Good day Gents. We had a little tornado in these parts last Thursday. Not a bad one. No real damage to anything important but it sure played the dickens with some oak tops at the ranch. I will be another few days getting everything cleaned up, then I’ll be back in the saddle. Some fine stories! Too many close calls. Y’all stay safe. Mark
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!
22 April, 1916 Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Lieutenant Gaston A. Voscadeaux 18 confirmed kills
All the flights have been called off for today due to bad weather. Both claims: the Aviatik and the balloon were confirmed. Gaston was glad his victory was not contested by the ani-aerienne crews. It seems fame has its advantages after all.
"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."
MFair, glad to hear you missed the worst of the Tornado.
We're off to England in the morning to see our older son. He and his wife have just had a baby girl, a little sister to my 3 1/2 year old grandson. Her name is Eleanor, the same as my great-grandmother, who was also a Londoner before the family moved to Glasgow in 1911. I'll catch up with everyone's stories and with Jim Collins's continuing saga when we're back. In my absence, RAF_Louvert has graciously agreed to expand on his role as Gong Fairy to assume the mantle of chair of the campaign gods, so if you need to start a new pilot (heaven forbid) before 7 May, please PM Lou.
And if you haven't done so yet, drop over to WOTR and fly the new Spitfire. It's outstanding!
Fullofit - Being in Blighty, where the weather is decidedly one-overcast-sky-fits-all, the idea of a 'little' tornado doesn't compute. I'm glad to hear it came and went without causing too much trouble for you!
Scout - Glad to hear that MacKinlay is on the mend. Enjoy the rest of the 'free leave' while it lasts!
Carrick - Shot down! Ouch! Glad your man's okay...lucky those Bosche were poorer shots than they could have been! And, yes, the N11 is by far a more tame little ship. Noticed immediately after Campbell went West and Fullard came on the scene.
Fullofit - shame about the dud weather. But, hey, 18 confirmed victories! That, sir, is nothing to scoff at. Delluin who? Voscadeaux is the only name we know in N.31's barracks!
Raine - I jest about aforementioned one-overcast-sky-fits-all weather. It's actually lovely in the UK at the moment (or, at least, it is in London!) - a good time to visit! Hope you thoroughly enjoy your stay over our side of the pond. If you're in London, give the RAF museum at Hendon a visit - plenty of WW1 kites there, and some great stuff in the other hangars, too!
Sgt. James B. Fullard, Esc. N31, Ochey Aerodrome, France, 2 Confirmed Victories.
April 23rd, 1916:
The 22nd was marred with another sweeping storm that came towards us from Hunland like an infinitely huge artillery shell, and once again Ochey aerodrome was bombarded with weighty ice-cold rain. Today, however, in its strange European way, the weather had completely reversed and as Georges appeared to gently rouse us for breakfast, I saw from the small window of my room a beautifully blue sky as the tall, nourished blades of grass rolled gently, basking in a pleasantly warm sun. In the mess I sipped at a mug of hot chocolate as Lemoine, little Devienne and I discussed our first mission of the day - another aerodrome raid. This time we were paying a visit to the Bosche at Thiaucourt, at the edge of St. Mihiel.
Lemoine’s face was wrought with a mixture of misery and annoyance. “Bad enough we have to match our speeds to those damned slow Nieuport 12s without us going to St. Mihiel! I say let them go it alone. After all, it’s not just Tartaux’s bus today - that new fellow, what’s his name?” “Papeil?” “Papeil. Oui, he’s coming, too. Can’t they escort each other?” “What are you moaning about?” Devienne crooned, “the worst we can encounter are Fokkers, and they stand no chance compared to a Bebe!”. “They have those devilish synchronised guns. That’s chance enough for me”.
We finished our breakfasts and made our way onto the airfield. As the sun beamed on us, I was suddenly reminded what warmth felt like. Beside the two Nieuport 12s sat our three machines - Devienne’s heart insignia glowing in a violent rouge at the end of the flight line. As the mechanics made their checks, Lemoine passed cigarettes around to us, lighting a match and putting it to the end of his cigarette, then mines. Devienne leaned in to light his cigarette, and Lemoine pushed him away, crying “Lá! Lá! Lá! Lá! Do you want to get me killed?!”, before throwing Devienne his box of matches. Grinning, the youngster lit his cigarette.
After we were done smoking, we clambered up into our cockpits and started our engines with a sharp percussive roar. We were first to take off, and we peeled off to the right as we watched for the Nieuport 12s lifting. Up they came, and the five of us took our machines into a lazy climb. It was the largest formation I had been with thus far, and I found it quite thrilling to be wrapped in the ferocious hornetlike buzz of engines.
Ahead of us, the front lines melded into focus from a vague brown blur into its regular mass of chaotic trench lines and endless debris and shell-holes. However, the mud failed to depress me - it was a glorious day for flying. The clouds hung low, close to their shadows, in their lazy belly-crawl, and the bright sun offered us one or two extra degrees of warmth. It hung high in the sky, above our heads, too high for the use of any clever Bosches.
The Lac de Madine shone like gold as we approached the Bosche aerodrome. Lemoine, Devienne and I curved away to the side as Tartaux and Papeil’s Nieuport 12s lined up with the row of yellow-white hangars, mere specks on the ground far below. The whomp-whomp of artillery started at our heels, but they were too late - the Nieuports promptly dropped their bombs before circling around for another run. A grin broke across my face as I watched the flashes of the bombs below - one had landed directly on the roof of a barracks. That’ll wake the Bosches up!
Our carnage went on unchecked, save for the increasingly unconvincing bursts of artillery below our wheels. Suddenly, there was a sharp flash below us, a glinting that reflected up at me once, then again. I strained my eyes against the ground, and several thousand feet below us I made out the shapes of two Fokkers. It was then that Tartaux signalled to us that his work was complete, and so I pulled alongside Lemoine’s machine and pointed downward at our two German colleagues. He peered down, and after a moment of searching gave me an exaggerated nod. He had seen them.
Like aerial wolves we slowly started to circle our prey, anticipating their intent. Were they headed for our lines? If so, we would pounce on them. But, they were currently overflying our targeted airfield, and we all knew better than to give the frustrated Flak gunners the opportunity they so desperately sought. From high above we paralleled their course, watching as they sailed farther away from the safety of their guns, closer to our own lines. Periodically my eyes flicked up towards Lemoine, who had a look of unmatched concentration on his face.
Finally, he glanced back at Devienne and I, and slowly dropped a wingtip, coming down in slow, measured curves towards the unaware Bosches. We followed, the adrenaline starting to course through me and rise in my throat. Again, I felt the quick-breathed excitement that came before the fight. My heart couldn’t decide on a tempo as slowly, slowly, we came down towards our quarry. But, then, Lemoine broke off and flew back towards the German trenches. I looked at him in confusion, but only saw the back of his helmeted head. I was even more astounded to see a thin smile appear on Devienne’s lips. Watching the two Eindeckers sail into our own lines, I couldn’t make sense of Lemoine’s decision.
Slowly we started to circle down again, and as we approached the level of the Fokkers I suddenly realised the crafty readheaded gaul’s plan; He had put us between the Bosche and their own lines, cutting off their escape route. These two artists below us would now be forced to fight us to the death to escape! Lemoine turned us towards them again, this time with purpose. The Bosches had reached past the trenches and into the green on our side now - if we got them here, our claims would surely be confirmed!
We opened our throttles wide now, and quickly we closed on the two machines. One of them suddenly banked around, quickly followed by the other, and both pointed their noses at us. Boldly they rose to our challenge as we soared above their heads before rolling on our backs and dropping down for the attack. I picked out my man and looped around for his tail, but Devienne had beaten me to the punch. I looked for the other, and found Lemoine on his tail. How unfair! I thought to myself, Why couldn’t they be three? In the next moment I watched Devienne’s tracers pierce the Fokker, which promptly ceased to fly and instead crumpled in the air, falling to earth. I joined in Lemoine’s twisting fight - his opponent was skillful, but a sudden head-on pass initiated by me startled him. We passed frighteningly close, and in that instant blur I took in the details of the Bosche’s face. From beneath his flying goggles protruded a wide, flat nose and a sharply squared-off jawline. A lopsided mouth sneered at me in alarm, flashing a hint of whitened teeth. With a reflective splash of sunlight on his goggles, the face disappeared behind me.
My Nieuport whipped around ferociously to chase the helpless Fokker, and within an instant my sights were rested on his tail. With Lemoine observing from the side, I fired two rapid bursts from close range. I watched as one of my tracers found the pilot’s back, the burning phosphor disappearing into his torso, and a second later the Fokker was lost from view, having dropped his nose. Euphoria washed over me, and I punched the air in delight. Lemoine’s Nieuport pulled up alongside me, and as I turned, grinning, to face him, I saw that he was wearing an irritated expression. He gestured dramatically towards where the Fokker had fallen, and immediately I realised that I had poached his trophy. I held up a hand - Sorry, Lemoine!. I saw his shoulders shrug in a sigh as he wiped his goggles, then raised a palm halfheartedly. I’ll let this one go. But don’t do it again!. I looked back at my handiwork, which now lay smouldering in the centre of a field. An inquisitive flock of sheep had approached it, and stood confusedly around the thin trail of smoke. Well, if Lemoine didn’t see it then I can count on them for a report! I thought to myself, chuckling.
Halfway back, little Devienne’s Nieuport began to cough smoke, and he signalled that he was going to make a landing. We circled to see him down okay, marked his position on the map, and headed back to Ochey.
On the ground I made a hasty apology to Lemoine, who simply laughed me away. “What can I say, Fullard? I let you have him. Naturally, I could have ended the fight in an instant if I so desired, but honour bade me to let the new man have his glory. You can pay me back with a bottle of Pinot, though”. He threw an arm around my shoulder. “Man, but we really stitched those two up, ah? Poor fools had no idea what was coming until it was far too late!”.
As Thierry and Souris started to wheel my machine away, I turned to them. “You two! Can you see that she’s ready to go up again for the evening patrol?”. Thierry blinked at me. “Evening patrol? There is none! You’ve had your lot for today, you warmonger!”. I looked at him quizzically, and he then explained to me that de Villeneuve, our new C.O, had ordered an insignia painted on each machine - a squadron emblem. “Oh? What emblem?” I asked. Souris unfolded a scrap of paper which had on it an illustration of a Greek Archer, bow drawn and pointed forwards, inside a circle. Over my shoulder, Lemoine’s lip curled downward as he nodded approvingly. “Hm. I like it!” he decided. “We’ll have to paint the new marking over your old ones, but don’t worry, we’ll have your fancy insignia painted elsewhere on your machines” Thierry explained to us.
When Devienne reappeared, he had quite the story to tell. As he had landed, a spark came from the dashboard of his machine and, as it was rolling to a stop, flames begun to lick out from the cowling. In a panic he had unstrapped his safety harness and dove out of the machine, coming to a sudden stop as he rolled into a hay bale. He was unharmed, but he seemed shaken as he recounted to us how he had watched his Bebe burn down to nothing but the charred and warped skeleton of an aircraft.
In the evening I was sent for by de Villeneuve’s orderly and summoned to the C.O’s office. From behind his desk, he looked up at me with a thin smile on his face. “Fullard. I’ve read your reports from today and made the calls to the frontlines. They did, indeed, find the wrecks of two Fokkers there. Congratulations, the victory is yours”. Excitedly I saluted him and shook his hand. “Now then. You are Americain, yes?” he asked, and I nodded. “Well, l’Escadrille Americaine, as you may know, have been activated three days ago, and they are still seeking pilotes to fill their roster. The option to transfer may come to you, indeed, you may request it yourself. But I would urge you to stay with Escadrille 31. We shall need good pilots like yourself among us”. I paused for a moment. “Okay, sir, I’ll consider my options”. The C.O. leaned back in his chair, smiling warmly as he produced his oversized pipe. “I am glad to hear it. That will be all, Sergent”.
That night, my thoughts were racing. Whereas the war seemed so quiet and faraway last week, after today it felt alive and constant. Will Michael join the Escadrille Americaine? I thought to myself. If he does, I must go as well. I should write him tomorrow. As I had the thought, two feelings conflicted. On the one hand, I relished the chance to see my brother once more, and to fly alongside him. On the other, I thought that I would sorely miss my new friends at my current Escadrille.
Wow! Looks like Fullard might have just saved a lot of his Entente pals some real bother in the future!
HISTORICAL NOTE:
It was Esc N.31's fifth C.O, Lieutenant Lucien Couret de Villeneuve, that came up with the Greek Archer insignia, which Esc. 31 would use for the remainder of the war, when he assumed command in April 1916.
Raine, enjoy your trip and congrats on yet another grandkid. How did you score a leave to Blighty? Did your C.O. approve it? Leave the snow and cold behind, that’s the life! Lou is the God of War now? I can see it now: everyone gets a transfer to a unit flying Parasols Lou, if you’re reading this, I was only joking. No! No! Not the Moranes! Help! Wulfe, I didn’t know Lemoine was this superstitious. Does he really think there’s a sniper observing the aerodrome? That was a great battle and I loved how the tables have turned. Stealing kills from the AI - brilliant! Congrats on the confirmed victory and HA nonetheless. Now, what will Fullard decide? Will he stay or will he go? It is entirely up to his brother, I suppose.
No flying for Gaston today either. More bad weather.
"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."
Oooooo, in that case I really hope Fullard gets to hear the story how Lemoine became a pilot, before he transfers to Lafayette.
"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."
Moving house is great fun. I don't know why I don't do it more.
That's done and now I've got two weeks of family holiday to enjoy. Stewart is getting some home leave. All of the British pilots are due some now. Of the flying that Stewart did do in March and April, most was uneventful. I think that the nearby Moranes were having all the fun.
The stories have been excellent and there is far too much to comment on, so I will only say congratulations to Raine on the new addition to your family. My daughter is now 8 months old, so I have fresh evidence that girls are a handful!
Figures for March and April;
March 31st 2Lt William Arthur George Stanley 16 Squadron RFC La Gorgue 0 kills 43 combat hours
April 30th 2Lt William Arthur George Stanley 16 Squadron RFC La Gorgue 1 kill 59 combat hours
Two BE2cs of 16 squadron hung in the air over the lines near Loos. Robert Le Brasseur piloted the lead machine while his observer, Cyril Marshall was taking photograph after photograph with his C type camera. Arthur Stanley followed a little behind with Billy Budgen mindfully scanning the skies with his hands on his Lewis gun.
Budgen had good cause to be vigilant. Perhaps by chance, 3 German monoplanes emerged from a cloud nearby and at a higher altitude. It was soon clear that they were coming in to attack the reconnaissance flight. The lead eindekker was of a darker and greener hue than the others. This machine attached itself to Stewart's Quirk.
Even as he banked and skidded across the sky to throw off his attacker's aim, Stanley looked across to see if he could help Le Brasseur. Stanley was flying the escorting machine after all. Two Fokkers were pressing their attacks close to Le Brasseur. One was too close.
Even from so far away, Stanley imagined that he could feel the crunch as the two aeroplanes collided. Two wing tips striking each other in mid-air.
Both machines spun away from the impact. The second eindekker seemed to take fright and fled east from the dreadful scene. “Who killed Cock Robin?” Stanley thought to himself, remembering a childhood rhyme.*
There was no more time to think on the fate of Le Brasseur and Marshall. Above Stanley's head Budgen swung his Lewis and fired. The green Fokker was still attacking.
The German pilot was good, but Stanley's confidence with the BE2 was considerable and he could turn and skid across the sky in such a way that the German pilot never found his mark. Budgen could not get an effective shot in either, although he tried. The Lewis chattered every time that Stanley swerved the rudder to give his observer a shot at the trailing monoplane. After a good quarter of an hour of this, the German pilot apparently decided that he was not going to get this Britisher and turned away for home. Stanley swore that the dark figure in the cockpit was smiling and waving as he left them.
Landing at La Gorgue, Stanley trudged over to the recording officer. “Good flight, Wags?” Westcott asked him. “I wouldn't say so,” Stanley replied wearily. “We were attacked by three Huns. I escaped mine, but Robin collided with an Eindekker. He and the photographs are gone.” Westcott smiled, “I wouldn't say that. We had word from a forward landing field. La Brasseur and Marshall landed safely. Robin even claimed for an Eindekker going down out of control. Do you think that you can confirm that one?” Stanley laughed with relief. “I should say so! It's not a conventional method, but it worked!”
Loos Railyard burned. Or at least, a few buildings did. The Cooper bombs carried by the BE2c amounted to little more than a few hand grenades. Stanley knew that they might kill a few men, but the railway and rolling stock were completely safe. The Quirks were not quite as safe. As Stewart and Le Brasseur slowly turned for home a Fokker dived on Le Brasseur's machine.
Stanley had been watching and swept underneath and to the right of Robin's craft. Budgen was ready with his Vickers and fired a burst. The Fokker began to turn. Budgen pulled the trigger again. And again. Stanley was beginning to wonder if his gunner would have to reload soon when the Fokker tipped into a spin.
The movement was vicious and there was no way that the German pilot was in control. Stanley watched as the monoplane span without recovery until it suddenly erupted in a cloud of debris. Stanley looked up at Billy Budgen, who gave him a thumbs up sign with this thick flying gloves.
Two BE2s landed at La Gorge. The propellers slowed to a halt and Stanley could almost taste the sudden silence. Slowly voices and the sound of laughter emerged from the profound stillness. “Well done chaps!” Robin applauded them. “It's a little unsporting to use a machine gun, rather than a wing tip, but I don't think that Wing will mind much.”
Lt Robert Henry Hubert Le Brasseur's nickname was “Robin.” There is an RFC version of Who Killed Cock Robin. It goes like this;
Who killed Cock Robin? I said the Hun, with my Spandau gun I killed Cock Robin.
[Chorus] And all the pilots who were there said, “f**** it, we will chuck it.” When they heard Cock Robin had kicked the f****ing bucket. When they heard Cock Robin had kicked the bucket.
Who saw him hit? I, said old Fritz, I saw him hit. And I saw him fall to bits.
[Chorus]
Who saw him die? I' said the spy, with my beady eye. I saw him die.
[Chorus]
And all the pilots in the air went a strafing and a bombing when they heard of the death of poor Cock Robin.
Maeran, looks like you had your hands full. Congrats on a confirmed first victory, even though it was accomplished in a very conventional way! Hopefully there will be more to come. Poor Cock Robin.
"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."
Maeran - Great to hear what Stanley's been up to! Sounds like his B.E.2 proficiency is serving him well. Congratulations on victory No.1, and good thing 'Cock Robin' got down okay as well!
Hellshade - has it been that many already! Well, here's looking forwards to the next 100 pages!
Sgt. James B. Fullard Esc. N31 Ochey Aerodrome, France, 2 Victories.
April 24th, 1916:
At first light we were suddenly and unpleasantly awakened by an awful sound of scraping wood, floating into the corridor from the mess. “Merde! Who’s making that damned racket? Is that you, Messier?” came Lemoine’s anguished voice. A happy “Oui! It’s me!” answered, and there was an immediate chorus of profane outrage.
As we congregated for breakfast (by which point Messier had thankfully departed) we found the source of the noise. The orderly had dragged in a large blackboard, propped up on a wooden canvas, on which the day’s assignments had been written in white chalk. My name was written under the first sortie of the day - a dawn patrol at the St. Mihiel Curve - alongside little Devienne, Ortoli and Metayer. The youngster let out a miserable moan as he spotted his own name. “The dawn patrol again! They’re trying to kill me!” Ortoli smirked. “Oh, come on, future As des As, you can cope!” Devienne thumbed his nose at him.
On the airfield we saw for the first time our re-painted Nieuports. Our machines looked fierce with their new squadron insignia. The uniformity gave me the impression of professionalism; we looked dangerous. I saw on the faces of my colleagues that they were having similar thoughts. Devienne’s mechanics had been quick to paint the youngster’s heart insignia onto one of the Squadron’s spare Nieuports.
The cold was fierce as our Nieuports lifted up into the sky, and I hunched down in my cockpit as Ortoli led us into the climb, occasionally rubbing my hands against my legs in a desperate attempt to regain some warmth about my body, to no avail. We found our altitude and pointed towards the lines. Despite the cold, the trip was almost pleasant - we were treated to a wonderful view of the sun slowly climbing its way up and above the clouds, bathing France in the now-familiar gold of dawn, catching incredibly in the thin morning haze.
To the lines we sailed, and I saw my colleagues’ goggles flashing in the sun as they slowly turned their heads to scan for the omniprescent Fokkers. The wind had picked up considerably, and our delicate Nieuports rocked around like merry drunkards. Below us I noticed the lines were eerily quiet, and no artillery bursts could be seen. Have we finally stopped the German push? I wondered quietly to myself. I was snapped out of my daydreaming by a motion out of the corner of my eyes - Ortoli was rocking his wings fervently. Suddenly, he curved off to the right and I saw the shift in his propeller’s speed as he tore off towards an unseen enemy.
As we flew, I scanned excitedly for the enemy. Quickly I saw him - a lone Aviatik, circling ominously above our trench lines. He hadn’t seen us, and Ortoli employed the same tactic as Lemoine had done yesterday, making a wide curve to cut off the two-seater’s retreat line. The Bosche spotted us and promptly turned for home, but it was too little too late; we were closing fast.
I got behind the Aviatik and fired a long burst at him, cursing aloud as the wind rocked my nose and threw my aim. Suddenly I was buffeted upward into the Observer’s line of sight, and the tracers flashed backwards at me. Alarmed, I dove down and curved away, looking worriedly at my now-shattered windscreen. The others set about their work of attacking the Aviatik now - I saw a Nieuport bearing Ortoli’s palm get in close behind the two-seater and fire another long burst, and a gratifying trail of smoke plumed outwards. Ortoli dove under the machine, and a third Nieuport took his place, as I rose my nose up again to fire from below. Two crossed streams of tracers perforated the Aviatik as I expended the last of my ammunition, and it slowly dipped forwards before disappearing below us at a sickeningly high speed, caught in its final death-dive.
We formated again and turned back for our side. The German artillery started up at us in vengeful rage, but the bursts didn’t bother us too much. Ortoli pulled up alongside me, and I was surprised to see that he wore a terribly nervous expression. It was then that I became aware of a burning sensation on my left side. I peered down, and nearly cried out in shock as I saw a red patch, blooming outward like a rose, forming from a tear in my flying jacket. Immediately I felt nauseous, and black spots appeared in front of my eyes. The pain grew into a crescendo of nauseating agony. I looked over, terrified, at Devienne, who wore the same expression of concern that Ortoli had. With his teeth gritted, he flew close to my own machine, the nervy anticipation showing on his young face.
The pain was intense, but I resolved to try and take my machine back to Ochey. My wingmen stuck close to me as I glanced over my Nieuport, trying to assess the damage. Apart from the windshield, there were some flying wires that now hung loose and severed, trailing behind my machine, and I saw a fine groove in the cowling where a bullet had skimmed off its metal surface. The journey back to Ochey was agony. Several times I felt my eyelids grow heavy, as my head drooped downwards, but this was usually met with a surge of frightened determination as I fought to stay awake. Adrenaline fired on all cylinders. Several times the wind carried me off course, but clever Ortoli had taken point in front of me and guided me back in the right direction each time I faltered.
After what felt like hours, Ochey came into view and my three wingmen peeled away to give me space to land. I did so, or at least made a poor imitation of a landing, and as my machine rolled to a stop I saw Thierry and Souris marching my way. Feebly I flipped the magnetos off, and I heard my mechanic’s voice as he approached.
“What in the hell is this?! Fullard, what have you done to my Nieu-” his voice abruptly ceased and his eyes widened as he noticed the small patch of blood which had soaked through the side of the fuselage. Immediately he broke into a sprint towards me. I allowed myself to slump backwards, my head tilting up to face the sky, as I heard Thierry’s cries of “le Toubib! Le Toubib!”. Then he was at my side. “Oh, Christ, tu imbécile” he murmured as he looked over my wound, then, pushing himself up onto the fuselage stirrup, he grabbed me under the arms. “Sorry in advance, friend”.
I gasped in impossible agony as I was pulled from my machine and laid down on the ground. A moment later I was lifted onto a stretcher. As I was whisked towards the doctor’s tent, I watched Devienne, Ortoli and Metayer circling overhead. Shapes seemed to blur as the sky disappeared above me, being replaced by canvas, and the middle-aged face of our squadron’s doctor appeared above me. He injected me with something and I felt the agony slowly subside. Relief crashed down upon me like an almighty wave, and with a long sigh I shut my eyes and allowed myself to slip into darkness.
I awoke not long after, my torso and arm bandaged. Slowly and painfully raising myself up, I saw the doctor at his desk, smoking a cigarette and stooping over a sheet of paper, penning away. “Is it bad?” I asked, quietly. He turned slowly, removing his half-moon glasses and stowing them away in a pocket. “Bad, no. But too damned lucky! A bullet passed just under your left armpit, between your arm and your ribs. You have a nasty gash on both, but the bullet went past. A few more inches to the right and it would have been your heart, jeune. But, as it is, you’ve gotten off lightly. You’ll be flying again in no time”. I let out a shaky breath. “How long?” I asked, and he smirked. “Four days. You’ll have to be patient”. I groaned, slumping back down into the bed. “A week of rain and I get shot the moment it clears up! At this rate I’ll miss the whole bloody war” I muttered. The doctor chuckled as he turned back to his work.
I'll get the hang of knocking down two-seaters in the end...it might take me a few pilots, though!!
And so the Aviatiks take another pilot out of the roster. Lucky graze for Fullard! I know Aleck will be very wary of attacking the German two-seaters again once he returns to action.
Where is our resident Gong Fairy? We should be receiving our “100 pages” campaign ribbon. Wulfe, those were some intense moments there. Glad Fullard can dodge bullets with the best of them. Yeah, those pesky gunners are getting better at plying their trade. And that new paint job is looking sharp. Well done.
"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."
Lots to catch up on Gents! It seems everyone is still alive but some only by the skin of their teeth.
Lt. Mark Jericho Lahoussoy Aerodrome April 25, 1916
Jericho had not been in a cheery mood lately. The gloomy weather had not helped. Swany was gone and 4 days ago his long time gunner/observer, Christian, had been reassigned to Capt. Griffen, leader of C Flight. It had hit them both hard, but it was futile to complain. They had shaken hands and bid each other good luck. Only those who know the brotherhood of combat knew what the handshake meant. Jericho was worried about Christians safety. Griffen had lost 2 observers in the same number of weeks. His new observer was a Captain Barrus, an Irishman with plenty of experience. He seemed a good sort but time will tell.
Today was their 1st flight together, a recon mission northeast of Cappy. The weather was not bad. Partly cloudy with good visability. As they started their second round over the area 2 Fokkers dove in from behind. As Jericho had told Barrus, he turned into them. One flew passed to engage Griffen but the other dove away. Jericho immediately turned to engage the Fokker going after Griffen. As they were approaching it Jericho heard Barrus open up with his gun. "Griffen will have to deal with him on his own" he thought as he turned slightly to give Barrus a better shot. Jericho and the Fokker made two circles trying to get advantage with Barrus getting in a shot when he could. Turning his head to see where his enemy was Jericho could not believe his eyes! The Fokker was starting to smoke but was not breaking away. The Hun Pilot soon realized that his engine was damaged and turned for home but it was too late. His prop had stopped!
Jericho followed the dead Eindecker down until he crossed the lines and crash landed behind the German trenches. Barrus banged on the side of the fuselage giving Jericho the thumbs up. It will have been a good day if Griffen and Christian had escaped the first Hun. As they approached the aerodrome Jericho saw Griffens machine circling to land and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was backslapping all around as they had also knocked their Eindecker down on our side of the lines.
The afternoon show was an Arty spotting mission which went without a hitch. Upon landing Jericho and Barrus were summoned to the Major's office. "What have you done now Lt?" Barrus asked Jericho. Jericho replied "Not one thing Capt. But that don't mean we are not in for an ass chewing. I'm the Major's pet don't you know."
As they entered the Majors office with a salute the Major told them "Congratulations. It seems our troops in the trenches saw your fight this morning and confirmed your Eindecker."
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!
Keith Cunard Mallory Sgt, Rfc 29 Sqn, Ablee AF. DH-2's
April 25, 1916.
Airfield attack: Great fun, Hq want us to set the flying field on Fire by using Flares. Lots of bright colors in between machine gunning the e/a Hangers tents, but no fire. Spotted and attacked a landing e/a ,but could tell if I hit his motor or he shut it off. The e/a seemed to get down ok so no claim. All 5 of our Sqn a/c came back.
MFair, looks like Cpt. Barrus is a keeper. Well done! One Eindecker less to worry about. Congrats on the confirmation. Carrick, flares against an aerodrome?
25 April, 1916 05:40 morning mission Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Lieutenant Gaston A. Voscadeaux 18 confirmed kills
B Flight Ltn. Voscadeaux Adj. Albert Delbee (wingman) Adj. Boillot
Beautiful, beautiful weather! Blue skies, some clouds and no sign of rain! The ‘B’ flight was tasked with a patrol over the friendly aerodrome of La Cheppe. It was another great exercise in formation keeping for Adjutant Delbee. No contact, apart from some signs of archie as they were circling the 'drome to land. They'll have to catch up with the Huns some other time.
25 April, 1916 14:00 afternoon mission Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Lieutenant Gaston A. Voscadeaux 18 confirmed kills
This afternoon Gaston led his flight members on a patrol over enemy camp north of St. Mihiel salient, across from Fresne, on the east outskirts of La Reine Forest. As soon as they have reached the frontlines Violette's engine started to act up and Gaston was informed by the ailing power plant that he cannot continue through a message on his wind screen written in oil spatter. Voscadeaux detached from the formation and wished his flight mates good luck. He was afraid he will have to put down somewhere in a farmer's field again, but Violette soldiered on and finally he reached Senard and set her gently down on the green field of the aerodrome. The rest of the ‘B’ flight returned victorious half an hour later. Ltn. Dagonet and Adj. Delbee claimed an Aviatik each. Cpl. Etienne Tsu returned empty handed. Dagonet came over to where Gaston was sitting with a glass of wine and asked, "- What happened to you? We could have used you." "- Yes, you could have used me to steal another of my claims. Couldn't you?" Gaston was annoyed but didn't say anything. Dagonet continued, "I had to do all the work." Voscadeaux couldn't restrain himself anymore. "- It is hard work getting your own kills, isn't it?" Caporal Tsu, who hasn't said a word until now, erupted into uncontrollable laughter. It appears the reason he did not claim a victory today was standing in front of them, making boasts. Dagonet, made a sour face and left without uttering another word. "- Come, sit with me Etienne. Have a drink!" Gaston's mood has just improved.
"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."
Keith Cunard Mallory Sgt, Rfc 29 Sqn, Ablee AF. DH-2's
April 26, 1916.
Morning mission: Rail yard. damage ? sgn sent 4 a/c.
afternoon: My wing man and I became separated from our flight in clouds ran into 3 Mono planes. My wingman got his a flamer. I was chased about til they turned after wing man then I was able to get on a green colored e/a and after expending all but 19 rds he caught fire and crashed by our balloon next to the River across from Messines.