, the rudder had been ripped of, the entire fuselage had been warped and the undercarriage had buckled away. I didn't mourn the passing of my machine. I was too busy being grateful that I was alive.
Hospitalised for 20 days. See you all on September 1st!
Wulfe, too bad about the injury. That's a long time to be away. Please entertain us with stories from the recovery period.
Jerbear, your SPAD woes don't surprise me. I recall reading of the terrible teething problems they had with the USAS. I think the Americans got all the Monday morning production run!
Dark Canuck, great to see you back with us. Are you home from your posting yet? And congrats on the quick promotion to Major. Isn't that the old Navy toast: "To a bloody war and quick promotion." I recall a friend telling me about a staff course he attended in which the instructor opened a discussion on offensive operations by asking "What is an acceptable casualty rate?" A superannuated captain in the class replied instantly: "A busload of majors going over a cliff."
Geoffrey Corderoy is flying more than a squadron leader should these days, so I may get him to England for a spell after the spring offensive.
Diary of Maj. Geoffrey Corderoy, 43 Squadron RAF Part 64: 1-2 April 1918 – Avesnes-le-Compte
1 April 1918
And now we are a new service. The eggs are still too hard-boiled, and the tea is no better.
Orders are to expend every effort to support ground forces. We are directed today to send patrols at intervals south to stem the enemy advance on Amiens, and so it is that I led a patrol mid-morning to the area around Villers-Bretonneaux. We carried 20 lb bombs and picked up the road from Villers to Amiens, dropping bombs on anything that moved. Every machine gun in Hunland seemed to be trained on us. Great fun!
A largish gaggle of Albatros DVs flew overhead and I thought they’d missed us. Unfortunately they turned about and dived on our little group of six Camels. It was rather a brawl, fought amongst tracer from the ground and occasional ragged Archie. I met one Hun head on and my undercarriage touched his upper wing surface at a combined speed of well over 200 miles an hour. It was quite a bump, but the Camel handled none the worse, although the poor Hun spiralled into a farmer’s field, where the pilot spared his countrymen the task of digging a hole to bury him. I found myself then with three Huns circling onto my tail in search of revenge, but my Camel out-turned them and I at last caught one with a deflection shot from above and behind, and the EA immediately dived down and crashed not far from the first chap.
Daniel bagged two, which made for a good morning. We were all shot about, but no one was lost and all but Lingham landed back in Avesnes within the hour. Lingham had already called in and was back with us by one o’clock.
My count now stands at 62, leading the RAF. I am going after the Bad Baron before I’m done. I have been told I am to take leave once we are done with this push, and once again there is a good chance of posting to HE. Further, there is to be a bar to my DSO. We kept the binge modest, as we have three patrols up before seven in the morning.
"...my Camel out-turned them and I at last caught one with a deflection shot from above and behind, and the EA immediately dived down and crashed not far from the first chap."
2 April 1918
In the pre-dawn we took off to escort a Bristol to take photographs down south, this time near Cappy. We spotted some Hunnish two-seaters on the way; orders forbade us from engaging them.
I joined King’s flight – he is now made up to Captain and commands Trollope’s flight – for a patrol east of Oppy. We are to deny the area to enemy observation and shoot up roads and assembly areas. En route, however, we spotted three Rumplers about 11000 feet north of Arras and gave chase. King bagged one and Daniel another, a good day’s outing. I thought I had one because I fired at it from directly in front, albeit at long range. The EA completely fell apart the moment I fired, but it seems Daniel was also firing from much closer and we all agreed it was his Hun.
Squardon Commander Cyril Woolly, DFC., DSO Maj , Rfc, 20 Victories 1 Rfc Sqn Fienvillers, AF Flanders, France.
Aug 20, 1918.
Bagged # 21 while on an Escort Outing. Myself and 4 other pilots were covering a Recon Photo Op a/c From Albert down towards Bapaume. A flight of DR I's attacked as we dove to the rescue a section of Fokkers dove on us. During the Melee, I had the high perch on a Fokker so did a wingover and got close. Firing both guns as we swung about in the dogfight, I scored. ( I was down to 2 drums of Lewis my Vickers had gone dry ) Flames erupted and black smoked came back from the e/a the he spun in. He crashed on the enemy side dont know if I will get credit. We had 1 wnd + 1 SE destroyed. Claims were 2 Fokkers. I escorted the Photo a/c back to base and saw it land then RTB.
Great stuff Gents. Raine, I haven't returned yet, but will be coming back in the not too distant future. We shall have to catch up at some point during the fall.
It has been nothing but paperwork for Maj Sitwell for the past two days. Sending out the young chaps to have all the fun. Lost a bloke named Ogden to mechanical failure yesterday. The good Major is not looking forward to drafting the letter for a chap he barely knew.
Enjoy the down time Wolfe. Plenty to write about while Albert is in the Hospital. I think I spend more time writing about what happened on the ground and during down time than I do about flying and fighting. As icing on the cake, Albert lives another 20 days, unless the Hospital kills him of course.
2nd Lt. John B. Goode 147th Aero Squadron, USAS
Tuesday, August 20th 1918
Came back from Paris late this morning, no worse for wear. My SPAD not ready.
I took Pup out for a long walk through the countryside, let her do what she wanted, chased and barked at everything that moved. Very peaceful, but signs of the war everywhere. Saw a few planes fly over.
Wednesday, August 21st 1918
Atkinson is out, Hartney is in! The Penguin Atkinson has been kicked upstairs.(1) Major Hartney will take over command of 1st Pursuit, Horrah! Ack Grant is taking over the 27th.(2)
That Luke character’s not very happy with the new arrangement. Hartney was letting him go out by himself. Ack put a halt to that.
Pip had to go to the hospital. His cuts weren’t healing. Heard there was glass stuck in his jawbone and there was a lot of puss.
(1) Major Bert M. Atkinson was promoted to Lt. Colonel to command the 1st Pursuit Wing which was to consist of two new Groups then being formed. (2) 1st Lt Alfred ‘Ack Grant, DSC, 4 aerial victories by war’s end. A member of the 27th Aero from its inception to Armistice.
Squardon Commander Cyril Woolly, DFC., DSO Maj , Rfc, 21 Victories 1 Rfc Sqn Fienvillers, AF Flanders, France.
Aug 21,1918.
Covered Air fields today , no e/a contacted. Hq said over the phone my 21 st Kill was confirmed by the Recon machine we escorted on the Photo Op on the 20th. The Mec types are over hauling my kite so will pop into town after posting the missions for a look at the night life.
Death of Major Geoffrey Corderoy, VC, DSO and bar, MC -- 4 April 1918
Corderoy took 3 April off from flying. Lieutenant Purdey, the RO, noticed that he spent long periods staring out the window and puffing on his pipe. The major studiously avoided speaking of home, or "after the war", but now he interrupted Purdey with stories of sheep farming and riding in the hills. He spoke of the Vale of the White Horse, a pub called the Anchor, and other places near his home in Berkshire. He asked Purdey about his parents, his girlfriend, his studies -- something he'd never done before. The Old Man was ready to go home.
In the pre-dawn purple of 4 April 1918, Corderoy took off to lead a patrol of six Camels northeast towards Lens. They crossed the lines at 11000 feet with the rising sun in their eyes and soon after, Corderoy and Loudoun both signalled that enemy were in sight. Corderoy pushed his Camel higher to 13000 and climbed under a formation of three Rumplers. He took station behind a below the trailing machine and began firing at 100 yards. Characteristically, he fired in a succession of short bursts, no more than six or seven rounds each. The Rumpler shuddered. Corderoy drew level with the German machine, normally a dangerous move, but the observer did not move. He continued to fire and drew ever closer until he was only feet from the Hun's tail. Meyer, a new man with the squadron, was directly behind the Major and saw the German observer suddenly stand to his gun and fire. Instantly, Corderoy's Camel banked and turned west.
They were about nine miles over the lines, but a stiff westerly breeze was blowing. Corderoy's prop soon windmilled and stopped. Meyer broke off and dived down, taking station off the Major's right wingtips. He saw Corderoy's head slump forward and then come up, and then slump forward again. Ground fire began to get heavier and Meyer climbed away. The little brown Camel continued to glide down and pancaked into the mud, narrowly missing several shell holes. Grey-clad figures ran to the machine.
On 6 April, the squadron got a call from the field artillery. A German aircraft had dropped a message that read, in surprisingly good English: "Your esteemed pilot, Major Geoffrey Corderoy, VC was shot down and captured on the morning of 4 April. He was badly wounded and taken fto hospital but sadly has died of his wounds. He was buried today at Lens-Sallaumines, on the Douai Road near Lens, with full military honours. The German Air Service."
Oh no! Condolences Raine, I thought Maj Corderoy was going to make it through. I will miss his stories. There will be many drinks in the mess to his memory tonight.
Terrible news, and no doubt a blow to the fledgling R.A.F....I'm sure that the sadly departed Major can be cited as one of young Sgt. Mayes' role-models!
I, too, enjoyed Corderoy's stories, despite only being present for his last few tales.
Raine, Terrible news my friend. Another stellar pilot gone in the prime of life. That’s a tough pill to swallow after such a long career and with the end so close.
Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or a fool from either end. BOC Member since....I can't remember!
Just had a peek in here. Raine, sorry to see Corderoy go. I’m sure German doctors did everything they could with the means they had at their disposal. German nurses were probably also rearing to bring him back to health. So much disappointment ...
"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."
Thanks for the condolences, guys. Here's my latest effort. Meet Holger Barfuss of Jasta 7.
Part 1
Holger Barfuss grew up comfortably in Heidelberg, where his father, Max Barfuss, was a respected professor of linguistics at the famous university. His mother, Mathilde, was the daughter of a prosperous manufacturer of medical instruments. Holger was the baby of the family, the youngest of three children. His two sisters, Mathilde (Mati) and Emilie, married young and well, Mati to a doctor in Mannheim and Emilie to the owner of a furniture business.
His was a happy and bourgeois childhood. A studious boy, he excelled at school and shared his father’s love of languages, learning to speak French fluently from an Alsatian governess and acquiring a good command of English and Italian. Holger loved adventure and coaxed his friends into one plan after another. A summer of raft-building saw him pulled by police from the Neckar many kilometres downstream from home, and an attempt to copy one of Otto Lillienthal’s gliders resulted in a broken leg.
In 1913 he enrolled in the university, walking out with his father every morning. He read English and German literature, and planned to pursue the law as a career. In those militaristic days, he enrolled in a local militia affiliated with the 14th Foot Artillery Regiment. Called up at the outbreak of war, he longed to serve at the front, but his bookish manner and knowledge of French and English resulted in his attachment to military intelligence. He stayed close to home, working as an orderly corporal in the large officers’ POW camp in Heidelberg, where he was assigned menial tasks and directed to hide his understanding of anything other than German. He eavesdropped on conversations and produced a written report at the end of each shift of work.
By 1916, Holger was thoroughly bored and applied for a transfer to the Luftstreitkraefte. After a rigorous initial course, he transferred to a Fliegerersatzabteilung, a pilot replacement unit. Again, after qualifying quickly and well, his academic bearing led his leaders to make him a flight instructor rather than allowing him to be posted to an active service squadron. He applied repeatedly for transfer, even going as far as to ask to serve as an observer. But it was not until January 1918 that his pleas were acted upon. In that month, Holger Barfuss was promoted to Vizefeldwebel and assigned as a student to a Jadgfliegerschule and, in April 1918, was assigned to Jasta 7, then based in Flanders at Roeselare (Roulers). ... 5 April 1918, Ingelmunster, Belgium
Vzfw Barfuss dropped down from the back of the truck, aching and bruised from the long drive on solid tires. Another NCO, this one bound for a different unit, slid his kit bag off the truck bed and Barfuss adjusted it on his shoulder. A Leutnant, also newly-attached to the Jasta, dismounted from the front of the vehicle and looked down at his case, then over at Barfuss. Barfuss sauntered off towards a couple of pilots who were smoking and chatting beside a canvass hangar.
The aerodrome was tidy but small, a couple of battered-down beet fields abutting the last row of houses at the north end of the village of Ingelmunster. There were only two wooden buildings, more clearly maintenance sheds. Barfuss approached the two pilots and saluted. They were both in flying gear and their rank was not visible, but better safe than sorry. He asked for directions to the Staffelfuehrer.
“You’ve found him,” said the impressively fit-looking man to Barfuss’s right. The other officer nodded his farewell and left them alone. Barfuss introduced himself, and then the other new arrival, who was not a Leutnant after all, joined them and introduced himself as Offizierstellvertreter Jansen. The Staffelfuehrer name was Ltn Josef Jacobs. He was pleasant enough, but all business.
“With the offensive we are in the air throughout the day. The phone rings and tells us where to find the English. We run to our machines and go get them. We return and eat, piss, and prepare to go up again. Day after day. Are you ready for this?” Jansen and Barfuss both nodded.
“I’m afraid there is no time for a proper introduction to war flying,” Jacobs said. Your first flight may see action. Stay close to your leader and try to see as much as possible. You’ll be quite oblivious to your surroundings at first. Learn to see in the air and you might live.”
Jansen pointed to some Fokker triplanes that were up on wooden supports as mechanics worked on them. “I haven’t flown a Fokker yet,” he said. Barfuss said nothing, although the machine was new to him, too.
Jacobs laughed. “No problem. New boys like you two fly Albatosses or Pfalzes. We still don’t have all the Fokkers we need. Perhaps if you kill yourself in the old crates we’ll get newer models, right?”
In the next hour Barfuss found his billet in a small house just 50 metres up the road from the field. Two other pilots lived there with a local family, but neither was home. He dressed quickly in flying gear and returned to the field to see about his machine.
The Albatros DVa was painted all in black, as were the other machines of Jasta 7. This was Jacobs’s idea, it seemed. Barfuss had enough time for a 15 minute flight to see the field from the air and put the Albatros through a few dives and zooms, some rolls, and one quick loop. It was well maintained and rigged, it seemed, much better than the training machines he was used to. He landed and gave a thumbs-up to the mechanics.
Scarcely ten minutes later there was a great hullo and Barfuss saw Jacobs running to his Fokker. He called for Barfuss to form up in the rear of his Kette and do whatever he did.
The gaggle of six machines climbed into the late morning sun, four Fokkers and two Albatrosses. The formation circled a little north of the field until reaching 1500 metres, then turned southwest. Menen passed beneath and the silvery line of the Lys glimmered like a thread dropped onto a muddy horse paddock. Barfuss stared with awe at the devastation of the front, still some kilometres away. He remembered to scan the sky.
In his long months of work as an instructor, Barfuss had made a point of practising his aerial spotting. It was not a simple thing. One could scan a section of sky but focus too much into the distance, missing an aircraft only a few hundred metres away. Or one could do the opposite, and miss a formation only a little more distant. He began a careful examination of the sky, dividing it like pieces of pie. He scanned right to left. The other way was too much like reading, and he might skim over something he should have seen.
He noted a vee-shaped formation well off to the east and a few hundred metres higher. It must be ours, he thought. The faint specks grew more distinct. They were approaching. Barfuss waited for someone else to take the first move. A Fokker lagged behind a little until he was flying alongside it. The pilot smiled at him and waved. Barfuss pointed up at the approaching machines.
In the next second the Fokker fired a flare and the entire group began climbing towards the unknown formation. Barfuss tried to keep up, but the Fokker climbed like a lift. The unknown aircraft broke formation and dived towards them, the rectangular shape of their radiators and the dihedral of their wings making it obvious that they were British SE5As. He looked for Jacobs – “do what I do.” There was only confusion.
Barfuss climbed through the melee and was shocked when a machine fired at him and tracer flashed close to his head from the lower right side. He could smell it, like burnt matches. He kicked the rudder hard right and turned about, seeing nothing except a few machines flashing past. He spotted a biplane below and saw the roundels. A roll and dive brought him close behind and he fired for the first time. The metallic rattle of disintegrating links thrilled him. The British machine began to smoke and nosed down.
In seconds it was all over. The sky emptied of aircraft. He circled, searching for other machines but found nothing. A brown smear of smoke descended from his level to the earth below, marking the fall of the machine he’d shot at. Barfuss could scarcely believe that he had downed the Britisher. He had fired only thirty rounds.
"The British machine began to smoke and nosed down."
He returned to Ingelmunster and took a few circuits before seeing his home field. The Albatros settled over the poplars and onto the rough field. He turned at the end of the aerodrome and headed towards the hangars. Just then he saw the black puffs of Flakartillerie a short distance away. Another enemy! Barfuss opened the throttle to take back to the sky. The hangars loomed up, the undercarriage banged against the rough earth. He pulled the machine into the air at the last second, just clearing the canvas. Alas, on the other side of the hangar stood a stately house with three chimneys. Barfuss struck one of the chimneys and the Albatros staggered in the air, left wings down. Full rich mixture – he’d nearly forgotten. But the Albatros did not respond. Engine failing, it sideslipped into a tree-lined street below, killing a cart horse and smashing a wagon full of cheese. Shorn of wings, propeller, and undercarriage, the black Albatros skidded sideways in the road.
Barfuss emerged bleeding profusely from a cut over his eye and aching from a rib that was certainly cracked or broken.
He was taken to a nearby Lazarett for examination and returned to the field in time for dinner, but forbidden to fly for two weeks. He sought out the Staffelfuehrer to apologize. Jacobs, however, brushed him off, saying only that they would speak later in the evening. Barfuss kept largely to himself and drank some heavy Flemish beer until the call for dinner led them from the Kasino rooms to the dining area.
He picked at the fish and potatoes that were served, and dreaded the after-dinner meeting that would ensue. At length, Leutnant Jacobs rose, lead a toast to the Kaiser, and lit a cigar.
“Gentleman of Jasta 7,” he began, “we have a very entitled young man in our midst. This morning I met a fine new pilot, Offizierstellvertreter Gustav Jansen. Please stand, Herr Jansen.” There were shouts of “Willkommen” and “You buy the drinks.”
Jacobs continued. “But the young man I refer to is Vizefeldwebel Holger Barfuss, the fellow with one eye closed, a lovely white headdress, and – I think – a very sore chest. Please stand.”
Barfuss pushed himself up from his seat. The boss was right about the chest.
“This young man must be very confident. He took off this morning for his first flight, saw the enemy first, and shot down an enemy single seater with only a few rounds. And he was so thrilled with his feat that he took it upon himself to provide his own reward. Not for him was the long walk to his billet. Instead, he presumed that it would be a fine thing to fly to his residence on the Schoolstraat. Unfortunately, the chimney of the Kasino building spoiled his trip.”
There was loud laughter and pounding of tables.
“But, my dear Barfuss, please understand that in this Jasta, I shall decide rewards. So you may NOT fly to your billet. Instead, you will take this Ehrenbecher in commemoration of your first Britisher and put it in your room. But before leaving, you will buy a round of drinks for the other pilots and apologize to them for littering their lovely town with pieces of your damned machine. And then we’ll say no more of this whole affair, right.”
Barfuss was grinning from ear to ear. These were comrades, and this was a wonderful club unlike group he’d yet served with.
Just got my first look a the thread in several days. So sorry about Geoffrey Raine. Rickenbacker said it made him nervous when he became the American Ace of Aces since all the others had died. Not a healthy title of own.
Holger seems like a good sort. Sounds like he got in a Jasta with some great comrades and and exceptional Jasta-Fuhrer. Really a good introduction. I'm hooked already.
2nd Lt. John B. Goode 147th Aero Squadron, USAS
Thursday, August 22nd 1918
Everything’s Ham and Gravy here. Five of us stood alert this morning and a call actually came down the buzz wire. Ridiculous really, with us so far back of the lines.
Snake’s SPAD wouldn’t even start. It took ten minutes to get the other four going. Ty had to return immediately, Ash had to make an emergency landing in a nearby field and Abe came back separately within five minutes with one ailment or another.
I went looking for trouble on my own, luckily I didn't find any.
It's not that we never had any trouble with our Nieuports, far from it, but they would have been in the air in a little more than a minute and would have stayed up, most of them anyway. We all miss them terribly.
Already loving the sound of Holger, sounds like a very Stachel-esque character, less vain perhaps...but definitely something of the cobra about him
Sgt. Albert Mayes, MC No.42 Stationary Hospital, 2 Victories. August 22nd, 1918.
Yesterday, at mid-day, a Hun airman was rushed into my ward, in a sorry looking state. He was placed in the empty bed next to mines, with a nasty gash on his forehead and a fractured leg. At first he sheepishly kept to himself, he must have been expecting all the tommies in the ward to jump up and bayonet him where he lay! However, I decided to approach him in the evening and strike up a conversation.
"Gootern Arbund" I said, my English tongue tripping the words on their way out. The Airman looked up from his cigarette, surprised to hear (at least some attempt at) the language of his Vaterland. "Good evening" he nervously replied, in frustratingly clear English. "Oh, you speak the King's. Hope you don't mind if I do the same. I couldn't help but notice your flying coat as they brought you in. Are you a pilot?" I asked, and the German's eyes lit up slightly. "Yes," he replied, and then paused. "Or, at least I was. I suppose now, I am a prisoner". He sighed, and then heaved himself up, sitting on the edge of his bed and offering me an expensive French cigarette. I accepted, and in turn offered my lighter (The hun's refused to cooperate). "Yes, sadly, I suppose you are. What landed you in a British hospital anyway?" I asked, and the German gave a wry smile. "The British Flying Corps, of course", was his response, and I couldn't help but feel prideful.
"The Royal Air Force now, actually. You were shot down?" I asked, keen at the chance to learn about my enemy. "Yes, one of your S.E's. My Staffel was pushed too far West by the winds, and I found myself alone with three British machines. They soon had my petrol escaping my tank, and so I thought I had better put in. I was able to spin away, and picked out what I thought was a suitable field. However, I struck a damned wooden fence and turned myself over!". I blinked, then burst into raucous laughter. "Those same bloody fences put me in here!" I shouted, and the German shakily laughed along with me. We then sat quietly for a moment, smoking our cigarettes. I looked over, and extended my hand. "Sergeant Albert Mayes, No. 3 Royal Air Force". The Airman shook my hand, and introduced himself as Vizefeldwebel Ernst Köhler, Jasta 5.
August 23rd, 1918.
Ernst was taken away to be interned this morning. A shame, really. I had rather enjoyed the company of another airman, even if it was a Hun. Jasta 5...I wonder if I've ever met them in the sky?
Around three O'Clock a telephone call came through from Valheureux for me. I answered, and was met with Hughes voice. "Mayes? I'm afraid I have some bad news" he said, and i held my breath. Was someone injured? Dead? "Go on, Hughes, what is it?" I urged, and I heard Hughes take a deep breath. "A replacement was scheduled to go up with 'Archy' flight today. He crashed while trying to take off". My heart sunk in my chest. "He's dead?" I asked quietly, not really wanting a response. "What?", Hughes barked, astonished, "No, he's not dead! He's fine! But he was flying that Vickers Camel of yours. It's completely wrecked". I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, before answering. "Well, you can tell him that I'll give him a bloody hiding when I return!" I barked, and hung up.
It's a shame that Mistress was so carelessly destroyed. She was a very nice machine to fly. But if that was the worst news from Valheureux, then I was content.
August 24th, 1918.
Today I read through an English newspaper while I had my morning tea. One article, entitled "OUR FALLEN HERO FLYERS" caught my attention. It spoke of how it was a 'Good Englishman's duty to not forget the heroics of our fallen aces", and other such dreary patriotic propaganda. It was not the patriotic aspect that held my interest. Instead, it was the names that were mentioned, for it seemed that all our top boys were in there. Ball, McElroy, Corderoy, McCudden, Mannock...I couldn't help but think "If they can fall, what chance do I have?". I don't know when the war will end, nobody does. During our talk Ernst briefly admitted he thinks it will be soon. Perhaps even this year. But, will it come soon enough?
The nurse told me this evening that I can go back to No. 3 in six days.
I've been considering kicking off a German April campaign while I wait for poor old Albie to get out of No. 42 Stationary...is there any policy on running 2 careers at once?
Wulfe, thanks for continuing your story! I'd welcome another pilot here if you have the time.
MFair, great to see you checking in. And thanks to all for the kind words for Corderoy. Don't let the RAF know, but I'm enjoying Barfuss...
Vzfw Holger Barfuss, Jasta 7:Part 2
“Excellent work, Vizefeldwebel Barfuss! Really, you’re made for this kind of thing.” Leutnant Jacobs grinned evilly as he scanned the neatly typed pages of the Jasta’s weekly return outlining cash expenditures for non-combat rations and equipment. “Perhaps you should manage the Kasino’s accounts, or begin a squadron official history. Really quite remarkable.”
The man knew how much Holger Barfuss hated being tagged as a studious staff type and ribbed him mercilessly. Since his accident, Barfuss was the resident lackey “zur besonderen Verwendung.”[1]
“Your talents are wasted on flying, truly.”
The squadron had moved in the past two weeks and was now based on the wide field at Marckebeeke, near Courtrai. The squadron office, pilots’ Kasino, and officers’ quarters were in a handsome château nearby the field, and the NCO pilots were billeted comfortably in one of the outbuildings – likely a servants’ quarters in peacetime. Regardless, the building had private rooms for the non-commissioned pilots, Uffz Bergmann, and Vzfw Stauffen, Staenger, and Barfuss.
The chateau at Marckebeeke
Barfuss laid his pen down on the desk, stood, and came to attention with a sharp click of the heels. “Permission to take a s**t, Herr Leutnant?” Jacobs laughed and waved Barfuss off for the rest of the afternoon. It was after four, anyway.
The stitches were out and he was done with office work. Barfuss made his way to the outside latrines beyond the château wall. This area, a series of hessian-walled cubicles along a wooden bench over a foul-smelling trench, was his sanctuary. Here he could quatsch with the mechanics and share cigarettes and dirty jokes. He settled his affairs and took from his pocket the handwritten draft of the report he had finished typing minutes ago. The army writing paper was rougher than the toilet roll provided, but its use was more satisfying.
On 23 April 1918, Barfuss was in the air again, part of a large formation of mixed Fokkers, Albatros DVs, and a lone Pfalz, all led by Ltn Huettenrauch. They patrolled the lines south beyond the Lys. It was a busy morning. To the east two large groups of aircraft milled about, likely friendly units for they made no move to approach the front. Then a little below and farther south, Barfuss spotted a stream of black smoke arch downwards until it fell vertically. Tiny black dots milled about like midges, occasionally catching the sun with a flash. There was a fight underway. The entire group opened up, the Albatrosses and Pfalz pulling ahead of the Fokkers.
Within a minute, Barfuss saw that a group of Camels were clustered around a lone two-seater and were harrying two Albatros scouts. He picked the closest and began firing short bursts at it from a distance to shake it off the two-seater. Just like that first day, the fight suddenly became a confusing series of images that flashed before him and disappeared like the crystal images of a kaleidoscope, only far more deadly. Then he saw a Camel a little above him turning slowly westward. In an instant Barfuss was behind the Sopwith and firing. The Englander fell into a spin and disappeared into a cloud, seemingly out of control. And then it was over.
For another hour they patrolled the skies on their barrier zone, but saw nothing else close enough to merit a chase. Back at the château, Barfuss mentioned the Camel that fell, but no one had seen it crash or reported it hitting the ground, so the claim was ignored.
In the afternoon, he went up again, this time sparring inconclusively with some French Spads. At the end of the fight, Barfuss found Ltn Degelow’s Fokker and formed on him for the return flight.
The squadron went out in force on 24 April to attack a balloon on the north side of Ypres. Barfuss fired more than 100 rounds into it, but it caught fire only after Ltn Huettenrauch attacked it, so the Leutnant got the credit for the Luftwuerst.
On 25 April, Barfuss was in the air at first light with a formation of six machines led by Ltn Degelow. They were to patrol the friendly balloon lines along the north side of the Ypres sector. They had not been in the area long when a strong formation of SE5As attacked them from the east. Barfuss was surprised to be jumped by the English from this direction so early in the morning. They must have been thirty or more kilometres into German territory when the sun came up!
The first English machine passed beneath him, and Barfuss rolled and half-looped to get on its tail, except that by the time he pulled out of the half loop, the SE5A was already turned and firing on him. He jinked to one side and tried to turn to catch the Britisher before he could zoom away. Rounds hit his Albatros. A second British machine was on his tail. He tried to roll and swerve, but the Albatos was scarcely responding to the controls. He got the nose down and the Britisher hit him again. Then a searing pain stabbed his left eye. His goggles had been shot away and shattered. He closed one eye and dived. All the stories of collapsing lower wings came back to him. The wires whined and the wings shook ominously. A cloud loomed up.
As soon as Holger Barfuss entered the cloud he switched off and eased the sticken machine out of his dive. For several seconds he had no idea which way was up. Light appeared and he got his bearings. He was still right side up, but diving too quickly. He gingerly levelled off just below the clouds. None of the English machines had followed him. His eye was intensely sore. Barfuss looked for a place to land and picked a wide field several miles east of the balloon lines. He could make out horses and wagons and grey uniforms.
As soon as his machine trundled to a halt beside a row of poplars he felt his eye. It was nothing serious, but it would ground him for another week. The damned CO would be delighted.
Notes:
[1] On special duties – a pilot posted to ZbV was an administrative officer / NCO or acting adjutant.
How did that song go ? Aother one bites the dust !
Squardon Commander Cyril Woolly, DFC., DSO Maj , Rfc, 21 Victories 1 Rfc Sqn Fienvillers, AF Flanders, France. DECEASED Killed OFF He ate it Exit stage left. D E C E A S E D
On a bombing attack: Took a Flack hit lost fuel and power but had height, Turned fir home and got jumped by Fokkers from Jasta 11 as my pilot crossed the lines , a crash ( Mid Air } then both a/c went in upside down. Yes another pilot bit the big One.
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