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Wulfe, I can see the book title now: "The Morane Devil of No.3 Squadron". smile2

Much as the constant attacks keep things lively Swany would much prefer the kind of air activity Graham is seeing.

I've no clue on why the observer is getting "stuck" in your Fee. This would be a good question to send to the devs as it may a glitch they can do something about in the upcoming patch.

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It’s an old RFC playground rule. You are allowed to switch gun positions only once per flight. No fighting. Only one pilot in the cockpit at a time. If you don’t obey the rules, you are in danger of being called “cheater cheater, pumpkin eater” by other pilots.


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Ah, that explains it. Thanks for clearing this up for us, Fullofit.

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14 March,1916
Auchel, France

Another beautiful winter's morning at Number 3 Squadron; bright blue skies, white puffy clouds, and very little wind. 2nd Lt. Swanson and Captain Craig and the rest of B Flight were assigned an arty spotting job down at Arras. Just before the morning briefing broke up Major Harvey-Kelly announced that both claims submitted yesterday by Swany and Daniel had been approved by HQ, which meant that the squadron's star pilot had seven confirmed victories under his belt, and the Captain was now an ace as well with five confirmed victories.

"A stellar achievement, both of you! You do our squadron and the whole RFC proud.", proclaimed the CO.

Captain Craig took the praise in stride, though truth be told he was secretly chuffed about it. Swany was far more visibly moved by the announcement, appearing both proud and humbled at the same time. The moods of both men only got better throughout the morning's sortie as it proved to be a quiet, uneventful trip with nary an enemy plane in sight. Upon returning to camp Swany and the Captain went to the mess for some hot tea and breakfast, each still in high spirits. During the meal they were informed by several of their squad mates that they'd better have their tabs open that evening as they would be buying everyone two rounds each, seeing as how they had scored double victories. It would likely be an expensive night, and a squiffy one.


Another beautiful winter's morning.
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Lou, I have flown 50 combat missions and had 14 combats with the Huns. So, roughly every 3.5 missions. The encounters have been with very aggressive Eindeckers.

Wulfe, as far as your observer being stuck on the front gun but the rear gun is tracking, I believe in reality he is on the rear gun at that time. Or, as Fullofit pointed out but did not explain it. You have to count to 3. One thou shall count, then thou shall count to two Two thou shalt not count except when proceeding to three. Once you do that your observer is free to move. RFC rule #3.42 😎


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And the Lord spake, saying, "First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then, shalt thou count to three. No more. No less. Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then, lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it."



gawd, I love the MP gang




and HGTTG

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I knew that was coming!😂 One of my favorite flicks.


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MFair - I believe you're right! I noticed this in Graham's more recent scrap - it appears to be derivative of Rickard's awful target prioritisation wink Coming over from RoF, where the Fee observer will visibly stand up and mount the rear Lewis, I hadn't noticed that the rear gun was in action.

Lou - finally, Swany gets a rest! Surely there'll be a medal or two to follow soon.


Sgt. Graham A. Campbell,
No. 20 Squadron R.F.C,
Clairmarais Aerodrome, France.
4 Victories.


March 14th, 1916.

This morning our Batman, Cpl. Dean, arrived with a package for Switch-Off, freshly arrived. It was a large package, hastily wrapped. Grinning, Switch-Off took it to the writing desk, quickly opening it and crying out in delight. McHarg and I shot each other a glance, and hurriedly rushed over to peer over Switch-Off’s shoulder and examine the contents. Inside was a selection of food - Macaroons, two bars of choccolate, a smaller package of dates, an apple, and three tins of sardines, as well as fresh bread and a breadknife. It all came with a handwritten letter, which Switch-Off was now eagerly reading. “What’s all this for?” McHarg asked, and Switch-Off turned to face us. “Look at you two, nosy buggers! It’s from my parents” he laughed. “Special occasion?” I asked, and he nodded. “Why, yes, it was my birthday yesterday”. Across the room, Jimmy shot up from his reclined position on his bunk. “What! Yer’ birthday! Why did’ye no tell us, we would’ve celebrated!”. Switch-Off shrugged meekly.

“Well then. We must go into town tonight!” I exclaimed, meriting a loud “Aye!” from Jimmy. Switch-Off nodded, smiling. “Okay! Let’s do it!”. Shooting Switch-Off a sideways glance, McHarg asked “So how old are you now, then?”. Switch-off reddened slightly, turning away. “Sixteen” he mumbled. McHarg betrayed no shock. “Well,” he said happily, “you’re a man, now! Here”. He offered Switch-Off one of his cigarettes.

After Switch-Off had spread a tin of sardines on bread, graciously sharing some with us, we made our way to the briefing room. Today we were unlucky - ‘B’ flight had the dreaded D.O.P - the Distant Offensive Patrol. We were to cross the lines at Loos, with the intention of stirring up trouble. Outside the briefing room, Normie gathered Graves, Reid, Edwards and myself, looking at us firmly. “Listen up, chaps. The Major tells me that the Huns have been sending more patrols up recently, so I want everyone to be sharp out there. Don’t go off tail-chasing by yourselves, and keep a watch out”. We all nodded - not one of us had any intention of pussyfooting about in Hunland. Edwards headed to the mess for a whiskey to still his nerves as the rest of us parted ways to retrieve our flying gear.

At 10 O’Clock we boarded our buses and had our props swung. As Cpl. Weston had discovered, a dent in the mount for 6338’s forward Lewis had caused it to stick yesterday, so I had convinced Pearson to again let me borrow 6333. With nervous anticipation buzzing within us, we ascended into the sky. The wind was harsh, and we were buffeted about until Normie relented and signalled for us to spread out our formation. Breaking through clouds, we turned for the lines. Coming towards us from above were two small machines, and we were immediately alert - however, there was no archie fire, and as they approached we saw that they were French Nieuport 10 scouts. We watched them fly overhead, and I marveled at their sleek design as they silently cut through the sky.

At 8,000 feet we crossed the lines, scanning the sky in readiness as we crossed into Hunland just south of Armentieres. The sky was eerily empty as we patrolled, with no sight of the enemy save for an Aviatik far below, landing at an airfield. As I watched it, archie begun to burst around our formation. Cursing the damned artillery, I turned my gaze back to the sky. Now our presence would be obvious to any Huns nearby. Suddenly, as I scanned, I spotted the shape of two Aviatiks in-between my struts, approaching from the northeast. They were above us. I then saw a second formation, distant and to the right of the Aviatiks. Fokkers.

Our formation had split - Normie and Edwards were separated from us. I watched, my teeth gritted, as the three Fokkers swung towards our distant colleagues, and immediately I swung my Fee around. The two Aviatiks turned away from us, as I climbed above the incoming Fokkers. Two of them, now seeing me, dove away, but one insolent Hun stayed up, stalking the unwitting Edwards. The two yellow Fokkers, who had dove away, suddenly zoomed up to chase Normie as the higher Hun, who I now noticed flew a Green eindecker, dove down at Edwards in a near-complete dive. In an instant I recognised the Hun’s confidence in the air - it was Greeny. Our Greeny.

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Greeny closes in on Edwards

I dove after him, the wires singing in the wind as 6333 groaned in protest. As we approached, Rickard fired a burst at Greeny, who immediately skidded away to a flank. I chased after him as Edwards tore away towards the lines. Our opponent demonstrated his skill - as I pulled behind him again, he zoomed up, going into an inverted flat-spin and dropping past us, before expertly flicking his machine out of the spin and circling around, standing on his tail and firing at us. In alarm, I skirted to the left, circling down behind Greeny again. Rickard was ready, and fired another burst, before switching drums as we circled our opponent. As we circled down to ground level, I got so close to Greeny that I could see Rickard’s bullets striking his wires. Suddenly, as Rickard fired, his machine snapped upwards and once more fell into a spin.


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Greeny's final battle

I laughed out loud as we watched our stricken foe crash into a field below - we had gotten him! But we did not have time to enjoy our victory. The moment Greeny hit the ground, the archie came at us with a new ferocity, and immediately I turned for the lines, weaving to avoid the barrage. I looked around for our wingmen - but there were no other machines in sight. I tried to coax 6333 into a climb as we approached the Hun trenches. Reaching the low cloud, I flew through them to shield us from the infantry below. It was then that two shapes appeared in the sky ahead of me, and my heart sank.

It was the other two Fokkers. They had abandoned their chase of my wingmen, and turned back for home, but now I stood directly between them and their lines. Immediately they swung their noses to face us. Ahead of me, Rickard quickly swapped the Lewis drum, charging the handle and pointing the weapon towards the two closing Fokkers. I threw my machine into a desperate dive, attempting to distance myself from the Huns, or at least get to our own lines. Bullets rattled through our machine and I flinched. It was no good - the Huns were keeping right on our tails, but we had made it to our frontlines. I skidded to the right, avoiding the two Fokkers’ gunfire, and swung around on them.

We circled each other like wolves, sizing each other up, before tightening our turns. I was quickly behind one Hun, who dove down and away before Rickard could bring the Lewis gun to bear. I circled to face the second Fokker, and we came at each other head-on. He passed above me at a wicked speed and I pushed the stick down hard, his undercarriage narrowly missing our top wing. Desperately, I willed my wingmen to appear, but no help came. The Hun looped back towards us, and I manoeuvred in response. This time he beat us in the turn, and a stream of bullets smashed into the nacelle, in between Rickard and I.

In a panic, I stalled and fell into a spin, dropping down into the clutches of the second Fokker, who approached from the right. Rickard was quick to react, and I saw sparks as bullets struck the Fokker’s engine cowling. It peeled away, climbing up and turning for home - but we weren’t out of it yet. The other Hun had come down to follow my spin, and was now on my tail. I turned as hard as 6333 would let me, barely missing another burst of gunfire. The Hun zoomed up, and we begun to circle each other again. He disappeared above my top wing, and I desperately scanned the skies for him again. When I next saw him, he was coming at us from the left. I watched the flash of his Spandau, as more bullets rattled our machine. Panic rising in my throat, I reversed my turn, trying to get on the Hun’s tail to respond, but he had zoomed back up, and sat above us, circling like a hawk. Cursing, I again turned for our lines, as Archie from our own gunners begun to burst around us. Suddenly, 6333 dropped to the right, stalling without warning. I cried out in terror and kicked the rudder, straightening the spin. The ground rushed up at us, horrifically close, and I pulled the stick back as hard as I could. Our machine pulled up mere feet from the ground, and I felt dizzy with shock.

[Linked Image]
Dancing with Fokkers

Looking backwards, I saw the Fokker follow after us, before slowly circling away and pointing East. As we flew into our lines at ground level, my whole body was numb. Ahead of me, Rickard clambered up onto the rear Lewis. His face was pale white. He watched the Fokker as it retreated for a moment, before slumping back into the nacelle. Suddenly, he broke out into a grin, descending into hysterical laughter. I felt the corners of my own mouth twitching upwards, and soon we were both laughing like a pair of madmen, scarcely believing we were alive. Ahead of us, I spotted an FE2 landing at La Gorgue and, having more than enough of being in the air for today, decided to follow suit. We made a shaky landing, and a pair of Ack-Emmas rushed out to meet us.

One came to the side of the Nacelle, slowly looking the machine over and whistling, before glancing up at us. “Hm. Look like you two have had a rough time of it” he exclaimed, as I feebly climbed out of the machine, followed by Rickard. The second Ack-Emma waved over help from the side of the aerodrome, and wheeled our machine towards the hangars, as the one that had greeted us gestured for us to follow. “Unfortunately the C.O’s out at the moment, but I’ll take you to Captain Armstrong so that you can call your squadron. Funnily enough, we’ve just had another Fee come in”. He led us towards a cozy chateau that sat beside the leftmost hangar, directing us inside and then pointing to a high-ceilinged room to the left, from which soft piano notes drifted out welcomingly. “Captain Armstrong’s in there”. “Thank you, Corporal” I responded, extending a hand for him to shake. He took it, winking at me. “My pleasure. Well, I’d better get your bus sorted out. Cheerio!” and with that, he was off.

[Linked Image]
6333, down safe and sound!

Rickard and I stepped into the extravagant dining room, in which several pilots had crowded around a pair of lounge sofas near an inviting fireplace. Sitting in the centre of one was a sharp-faced Captain that wore the thickest moustache I had ever seen above an impossibly squared jawline. The thick moustache would have covered his mouth, if it was not wide open with laughter that boomed above the piano. Across from him sat two airmen, their backs turned to us, who were excitedly acting out a story. Around them stood five or six rugged airmen, laughing and occasionally asking questions about the tale they were being treated to. Still reeling from our fight, I didn’t pay much mind to the detail of them, but later on I would notice that they all looked worse-for-wear, and appeared as though they were having one hell of a shaky war.

We presented ourselves to the Captain, who stood up from his seat and in a booming voice cried out “Ah! More guests! Please, have a seat! Would you like a drink?”. Rickard and I took one look at each other, before I turned back to the bearlike Captain. “Oh, I should think so. Whiskey, sir, if you please”. Armstrong laughed heartily, shouting a command to a nearby batman, who reappeared swiftly with a bottle of whiskey in an ice bucket. As we went to take our seats, two armchairs positioned by the sofas, a familiar voice cried out ‘Campbell? Rickard?”. I swung around, and was delighted to find that the two seated airmen were Graves and Bristow! They jumped to their feet and we vigorously shook hands. “Where the devil did you get to?” Bristow asked of us, “we thought you had been killed!”. A batman passed me a glass of scotch, with I took with a grateful “thank you”, before answering. “Killed? We nearly were…”

Eventually, having calmed down from our shock, we called Clairmarais and let them know where we were, before heading to the aircraft hangars to check on 6333’s condition. There, one of the Ack-Emmas shook his head as he looked over the machine. “No good, I’m afraid. You have a strut shot through, and the elevator cable was nearly severed, not to mention all the flying wires you’ve had shot away…”.

The Major sent a car to pick us up, along with a breakdown crew to retrieve our bus. Graves’ own machine was flyable, although damaged, and so after a quick ‘see you soon’ he lifted off again. We arrived back home in the early evening, at which point I was greeted by a relieved Reynard. “Campbell, ye troublemaker! We thought you’d had it after Edwards told us aboot yer scrap!”. I sighed, patting him on the shoulder. I suddenly realised I was incredibly tired. “I’m afraid I might not be able to celebrate Switchy’s birthday after all” I yawned, blearily making for the Billett. Inside was Switch-Off, who jumped to his feet as I entered. “Thank god! I really thought you’d had it this time!”. I winked at him, before falling onto my bunk. Drifting out of consciousness, I smiled to myself, while telling myself I ought to stop worrying my chums.

That night, unbeknownst to me, a party was thrown in honour of Rickard and myself - our Aviatik from yesterday had been confirmed by infantry. I now had four Huns to my credit. Regrettably, our claim for Greeny was rejected.

Seems like it's poor old Graham's turn for a dose of Fokker Scourge!











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Still struggling to find time to fly, so report will be short. Envying all the action with Fokkers, single seat promotions, and shiny shark paint jobs. smile None of that for poor Aleck.

Aleck A. MacKinlay

March 9, 1916: Back to Loos Junction (where else?!). Had problems with my bombsight so just dropped when Corwin dropped ... we missed the target. Had a bit of a scare as my motor dropped to idle and refused to budge (broken throttle linkage) on the return leg. I had to glide over the lines to safety and mangled the BE2 in a farmer's fence, but we emerged unscathed.

March 10, 1916: A routine bombing run to drop eggs on front line units SE of Armentieres. No problems.

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Wulfe, I almost broke into a sweat reading that one! Boy do I hate that feeling when the ground rushes up to you and your just above stall speed.

Scout, hope you get some time to fill us in on Aleck. Real life can be a cruel mistress!


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Scout, I hope you get more free time soon so you can enjoy things here to a greater extent. Lucky Aleck was able to bring his dead mount back across the lines and did not succumb to a killer fence.

Wulfe, I agree with MFair, it is beyond scary when you stall out near the ground. Very glad Graham was able to recover in the nick of time to save his and Rickard's collective hides. And his wingmen survived the sortie as well. Another super episode.

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The standard of writing here gets better and better. Wulfe, your last two posts have been engrossing!

Lou, congrats to Swany and his observer!

Things are unsurprisingly quiet for young James in Blighty...

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Gents, outstanding work! I don't want to name names but Wulfe had outdone himself with the last two entries. Congrats on staying alive and removing the Greeny threat. Loved the pic of the Fee in the foreground with the Fokkers flying below on the NML background.
Lou, You are in a league of your own. More victories, more glory, more women throwing themselves at you. Very French of you. And the pic against the cloud background - a masterpiece.
Keep it up Gentlemen!

14 March, 1916 10:10
Senard, Verdun Sector
Escadrille N37
Adjutant Gaston A. Voscadeaux
2 confirmed kills

The skies were clear and not a flake of snow on the ground. The ‘B’ Flight was tasked with protecting the ‘A’ Flight on a recon mission of enemy front sector south of St. Mihiel salient. As they were flying near Brocourt-en-Argonne aerodrome, Ltn. Dagonet signalled that he had a problem with his engine and waved Gaston to take over. As they were flying away the flight of four watched from above as their leader was gliding down to the aerodrome. After a short flight to the front lines they arrived over the target and commenced their circuits. It was almost time to return when something didn't feel right to Gaston. He concentrated his attention on the forested area on the German side. At first he didn't see a thing, but then ... Movement! A Fokker was barreling towards them at full speed! Voscadeaux was impressed by the brave Boche. One against four, it didn't feel right, it didn't feel fair, but then he remembered attacking defenseless observation machines out of the sun wasn't right or fair either. His wingmen were swarming all over the monoplane like an angry pack of wolves. Gaston felt as one of them, smelling blood. Voscadeaux quickly glanced at two specks in the sky which he was certain were the two Nieuports from the 'A' Flight but it didn't hurt to make sure. Thankfully it wasn't another Fokker flight. He kept well back observing from above how the Hun was handling himself. He was good and managed to dupe all three of his wing mates. This is when he pounced from his high "perch" like a peregrine hawk in a diving attack. He pressed his attack and landed a few rounds on the German machine, which was immediately followed by more fire from his flight members behind. Gaston stayed high and waited for another opportunity. It presented itself shortly and he didn't waste much time. More hits on the already wounded prey, with vapor emanating from the engine. Adj. Boillot fired at the same time as Gaston and the Hun corkscrewed into the ground. Gaston knew Boillot would claim the brave German. Voscadeaux could only salute the fallen airman and immediately started to climb. He realized he was low in the enemy territory. It was then that it happened. He didn't recognize his surroundings and didn't know which way to turn. Should this forest in the distance be to the north or to the south? He was drawing a blank. Two of his wing mates were forming behind him. He couldn't decide which way to turn. His panic grew as his disorientation increased. He was frightened that he is flying deeper into the enemy held territory. What was he supposed to do! And then a calm voice in his head spoke to him. It was the voice of his wife. The voice he knew so well when she spoke to him so many times when he was stuck with a problem.
"- Du calme, Gaston! Think of the first thing anybody does when they're lost. What do they do?"
"- They ask for directions. I can't get out and ask! Ridiculous! All I have is my plane, the controls and the instruments. The instruments! There is a compass here!" He looked at his compass as if it were air and he was under water.
"- I'm flying NE, I should fly west." He banked to port until the needle was pointing at the big O. He was saved!
"- Thank you, Violette!" There was no reply.
Gaston crossed the trenches below and noticed there were only two wingmen following him. What happened to Cpl. Dreux? Was he already flying to the aerodrome ahead of them? No, he just noticed another dot on the horizon making its way across the NML. It was him. They were all safe. Now, to find that ungrateful 'A' Flight. Where did they get to now? Gaston scanned the sky, but couldn't locate them, then he looked at his watch. It was past eleven o'clock. 25 minutes of patrol time have elapsed. They must be on their way back. Voscadeaux directed his formation to fly NW. He couldn't wait to get back and get some drink to calm his nerves. He couldn't wait to see his wife.



"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain,
From out of my arse take the camshaft,
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Emile Benoit La Mont
Sgt, N 26
St. Pol-sur-mer, AF
Flanders.

March 14, 1916.

Recon of the lines 4 a/c.

Our escort of 2 N-10's got drawn off early against a 2 seat Hun. Our 2 a/c continued alone. Mission complete RTB

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I spend a few days working out of town and so much happens. MFair, glad Archie didn’t get you too badly. 77_Scout, Aleck is lucky to get the odd milk run to Loos. It’s nearly time to get off BEs. Fullofit, it’s hardly worth the effort to shoot up a railyard with a single Lewis gun.
Wulfe, another few excellent tales. I’m fascinated by your cobbled-together Fee. Hope it brings better luck to you than to its former masters. The encounter with the two Aviatiks and the Fokkers was a tense read, but then you outdid it with the account of the fight with Greeny and his two companions. Congratulations on your fourth confirmed kills. Very well done. Carrick, good luck with Emile.

Hasse, I’m sure Julius will soon have plenty of action when he graduates to single-seaters. HarryH, I’m looking forward to a good Zep-hunting saga soon. In the meanwhile, enjoy the survivability of Marston. Lederhosen, that Walfisch is a good ride in early 1916! Good luck.
Lou, that Swanson is a bit of a rogue, I suspect. I hope he enjoys his lessons with Georgette. Collins is still having a quiet war by comparison. In fact, I suspect your man is simply exhausting all the Fokker pilots in Flanders, leaving none for the rest of us.

An Airman’s Odyssey – by James Arthur Collins

Part Twenty-Five: In which I appraise Swany’s desire for education

On 12 March we spotted for a battery of medium guns, bringing some hate down on a suspected observation post and then on a crossroads between the enemy’s second and third lines east of Arras. Like most of our missions of late, we saw no air-Huns except for some two-seaters passing far off to the east.
The next morning, however, was somewhat more of an adventure. Again we drew a late morning patrol, which suited me fine. I slept soundly until nine, at which time Madame Poirier knocked at my door and invited me to join her and Monsieur for coffee and some very fine sponge cake in their little dining room. My schoolboy French sufficed to understand that they were overjoyed to have received a letter from their older son. He was in the Verdun area, they believed, because he spoke of a large battle. Their younger boy was still convalescing. There was a profound sadness as they spoke of the war and their prayers for their children’s return. I wondered how my mother and Dorothy were faring back in Cambridge. Somehow these simple folks’ family bond seemed stronger than any I had known since my father died. Madame Poirier went into another room and returned with a rosary that belonged to one of the boys. She insisted I carry it dans l’avion.

I walked over to the field and met Captain Mealing and Sergeant Bayetto in the B Flight hangar. We were to execute a photo-reconnaissance of the lines near Monchy. Wilson and I, as well as Sergeant Bayetto and his new observer, Captain McNaughton, were to provide an escort while Mealing and Hoskins did the real work. It was a glorious morning. The world was in full thaw and the smell of wet grass, mud, and dung spoke of spring. As the Ack Emmas primed the cylinders I climbed into the Morane. A lone Parasol was touching down at the other end of the field. It trundled past our machines – Swanson’s bus. Swany held up two fingers, which I took to be a rude greeting. I returned the gesture enthusiastically. It was only after a few seconds I saw that he was mouthing the word “Fokker” and again holding up two fingers. Then, to make his point, he twirled his hand downward over the side of his cockpit. The bugger had knocked down two more Huns! How does he do it?

Our flight took us up to 6500 feet as we approached the Hun lines south of Monchy. In the distance we could just make out two machines from C Flight, about a couple of miles ahead of us and a little higher. I was surprised to see them suddenly turn and head west. I scanned the skies carefully. There they were – three monoplanes giving chase. The Huns soon noticed us and turned towards us. Mealing fired a red flare. This was he predetermined signal to abandon the patrol and regroup over Arras if the situation permitted. I turned west. Two of the three hostile aircraft closed on Wilson and me. The third followed Mealing and Bayetto’s machines, which were a little farther away.

I began weaving gently as the two Huns closed on us in a gentle dive. Wilson began to fire in five-round bursts. The nearer Hun side-slipped and fired, and I could hear rounds hitting the fabric of our wing. I turned into the attack, losing some height as I tried to get under the Fokker. Now the second HA was behind us, firing steadily. Wilson swung his gun around and forced him to break away. The compass spun wildly and it took a few seconds to get by bearings from the sun. Now I could see the smoke haze over Arras. I dived away, but the first Hun was back and his every burst hit our machine. This time I zoomed in the turn. The Fokker passed beneath. It was a dark olive colour and so was his partner, who was trying to climb under our tail. I spiralled down and gave Wilson a chance to fire a few more bursts. Then I noticed a friendly kite balloon about a half-mile off and I dived towards it. The balloon’s defending Archie batteries put up a bit of a shield. The Huns broke off. We hadn’t sent them down in flames like Swanson, but at least neither Wilson nor I had been punctured. I headed north to Arras and climbed back to about 6000 feet, but after fifteen minutes neither Mealing nor Bayetto showed up, so we headed home.

[Linked Image]
"The nearer Hun side-slipped and fired, and I could hear rounds hitting the fabric of our wing."

There were no patrols up after three-thirty, so Swanson, Jericho, and I headed into town, where Swany promised to stand us a nice tea – or rather coffee for the Americans. Swany, it seemed, had taken it upon himself to learn French, and his professeure was the thirty-somethingish proprietress, a sultry mademoiselle named Georgette. She was an attractive woman who filled out her black dress and cinched in her white apron to show her form off. And she was clearly preparing her student for his final examination, or so Jericho and I quickly surmised. Her “Doux Randolfe”, however, was oblivious to all this.

“Hogwash,” he insisted. “Georgette is old enough to be my...my...”

“Slightly older cousin?” I said.

“Kissin’ cousin?” asked Jericho. “Just how much are you leaving that girl as a tip, anyway?”

Swany flushed beet red. “You idiots have no appreciation for learning.”

“So what’s the next lesson, Swany?” I asked. “Is it ‘Où est la plume de ma tante?’ or ‘Voulez-vous dormir chez moi?’”

We fell silent as Georgette came over to refill our coffee cups and place a little cream pastry in front of each of us. “Wat you boys talkeeng?” she said, and placed her hand on Swany’s shoulder. Jericho caught my eye and nodded imperceptibly.

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Big doings at Number 3 Squadron!

Things had started out normally enough with the usual squadron doings throughout the morning and early afternoon. Then, an enjoyable outing for Swanson, Jericho, and Collins when they took a pleasant drive to Choques where they'd been invited for a few drinks in the mess at 10 Squadron. Mark stuck to his coffee only rule, while both Swany and Jim downed a brace of whiskeys each. They probably would have had a round or two more but decided it best to get back to Auchel sooner rather than later. Upon returning to camp they discovered the place was in near chaos. During their absence HQ had ordered the squadron to move to Bruay aerodrome immediately. Who knows why, it was only five miles southeast of their current location so it wasn't going to put them significantly closer to anything. None-the-less, everything was being packed up, and the pilots and G/Os were told to get their kits together and be ready to fly their respective mounts to the new field first thing in the morning. The bigger concern for the trio who had just returned was how in the hell were they going to move Jim's shed! They weren't about to leave Madam FouFou's behind, so they rolled up their sleeves and got to work. A quick assessment determined that the hut could be lifted easily enough as it was not all that big, but what was going to be needed, apart from some jacks, was a pair of makeshift axles and four wheels. The search was on and in fairly short order, and with the help of some of the mechanics, two wooden beams of appropriate length and stoutness were located along with the necessary wheels and tires, the latter being spares from several of the tenders. It took a couple hours of backbreaking effort but Jim, Mark, and Swany were able to get the hut jacked up, the beams slid beneath to act as both axles and support, and the wheels fitted using some short pipe sections, u-bolts, chains, and whatever else was available to serve the purpose. Makeshift as it may have been the job was successful and by evening Madam FouFou's was ready to be towed to it's new locale. Truth be told, it now looked more like some bizarre peddler's wagon that it did Jim's shed. The three men were exhausted but still had to get their personal gear together. Needless to say the celebrations planned for that night in the mess would now be postponed until they were settled into their new digs.

The next morning dawned bright and clear and the squadron planes were rolled out and readied for the short hop to Bruay. Tenders and lorries and wagons had already been sent ahead, taking advantage of all the daylight there was to get things where they needed to be. The Moranes took off one by one, circling once to gain some height and to wave goodbye to Auchel. As they flew along towards Bruay Swany caught sight of the caravan below, winding its way through the countryside to the southeast. He laughed out loud when he saw Madam FouFou's bouncing along, being towed by one of the tenders, bringing up the rear of the train. It was a spectacle no one would soon forget.


Goodbye Auchel, (the stand of trees on top of the hill at the end of the runway will NOT be remembered fondly).
[Linked Image]


Hello Bruay.
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Raine, so Jim and his G/O had a go-round with the green Fokkers as well. They seem to be everywhere. Glad he survived the encounter and made it back safe and sound. I particularly liked the part in your story about the family that Jim is staying with - most touching. As for Swany and Georgette, who knows what will become of that after this move to Bruay.

Carrick, I see Emile has the same problem with his escorts as a lot of us have. They run off on their own far too often.

Fullofit, excellent video and report. I almost feel sorry for that poor Fokker - almost. And two confirmed victories for Gaston at this point. Well done. I'm sensing a gong in the man's near future.

Harry, another fine journal entry from James. And another mention of my man Swanson - he is honored. Great screenshot by the way.

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Our pilots are getting along well and the Campaign Gods have decreed it time for the first visit from the Gong Fairy. Expect one or more additions in the next week or two.

Our heartiest congratulations go out to 2Lt Randoph Arved Swanson of 3 Sqn RFC.

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Oh my, if Swany wasn't getting enough attention from a certain madam before, this is going to take that to a whole new level, (provided he can get over to call on her now that he's at Bruay). Our young Minnesotan will have to make a trip to Béthune ASAP to get the ribbon for his tunic, and he will certainly be waiting with great anticipation for the formal investiture from a visiting dignitary to present the actual medal to him. I've a hunch that won't be too far out.

Thank you Raine, much appreciated. And I believe you are correct that another visit from the Gong Fairy can be expected soon by at least one more of our brave pilots.

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Finally! The gong fairy had come out of hibernation. The spring must be near. Congrats Lou! Hopefully this is the first of many. Make sure Swany starts to work out in preparation for all this additional weight on his chest.


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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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Lou, you said yourself it’s only 5 miles! Besides she’s worth the extra miles from what I saw. Congratulations! A worthy recognition.


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