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MFair, behindcouch

Congrats on taming the MS!


"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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2. COLOGNE

Late December 1915 – Early January 1916.

"The most improper job of any man ... is bossing other men. Not one in a million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity."

- J. R. R. Tolkien on his experiences in the Great War

Julius left Berlin by the evening train on the 30th of December. Leni had managed to leave the Ministry in time to bid adieu to him. No other friends or relatives of Julius were present at the station. Julius didn’t mind it. He had his trusty old army backpack full of personal items, and the memory of a teary-eyed Leni kissing him on the cheek was all that he needed for the trip. Leni had even promised not to cry, but in the end she couldn’t help herself. Julius gave his word that he would stay safe and write regularly.

The train was carrying troops and material, but was not ranked as a particularly important one by the wizards in the Transport Section of the Great General Staff, so Julius and the other passengers had to spend hours waiting for more critical units to pass by. There were only so many hours one could talk about the weather, the potato harvest (which was apparently poor) and other such mundane topics of daily life, so eventually Julius gave up on the socializing, covered himself with his greatcoat and tried to get some sleep.

They arrived at Cologne on the next day after an utterly boring trip. A lorry picked up Julius and a few others from the station and took them straight to the Butzweilerhof airfield on the outskirts of the city, where a military airbase had been established already in 1912. Julius reported at the headquarters building of the Flieger-Ersatz-Abteilung, hoping for an immediate assignment to a flying unit on the front. However, it was not what the powers that be had in mind for him. Julius was told to report to a barracks and wait there for further orders, which would be given as soon as possible.

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Julius was an expert at waiting. It was all he had been doing ever since the start of the war and his training first as an artillerist and then as a flyer. Once again resigned to his fate, Julius went to the barracks and made himself at home there as best as he could. The room he was assigned to was excellent by military standards, and the bed appeared to have seen only little use. He shared the room with a couple of other warrant officers. The men were free to leave the base after 6 PM, so the fellows invited Julius to go with them to Cologne for a bit of sightseeing. Soon it became apparent that the others were mostly interested in seeing the sights that the brothels of the old city had to offer. Julius politely declined their company (he had no intention of betraying Leni's trust) and went on his own to visit some of the famous locations of Cologne.

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He spent a good while marveling the awe-inspiring and world-famous cathedral of the city and posted a card to Leni to let her know he had safely arrived at Butzweilerhof and was now eagerly waiting for the next phase of his adventure to begin.

Julius returned to the field well before midnight and went to sleep in the barracks hoping that tomorrow would finally see him assigned to a squadron somewhere - anywhere! - on the Western front.


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

James McCudden, Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps
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Truly brilliant tales all round, again! Raine - you have a brilliant way of fleshing out the 'world' of your character past the squadron life! Ace - 'Drongo' Drummond is an expertly crafted character, and feels incredibly 'real'. Brilliant work in really getting into every fine detail of your man! MFair - Enjoying Jericho a lot - just keep a weather eye open at the front wink Hasse - already like the sound of Julius...sounds like he may develop into a cold-blooded killer before this thing's through!

Sgt. Graham A. Campbell
No. 20 Squadron R.F.C
Netheravon, England.

5th January, 1916.


This morning, we were all thrilled to learn that the weather had evened out enough to permit flying again! The Major wasted no time in arranging a new training roster, and by mid-day Lt. Jem Ellis had appeared to give me a quick run-down of the flight leader's hand signals, before summoning Switch-off and I to the aerodrome, for formation flying practice. It was the first time either of us had even flown in the vicinity of another aeroplane, and I must admit that we were both a little nervous. Nevertheless, to the aerodrome we went, excitement mixed with our anxiety, briskly pulling on our flying coats and helmets as we trailed behind Ellis. Our observers were already on the airfield - they were to come up with us, to strengthen our bond in the air, as per the Major's instruction.

Although I am terribly excited to have the chance to fly again, I must admit that I was, rather selfishly, disheartened when I saw that the aircraft that had been prepared for us by the mechanics were three of our B.E.2s. I was hoping to finally pilot a 'Fee', but no such luck today. The ever-cheerful Cpt. Edith met me by the side of our machine, hoisting himself into the passenger's seat with catlike agility. "Looking forward tae oor first flight thagether, Campbell?" he asked me, grinning as he pulled his flying goggles down. I saluted and replied with a well-rehearsed "Yes, sir!", provoking an outburst of laughter from Edith. "Ach! A'm yer Observer, boyo! Nae need te be so formal aboot the rank! 'Mon, in ye get, afore Ellis gets impatient".

Obligingly I boarded my Bus, turning to my left and giving Switch-off a thumbs-up, which the nervous lad returned with a weak smile. The ground crew swung our props and, once they had cleared out, we raced after Ellis down the airfield, before lifting up into the refreshing cold of the morning. The B.E. purred along magnificently, and ahead of me Edith, still beaming, looked over the small farmlands and cottages that rushed below us, occasionally pointing out an old church, or an interesting cloud, or a flock of sheep to me. There seemed to be no reason behind his fascination with certain landmarks - the man merely had a wonderfully childish enjoyment of being in the air. Once we had extended north a little bit, we locked our eyes on to Ellis' B.E out in front.

Aha! The first hand-signal. I recognised it as the command for a "Chevron formation". As per instructed beforehand, Switch-off and I obediently pulled into a diagonal line, to the right of Ellis' B.E. Edith was now focused ahead, all the child-like excitement gone from his face. I was happily surprised by how serious he became when required to be. He'll see me through okay in France, I reckon. In Chevron formation, Ellis led us into a gradual right-hand turn, in which we fought the wind to stay in formation. Our buses were quite close, and I am sure Switch-off felt the pressure every bit as much as I did. Eventually, to our relief, we levelled out again and headed North by North-East, eventually crossing over the top of Upavon Aerodrome, where we could see the pilots below preparing for their own bouts of flying after the bad weather.

After a further ten minutes' flying in the Chevron formation, Ellis seemed satisfied enough to issue his second hand signal - 'V' formation. Being the 'tail-end-charlie', as I've heard some of the boys call it, the oneness was on me to skid over to the left of our formation and ride the throttle until I was line abreast with Switch-off, on Ellis' other side. Focusing hard, I performed the move, and soon we flew along in the 'V'. I felt awfully braced, for in my head we looked perfectly professional. Edith in the front seat flashed me a quick sharp-toothed grin and a thumbs up, before turning back to watch the flight leader.

From here, Ellis had us follow him, still in formation, in a series of climbs and descents. Apparently our flying sufficed, for after this exercise we promptly turned back for Netheravon. We flew quietly along, as I tried to keep my eyes from wandering over the beautiful English countryside - the snow had partly melted now, and the ground below shone brilliantly in a sheet of dew, giving the impression that the land was gleaming as if made of a thousand diamonds. Losing my focus for a moment, I watched below as a quiet little confined church on a hilltop shed some loose snow from its roof.

Suddenly, Edith tapped me on the shoulder, his familiar childlike grin having returned, and pointed out to our right side. I looked over, squinting my eyes, and shrugged. He pointed again, this time more vigorously, and I strained my eyes again, staring intently in the indicated direction. Ah, there! Three more B.E.2s, flying the opposite direction of us! My, they were quite far off - how had Edith seen them so readily? Well, I suppose that's why he is the observer and I, the pilot.

We reached Netheravon just under an hour after we'd set off, and landed one-by-one. Having made a perfect three-point landing, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I jotted down the details of the flight in my log-book. It was then that I realised, my, this was my first proper flight with No. 20! I must celebrate later tonight.

After taxiing to the side of the aerodrome and de-planing, I was briefly congratulated by Ellis on "A job properly done", before deciding to stay out a while longer to watch the other pilots come and go. Around two O'clock I saw Jacky-Boy preparing for his own formation training, accompanied by my fellow Sergeant Pilots, Archer and Jimmy Reynard. But, what was this? The mechanics were wheeling three Fees onto the aerodrome! Ashamedly, I must admit that I was positively green with envy as I watched Jacky-Boy climb into the pilot's position, shooting me a teasing glance as he did so.

Sadly, a black stain marred the day in the form of a letter from Hounslow Heath, sent by Weston and bearing awful news. Freddy Foster is in hospital - badly injured after spinning a De Haviland at low altitude. It is Weston's belief that Freddy's old Galipoli knee-wound meant that he couldn't gain proper mastery of the rudder needed to fly the craft, which as we've now heard can be quite the temperamental beast, but I cannot believe this - Freddy was the best of us at Hounslow in our training days! By any means, poor old Freddy was badly broken up in the smash - some of the men at Hounslow have apparently said he's a goner, but us that knew him are aware that the tough ANZAC is more than capable of pulling through. Weston promises to visit him and write me as to his condition. Still no word from Teddie Lawson in France.

Last edited by Wulfe; 01/06/19 01:09 AM.
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6 January, 1916
Fldbl. Karl Arnt Lofthoven reporting.

Herr Boehm and I arrived via train and bus from Koln to Habshiem flugzeug. Met the crew, and got a good feeling about them. After a few bad weather days, we did some orientation flights. on the 4th, we did a loop south and then over to the front. yes, the front! Now here are some neat things: first, it seems that our intelligence dept. had a coup and intercepted an agent for something called the RAF Louvert section, who was carrying a whole selection of maps for the entire front. Seems the Brits have been busy. So finally I got to use a map, courtesy of the enemy. (someone actually started the rumor that the case also had maps predicting the lines all the way through 1918. where do people dream up this stuff?) Now, the map showed a long, thin lake that stretched south, but gave no name; I asked, but everyone was very secretive...hmm, what's that about? Turns out, that "lake" was the Rhein! The Mighty Rhein! Perhaps because of low rainfall(?), the Rhein actually disappears as it runs north from here. Mein Gott!

Well, the flight went fine, except that whenever I looked at the map, if my stick hand twitched, we either stalled or nose-dived, neither of which Made Herr Boehm up front very happy. The next day was a loop to the north, coming by Colmar. Normal flight, and I found the flugeug thanks to the map. Good thing too, since on the final approach, a rod blew in the engine, and I switched off for the landing. I had a brief hope that we would get a new C1 model, but they just gave us a reserve B2 to use. Maybe next time I'll keep the broken engine running.....

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More great reads to go with my morning cuppa. Thanks folks!
And loftyc: the RAF Louvert section? Very funny!


Swany is finding the Morane to be far more to his liking than he imagined it would be. After hearing so many stories from others about what a terror it was to fly he wasn’t sure what to expect. However, he discovered it was actually quite pleasant to go up in, at least he felt it was. Yes, it is very light on the controls; and yes, it demands one’s constant attention. Nonetheless, it floats along gently and provides outstanding visibility to the front, sides, and below. In addition it has a fairly good glide rate which, given Swany’s general bad luck with engine failures, is a plus indeed. He of course has no idea how his new mount will fair in an air battle with the Hun but he is looking forward to finding out, and he imagines he will be finding out soon enough, given the recent reports of enemy activity in his new AO.

January 6th, 1916: 2nd Lt. Randolph Swanson and his observer, Lt. Christopher Dent, lifting off from Auchel for an uneventful, early morning arty spotting mission just east of Mont-Saint-Éloi. The outing did introduce Swany to “Archie”, which startled the young airman at first, but he soon found it more interesting than frightening.
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Nigel Archibald Notting
Sgt, RFC
4 Sqn Rfc.
Allonville, Flanders


Jan 5, 1916.

Posted to a flight of 2 BE's to do a Arty Spot. I say, we were at 4,000 and U could hear the Guns over the motor; Flashes of light and smoke , Dirt thrown 100 feet in the air I say, I am glad to have gone to the Rfc at least a clean cot to sleep in and food.

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For those currently flying from Auchel/Lozinghem aerodrome, and for any other interested folks, the following shows where this field was located, if the coordinates given on the Anciens Aerodromes website are correct, (and if my Google Earth skills are worth their salt). Based on how James McCudden described the location of said aerodrome in his book, "Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps", this looks like it could be about right.

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January 7th, 1916, Auchel, France

No flying today due to snow and wind, so after breakfast 2nd Lt. Swanson went over to the machine sheds to get a primer on the Le Rhône 9C from the camp's resident expert on such matters, Sergeant James McCudden. The man was a wizard when it came to things mechanical and was a fair teacher to boot, and Swany learned a great deal from him in a few brief hours. Sgt. McCudden at one point produced a oddly shaped bit of metal which he explained had been a ball in one of the main bearing races in the 9C that had propelled him and his pilot over the lines two days earlier. James went on to say that the engine had developed a knock just as they were about to return home, and as they weren't sure what it was they had no idea how long the thing would hold together. Despite wanting to take a direct line back to camp they were forced to make a small detour along the way so that James could fire upon a Fokker monoplane that was giving chase to a returning B.E.2c. The Hun broke off when the bullets began whizzing about him, after which James and his pilot, Sergeant Toni Bayetto, returned home and landed without incident. After a bite to eat, James had torn down the engine and found the offending ball, which was now far more cube-shaped than round. Swany was a bit surprised, and more than relieved, to learn that the Le Rhône was capable of hanging together and serving its intended purpose for quite some time even after such an integral part had gone wonky. He joked with James that, based on the young pilot's track record concerning engine reliability in the various mounts he'd flown to date, the apparent ruggedness of the powerplants in the Moranes would serve to boost his confidence.

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...Is Swany the first to cross the lines...? Congratulations!! Looks like the war's finally on wink

Sgt. Graham A. Campbell
No. 20 Squadron R.F.C
Netheravon, England.

7 January 1916.


Bad luck on my part; I have fallen ill with influenza. I am not the only one touched by the ailment, Pearson is ill as well. We have both been grounded until further notice, and I have spent the past two days in the medical building, keeping cozy in one of the beds. Fortunately for Pearson and I, we have the ward to ourselves, so things are nice and quiet. Last night, the rain was drumming on the old roof. I have always enjoyed listening to the soft rapping of rain on the rooftop as I drift into sleep.

The medical officer claims it may take several days before I can fly again. Naturally, having only just resumed flying after the period of bad weather, this was most distressing news. By George, 20 might even be in France by then!

No word yet of Freddy. I hope he is okay. No word from Lawson, either.

Real-life illness has grounded Campbell for the foreseeable future frown but, on the bright side, the doc's predicted I should be all better just about in time for No. 20 hopping over the channel! I won't be able to do much writing, but I'll do my best to keep up with everyone's tales!

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Wulfe, sorry to hear of your illness, here's hoping you recover quickly and get back into the campaign soon. I've been fending off a cold myself for the last week, and so far have been able to keep it at bay.

Swany did indeed cross the lines yesterday, and while I don't know if he was the first of our lot here to do such, it was a first for him. To say he was excited upon his return would be an understatement of monumental proportion. The poor boy could hardly contain himself while he filled out his very first AAR, (good Lord willing, the first of many).

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Aleck A. MacKinlay
January 5, 1916

The weather broke this morning, sunny and bright, so I finally got my first orientation/assessment flight done. With Chris on board I completed two large circles of the airfield. I had no troubles with the BE2 as we finished our training flying the very machine.

But dammit if I didn't get lost. Chris was instructed by the CO not assist me to find my way, so that I would better learn the landmarks around Abeele. It should have been quite easy, what with Abeele flanked to the north and south by easy to spot forests. Somehow I got confused and circled too far north. I came down to land between the wrong set of forests and for the life of me could not find the airfield. Chris finally took pity on me and pointed well to the south, to where the airfield actually was. So embarrassing!

The CO had been watching my maiden flight but apparently became disgusted and walked back to his office when i drifted out of site. He did step out to see my landing, which was one of my best so i hope he has not written me off as a complete incompetent.

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Good stories Keep em flying

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Nigel Archibald Notting
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4 Sqn Rfc.
Allonville, Flanders


7 jan 1916 weather kept us down.

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6 January, 1916
Toul
Sergent Gaston A. Voscadeaux

Capitaine de Taillepied de Bondy was the current CO of Escadrille C17. He took his job seriously and made a habit to see each newly arrived pilot in his unit personally. There were no exceptions and Gaston found himself directly in front of his office desk short while after arriving yesterday. De Bondy was a traditionalist and his lanky frame was sitting rigidly on a wooden chair behind the desk, making perfect 90 degree angles with all his body parts where possible.
- “Sergent Voscadeaux, there will be no silly stunt flying in my escadrille. No loops, or barrel rolls.” Capitaine’s mouth was forming pronounced “r’s” which were rolling off his lips, making sure his aristocratic roots were well on display.
- “Capitaine, I am of the same opinio...”
- “There will also be no interruptions while I’m speaking. I suggest you speak with adjutant Dumas about ALL the rules and regulations pertaining to this outfit.” Capitaine’s ice-blue eyes were piercing Gaston. “Tomorrow morning you will fly 2 circuits around the aerodrome. I want to see 2 perfect circles. Not squares, not triangles. Circles. Is that understood Sergent?” De Bondy kept his gaze fixed on Gaston until the other man saluted and exited his office.
He will definitely need to talk to the adjutant if he wants to stay on Capitaine’s good side.
That was yesterday. Currently Gaston was sitting in the cockpit of the Caudron assigned to him with no observer in front, attempting to impress his new superior by following his orders to a tee. Two perfect doughnuts. Sounds simple enough, especially with the clouds hanging so low that the Capitaine couldn’t possibly follow his flight path. Voscadeaux completed the exercise and landed on the field. Adjutant Dumas was noting something in his notebook, but the Capitaine was nowhere in sight. Gaston was afraid that he’ll have to repeat the exercise for the Capitaine, but adjutant Dumas informed him these two are sufficient and tomorrow he will accompany the rest of the flight to the front lines. Finally some good news!


"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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Fullofit, Gaston's new CO sounds like trouble, let's hope the Sergent can stay on his good side, or at least out of his line of fire.

Scout, looks like Aleck is having issues with his commander as well. Must be something in the air.

carrick, I feel your pain when it comes to the weather.


More snow and wind at Auchel, so it's another day of no flying. Swany may make a trip into town to see what there is in the place, and to practice his French. Considering his somewhat comical dialect when speaking English, he's doing rather well with French. It helps that he grew up speaking two languages, English and Norwegian, as well as a bit of Chippewa with the local tribal members back home. Languages seems to come naturally to the young fellow which will serve him well in his current situation.

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Lou, Gaston shouldn’t have any problems with his CO, as long as he keeps his nose clean. Swany, on the other hand, being such a cunning linguist and having free time on his hands is mischief in its purest form. Ladies beware!


"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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Aleck A. MacKinley
January 6, 1916:

I knew what flight I was going to be assigned at the pilots meeting. Major Mills always assigned a solo flight up to the front and back as a second test for new pilots. According to several of the senior pilots I had talked to, this was standard procedure. Imagine my shock when, after assigning missions two most of the pilots, he announced that my mission for the day would be airfield defense over Condekerque. This caused a chuckle to ripple around the room, which I couldn't quite understand until Major Mills thrust his pointer at the map. Condekerque airfield is located northwest of us near the coast and far, FAR behind enemy lines. It was immediately obvious to me that this mission was a coddling mission, something safe and easy. The Major doesn't think I am ready to be near the front lines.

Sergent White was assigned to accompany me, basically my baby sitter. He did not appear to be very happy about the assignment. As I consulted my flight map, I realized our course went well off the edge of my map. I mentioned this to Chris and he laughed. "Of course it's off the map. The old man is testing your ability to spot landmarks and follow your compass. Didn't you notice that our course is a straight northwest flight out and a straight southeast flight back? Navigation test my boy, navigation!"

So off we went, with me leading our little flight of two BE2's. I pointed my nose northwest and climbed into the mist. Ah, the bloody mist! How is a fellow supposed to find his way when the ground is mostly obscured in mist? On we droned, climbing slowly, the engine whirring steadily and reassuringly. There seemed to be a line of forests along our path; two on the right, one on the left, another on the right, and so on. If I could just remember the pattern I would be able to follow these back home. But on and on we went, with no sign of the coast, and I had soon lost track of all these landmarks. Crap!

Suddenly the coast appeared ahead. Condekerque should be nearby. Yes! There was the airfield just below and to starboard. I was shocked to have arrived exactly on target, but kept a straight face and casually qestured to Chris as if to say "there it is, exactly as I had planned". He gave me a nod and a smile.

I circled the airfield for about 10 minutes before Sergent White signaled that we should head home. I pointed my nose to the southeast, which thankfully put the sun behind Chris's body so that I could fly without the sun beaming directly into my eyes.

Things did not go well on the return trip. Nothing looked familiar. I kept the compass nailed on SE and hoped for the best but my spirits sank lower and lower as I began to see towns and forests I had not seen on the trip out. I was failing my navigation test for a second time.

Suddenly there was a river below us. A river? Oh dear. But also an airfield. Check the map, check the map ... find an airfield by a river. La Gourge airfield!! Well, I was well off course but at least I now knew where I was. I turned sharply to the north and made a beeline directly to our base. I made an excellent landing, which no one saw because they were all scurrying to avoid German bombs that were falling at that very instant. Little damage done to the airfield and hopefully a good distraction from my failure, yet again, to find my way home.

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Nigel Archibald Notting
Sgt, RFC
4 Sqn Rfc.
Allonville, Flanders


8 Jan 1916.


More low cloud and bad weather. No flights but had a go at Machine-gun practice Then had Orderly Duty.

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77 Scout -- That was a good capture of that "where the heck am I?" sense I know only too well! Fullofit, glad to see Gaston putting his best foot forward at his new escadrille. How long will it last, I wonder? Lou, is Swaney heading out for the blue plate special or the blue light special? Carrick, hope you're back in the air soon. Here is the next chapter in Jim Collins' tale...

An Airman’s Odyssey – by James Arthur Collins

Part Nine: In which I am held aloft by a Parasol

The Morane stood like a prehistoric insect, its wide, high wings spread out above the thin fuselage, vibrating gently with the morning breeze. The ack emmas had propped a ladder against the left side of the fuselage and I began to climb towards the cockpit when they shouted “Other side” in unison. I rounded the tail and an amused corporal pointed at the cut-out in the fuselage for my foot. The procedure had escaped me since yesterday: left foot on the wheel, right foot onto the longeron inside the cut-out, and then an athletic swing of the left leg into the cockpit – a difficult manoeuvre, especially given my height and the need to avoid putting my head through the wing overhead!

I settled in wicker seat and waited while Lieut. McCrimmond, an instructor, climbed into the observer’s seat behind me. McCrimmond needlessly reminded me how sensitive the elevator was and said to be sure that I had plenty of speed before lifting off. The mechanics fussed with the Gnome interminably, or so it seemed, pushing the exhaust valves open and priming each cylinder with a few squirts of petrol. It was necessary to lean slightly forward to reach the short control column comfortably. I had decided over breakfast to hold the stick very, very slightly forward until the tail began to lift. The last thing I wanted was to force the nose into the field accidentally while trying to bring the tail up. To avoid overcorrecting I braced my right forearm against the inside of my knee.

It was time. I confirmed the magneto switches were off and waited as the corporal pulled the prop through its cycle. I echoed the call of “Contact.” With a heave, the corporal pulled the prop down and the Gnome stuttered to life, catching until the popping and banging became a steady gurgling roar. I waved away the chocks and began bumping over the grass. Now with the machine pointed downfield, I took a deep breath and pushed the throttle lever forward. The machine rolled farther than I expected before the rumble from the tail skid grew momentarily fainter and then stopped as the tail lifted off the ground. I used the slightest flex of my wrist to level off and, in a second or two, the Morane took to the air. It was all surprisingly uneventful.

The machine climbed smoothly and I finally exhaled. But at that very instant, the slight breeze seemed to lift the right side of the wing and the whole affair listed to the left. I corrected, and the wing warping seemed to be a sluggish way to get level. And then the machine slewed to the right! I had been terrified of the balanced elevator’s sensitivity, only to find the real devil for me was lateral stability. It took lots of rudder to hold the thing level with any degree of crosswind.

I edged slowly up to 2000 feet and felt McCrimmond patting me on the shoulder. I turned and saw him grinning broadly under his goggles. He gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up and I smiled like a small child with a good report card!

I gingerly turned to the south and made a wide arc below St-Omer as far as the Lys and back again. As the Aircraft Park and its distinctive racetrack emerged from the haze, I began bleeding off altitude, experimenting with the “blip switch” that cut the ignition and adjusting the mixture. We came in low over the trees, hangars, and sheds at the eastern end of the field. The scrubby brown grass, mixed with a thin dusting of snow, came up to meet the wheels. I blipped twice and let the tail come down for a perfect three-point landing.

But it wasn’t perfect. A gust caught the Morane under that ridiculously high wing and suddenly we were twenty feet above the field. And then the left wing dipped down and we swerved drunkenly down. I let the Gnome roar back to life and pushed the right side of the rudder bar forward. The landing gear hit the ground with a thud while we were still leaning left thirty degrees. In any other machine, the wing would have shattered, but not with the Parasol. We bounced into the air, floated unsteadily, and dropped roughly back to the field, now pointing to the right. I blipped repeatedly and brought the machine under control at last.

In front of the hangars, I switched off and fell back in my seat. “That was a bit of an adventure,” McCrimmond observed. My response was a short and very Anglo-Saxon word.

[Linked Image]
"...I began bleeding off altitude, experimenting with the “blip switch”..."

It was back again in the afternoon, and I promised McCrimmond a drink in the mess for his trouble this morning. He asked if I planned to let him live long enough to enjoy it. This time I used the same technique for locking my arm with the stick slightly forward, but I let the machine pick up more speed before lifting off. The left wing dipped again, but not as dangerously as before. I relaxed when we were up to 3000 feet and tried some sharper turns and manoeuvres, and even stalled the machine. It quickly fell out of the stall with opposite rudder and a lot of blipping with the nose down. Before I knew it, it was time to land.

Again we approached over the hangars. I kept the speed a bit higher than in the morning and more or less flew the Parasol onto the field before blipping until the tail came down. I might not always have a large enough field to use this technique, but the landing was wonderfully smooth because of it. McCrimmond said it was very well done.

I couldn’t wait to get back in the air. There were, however, others in line for our lone Morane. So instead of flying I caught up on my letters home. There was still no news of my posting. Life at the Depot was mildly depressing, with little of the good humour and camaraderie I enjoyed at Netheravon. The newly-arriving pilots were each in their own world, and it made little sense to make friends when we expected to be posted elsewhere any day. The mess food was bland and meagrely handed out, and the mess fees were exorbitant for what we get. On the 9th, I walked into the village of Longuenesse, adjacent to St-Omer. I saw the chateau that served as General Trenchard’s headquarters, and soon after encountered two Canadian doctors from one of the several hospitals that have been established in the area. They were headed to dinner in a small estaminet in the village and I joined them for a fine meal of sole, potatoes, and very good cheap white wine.

Rain started while we ate. Three days passed and it did not let up.

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Another great tale, Raine. Kinda makes you wanna hop in one of them Parasols and practice those landings. Hope you don’t get posted to one of those aerodromes in the middle of a forest.


"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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