Hq sent us back to the same target Betincourt AF. 2 A/c with 2 bombs each. We spotted them as they were taking off. They couldnt catch us both ships slanted down and home. The bombs blew up somewhere near target damage ?
HarryH, welcome to the best. DID. Ever! Looks like Jim survived the war. Congratulations!
Lou, thanks for the heads up about the weather. I know what Gaston could expect and wasn't that disappointed. You are right. Ammo conservation will have to be a priority until they will get belt-feeders.
Carrick, looks like HQ was out to lunch on all fronts when they assigned new missions. Gaston had to go back to the same spot as well.
3 March , 1916 8:00 Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Adjutant Gaston A. Voscadeaux
Ltn. Dagonet was leading ‘B’ Flight through the wet snow. Gaston and the other 4 pilots in the element were miserable. They couldn’t believe winter was still holding on to this world with its frosty claws. The mission called for arty spotting north of St. Mihiel salient. It was exactly the same spot they patrolled yesterday. The oddest part of this mission wasn’t the weather, nor the location, but the fact that none of the airplanes in the flight carried any observers. Arty spotting was being conducted in name alone and the true mission would be to sweep enemy buses from the sky. One could say it was an arty spotting denial. There were no contacts on this mission. Truth be told no German would be suicidal enough to tackle five Nieuports.
"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."
HarryH, welcome to the best. DID. Ever! Looks like Jim survived the war. Congratulations!
Thanks, Fullofit, good to be here. Survived, yes he did, but it's very much TBD whether he remained active for the duration. I hope others will allow me this latitude in the interest of facilitating my storytelling approach
La Météo calls for heavy snowfalls for the next two days. For obvious reasons flight missions have been suspended. Gaston found an interesting article in Le Figaro. It stated in bold letters a most welcome news. Hold on to your seats! The German air superiority is waning due to the introduction of Nieuport BB. The new scout supposedly flies circles around the obsolete Fokker. Well, Gaston hasn't seen these new wonder-weapons, just as he has not seen the Fokker Scourge being curtailed. The Eindeckers attack slow and ungainly two-seaters, not other scouts. Gaston’s jaded opinion of the article is that it is nothing but propaganda. On a positive note, Cpl. Dreux, Gaston's wingman had his Aviatik confirmed today. He was also awarded a Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur. If he keeps it up, Gaston will be his wingman. Thank God for the snow. There will be a serious bash tonight.
"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."
Some really terrific and colourful tales here these days. I loved the western hootenanny, MFair!
I'm on the road with work, but managed to squeeze in a short installment of Collins's memoir...
An Airman’s Odyssey – by James Arthur Collins
Part Twenty-Three: In which I am sewn up and meet our General
I must have fallen fast asleep in the field, for the next I knew was when I awoke in a loud room where a fellow was holding a mask over my face, and the next after that was awakening in the middle of the night in a bed to find my face bound up with gauze. I tried to get up but was very dizzy. The room was lined with beds down both sides and men were coughing or snoring and one fellow was quietly having a good cry. I went back to sleep.
In the morning a large and plain nursing sister woke me with a cheery greeting and proceeded to unwrap my dressings to see how we were doing this fine day. “We’ll have you out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” she breezily announced. An orderly brought me a mug of wonderfully strong, sweet tea but denied me a cigarette. Before long, a young doctor arrived with an older doctor in tow.
“Feeling a little better this morning?” he asked and I nodded. Then he asked me to blink. I blinked. Apparently this was an achievement. He asked me to smile and I smiled, so he went on to ask me to wiggle my nose, frown, flare my nostrils, and pout. After all these facial gymnastics he nodded. “You’re a lucky fellow. Something sliced your cheek open as if with a razor. A bit of metal of some sort, clearly. We had to stitch you inside and out, so it’s clear broth for a couple of days, I’m afraid. The good news is that there appears to be no damage to the facial nerves. You likely came within an eighth of an inch of having a permanent droop on the right side of your face. As it stands, there will be nothing more than a dashing sabre scar once you’ve healed.”
“When may I leave for my squadron?”
“We’re going to watch you for a day or so to ensure there is no infection. You’ll have to stay on the ground for at least a week, though. Can’t put grease on your face, and there may be an elevated risk of frostbite when flying. I should think your own MO should be able to clear you for duty after the stitches are out. No need to take a bed away from someone who’s really hurt, what?”
I was very relieved. The next morning I was discharged and was picked up by one of the squadron motorcyclists. A kind sister had washed off my leather coat and my clothes had been laundered. The feeling of cold wind in my face as I bounced along in the sidecar, clinging to the envelope with my discharge papers.
I arrived in time for lunch, which consisted of sausages and eggs for the others and bouillon for me. The place was in fine fettle as we’d had a run of success with the Huns of late. Swany Swanson had bagged his fifth confirmed kill and Mark Jericho had dedicated a fallen Fokker to me as well. It surprised me how much this felt like a true homecoming. The Major made me duty officer for a couple of days, which at least kept me busy, although it necessitated my sleeping in the squadron office. But what made it more bearable was learning that the duty NCO was Sergeant Wilson. My faithful gunner had been assessed as an observer in my absence and had performed flawlessly with the Major himself as his pilot. He had called in fire on a Hun battery down near Pozières, putting the thing out of action after only four ranging shots! His photographic work had also been assessed as first rate. So now he was Temporary Sergeant Wilson. Being a sergeant, he was no longer permitted to volunteer as a batman, so our ability to share a drink together in my shed was diminished. Nonetheless, we met twice daily for duty rounds and he entertained me with his assessment of the senior NCOs. “Yon Technical Sergeant-Maister’s a proper numpty. Then there’s Sergeant Malone – man’s an eejit.” And so it goes.
I celebrated the first day of solid food by riding into Lillers with Jericho for a lunch of omelets and chips. We got back just in time to find General Trenchard and his ADC, Captain Baring, pulling up to the squadron office. I expected a parade, but the General simply inspected the place. He stopped outside my shed and I watched at a distance as he read the sign advertising Madame FouFou’s House of Pleasure. He seemed amused, but I kept my distance. He later came to the mess for a few minutes and spoke to us about the fine job we were doing and how the Fokkers were not as good as we had feared and how Mr. Swanson was setting a fine example of how to handle them and should be commended. Captain Mealing mentioned that there was a Morane pilot at Depot who had been assigned to a Fee squadron and the GOC told Captain Baring to make a note of it. I heard Captain Baring later telling the General they had to be off in order to make an appointment. When the General remained in conversation with the flight commanders, the Captain became quite insistent, although maintaining a good humour. To my surprise, General Trenchard yielded readily, suggesting to Major Harvey-Kelly that he had to keep on Baring Time.
In all the fellow impressed me. I did not expect that one could get much past him.
Finaly, you’ve kept us in suspense long enough, Raine. Glad James will be alright. I’m still not convinced women go for this handsome scar nonsense. It’s got to be a guy thing. One thing for sure, Collins will stay away from blood pudding for a while. I’m happy that Temporary Sergeant Wilson has passed his exams. Looking forward to reading more of his adventures in the air.
"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."
Harry, glad to see you jumping in! Looking forward to reading more of your exploits. Fullofit, I’m still jealous of your new ride, Raine, you should look dashing with your Glasgow Smile. Remember, scars are tattoos with better stories!
Been out of touch a few days Gents but will get up to speed pronto.
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!
Life's looking pretty quiet for young James Patterson, as he settles into his new digs on the south coast. So it's going to be hard to match up to some of the exciting posts I read here each morning. Well you never know, a zeppelin or a Gotha may come by, but if not, I'll do my best not to bore you all
The ground was covered with snow again, white and pristine. Very thick, dark and ominous clouds hung over them like a curse. The HQ was kind today and sent them on recon mission north of Chalons, which was considered practically “next door”. Adjutant Voscadeaux led his wingman Cpl. Dreux and Sgt. de Geuser. Their charge, a lonely N12 piloted by Cpl. Mondeme was hanging back and below. They were able to punch through the clouds where a beautiful daylight was waiting for them, and two Aviatiks. Gaston gave the order to attack as it looked like the Boche were in the mood to get friendly with their observation machine. As soon as the Aviatik crews realized they were being pursued by three scouts, they turned north and started to gain altitude. The ‘B’ Flight followed and little by little was catching them. Finally Gaston was in range and pumped half a magazine into the lead machine. He was startled when he discovered his two flight members were right on his tail. The bloody fools were attacking the same machine as he was. Voscadeaux quickly disengaged avoiding in time one of the wingmen. He immediately switched to the other Boche knowing well he will not be able to bring it down. There just wasn’t enough ammunition left. He engaged nonetheless hoping for a lucky hit. He fired and fired again with bits of the fuselage falling away from his target. They were getting deeper and deeper into the enemy held territory. He fired his last rounds and watched. The Aviatik kept on going. The prop didn't stop, there was no smoke. Gaston failed. He turned around angry with himself for being such a poor shot. Why couldn't he bring a German machine down with just a handful of bullets? He didn't know where he was. As long as he's pointing south, he knew he will reach the front lines and from there it will be easy. After a while he found the scar of France that was the No Man's Land and from there on the navigation became much easier. He recognized the landmarks and zeroed in on Senard. The two idiots have already landed and were dismounting. Both claimed the other Aviatik. Gaston just had to wait to see which one of them will get more disappointed.
"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."
Whew! Take it easy out there, lads, it's getting rough! Raine - glad your man survived his injury, and some story the scar will make when it's all over!
Sgt. Graham A. Campbell, No. 20 Squadron R.F.C, Clairmarais Aerodrome, France.
May 7th, 1916:
The charm and carefree days have left us behind at No. 20. Often I will wake in the night, rotten with sadness, having woken from a dream in which I was back at Hounslow Heath with Jacky-Boy. Edith, with far more experience of war and loss than myself, claims that “Only the Drink helps, laddie, and it’s no much”. Poor Switch-Off is still distant, but we are gladly seeing small shimmers of his happy personality return. Ackart, on one occasion, referred to him as a “Brave Fool”, and if it were not for his rank then Jimmy Reynard and I may have shut his mouth for him. But, as Graves later offered to me (as, during one night, I drunkenly blurted my distaste of Ackart’s harsh comment to him), he is just dealing with the loss in his own way, for even the cold Captain Ackart was fond of Jacky.
On February Nineteenth ‘B’ Flight had our first show North up the lines, towards Nieuwpoort and the coast. It was there that our flight of three happened upon a flight of three Fokker Eindeckers. Ackart was immediately on his gun as they came over the top of us, their insolent black crosses mocking us, before they dropped down to attack. Immediately a yellow Fokker was behind Reid’s machine, and I watched as Reid’s observer scrambled up in his seat to fire backwards. I swung old 6338 to get on the Hun’s tail, and a quick burst from Ackart saw the Hun off. Before I could follow, there was the stink of phosphor and the flash of tracers through my left planes. Panicked, I skidded left and desperately tried to see past the rear of the nacelle for my attacker. For several seconds it was all I could do to stay in my left-hand spiral, gritting my teeth and listening to the staccato of the Hun’s cursed synchronised machine-gun at my tail - but, old 6338 had a fighting spirit, and within three turns the green shape of my attacker flitted into sight at the edge of my vision. Coaxing all of 6338’s determination out of her, I pulled the stick hard into my stomach - and we were on the Hun’s tail! I grimaced, thinking in my head that we would send this #%&*$# down in Jacky’s name, but ahead of me in the Nacelle Ackart sat, frozen, his eyes glazed over with fear. Forgetting our respective ranks, I roared “Shoot, you fool!” at the petrified Captain, but it was no good. He had the wind-up proper, and he couldn’t hear me over the roar of the engine anyway. I cried out in agitation as the Hun tightened his own turn, and disappeared behind me again. Soon after, more bullets were crashing into us, and ahead of me Ackart fell back into his nacelle, his hands covering his ears as he ducked down for protection. I begun to weave left and right - I had seen the Hun machines now, and had noticed that they had no ailerons - so I thought that I may be able to beat the dreaded Scout in the roll. I was right, and we were behind him again. Sheepishly, Ackart fumbled at his gun, but as soon as he had a grasp on it he froze up again. For a split second, the Hun looked over his shoulder, and I saw below his flying goggles a thick moustache. He turned back, quickly, before zooming up and above us and turning for his own lines. With no sight of Graves or Reid, I turned back for our lines, bitterly leaving the Hun to get away Scott-Free.
As we landed, I quickly disembarked to see that poor 6338 had been shot about badly. The Ack-Emmas and I counted thirty-three bullet holes between us, and two cracked spars. Ackart remained in his Nacelle for some time, before eventually being brought a cup of tea by Cpl. Howard and coaxed from the machine. Fortunately, Reid put down not long after me, and Graves phoned an hour or two later, having landed in a field. He and Bristow had both escaped injury.
Around Four O’Clock a car arrived with a new pilot, one Lt. Jeffrey McHarg, Jacky-Boy’s replacement. He has taken Jacky’s old bunk in our Billett, and seems a nice enough chap. Quiet, and keeps to himself. He joined us in the mess that night, for our usual round of songs and drinks. That night, I sat with Ackart, Reid, and his observer, Beckwith. As he nursed his whiskey with both hands, Ackart was visibly shaking. I nudged him with my elbow. “Those Huns nearly got us, eh? We’ll have better luck on the next show”. He mumbled something, but I didn’t hear it over the noise of the mess.
The next day, I went to the hangar to retrieve my tea-pouch charm from 6338 - with her two broken spars, she would be grounded for the next couple days - and tied it to the flight stick of 6331. As we readied ourselves for the morning show over Loos, Ackart sidled up to me. “I’m not sure I can go up” he muttered, and I glanced at him sideways. “Nonsense, Ackart. Don’t let those Huns get the wind-up y-” “I haven’t got the bloody wind-up! I’m just ill is all!” he roared. I was taken aback. “Then - what’s the matter with you?” I said back, through my teeth, and climbed into the cockpit. For a moment Ackart’s face contorted into a look of misery, his eyes watering up, before he climbed into the front nacelle. Across from me, Normie shot me an inquiring glance from his own cockpit. I slowly shook my head, and he nodded once before turning back to check his control surfaces. Fortunately, the show was a quiet one and, apart from some strong winds, we were not bothered.
I saw no repeat of Ackart’s outburst, although for the next couple shows he appeared to be nervous in the air, suddenly snapping his head around as if he’d seen something, only to slump back into his seat in relief. The next few days were quiet, save for the arrival of a new Fee being ferried in from the aircraft Depot by Pearson on the 27th. The days passed by with nothing of interest apart from the brief scraps of information we could procure on the battle raging at Verdun - it sounded like a horrific spectacle. But - the Fokkers were not to stay quiet very long.
On the 1st, after my morning show, I decided to go to the Vincent for lunch. As expected, Jeanne was there, and lit up when she saw me. “Archie!” She cried, as I walked in. I ignored her mistake. “Table for one, please, Jeanne”. I grumbled, trying to mask the resentment in my voice. She seemed taken aback, but directed me to a small table near the rightmost wall - underneath a painting of a Nieuport scout in flight. “Coffee?” she asked. “Please” I responded, “and also some lunch. Whatever you have”. She brought the food and coffee and, to my annoyance, sat down opposite me. “So, where is Jacky? I haven’t seen him in weeks!” she asked, and I bristled. Sighing deeply, and sipping my coffee, I looked at her in the eye. “Sorry, Jeanne, Jacky’s gone West”. She looked at me, puzzled. “West? What do you…” she started, but I cut her off. “A Hun got him not too long ago”. Her face twisted first into shock, before tears welled in her eyes. “Mon Dieu…” she whispered, as I stood up from my half-eaten meal. “Best he didn’t find out about you, and your infantry Captain anyways”. I said, coldly, and she gasped. “Take care” I murmured, dropping some coins on the table and walking out. As I stepped into the street, the drone of a Fee came overhead. Looking up, I watched as one of our machines wobbled through the sky. At the time I thought “deary me, the fellow’s making a mess of flying”, but as I later discovered upon my return to the aerodrome, it was Lt. Ellis from ‘A’ flight, shot through the forearm in a scrap with a Fokker. Unluckily for him, it wasn’t quite a Blighty.
That night saw another outburst from Ackart - this time worse. In the middle of our evening songs, he suddenly cried out “I won’t go up again, dammit!”, before stumbling to his feet and running out of the mess. We fell silent for a few moments, before going back to our songs. The next morning, I went to see the Major.
“Campbell. What do you need?” he asked me, looking tiredly over his reading glasses. “Well, sir, it’s about my observer”. His eyebrow raised, and then he thumbed through a folder on his desk. “Captain Ackart. What about him?”. “Well, sir, his recent outbursts are concerning me. I feel he may be…” I trailed off. “Out with it!” the Major barked, and I nodded. “Apologies. It’s just, well, I feel that he may be unreliable as an observer. I would like to request a new observer”. The Major sighed. “#%&*$# it, Campbell” he uttered, before lighting a cigar. “Very well. I’ll see to it that you are assigned a new observer”.
A day later, we watched in horror as ‘C’ flight came back to base, one machine short, and another machine trailing a thick white cloud of mist. It was Jimmy Reynard’s bus - he’d had Ackart as his observer that day. I tore over to his machine, before it had stopped, and reeled back in horror to see him clutching at a wound in his side. “Damned Fokker got me!” he explained, a pained grin on his face, before he offered an arm for me to help him out. I did, and with Pearson and Edith rushed him to the medical tent. I looked back to see Ackart, white with fear, still gripping tightly onto his Lewis gun, sitting in his position. In the medical tent, the doctor proclaimed with a smile “Jimmy, you’re a lucky man. The bullet struck a rib, cracking it, but it glanced off the bone. You’ll be just fine in a week or two”. Just then, we heard the sound of a machine-gun firing its staccato hatred. Spinning around in shock, we ran out onto the field. “A raid?” Edith shouted, as Corporals and pilots scrambled every which-way on the field, diving behind whatever cover they could find. I soon pinpointed the source of the gunfire - it was Ackart, still in Reynard’s bus, firing wildly ahead of him with the Lewis gun and screaming in horror. Thankfully, the gun soon jammed, but still Ackart held the trigger down, crying out in a terrible animalistic shriek of terror, before eventually passing out. As soon as he had slumped down, a small group of Ack-Emmas hoisted him from the machine and came bundling towards the medical tent, disappearing past us into the flap. No songs were sung in the mess that night - instead, we all quietly contemplated what we had seen. For those of us who had been out on a show, we recounted the horrible sight quietly, over our drinks.
As I write, I am stunned at how quickly our war has changed. Gone is the carefree attitude we came over from England with, and with Jacky-Boy, Ellis, and now Reynard and Ackart, we have realised our mortality. In some ways, I feel that I may as well have shot Reynard myself, having passed on to him a dud observer, but as Edith has said before, there is nought but to get on with it. Word is that General Trenchard has been making inspection rounds, so we will just have to keep a stiff upper lip.
Wulfe, the war is getting serious, no doubt. You've done a superb job of expressing what Graham and a lot of his fellow flyers are feeling at this point.
Carrick, two flights in one day. Things are busy for Nigel and his crew.
Fullofit, I am sure Gaston will be bringing down a Hun soon, provided his own wingmen stop ganging up on his target. Greedy buggars! Another fine video,by the way.
Raine, great to learn that James is well on the road to recovery. We were all concerned about him. And quite the surprise visit by "Boom" Trenchard, eh?
HarryH, good to have you aboard. Interesting perspective you are taking with your story. I sense some flashback episodes coming.
Scout, congrats on Aleck reaching 40 hours of war flying, he's beaten the average by more than double at this point.
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2nd Lt. Swanson and Captain Craig have managed only two sorties in the last four days, due to a return of the dud weather. Yesterday they were tasked with a bombing of the enemy aerodrome at Proville, which took them deep into Hunland. Swany was nervous the entire way in and back that the Le Rhône might conk on them. Thankfully, it did not. This morning was a much less concerning flight to the northeast, along the front lines at a place called Polygon Wood. They did a recce of the area and saw nothing more than some dirt being kicked up on the enemy trenches by the occasional shell lobbed over by the British big guns across at Ypers. No Hun seen in the air during either outing which was quite fine with Swany. What was also quite fine with the young airman was the return of his good chum James Collins, who was now back in camp and well along in his recovery. As had been predicted by the CO, Jim was indeed going to be left with a handsome war scar on his cheek as a result of his last aerial adventure.
The visit by General Trenchard to Auchel and his personal mention of the excellent job 2nd Lt. Swanson was doing caught our Norsk flyer totally off guard. He'd no idea his actions had been noticed by the commander of the entire RFC. Swany was beyond honored by the recognition and he wrote a great deal about it in his latest letter home, along with the fact that he was now considered an "ace". Big news for the folks back in Minnesota to be sure.
Raine, great to learn that James is well on the road to recovery. We were all concerned about him. And quite the surprise visit by "Boom" Trenchard, eh?
I noted in "RFC Headquarters" that Maurice Baring made a note on 5 March about there being a Morane pilot in 20 or 24 Squadron that 3 Squadron wanted, and assumed the Big Man had dropped by Auchel around this time, so thought he'd want to meet Swany.
NOTE TO PILOTS:
Don't forget that after 50 hours at the front, you can adjust the Dot Visibility distance to 5000 m!
Some tremendous writing here. Quite daunting for the new chap! Wulfe, I was completely engrossed in your latest episode this morning, well done. Lou, receiving RFC royalty visits already, wow! Fullofit, good report. Those N10s have precious few bullets available. I love flying that plane but I think I've only ever downed one or two hun in many attempts.