Willi has been cheated out a victory. Seems that the pilot of the other Roland, a Uffz Richter, landed at Douai and telephoned Kasta 14 claiming that he shot the Vogelkäfig (FE2b) down, forcing it to crash over enemy lines. The Hauptmann was now in a bind as to what to do. Eventually he decided that no one shot the EA down, rather the Kasta would get the credit. And on top of that, because of Willi's outrage, the second Fe2 of the day was also credited to the "Kasta" and not to Willi....... Prussian As-----les.
So today Willie went up and brought down two others, a Dh2 and a Be2. Both given....yippy
Posted to dawn Balloon Mission : I only made the take off. After gaining height , I didnt have power. I was at full power settings but only getting 70 mph air speed so RTB
Posted to Escort Mission: I flew as part of a 4 a/c cover flight for a lone Be 2 over NML. No contact
Scout, looks like things are heating up for your pilot. Congrats on the second confirmed kill. Lederhosen, it also looks like the move to Flanders was a good one. Willi appears to have more luck against the Brits than against the Frenchies. Carrick, you're having a quiet period. Enjoy it before the storm.
5 May, 1916 Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Capitaine Gaston A. Voscadeaux 25 confirmed kills
Today Gaston was introduced to his new wingman, Lieutenant Denys Thuillier. He would keep the opinion of the man to himself for now. His balloon kill was also confirmed. It was his 25th victory. The flight to St. Mihiel went without any trouble. Voscadeaux, Thuillier and Boillot played nanny to the Nieuport 12 of the ‘A’ flight. The visibility was excellent and upon arriving over the target, two Fokkers at a lower altitude were spotted by none other than Adjutant Boillot. The entire flight swooped down and commenced their attack. The Huns were well trained and Gaston found it hard to keep them off his tail. Boillot took one out in flames after Gaston crippled it with repeated salvos from his Lewis. The other Fokker was luckier. Voscadeaux run out of ammo and the Boche was forced to put down in NML beside the smoking crater of his flight mate. The French flight regrouped and returned to base.
"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."
Rain the last 2 days so assumed Mess duties. Unloaded a truck full of Bully Beef. Flour and jam along with 5 Tins of Rum. Nothing else got thru. I hook a hike down the road during a dry spot of weather and traded flour and Bully Beef for milk and eggs.
Patrol behind enemy lines. We were ambushed from behind by Fokkers as we crossed back over our lines. Rowle and I had to fight, while McHard and rookie Talbot flew on unaware. I lost sight of Rowle and had to fight hard to get out of trouble with a well flown EIII. I finally got the better of him and damaged his engine, slowing him and so i prepared to make the final kill as he slowly coasted down. Suddenly a second Fokker roared past my tail and I was in a new fight. We turned hard, wingtips only a few feet off the ground, with gaping German soldiers below. The enemy lost his nerve and i gave him several telling bursts ... he lost power and landed in the mud.
Two claims put in and all our fliers safe and accounted for. A good day.
I'm scrambling to catch up after having a busy week - still been checking up on everyone's stories, though! All good stuff.
Sgt. James B. Fullard, Esc. N31, Ochey Aerodrome, France.
3 Victories.
May 8th 1916:
Each day I awaited Georges handing me my transfer papers for the Escadrille Americaine. Each day I was disappointed anew.
In the air, the mood was tense after the sudden arrival of the Rolands. De Villeneuve had ordered every pilot onto the airfield at 0500 on the 3rd, informing us that multiple German squadrons in our sector were thought to have the new machine. He also went through a list of reported strengths and weaknesses of the craft. There were few weaknesses. Over the front, our scanning became more fervent, more attentive. Nobody wanted to encounter a Roland flight.
That day, Jensen, little Devienne and I were assigned to escort Tartaux and Papiel’s N.12s to St. Mihiel on a Bombing raid of the Bosche trenches. As we approached the lines we opened our throttles and pulled ahead of the two Biplaces. Suddenly I noticed two machines flying alongside us at our level - Aviatik Cs, returning to their own side from our lines. Jensen saw them at almost the same time and immediately we turned in for the attack. Jensen slotted in behind the rear Aviatik and I saw two simultaneous bursts of tracer. Suddenly the Nieuport dropped its nose and curved away. Devienne fell behind the machine next, and I watched the two exchange fire as I closed in on the foremost Aviatik. I turned my attention to my own quarry - the Aviatik in front. I fired a long burst, watching my tracers slam through the white fuselage as I slowly closed, and then, with a jolt, the gun fell silent, jammed.
I cried out in frustration and dove under the Aviatik, curving away and watching over my shoulder as the German two-seater’s propeller churned to a stop. I circled back and stayed at a safe distance to observe the Aviatik sinking down towards the mud, where it eventually crashed down into a row of tree stumps just West of the banks of l’Étang de Wargévaux. Satisfied, I circled a little to watch the two grey shapes emerge from the wrecked machine and scramble towards the German trenches, before lazily circling for home.
After making my report, I was called into de Villeneuve’s office. “Have a seat, Fullard” the C.O offered. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you”. My mind immediately went to Michael. and I felt a cold chill run down my spine. “These three claims you’ve put in. I can’t have any of them confirmed for you”. There was a short pause. “Is that the news, sir?” I ventured. He smiled faintly. “Yes. That’s all. But, I don’t doubt these claims. In fact, I wanted to give you a little something in recognition”. He pushed a sheet of paper over the table, which I took up and looked over. It was a 48 hour pass. “But, sir, I-” I was cut off by de Villeneuve’s kind, but firm voice.
“Take a rest. You’ve had nothing but dawn patrols for two weeks”. Almost as if the words had summoned the sensation, at that moment I felt a sudden tiredness. Thanking the C.O, I made my way back to the barracks for supper.
In the mess, I found Ortoli, Lemoine and Chaput sitting around the table, their faces wearing looks of distant sadness. Lemoine nodded quietly as I pulled up a seat, my eyes flitting from pilot to pilot, searching for a context to their misery. Eventually I took the plunge and asked "What's going on?". Jensen turned to me, his brow furrowing as he answered. "ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪᴇɴɴᴇ's ᴍɪssɪɴɢ. ɪ ᴅᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪɢʜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴍʏ ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴅᴀᴍᴀɢᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴀᴡ ʜɪᴍ ғᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀ sᴘɪɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ʜɪs ᴍᴀᴄʜɪɴᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴛʀᴀɪʟɪɴɢ sᴍᴏᴋᴇ". The news went through me like a shockwave, and I slouched down in my seat. Weakly, I muttered "Dammit. He was a good kid". Across from me, Lemoine took a sip from his hip flask, his face briefly contorting into misery before he quickly shot up from his seat, cried out "Merde! and stormed away towards his room. The slam of his door shook the barracks.
The day seemed to take an infinity to pass and the mood was low. Nobody lingered after supper, and we all turned in for an early night. As I lay down to sleep, I slipped into a dream where I was laughing at some joke Lemoine had made. Devienne was there too, his face youthful and innocent as he laughed along. The scene switched, in the haze that they often do, and we were around the mess table, with Devienne telling us "I will be l'As des As! I'll be better than even le Violet!". Michael was there in the dream, and in English he replied "Yeah right, Kiddo! You just worry about watching your back, okay?".
I was mercifully saved from the unsettling dreams by the arrival of Georges, with a pilot in tow. The pilot looked to be in his early thirties, with faint stubble around his jawline and sleek, black hair swept casually back with a comb. His tunic hung casually unbuttoned as he stood with one hand in his pocket, the other nursing a half-smoked cigarette. With ice-blue eyes, a squared, slightly curving jawline and hard, sharp cheekbones, the man was incredibly handsome. He reminded me of the silver screen stars back at home. "My apologies, sir, I didn't mean to wake you" Georges offered, and then gestured to the man. "This is your new roommate, Sergent Quinchez. I extended an arm from under the covers. "Apologies, friend. This isn't quite a proper introduction". Quinchez smirked as he gave my hand a firm pressure. "Not to worry, mon Ami. It is quite late, and I am tired anyway. Let us be properly acquainted in the morning?". "Yes, let's do that". I promptly rolled over, pulling the wool sheet over my head and slipping back into an unsettling dreamworld.
On the 5th de Villeneuve received a phone call from the front. Devienne was alive and well, albeit shaken up. The rearmost Aviatik we attacked was clearly crewed by a pair of old hands - their shooting was deadly accurate. After Jensen had dropped away with engine damage, the observer had shot out one of Devienne's propeller blades. In a panic, he threw his machine into a spin, managed to switch off the violently vibrating propeller, and come in for a rough landing in the mud. Lemoine was especially happy to have the youngster back.
The next two days were marred with bitter rain, and so I mooched about in the hangar, observing Thierry and Souris at work on my battered machine, re-patching bullet holes and re-fitting the new replacement engine. It didn't run quite as smoothly as the old engine, but it was acceptable. Thierry gave a great sigh and looked over at me, shaking his head. "You pick up an A-1 Coucou and get it shot-up within a week. You monster. Now, don't get this engine written off as well, okay? And don't collect any more holes!".
On the mornings of the 7th and the 8th it was comforting to hear little Devienne's familliar cry. "Don't get up, boys! It's perfect flying weather!".
Wulfe, too bad about all these unconfirmed claims. What gives? Hopefully the transfer papers will soon go through and I hear Americans aren't all that strict with the claims. At least you'll be on the level playing field with Michael. I was totally bummed to hear about Devienne buying the farm, but then ...
Originally Posted by Wulfe
In the mess, I found Devienne, Ortoli, Lemoine and Chaput sitting around the table, their faces wearing looks of distant sadness. Lemoine nodded quietly as I pulled up a seat, my eyes flitting from pilot to pilot, searching for a context to their misery. Eventually I took the plunge and asked "What's going on?". Jensen turned to me, his brow furrowing as he answered. "ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪᴇɴɴᴇ's ᴍɪssɪɴɢ.
But, but he's sitting … right … here. Anyway, glad he made it back. He's got the luck of the devil. That Quinchez bloke sounds like an interesting sort. Hopefully he'll live long enough for us to get to know him.
More rain for Gaston. In Devienne's own words: "It's perfect flying 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."
Just keeping you on the straight and narrow, Wulfe. I was expecting twins, though. Hope RL gets back to normal soon for you.
9 May, 1916 Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Capitaine Gaston A. Voscadeaux 26 confirmed kills
Lieutenant Denys Thuillier, Gaston’s wingman, was an intelligent and debonair man. The pencil-thin moustache was his trademark declaring, in no uncertain terms, that its owner was involved in more than one intrigue of the romantic kind. His uniform always prim, his movements always precise. A proper academic. All that Gaston wasn’t and more. And yet, not a snob and very approachable to all. During the period when the rain wouldn’t stop coming down for days, Denys and Gaston theorized, discussed and analyzed best ways to approach and destroy the dreaded Aviatiks. Their new tactics would soon be tested, once the blasted rain stops and the conditions improve. They also speculated on what the next Hunnish machine will be like. If it’s anything like the current Eindecker then they have nothing to worry about. Then they talked about women - Denys’ favourite topic. Like this one time when Denys organized an orgy and CENSORED. Finally, Gaston brought up the subject of l’Escadrille Americaine. Lieutenant Thuillier was sure the Germans would protest, since America is neutral, but Gaston was more pragmatic. What will Kaiser do? Stomp his feet? He was just glad Yanks were on the French side. For now, the precipitation would persist.
"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."
Fullofit, Denys seems a proper character indeed and one to keep an eye on. As to that pair of Fokkers, those pilots knew how to handle their kites. Despite how outdated the Eindecker is becoming they put up a good fight.
Wulfe, good news about Devienne making it through, he was lucky. Too bad James is still waiting on his transfer to l'Escadrille Americaine, but then the wheels do turn painfully slow at HQ. Also too bad about those last three claims being denied.
Scout, it sounds like Aleck's go-round with those Eindeckers was intense. The Hun must be eating their Wheaties these days.
Carrick, from the looks of it Keith was trading for more than just milk and eggs.
Lederhosen, Willi always seems to come up with nice livery on his mounts. Congrats on his latest victories, how many does that make now?
.
9 May, 1916 Northolt, Middlesex, England 70 Squadron, R.F.C. Lt. Randolph Arvid Swanson, MC & Bar, CdG 12 confirmed victories
Swany and the rest of the outfit are still waiting on the promised planes, so far only three of the allotted ten Strutters have arrived. This means that, with the original two they had to practice with, there are now five of the craft parked at Northolt. The big new for Swany however is the return of his very first gunner/obs, Lt. Christopher Dent. As some of you may recall the fellow was shot through the right shoulder back in early February during an ill-fated outing that also saw Lt. Swanson hit in the left side. At that time the doctors were not sure if Dent would ever regain the use of his arm, much less fly again. But the man is a fighter and has proven them wrong, and after three months he is fully recovered and has been assigned to 70 Squadron. Swany was happily shocked when he walked into the mess yesterday at lunch and a familiar voice shouted to him from across the room; "Well if it isn't my old chum, Lieutenant Swansong!" After a hearty handshake and pats on the back the two spent the afternoon catching up on what each had been up to. And, they have made a joint request to work as a team again. All-in-all, despite the shortage of aeroplanes, it was a very good day for the reunited duo.
Lou, seems like Swany has all the time in the world to get himself acquainted with his new kite. Hopefully all of it is put to good use and there will be no surprises once over the front. It’s a good thing Dent and Swanson found each other again. There is nothing more frustrating than showing the ropes to a new gunner for the umpteen time.
"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."
Well, I'm finally back home, but real life is determined to keep me from WOFF for a little while. Over the next two weeks I'm on the road constantly with work, but I'm also planning to go with my business partner to the Indy 500 on the 25th. I'm still working through all the fine stories I've missed. I'll catch up slowly. To cover my absence and allow for a possible flight or two, Collins's story has taken a bit of a turn...
An Airman’s Odyssey – by James Arthur Collins
Part Thirty-Six: In which I am torn from my friends
I returned from Amiens the next afternoon before dinner. I’d planned to remain until later, but after spending a day walking about and shopping it began to feel a bit lonely and I craved the company of my mates in the squadron, so I phoned to arrange a drive back to Lahoussaye.
The fellows were already gathering in the flight mess, having become thoroughly bored after two long days of poker and vingt-et-un. To my absolute delight, Dalton had returned to us after his disappearance, having spent two days in the lines with an artillery unit and waiting for his machine to be recovered. I had a wonderful meal of sausage and potatoes in our little room at Madame Defossez’s Café de Progrès and then wandered over to the farmhouse that house the senior NCOs to invite Sgt Wilson for a stroll. He wasn’t much for sightseeing, but I’d bought him a nice bottle of cognac in Amiens and we walked down to the village church and sat in the back pews chatting out of the rain and sharing sips and rude jokes until the curé kicked us out. In a slightly slurred voice, drunkenly offered to confess his sins but the old priest seemed to lack the time for that, for he unceremoniously showed us the door.
I’d barely got back to my billet when a corporal knocked at the Poidevin house and told me I was wanted by the Major. A tender was waiting outside to carry me over to the field, where I reported to the squadron office. Major Harvey-Kelly was not wearing his usual kindly expression. I saluted and looked tentatively at the chair in front of his desk.
“Remain standing, Collins. This won’t take long,” he said. “With whom have you spoken?”
“What do you mean, sir?” I replied.
“Don’t play me for a fool, Collins. I have here an order to send you to Home Establishment.”
I had no firm idea at this time what Home Establishment meant and told him so. The Major blew up in my face. “If you’re tired of this war, Collins, I’ll find you a desk. But it will be a bloody isolated desk where fighting airmen won’t have to tolerate your bloody face. I’ve bloody had it with shirkers and strikers and cowards who seen this war as a holiday camp they can beg off at will.” He was quite beside himself.
It was my obvious shock that calmed him down, for I had absolutely no idea what was happening and told him so. To his credit, he settled down and invited me to sit.
“This comes from RFC HQ, he said. And I smell something political. Who do you know?”
“I’m a Canadian, sir,” I said. “No one I know has pull east of Montreal, and if they did have pull, I wouldn’t use it. I just want to fly.”
None of it mattered, though. It seemed I had orders to depart on 22 April for England and for a new squadron, 39, that was forming at Hounslow for the defence of London. I asked Major Harvey-Kelly to appeal the order or perhaps send one of the new chaps who needed more hours in the air before being sent to darkest Hunland. After all, I explained, it’s not as if I’m a flight commander. Swapping one second lieutenant for another should not be critical. He said he’d make a call but noted that – according to Wing – the order had originated at RFC HQ and change was unlikely. At least I’d have a couple more days on my little Morane. How would I tell Wilson? And what would I say to Jericho?
I flew on both 20 April and 21 April, four missions in all, and all in drizzle and cloud. On the morning of the 20th, my engine quit on me five minutes after takeoff and I was able to put down safely. I flew again that afternoon, this time leading Sergeant Bayetto on an artillery shoot. Again the engine quit, this time when Wilson and I were just short of the lines. We put down outside Millencourt, a village near Albert. As we settled into a rough field, a gust nearly flipped the Morane over and our left wingtip touched the ground and shattered. The machine spun about, nearly nosed over, and fell back with a splintering crash. Having acquired a guard for the machine from a local battalion of Seaforths and walked a half-mile to call the squadron from a village gendarmerie, Sergeant Wilson and I were invited by a local farmer to come into his modest house for some bread and cheese and wine. To our great surprise, the man and his wife had some basic English and between that and my grammar school French, we had a very pleasant couple of hours. We paid the couple for their trouble, an offer that touched off a long argument, but Wilson had drunk two bottles of the man’s vin rouge and I had helped with another so we insisted. I hope only that it will make amends for the fact that my tipsy observer paused outside to pee as we left and in so doing, he disturbed one of the poor couple’s chickens.
"As we settled into a rough field, a gust nearly flipped the Morane over and our left wingtip touched the ground and shattered."
On 21 April we flew twice, both times to drop Hales bombs on Hun positions south of Bapaume, and both times without event. Back at Lahoussoye, I had a surprisingly emotional reaction to bidding farewell to Wilson. Jericho was off on a patrol so I couldn’t say good-bye to him in person and left a note. I packed and with great sadness took my leave of the Poidevin family and of Dalton, who was reading in their small parlour. I left Dalton my gramophone and wandered over to the café to settle my mess bill. Then I was driven to the field to pick up my travel papers. Still no change had been made in my orders. I was instructed to fly a superannuated BE2 from St-Omer to Farnborough, and then report directly to Hounslow.
It was damnable, because I’d been out in France three months and in the normal course of events would be due for some home leave. Thanks to the new posting that had likely been put off indefinitely. At best I’d get a day or two off.
I departed for St-Omer before dinner. The rain was falling in sheets again and we picked our way along rutted roads northwards.
Willi was feeling rather pleased with himself this morning. Finally after four days of continual rain the Kasta could again take to the skies. The cool fresh air cleared last nights romp at the Casino from his head. „The Casino“...Willi had been promoted to Ltn. And naturaly he was expected to celebrate it. All the furniture had been wrecked, and Willi would be helping to find replacements in the afternoon. Willi laughed to himself recounting last nights events. He was introduced to the “Dogfight”, in which you would sit in a chair with four co-pilots to lift you up. The idea being that you had to bring the other Pilots down by getting behind them and pulling them to the ground. Easier said than done.
The bombing raid near Fichneux was finished. Willi and Richter had hit the mark from 3000m. The morning was glorious, not a cloud for miles and no Tommies to bugger things up either. Richter had been avoiding Willi, especially now that he was an Officer. The run home looked simple but Willi wanted to muck about, he was enjoying flying just for the fun of it. Thoughts of Berlin and how it all started entered his minds eye, only to be taken away by little black specks appearing into the sky.
Flak. Someone had visited Bertincourt by the look of it. Richter was gone by now so Willi waggled his Roland a little to let the Passenger know what he had in mind. They were over Lagnicourt now and two permanent spots moving east to west could be made out....Tommy. Fe2b's must of bombed the airfield at Bertincourt. The two must of spotted the “Shark” for they started a slight dive for their lines. The Fe in itself was a fast aircraft but Willi's Roland was at least 500m higher and could afford to exchange altitude for speed and so it didn't take long till Willi had one lined up.
Again this Fe took an incredible amount of lead from his spandau. Three passes later and the Tommy started to slowly spiral downwards. He made no attempt to escape. The Roland circled and waited for his landing. Willi was high enough to pounce on his Tommy should he change his mind and try to make a run for it. Already little gray ants were swarming from the nearby woods, intent on preventing the pilot from burning his aircraft. Willi was elated, his tenth victory, a promotion, and a clear head at last.
Ahh, the weather broke and our tails are up. The morning Patrol was a dud a lot of white fluffy clouds no e/a.
I departed solo in the afternoon and found 2 Recon types at altitude. Got off 3 drums at the Huns but no luck. Every-time , I fired I slowed down then they got lost in the clouds. The chaps like the Dawn Patrol menu Bread , Jam, Eggs and a shot of Rum.
Raine, welcome back! So, we have a mystery on our hands. Who had requested that transfer. It looks like Collins could use a break anyway. Besides, it's time to ditch that Parasol with a wonky motor. Hope you'll be able to have some time off from your busy schedule to regale us with your campaign stories. Lederhosen, congrats on the promotion. Sounds like there is some resentment in the ranks due to this. Carrick, don't tell me you're flying the combat sorties and cooking breakfasts too!
10 May, 1916 Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Capitaine Gaston A. Voscadeaux 26 confirmed kills
Rain, rain go away Come again another day Gaston wants to play Rain, rain go away
"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."
Fullofit - Dreadful weather we're having! Thullier sounds like an interesting sort - I'm looking forwards to hearing more about him in Le Violet's story....26 confirmed. Wow, wow, wow. Keep it up!
Lou - good to see Swany make a return! Great news about his and Dent's reunion, and I'm very much looking forward to you getting that fancy Strutter to the front.
Raine - Again, good to see you back in action! Close call with the rough landing...but, hey, an HD squadron isn't a bad posting! Nice and cushy, which is exactly what Collins needs after all these months of war-flying in a Morane. Wonder who was responsible for the transfer order...
Lederhosen - Sounds like you're pretty handy in the old Walfisch...and a promotion in there, to boot! Good stuff. Looking forwards to more.
Carrick - hard luck that your quarry got away, but there's always the next one!
Sgt. James B. Fullard, Esc. N31, Ochey Aerodrome, France
3 Victories.
May 10th 1916:
“More rain”.
It was apparent in the way little Devienne drew out the syllables that even he was sick of the constant downpour that had been going steady since the morning of the 8th. I lay awake in my cot, listening to the drip-drip-drip of the rainwater, which had bore its way through the tar-paper roof, pooling up in the bucket in the corner.
“Well, I must admit. When my name popped up on the list at the G.D.E, I thought I might be able to do some flying”. I cast a glance over at Quinchez, his wry grin peeking over the edge of the scratchy wool sheet. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance”. “Mais oui, if the war’s not over before the rain is”.
The boredom was molasses. Its murky thickness weighted our bodies and our minds as we sat idly in our various positions around the mess table. The deck of cards lay abandoned in an untidy heap where they had been discarded last night, and the most up-to-date newspaper had been passed around between us too many times to serve as anything other than fuel to stoke the boiler. The only one among us who seemed contented with the weather was Lemoine. He was never fully sober anyway, but he had spent his three days’ impromptu holiday easing into a drunkenness which I didn’t suspect men capable of. If he wasn’t sleeping through the day, he was busying himself with exhausting the NCO messes’ supply of Pinard, with his faithful hip-flask, ever topped up with a substance of an unknown origin, to punctuate the moments between bottles. The others tried to find something - anything - to occupy their minds. Ortoli wrote lengthy letters home. Jensen disappeared for the day to the hangars, to work on his machine. Devienne moaned to whoever would listen about about all the Bosches he would be getting if it wasn't for the weather. Even the cool-headed Chaput seemed to be growing irritable.
As for myself, I spent most of my time in my room, rearranging my personal effects needlessly for hours at a time, trying to occupy my mind with mundane tasks. I should polish my boots. My uniform needs straightened on its hangar. The lamp needs more parafin. I fell into a cycle of repeating the same three or four tasks on a loop, stopping only for meals or when Quinchez returned to the room. It came as a great relief when little Devienne, his face fresh and excited, burst into our room with a paintbrush in hand.
"Fullard! Tartaux ferried my new machine in today. Care to help me paint it?". "He flew it in today? Through that weather?". "Of course! He's insane. But, never mind that. Want to help out?". "Anything to get out of this damned barracks!".
As we threw on our greatcoats and stepped out into the rain, Devienne handed me a second paintbrush, produced from within his pocket. "We'll need a stepladder to get up above the top wing". I looked at him questioningly. "The top wing? Just what kind of paint-job are you planning?". He grinned, but would let on nothing. We reached the hangar where his machine was stored. A wiry mechanic appeared, shaking his head. "Devienne, the C.O. will have your head, you know?". He waved the mechanic away, and pointed up at the top wing. "Right. We're painting it red". I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Painting what red...?". He laughed. "The whole wing! I want those Bosches to know that Emile Devienne is their opponent! And, of course, I want the mademoiselles to recognise me as I come in to land". He winked at me, and I gave an exasperated sigh. "Go and grab the ladder then, you young idiot".
Congrats to Willi on his most well deserved bling, and my apologies Lederhosen for not getting these posted in a more timely fashion. RL has been kicking my behind these last few weeks.