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Nigel Archibald Notting
Sgt, RFC
Catterick AF
Air Training


4 Dec 1915

Finally off the ground. I was told to do circuit s after a battle climb to 1,000 ft. Bit Nerve racking had a hard time finding the Aerodrome not mention which way the wind was blowing. I say its was fun moving along at 70 miles an hour. By George even more so slanting down at nearly 100 mph. 2 nd flight just touch and go.s for a few, I guess to see if I could come down slower the a Rock.

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77_Scout -- great start. Hope you get a good safe start despite the bad weather in December. Fullofit, don't forget you're in the final, working-up phase of training and the RGA serves as a pilot depot, so flying a G4 is not out of the question (although you'd likely spend more time on a G3 first so you could kill only yourself if so inclined). Lou, great story! I haven't caught up to 6 December yet because I'm on the road again. But the following story brings me up to date with my flights so far...

An Airman’s Odyssey – by James Arthur Collins
Part Four: In which I become overly confident, come close to disaster, and get brought down to earth again.


4 December was the first half-decent weather since our arrival. Although the sky was hazy, patches of sun broke through from time to time and the long stocking-like wind indicator, which Mr. Thomas called an FL for no reason I understood, hung limp on the pole beside the hangars.

“Show me five circuits, just like yesterday,” Thomas said. Drop in as close to the near end of the field as you can, come to a stop, and wait for my signal before taking off again.” It was a simple task. The BE2 was a lovely docile old cow and I was feeling rather competent. The whole task was done in less than a half-hour. By now, I was getting a bit cocky and was stalling the machine within feet of the high grass at the edge of the field so that the wheels and tail touched down at the same time. After the last circuit, I taxied up to the hangar, shut down, and thanked the sergeant mechanic who cheerily complimented the landings. All in all, I was feeling very full of myself.

An afternoon of lectures on technical subjects followed, one of which was splendidly taught and the other two of which were unintelligible due to the impediments affecting the instructor. A fellow pilot suggested the man was made a lecturer because he couldn’t cook soup.

Rain returned the next day, but it was judged flyable. I was to take the machine higher, do a circuit, land, and then take a very wide hour-long circuit of the surrounding area. I’d never flown in winds as strong as we had this day, and on take-off I found that it required full rudder to prevent the machine from turning downwind on the ground, followed by a bank into the wind upon leaving the ground. As I climbed to the west, the gusts repeated threatened to cause a stall. It took more that ten minutes to reach four thousand feet. I’d intended to circle to the south and look for Stonehenge, but I was too busy watching the angle of the nose to be concerned with the terrain below.

Cutting the circuit a bit short, I throttled back and angled down to the east side of the field. By now it was becoming routine: over the copse, over the telephone wires, over the hill, and a quick drop down to the field. But this time the gusts forced me to fly the machine down rather than ease it. Once the crest of the hill passed beneath, I cut the engine fully and let the aircraft settle. Suddenly, a gust hit me from the south and west and the machine swerved and climbed to the right, shuddered, and hung on the edge of a stall. I opened the throttle fully. The engine hesitated. I cursed, realising I had failed to enrich the mixture and quickly made the adjustment. Like a child’s kite, the BE bobbed in the air, making no headway relative to the ground. And just ahead lay the line of hangars and three machines that were staked down and surrounded by Ack Emmas! I’d swerved off the field. Full rudder now and nose down. The machine hit the ground and bounced. I throttled back and let it slow, swerving to the right to straighten out the landing. As soon as the speed dropped, I pulled the stick back into my stomach and prayed the skid would soon dig in.

I looked over and saw Thomas, pipe in teeth, making the sign of the cross. He gave me a thumbs up signal and pointed at the far end of the field. I opened up again and headed back into the grey sky and freezing wing. This time I turned north and made a wide circle north to Pewsey, east to Andover, and south to Salisbury. I was to stay up at least an hour at six thousand. The cold cut through more than I’d ever seen. I had on the new underwear, but I now wished I’d bought one of the knit spencers I’d seen at the kit store in town. The minutes passed with agonising slowness. With less than ten minutes to go I was turning north over the fringes of Salisbury and was down to 2500 feet when a loud bang startled me and the engine began to sound like dozen steam hammers in a closed shop. Something looked odd up front. After a few seconds I saw that second nearest of the right-hand bank of cylinder was not quite right. The cylinder head was bent upward like a cap on a stovepipe and obviously at least two and likely three of the long bolts had sheared. I switched off and began looking for a place to put down – something I should have been doing all along. The fields were crossed with fences or stone dykes or dotted with trees. The road leading north from Salisbury, the one we’d driven along in the OC’s Crossley, was flanked by trees or wires. I was down to one thousand feet and quickly running out of time.

I saw to the west a wide, empty road and turned towards it, but immediately realised that he wind would prevent me reaching it safely. There was no time left, so I turned north again and headed for a green field. The grass looked higher than I’d have liked and there was a line of tall trees at its near edge. It was touch and go.

The line of trees passed inches below my wheels and the BE flopped into the grass. With the stick pulled back the tail stayed down and it slowed quickly. A fence loomed up but I stopped well short. Relief came like a warm bath. Rain pattered on the planes and I inhaled the smell of wet earth and vegetation. It was several minutes before I climbed down. The tree row I’d glided over was surprisingly close, but at least it sheltered the machine from the wind. There were some soldiers on the road to the east. I headed towards them to recruit a guard while I found somewhere to phone the airfield camp.

A tender and recovery team arrived a few hours later. The field was too small to fly out of, so they had to dismantle the machine and truck it back. I walked to the road and began to plod north. After about a half-hour, another tender picked me up, and I got back just in time for tea. I found a letter from Dorothy and Mummy and another from Mr. McCready. According to McCready, more communities in Ontario were going dry, and the was increasing political support for complete prohibition and the Hearst government was likely to pass a temperance act. He recommended that we develop a brand of “medicinal” whiskey to avoid a disaster. I wrote to him that the brand need not be substantially different in formulation from Collins Yukon Gold. A new label might suffice. I added that it might be possible to set up a US distribution company in Buffalo, as production for the export market may be allowed.

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Good stories all

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Nigel Archibald Notting
Sgt, RFC
Catterick AF
Air Training


Dec 5th, was up twice as the weather was closing in looks like heavy rain. 1st was circuits and touch and go's. Then up for 22 mins and stalled. I was trying to climb to 3000ft but the wind was blowing hard and I stalled out. I was pushed into a wing over going the other direction. Frightful experience. I stayed in the air another 40 min fighting the wind and light rain looking for the Aero park, Finally able to get down. Maybe being in the Infantry wasn't so bad after all ?

Dec 6, Rain.

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Yes some good stories here and that last one Raine was very immersive. Some great period terminology and phrasing made me feel I was actually reading a diary.

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Looks like everyone is battling the weather. Raine, that last entry made me sweat!

5-6 December, 1915
Le Bourget
Sergent Gaston A. Voscadeaux

“Fly some circuits near the aerodrome at 1000 m. Land and do it all over again at 2000 m for 1 to 2 hours.” they said. “Simple enough!” Gaston was in a good mood. The bottle of red wine he procured last night had something to do with it. There were no clear signs of weather improvement in the skies above. The heavy rain clouds would be Gaston’s companions for the next few flights, it would seem. The Caudron was prepared and waiting for him ready for the next test. He strapped himself in. Engine 2 RPMs were a tad lower than #1 but nothing to be concerned about. The large biplane had no issues climbing up to 1000 m despite the reports of strong winds. Gaston circled the aerodrome for 15 minutes and started his descent for the first landing. Everything went smoothly and now he was climbing back again, this time up to the prescribed 2000 m altitude. Once he reached 1800 m the machine refused to climb any higher. It was as if the plane was anchored to the ground. Gaston reduced the incline angle nearly to zero to see if that would help. The lumbering crate started to slowly gain altitude. Finally, when the 2000 mark was reached Gaston found himself rather fatigued from fighting the wind gusts and with great pleasure and relief started his descent and landing procedure.
The next day the circling exercise had to be repeated but with a climb up to 3000 m! Why would anyone ever need to fly this high? The cloud cover was much lower today, so it was certain Gaston would have to navigate between these fluffy giants. Thankfully the wind wasn’t a factor today and Gaston was able to reach altitude without too much trouble. Trouble started when he had to fly above the clouds and the aerodrome was hidden from view for some time. Nothing looked familiar when he was able to glimpse parts of the ground through the gaps. He finally decided to drop beneath the clouds to get his bearings. The clouds were as low as 1600 m and with him having to drop below them, it was a significant departure. He was afraid the instructors would make him do the entire exercise again. He climbed again after recognizing some features. Paris is to the south of the aerodrome. He could see the sprawling city far in the distance. That was as much direction as he would need. Back in the clouds to complete the full hour before coming back for a landing. Once the time was up he dropped below the clouds once more to line up for a landing. He looked around. The aerodrome was nowhere to be found. Paris was nowhere in sight. “Zut alors!” Gaston was lost. When looking at the map he remembered there was a forest north of the aerodrome. He was flying over one right now. Was this the forest he remembered from the map? Only one way to find out. He pointed the nose of the aircraft south and waited. And waited. Finally! There it was - outskirts of Paris, just ahead. Gaston breathed a sigh of relief. He found his way back! From there on it was easy to locate the field. He landed at once and promised himself to carry a map with himself on every flight. No matter how insignificant. And with the next lesson being a cross country dash it only made sense.

[Linked Image]

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"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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Gents,
I dare say you all have raised the bar a considerable height! I just caught up with everyone’s pilot and to say I am impressed with the stories is an understatement. Fantastic!

As I am currently busy with my full time job of retirement, I will be joining you in France in January. This country boy will have a hard time keeping up with you folks.


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The bar has been set so high that it feels almost intimidating to post anything here among all the DID Hemingways. 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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Hasse, in my case it's spelled "Hemingweigh", what with the winter pounds I've put on these last couple of months. Also, and this applies to you as well Mark, neither of you has ever had a problem holding your own when it comes to writing.

Fullofit, I feel Gaston's pain as concerns getting lost, been there more times in this sim than I care to think about, and with or without maps too. Nice old photo by the way.

Robert, I hope we'll be seeing an entry from your pilot soon.

Carrick, good to see that Nigel has been managing at least some flying time despite the poor weather. That wind has been something, my pilot was nearly standing still in the air on one of his last flights as he pushed against the wind with a B.E.2. Despite full throttle his forward air speed was barely above stall speed. Unnerving, a bit.

Raine, very glad Jim was able to bring his bus down unscathed in that dead stick landing. Any landing you can walk away from, eh what. As for the medicinal qualities of Collins Yukon Gold Whiskey, I don't think there is any doubt of those.

Great stuff as always gents, most enjoyable.

.


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I consider myself Lemmingway - following in the footsteps of the greats but too insignificant on my own.
Lou, I have a feeling navigation is going to be Gaston’s undoing. Despite some recent posts that cheating is ok, I’m going the other way. No TAC, no autopilot, no inflight map (paper only - shaking it vigorously to simulate wind buffeting). All a first for me. The challenge for me (or fun), will be to get to the right location as much as the ability to run away from the enemy.


"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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Mark Anthony Jericho
December, 1915

Jericho stepped out of the Lorry at his new home at Netheravon. It was a long way from Tupelo Mississippi in the United States. "Circumstances." That had been Jericho's reply to the question whenever he was asked. Tupelo, Texas, Canada and now to this place in England. At 23 he was a bit older than most of the young men in his classes. He did not look it though. In fact, he looked no older than anyone else in the crowd. He was not particularly tall at 5'-11'' but after 5 years as a cowhand in Texas he was as agile as a cat and almost as quick. His calm demeanor and quiet way belayed a quick temper that was just below the surface.

As he pulled the collar of his coat around his neck from the chill of the English winter he heard someone call his name. As he turned around he saw his old acquaintance's from Long Branch, James Collins and Swany Swanson.

"I thought you would be in France by now? Where have you been." James asked him.

As Jericho shook their hands he replied. "Good to see you fellows. Well, it seems my papers got crossed up and found myself at a place called Upavon. Worst bunch of would be airmen you ever saw. It didn't take them long to run short of machines as they were all the time busting them up."

"So what are you doing here?" Swany asked in his northern accent that Jericho still could not beleive was American.

"Well, the Captain and I there got along peach as he was a horseman. He and I talked horses as much as was allowed so he made a deal with me. He said that since it would be a while until enough machines would be available to get along with our training he would send me here to complete my training so as not to hold me up. As long as I didn't mess things up and make him look bad that is. I thought that was awful good of the Captain". "Can you tell me who I need to check in with?" he asked.

"That would be Sergeant-Major Brookings, he's standing there." Swany replied as he pointed to the man.

"Thank you Swany" Jericho replied as he lifted his kit. "I'll see you gentlemen later" and with that Jericho walked off to see the Sergeant-Major.

Swany and Jim stood looking at Jericho walk away when Jim said, "I would not have thought it possible."

"What? That he is here at Nerheravon?" Swany asked.

"No" replied Jim. "that he could talk that much!" They both laughed as they headed to the next class.


Last edited by MFair; 12/08/18 09:25 PM. Reason: Spelling

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Nice opening, MFair! I'm looking forward to this.

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Great stories everyone. I have been much enjoying reading them on my work breaks.

Here is the opening installment of my pilot's story. William Arthur George Stanley is ready to take to the skies.

I had a bit of trouble getting him started. For some reason, a pilot in 16 squadron cannot fly in early December without causing a DLL crash. I reinstalled WOFF before I worked out it was that specific. Stanley is flying in game on the earliest available day where he can fly, the 21st of December. But I am considering his progress to be at roughly the same pace as everyone else's.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

[Linked Image]

The barking of the training sergeant carried far over the racecourse in the cold damp air. The wooden collisades of the grand stand stood empty, but men in khaki marched up and down the course, trampling the turf into a muddy mess. Here and there, men undergoing instruction in various aspects of military life huddled in groups against the cold. Between the road and the stands, in sheds and stables that had until recently supported the sport of kings, men became accustomed to the mechanisms of modern war.

 In one of the administration offices, William Stanley reported for duty.

 Captain Anne looked up and smiled at the student pilot that had been brought before his desk by a helpful orderly.
"Ah, welcome to Doncaster second..." the adjutant peered at the officer's buttons, "lieutenant. Household Cavalry I see?"
"Yes sir," Stanley replied, "the Blues."
"Good! Good balance is what is needed in an aeroplane, and a cavalry officer is well practised in that function. You shan't be expected to bed down in a stable here. Officers are billeted in the big house opposite the main entrance.  You can't miss it.  Happily the mess is there as well."

The adjutant consulted a list and scribbled a note, which he handed to Stanley. "This is your room. Report to 'C' shed on the aerodrome at 0800 hours dressed to fly."



[Linked Image]

The next morning found Stanley waiting in front of a wooden hangar with a dozen other pilots. Like Stanley's, their wings were freshly stitched onto their tunics. One or two wore their yellow flying coats open to display the magical badge. It was shortly before dawn that Stanley arrived on the aerodrome and the weather had been deemed good enough by Captain Moller, one of the instructors.

[Linked Image]

15 (reserve) squadron had a few of the shorthorns that Stanley had soloed on, not three weeks before. The majority of the aeroplanes were a tractor type biplane called an Armstrong Whitworth FK3. It was an attempt at improving on the Royal Aircraft Factory's BE2, but had turned out so similar that most people would have assumed that they were looking at two aircraft of the same type. There were a few BE2s as well, and it was in one of these that Captain Moller took Stanley up.

"Nothing fancy," Moller had told his pupil before climbing into the cockpit. "Take off, make a circuit to the north. Don't fly over the town. I don't want you having an engine failure and making an unannounced visit to some poor lady's garden. Take us up to one thousand feet and make a good descent and landing. You've got your wings, so show me that you deserve them."


The BE2 climbed far more quickly than the gentle shorthorns that Stanley had been flying. As the hangars on his left dropped away, Stanley saw the pointed end of the teardrop shaped racecourse behind them. This was where the stands clustered along the Great North road. White dots inside the circuit showed where soldiers were being trained in setting up tents in a proper military fashion.

The wind wobbled the wings of the climbing BE gently as they reached the target altitude. The dark brick terraces of Doncaster stretched away to the left and Stanley turned right, and north, mindful of Moller's instruction. Moller, sat in the rear cockpit, watched his movements with silent judgement. North of the aerodrome was open countryside and Stanley flew over dark winter fields under a grey sky. Now slowly descending with the engine ticking at idle.

On the approach to the aerodrome, Stanley saw a copse startlingly close to his left wing. He dipped the right wing to veer away from them before levelling out and making a good, if fast landing. The tail skid bounced slightly before settling and dragging the BE2 to a stop.

After taxiing over to the hangars, Moller helped Stanley down from the front cockpit.

"A good start, Second Lieutenant. A lot of pilots are taught to hold the wings level and turn solely with rudder. Either you weren't taught that or you ignored your instructors." The ruddy faced Captain leered at him, "don't you dare ignore me, by the way. If you had turned with the rudder, we would have skidded into those trees. So well done on the banking turn."

Stanley beamed with pride.

"It would have been better if you had been looking where you were going. Those bloody trees are well off the proper approach." Moller continued. "Go and find something to eat, and then report back here. If the weather stays clement we may have you up again after lunch."

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MFair and Maeran, welcome to the fray! Good to have you onboard.

7 December, 1915
Le Bourget
Sergent Gaston A. Voscadeaux

With the newly acquired map of Marne region securely in his pocket, Gaston was sitting at the controls of the Caudron flying east. The instructions were to fly for an hour, land and take off and return back home. He was sitting hunched over the map last night with a generous glass of Le Pinard, planning his route. The map was prepared by Monsieur Louvert et Fils Co. and was exactly what Gaston needed. All the roads, railroad tracks, cities, forests, rivers and other landmarks were carefully plotted in great detail. It was simply magnificent. It had the added bonus of the locations of all Entente and all known enemy aerodromes and the extents of the battlefront lines, current as of printing.
“Let’s see...” Gaston thought to himself looking at the scale in the bottom left corner. “The grid looks to be calibrated to about 15 km apart. If my Caudron flies at an average speed of 120km/h then I should cover ... (counts in his head and on his fingers) ... ... ... 8 squares!” He traced his finger 8 grid lines east of Le Bourget and stopped on Epernay. “Hmmm, this looks like a nice spot for a picnic.” He had his destination, now for the difficult part: plotting the route. He examined the map again and noticed that the path to the destination is dotted nearly in a straight line by a series of wooded areas. “That’s it! I’ll simply bunny hop from one forest to the next until I hit Epernay. Oh la la! I need to choose my words more carefully.”
He was now approaching the first wooded area. There was a satisfying grin forming under his moustache, which immediately turned into frown. A slight miscalculation on Gaston’s part. The ground fog blanketed the entire surface making it impossible to see the next wooded area. Gaston simply could not “connect the dots”, that figured so prominently on his map. He quickly formulated a backup plan. Follow the roads. Why hasn’t he started with this plan in the first place? Because the roads don’t go there directly in a straight line, instead they turn and twist, which makes following them that much more difficult. Gaston turned south until he met a road that ran in the east-west direction and started to follow it. He soon found out that flying above the road wasn’t the best way to go about it, as his forward visibility was very limited by the wings, the 2 engine nacelles and the forward cockpit with the observer, his forward view was next to nonexistent. He pretty much had to navigate based on the ground he’s already covered, as the unobstructed view was to the rear and partially to the sides. He flew along rivers and railway tracks as much as the roads. Anything that was running perpendicular to his flight path served as distance markers indicating how far he had progressed along his journey, promptly checked against his map. This and the clock ticking on the dashboard. For Gaston it was not really telling the time, but counting down the minutes to his destination. The time seemed to move twice as fast as normal with the vigilant observation of the road and waiting for the landmarks to slip by. It was nearly time to make the scheduled landing when Gaston noticed the sprawling Foret de la Charmoye, just east of Epernay. He was nearly there and on time! Gaston’s excitement grew with each mile closer to the city. He was amazed how trouble-free the entire voyage had been. He was ready to land when he noticed an aerodrome south of Epernay. It had to be Villeneuve-les-Vertus. He decided to circle it before landing on the nearby road and be on his way back home. He made a low level pass over the field and waved to the men running out of the sheds and hangars to see what the whole ruckus was all about. He made one more circuit and turned south towards the road to land. Too bad he wasn’t allowed to land at the aerodrome as the fog was thicker in these parts. He made his descent, checked that the road was clear of any traffic and lined up for the landing. 100 m ... 50 m ... 10 m ... CRACK!


"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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Ah yes, more excellent reading to go with my morning cuppa. Much appreciated.

Mark, it’s great to see your pilot has made his appearance here. Wonderful introduction.

Maeran, your fellow has arrived as well, outstanding. Odd about the CTD but glad you came up with a work-around.

Fullofit, “Monsieur Louvert et Fils Co.”, that one made me laugh out loud. But what was the crack sound? Is Gaston alright? Did he have a wreck? Oh the anticipation of it all!

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This early in the campaign and we already have our first cliff hanger! Nice story Fullofit.


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Absolutely love how the Netheravon mob's characters are all directly interconnected! Very, very cool stuff, and I can't wait to see how the connection plays out in France! Speaking of France, what has that crazy Gaston fellow done?! I hope Monsieur isn't injured!

Sgt. Graham A. Campbell.
Hounslow Heath Aerodrome
December 9th, 1915.


It appears that the storm on the 6th was to be the last recent excitement to be had, for over the past few days we have all been subjected to an unbearable tedium.

The B.E.2 that had been upturned by the wind has been written off. As the men couldn't upturn the machine until the storm had passed, merely lashing it down in place, the engine was quickly waterlogged in the downpour, and the drenched canvas became so heavy in places that it led to the eventual snapping of a spar in at the lower port-side wing root, causing the entire wing to warp, its tip touching the upper planes. And so, it came to be that we had only one training machine left to share between nine of us (save for the old Boxkite, but there was nothing left to learn on such a basic craft). Naturally, this meant that our flying time became very limited, with long stretches of empty conversations and half-hearted card games of 'Rummy' and 'Beggar my Neighbour' (neither of which I knew how to play, so that option was closed to me). The effect was mind-numbing dreariness, in which only two pilots were able to go up in the B.E. for training exercises a day. To make matters worse, Cpt. Andrews had revoked our right to take trips into London! According to him, there's a "thousand things to learn, even out of the cockpit, so get your heads in the damned instruction manuals, you devils, and no more of these bloody excursions!".

On the 8th, Freddy had tried to arrange us into two teams, for a game of rugby. Of course, we had no ball, but a kit-bag stuffed with mines and Freddy's tunic was a fitting substitute. We all eagerly lined up as the two de-facto team captains (Freddy and a fellow I've not yet mentioned, named Albert Chapman) picked out their players. At first, we thought we'd found a way to beat the boredom, but this soon came to an end after a particularly boisterous tackle by Freddy on poor old Moore knocked the wind right out of him, causing the competition to abruptly cease. Our Kiwi doesn't know his own strength! He was awfully apologetic, and Moore bids him no ill-will over the incident.

Being cast back into the merciless boredom, we took to watching the two active R.F.C squadrons, No. 15 and No. 24, going about their training exercises, as well as analysing with a critical eye to rival Andrews' our fellow trainees, when the two lucky fellows were picked to fly. My favourites to watch were the De Havilland scouts of No. 24, which were capable of performing all manner of weird stunts and tricks. Earlier this morning, I had watched in amazement as their C.O, the famous Lanoe Hawker, who had won a Victoria Cross in France (A V.C - for an airman!), took up a DeHav and proceeded to demonstrate a series of spins and recoveries to his pilots. I had desperately wanted to fly after seeing this display, but sadly for me, our lucky two trainees for the day were Teddie Lawson and Hugo Lane.

Our lunch in the Barracks mess was interrupted by the appearance of Cpt. Andrews (who has been in a continuously foul mood ever since the loss of our second B.E.). At first, we expected to be scorned for some small thing or other, but for once the 'Hellhound of Hounslow' had brought us good news! Andrews had gotten off the phone with Hendon's Adjutant, having arranged to collect two brand-new B.E.2s! It was only a short drive, and we should have our machines by the end of the day. Losing our heads, we all cheered the Captain who, in embarrassed surprise, roared back at us to "Be quiet, you rowdy lot!".

Doyle Weston and Jacky-boy (our affectionate recently-given nickname for Jack Fisher) were ordered to go by car to Hendon and ferry the new machines back. We all watched with an envious eye as they got up and practically ran to the barracks door, literally jumping at the chance to alleviate the boredom. As he exited, that cheeky sod Jacky-boy turned and winked at us! After another brief stint of boredom, we heard the B.E's arriving at about Two O'Clock, and all bundled outside with critical eyes to assess their landings. Jacky-boy, of course, performed a perfect three-pointer. Weston's was not as aesthetically pleasing, but did the job. A gaggle of mechanics quickly appeared to roll our new machines into their hangars, and our excitement was done for the day.

Before turning in for the night, we checked the roster. Ah, relief! We were all to fly tomorrow! And, wait, what's this? Freddy, Jacky-boy and I were to fly an hour-long solo flight each! I relished the mere thought of a full hour to myself in the air, and retired to my bunk knowing full-well that I would be too excited to sleep.

[Linked Image]
Flight Instructor Cpt. Richard Andrews, the 'Hellhound of Hounslow']

Last edited by Wulfe; 12/10/18 12:27 AM.
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we gota wright a book and sell it...to finance WOFF+mods


make mistakes and learn from them

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Nigel Archibald Notting
Sgt, RFC
Catterick AF
Air Training

8 Dec


The chaps and I cut cards to see who would give her a go in a clear spot of the weather. The Instructor said take up to 2000 Meters and get a'bot 60 mins flight time. No problem till I was up at 760 meters then then best she would climb was in steps. A few to many feet, she would shutter on a Stall so level out gain speed and Repeat. I finally reached 2000 , but it took me about 50 mins as I was afraid of Stalling into a Tail Spin. Upon landing I found that I had been up for 106 mins. In addition , I found a small Hole in / rip in my elevator. It must have happened when I spit out some gum that I was chewing to help stay warm. It must have froze at that height and acted like a small bullet causing the hole and small rip in the fabric.

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Last edited by carrick58; 12/09/18 10:16 PM.
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Wulfe, good thing Cpt. Andrews has his head screwed on right. Hurray for the new machines.
Gentlemen, thank you for all the concern regarding Gaston’s wellbeing. I’ll try to post a new instalment of his adventures in the evening.


"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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