MFair - Indeed, sounds like Jericho needs to get away from the front. I can't blame him. It's hard enough going up in the N11, never mind a Morane! That's a close call with those four Eindeckers - good thing Jericho's an old hand. Sounds like your observer was a little lucky! Here's hoping he gets patched up in due time.
Carrick - close call there! Good job knocking down two Bosches, but a shame that one of your boys went down in the process.
Fullofit - Ah, Le Violet has returned, and is back to his scoring ways! Here's hoping that No. 28 gets confirmed. That is one brutal name for the poor sod that'll be flying on Gaston's wing - hopefully the next 'Chausette' manages to stay paired up for a while
Sgt. James B. Fullard, Escadrille N.31, Ochey Aerodrome, France.
May 19th 1916:
“Sacrebleu, are we getting up this early every day?” Quinchez asked, as Georges handed him a mug of cocoa with an apologetic smile. “Very sorry sir, but you are scheduled for the dawn patrol”. I fastened the buttons on my horizon-blue tunic, tilting my head up and fumbling at the two infuriating neck clasps at the collar.
“Want a hand?” Quinchez asked. “No thanks, I’ve nearly…..there. All done”. As he packed his pipe, Quinchez looked over at me inquisitively. “Say, Fullard. How come you all keep telling me to stay out of fights with the Bosche?”. I sighed, pausing to roll myself a cigarette and lighting a match. After exhaling a thin plume of grey-blue smoke, I responded. “I arrived from the G.D.E with a friend of mines, the man that used to occupy your cot. On our first patrol, he dove his Nieuport into the ground while chasing the tail of a Fokker. The first time I ever encountered a Biplace, I was nearly shot dead. Soon enough we’ll welcome an extra man in a fight, but for now it’s better to watch. To learn”.
He nodded, becoming lost in thought. Flashing him a smile, I patted him on the shoulder. “Come on then, let’s go find out where they’re sending us today”.
In the mess we found Jensen and Devienne. I nodded a greeting to them as we entered, and Jensen grunted a response. As I sat down, Devienne pushed a plate of stacked-up buttered toast in my direction. “Did you hear, Ortoli is claiming your Fokker from yesterday?”. In between chews I shrugged. “Well, we both fired at the same time, and both hit. It could have been his. By any means, he deserves it for getting through all that artillery fire”. Devienne nodded. “He did seem a little shaken last night, didn’t he?”.
Jensen, who had been studying a map of the front, now flicked his gaze upwards at the three of us. “ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɴᴇᴡs. ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ғʀᴏɴᴛ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ. ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴏʟʟɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏᴜʟ”. I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that is good news, Jensen. You know what Bosche machine comes as far back as far back as Toul”. The hulking Dane ran a thumb across his lip as he considered this. “ᴡᴀʟғɪsᴄʜ? ʜᴍ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀsᴇ, ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴜs ᴀʟʟ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀʏ ᴄʟᴏsᴇ. ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ ᴜɴʟᴇss ɪ sɪɢɴᴀʟ ɪᴛ”. Hastily, Devienne and I had agreed. Being among the unlucky few to have fought the new German type, we were in no great rush to repeat the act.
On the flight line, the scarlet of Devienne’s upper wing shone brilliantly against the dewy, muted green of the gently rolling grass. As we made for our machines, I stopped Quinchez in his tracks. He looked at me with a faint smile, which quickly faded when he saw the seriousness in my face. “Quinchez. Do you think you can fight in the air?”. His chest swelled. “Mais oui, of course! If we meet le Bosche, I won’t disappoint”. I nodded slowly. “Alright. If we see the Bosche, come in behind me and find yourself a target. But don’t forget to keep looking behind you. And if we run into Rolands, you fly straight back here. No excuses. Okay?”. He frowned. “But, what i-” “No excuses”.
His emerald-green, piercing eyes met my gaze, as he drew himself up to his full height. With a look of focus, he repeated - “No excuses”.
After we were all aboard our machines and airborne, Jensen climbed lazily around Ochey, bringing our flight up to 8,000 feet before turning towards Toul. At my back, Quinchez’ machine followed intently, every movement fluid and measured. He was anticipating his first fight. Behind him, at the rear of our formation, Devienne lazily swayed from side to side. Occasionally the side of his helmet flashed in his windscreen as he checked behind us for impending danger.
As we approached Toul, two shapes appeared from the North. Tensely, I glanced over at Jensen. He had seen them too, and was keeping his eyes firmly fixed on them. We approached from below, and the shapes took form. Aviatiks. Immediately Jensen gave the signal to climb. As one, we lifted our noses up to give chase. The two German machines split apart, each turning for the front in a desperate bid to escape. Like wolves, we stalked one of the now-alone Bosche, and I crept underneath his tail, firing a long burst into him before curving away to a flank. As I looked back, I saw Quinchez take up position behind the Aviatik and start firing. Careful, stay under his tail… I willed him in his head, watching anxiously as the tracers flashed into the Bosche machine.
Quinchez did well, and not once did he give the Bosche observer a shot, but his aim was lacking and, despite scoring some good hits, the Bosche flew on. I couldn’t help but smile as Quinchez imitated me, curving away to a flank in a descending spiral, avoiding return fire from the Aviatik. I settled onto the tail of the German again and fired a second burst, but in a flash of panic realised that he was going much slower than I had anticipated. Planning to sail underneath the Aviatik, I continued firing.
It was then that it happened. In an instant, with no warning, the Aviatik pitched sharply down. With a cry of terror I threw the stick forwards with such force that the safety straps bit into my shoulders agonisingly. Time seemed to slow as the horizon tilted, and with my mouth agape I looked up at the belly of the Aviatik, close enough to touch. I saw the tears and holes left by our bullets, the spats of red that had soaked through the bottom of the observer’s cockpit. From the side of the fuselage hung the limp arm of the observer, the glimmer of a watch-face around its wrist flashing in the light.
The bracing wires of my nieuport screamed out in fervent protest as we fell, completely vertical. The Aviatik was keeping pace with my own plummeting machine, blocking me from pulling out of the dive. Almost in a daze of horror and overpowering fear, I watched the fabric begin to tear on the wings. It was then that some animalistic instinct, some base desire, to stay alive, took dominion over my body, as I kicked the rudder hard to the right, yanking the stick to follow and quarter-rolling my Nieuport, before pulling back on the stick and tearing myself out of the dive.
There was a horrendous groaning sound that I felt, rather than heard, as my little Nieuport suffered under the force, and with a sickening jolt I watched as the lower left wing buckled slightly, the Vee-strut splintering and cracking. For a few moments I flew numbly along. The entire ordeal had been two, maybe three seconds long. It felt a lifetime. Feeling nausea rise, I leaned over the right side of the cockpit, expecting to be sick over the side. As I did, I saw the last white flashes of the Aviatik as it broke apart in its own death-dive, the tail whipping violently back and forth as the wings shed themselves one-by-one. I hastily looked away before the German machine hit the ground.
My hands trembling violently, I turned back towards Ochey, cutting the throttle as low as I could afford to in fear of the damaged lower wing being torn away completely. “Okay. You’re okay, Fullard. Get a grip. There’s an airfield at Toul. Land there” I told myself. It wasn’t long before I spotted the airfield. In confusion, I noticed that the artillery guns were firing. Looking up, I saw the remaining Aviatik, making his solemn trip towards the lines. In careful, agonisingly slow circles, I descended. Looking over my shoulder, I noticed that another Nieuport was following me down. Turning to focus on my landing, I tried vainly to steady my hands as the ground rushed up towards me. No sooner had my wheels touched the ground when there was a spark at my nose, followed by a horrible shaking as splatters of oil obscured my windscreen. I quickly switched the magneto off as my machine ground-looped to a halt.
I was staring forwards, my face blank, as the mechanic ran up to my side, whistling loudly and flicking water from his fingertips. “Là! Là! Là! Là! But I have never seen such a close call!”. I didn’t respond to him. He slightly frowned, stepping up on the fuselage stirrup and looking into my cockpit. “Are you hurt?” he asked. Snapping out of my daze, I turned to face him. “No...no, I’m…” I stammered, shakily rising from the cockpit. With an expression of sympathy worn on his face, the mechanic helped me down from my cockpit. At the same time, the second nieuport came in to land, and I saw the Greek Archer on its side. It was Quinchez.
As his Nieuport rolled to a stop, he practically threw himself from the cockpit and came sprinting over to me, tearing off his flying helmet and casting it aside as he ran. “Fullard! Are you okay! Are you hit?!” he was frantic as he arrived at my side. “I’m okay, Quinchez. I have no idea how…”.
After handing me a cigarette and finding me a wooden crate to sit on, Quinchez and the mechanic inspected my machine. Calming slightly, but still shaken, I could now see just how lucky I was. The lower left wing was bent at a sickening angle, sweeping back from the fuselage and only being affixed to the upper planes by the warped and twisted strut. A large section of fabric hung loose from the upper wing, and there were several exposed ribs on the fuselage. Weakly, I called out to the mechanic, “Can you fix her? I need to get back to my squadron”. The mechanic sadly shook his head. “Monsieur, this coucou will never fly again. It’s a miracle you landed her in the first place”.
I sat out on the aerodrome, nervously smoking my cigarette and watching the mechanics wheel my battered machine to the side of the Bessoneaux. Quinchez, contented that I was in good hands, patted me on the shoulder. “We sure showed that Bosche a thing or two, eh? I’d better head back to Ochey. I’ll let de Villeneuve know you’re safe”. He jumped back up into his Nieuport and called a mechanic over to swing his prop. A sudden thought popped into my head, and I jumped to my feet, rushing over to his cockpit.
“Quinchez! Tell them to send a crew for my machine!” “What? Why? Mon ami, she’s dead!” “The hell she is! Send a crew. Thierry can fix her up”. “...I’ll do what I can”.
I watched as Quinchez taxied around to the end of the airfield, before racing down its length and lifting up again into the sky.
Pierre arrived in his little Fiat roughly an hour after Quinchez’ departure, arriving onto the aerodrome in his usual terrifying promptness. Stepping out of the car, he flashed me a wide grin as he beckoned me over. “Fullard, mon ami Americain! Been a while since I’ve had to come and fetch you! What did you manage to do this time?”. Weakly, I climbed into the passenger seat, not meeting Pierre’s gaze. With every blink I was in that death-dive again, staring upwards at the dead German observer’s watch. It had looked expensive - the strap was silver. From the way it had rattled against his lifeless wrist, it needed a link removed. I found a distant fascination that I should even remember such a detail, during what I was sure was my final moment alive.
Climbing into the driver’s seat next to me, Pierre cast a glance my way as he started up the motor. “It was bad this time?” he asked me quietly, a surprising tone of maturity and wisdom in his voice. I stared down at my hands, which still quivered slightly. “I’m not sure what kept me alive”.
Unusually, Pierre was conservative with his driving as we rolled down the country lanes towards Ochey. We sat in silence for the journey, and Pierre walked with me to the door of my barracks. He clapped a hand onto my shoulder. “You’ll feel better once you’ve got some sleep tonight. See you around”.
“Thank you, Pierre”.
The door swung open to reveal the redheaded bear-like shape of Lemoine, sitting alone at the mess table. From behind a pair of half-moon reading glasses his eyes traced the pages of a tattered book he held in his hands. I took a seat at the end of the table, and Lemoine glanced up towards me. I met his gaze, and for a moment we sat, neither of us uttering a word.
Slowly, Lemoine set his book down on the table, before reaching into the pocket of his tunic, producing his hip-flask, and, without breaking the silence, passing it over to me.
At suppertime, there was a celebration in the mess. Ortoli had received credit for the Eindecker. Loudly he bragged about how he had shot the Hun dead as he stood on his tail, before showing his contempt to the German artillery gunners by dropping into their range and putting on a show for them, stunting all the way back to the lines. Devienne shook his head quietly on the corner of the table, before shooting me a glance. I shrugged, and he bit back a smile. Mid-speech, Ortoli was interrupted by the arrival of Messier, France’s most detested orderly. “Oh, dammit, what do you want?” Ortoli blurted out, to the background noise of boos and hisses. Narrowing his snakelike eyes, Messier held up his hands in mock-surrender. “I’m only here to congratulate the Squadron Ace!”. Immediately the noise fell away. “Squadron ace?” Chaput asked, an eyebrow raised. “Oui. Him”. I looked up and saw that Messier was pointing at me. “They found your Biplace at Toul. Lieutenant de Villeneuve offers his congratulations. Keep it up, Fullard”. A great cheer erupted around the table. From the far end, Lemoine cried out “To l’As Americain!”, raising his glass into the air.
Fullofit, great to see Gaston back in the skies. One grows fond of the Morane once you get the hang of her. But, yes I am ready to to get into something faster and more nimble. Be careful my friend. France does not want their favorites son going west.
Wulfe, wonderful story mate! A nail biter if there ever was one. Sounds like you have had a close call in real life. Your description of little details freezing in slow motion like the watch is spot on. Sure glad your safe. I thought Fullard was a goner.
Last edited by MFair; 05/22/1911:17 AM.
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!
Wulfe, that was a particularly outstanding bit of writing, very well done. James was most lucky getting back down in one piece after that encounter.
MFair, Jericho had excitement as well I see. Glad he was on the friendly side of the mud and found a nice flat field to land his mount in.
Fullofit, Gaston cut it a bit close on that gasbag attack. And how does France's great ace look with singed facial hair?
Carrick, Keith had a rough go as well. Must be something going around, all these emergency landings lately. Even though his kite was a write-off he at least walked away from it, so lucky there.
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Lieutenant Swanson, having gotten in his morning flight on the Strutter first thing, is currently sitting at the White Horse in Willesden enjoying an early lunch and a paper before he continues on to spend the day kicking around London. As he was finishing up his shepherd's pie and brown ale he noticed an article in the Times that mentioned an attack on the Kent coast two nights ago by six or so Hun bombers* and it got Swany wondering if his good friend James Collins had been up dogging after those in the darkness as he'd done with the Zeppelin a week ago. There'd been quite the write-up about it in the Daily Express with the headline, “Gallant Canadian Chases Off Night Raider”. Swany could only imagine how that went down in the officer's mess at Jim's camp and laughed to himself just thinking about it. He also wondered who his friend had curried favor with at the Express to get such grand publicity. It wouldn't surprise him to learn it was the owner himself, Collins always seemed about one acquaintance removed from knowing everyone. If Jim were standing next to the Pope on the balcony at St. Peter's Square in Rome and Swany were down in the crowd he could about bet that some complete stranger within earshot would be heard to say, "Hey, who's that fellow in the funny hat up there next to Collins?" .
*On the night of May 19/20, 1916, Three Friedrichshafen FF33, three Hansa-Brandenburg NW, and one Gotha Ursinus W.D. dropped bombs on Dover, Broadstairs, Deal, and Walmer. Casualties and damage were reported as light. The RNAS dispatched planes from Dover, Eastchurch, Grain, and Westgate to intercept. While there were two reported engagements all German planes returned safely.
Down for at least today, The maint trolls have 3 aeroplanes that sit in the hanger waiting for parts,but they wont mix the 3 to make 1 flyable for me. Dash it all. Rum ration almost gone so popped over to the Village and ran into a lady selling wine for the Mess.
hopefully the next 'Chausette' manages to stay paired up for a while
Wulfe, Gaston has his toes crossed. Like everyone else, I add my compliments on an excellently told story. That was one scary, desperate, eyes wide open, palms sweating, blood-curdling yet lucky dive. (Hopefully Thierry is a miracle worker and can splice a mismatched wing from another wreck) You’ve got to love Lemoine for that wordless hip-flask gesture. And most importantly, congrats on making an Ace! Well done! BTW, watch the first video and tell me if things look familiar.
MFair, hopefully the Gods of War will smile upon you and grant your wish. Something faster and more nimble sounds nice.
Originally Posted by RAF_Louvert
And how does France's great ace look with singed facial hair?
Lou, why do you think tips of Gaston’s moustache are curly? Man, oh man! With all this sitting around and reading newspapers, Swany is going to forget how to dogfight and will have to learn all of it from the beginning. Time to give that Strutter a workout.
Carrick, Carrick. You should have asked for personal delivery.
It was a dreary, heavily clouded day and the line patrol over the front, north of Verdun would be an uneventful one, were it not for some rotten luck. It was rotten for a pair of Aviatiks to fly right into the ‘B’ flight. S.Lt. Japy wanted to impress and took out one of the Boches while Voscadeaux got the other one.
Gaston led Japy, Barnay, Boillot and de Geuser on recon of the front sector mission, north of Verdun. They were to look for troop movements but what they found was even better. A mix of Fokkers and Aviatiks were also in the area and the big contest of who can stay in the air longer commenced. The Aviatiks were the first to lose, then the Fokkers. Everyone claimed a machine except Boillot. Gaston got his Eindecker over NML across from Verdun City. By the end of the day he was waiting for 3 confirmations.
"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."
I feel that I must write and tell you the most wonderful news; William has proposed and I have consented to become his wife!
As I told you previously, William had a fortnight of home leave due. He invited me to the family house at Newmarket and we spent a lovely few days there...
...Stanley House is used by Lord Derby to attend the racing and is also used to breed and train racehorses. William is keen on the sport and spent some time talking to the head trainer, Mr Lambton. Apparently there are high hopes for Phalaris this year, who might even beat Fifinella. I cannot say I followed the conversation as I usually devote my time at the races to observing fashion. Yet I agree that Phalaris is a handsome creature. He is also well mannered, which I understood to be a good thing.
Enough of racing, my dear Elsie. Happily, my dear William noticed that I was tiring of his sporting ways and we took a pony and trap out into the Suffolk countryside with a picnic basket...
…father is pleased as he feels that an alliance with Lord Derby will aid his progress in the party. I am sure that he is happy for me as well. Mother is more clearly delighted for me in myself, although sometimes I get the impression that she considers this match a personal triumph...
As always, with affection, Di
Captain Tilley peered down as he waited for the next flash. He and Lt Howell had been on this art obs job for too long, in his opinion. The first gun took four shots to zone in, but the second had taken eight and the third was now on the fifth shot. Black puffs of Archie sprouted in the air.
The BE2c lurched in a way that shoved Howell against the side of the observer's cockpit. “I say, Till. Fly steady!” Howell turned around and stopped short. “Bloody hell!”
Arnold Tilley was lying back in the cockpit and there was quite a lot of blood. Behind him, a plume of white mist trailed the Quirk. The smell of petrol filled Howell's nose. “Come on pal!” Howell leaned over and touched his comrade. Tilley was insensible. “Tills, I need you to land the kite!” Nothing.
Worse than nothing. The engine ran out of fumes as the leak finally drained the petrol from the aeroplane. The last rattles of the engine died away, leaving the scream of the wind in the wires and the booms of the guns below.
Howell realised that he was now stuck in a stricken aeroplane with a dead pilot at the controls.
Holding on to the Lewis gun mounting, Howell clambered out of the observer's cockpit. The wind howled around him and threatened to push him off the aeroplane and into the void. Gripping on tight, he managed to get his boots into the pilot's cockpit.
Tilley was still there, but Howell could do nothing for him now. Slipping down in front of his pilot, Howell tried the controls. The stick worked fine but the rudder bar was stuck somehow. Was it Tilley's foot or some damage. Howell did not have time to find out.
Taking hold of the stick, Howell sat on Tilley's lap and tried to hold the BE2 in a steady glide. They were over the British lines, but not far enough for his liking. He could hear the rat-at-at tat of machine gun fire. So far they hadn't hit him.
The ground came up and Howell remembered how pilots always pulled the nose up in the last moments before landing. He pulled back on the stick.
For an observer with no piloting experience landing on a battlefield, it was a great landing. The wheels touched, bounced and then the Quirk settled with a bone rattling bump.
Reminded of the petrol fumes, Howell leapt out. Then he reached back for Tilley. “Hey, Tills. You never know,” Howell pulled the limp pilot clear of the aeroplane and into the welcoming arms of the Tommies who had run over to help.
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So, a write up without any direct presence of my pilot!
Stanley's own missions haven't been very interesting. Bomb Loos railway yard again.
I nearly wrote a historical novel about him getting engaged. The first week of his leave coincided with the Easter Rebellion in Dublin. Since Stanley would have been talking to politicians (mainly his father and his prospective father in law), I thought that might be interesting. But then I decided that from the perspective of a soldier on leave at the time, the Dublin affair was not of any interest. There were rebels all the time in the Empire. Only retrospect makes this different.
Elsie is Diane Baldwin's second cousin, Elsie Kipling. The Kiplings and the Baldwins were close before and after the war and Rudyard mentions Diane (as Di) in letters. The two women definitely knew each other and were only a year apart in age, so may have been friendly enough for an "I got engaged!" letter.
The story of Captain A R Tilley and his observer J G Howell deserved to be told. Tilley died to shrapnell wounds on 11th May 1916. A trained observer, but not a pilot, Howell landed behind British lines, but the BE2c was destroyed by shelling overnight.
Tilley was buried at La Chapelle-d'Armentieres. He was 22 years old.
Fullofit, 30 would be a nice round number! Nice video.
MFair, 30 would be a nice number but the Claim’s Gods are a cruel bunch, always drunk, always spiteful. We’ll just have to wait and see what the verdict is.
Maeran, I’m glad you were able to tell us the story of Captain Tilley and his observer. That had to be one scary moment, flying in a pilotless crate. Good thing Howell didn’t panic. It had to be some landing. Very well researched and told story. Where do I send the congratulatory note to Diane?
"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."
23 May, 1916 05:55 morning mission Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Capitaine Gaston A. Voscadeaux 27 confirmed kills
All three claims have been denied. It had to be some kind of a mistake. Gaston took Japy and Boillot to patrol over Behonne aerodrome. He may as well have flown solo. There was no contact throughout the entire patrol.
23 May, 1916 14:00 afternoon mission Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Capitaine Gaston A. Voscadeaux 27 confirmed kills
The afternoon mission took Voscadeaux, Japy and Garrigou on a patrol over friendly frontlines north of the St. Mihiel salient. Soon after take off Cpl. Garrigou's machine started to act up and he had to return to base. They haven't even reached the front when Violette came down with the case of Cylindritis as well. Gaston made it back as far as Verdun aerodrome, but had to land on a nearby road. It was not one of better days for the French Ace.
"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, I can't quite believe that Gaston was denied all three of those claims. You would think that with his record and his ace status that HQ would be more open to taking the man at his word.
Maeran, great to see that you stopped in and shared your writing with us. Sad story concerning Tilley, so many sad stories from this war.
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24 May, 1916 Fienvillers, France 70 Squadron, R.F.C. Lt. Randolph Arvid Swanson, MC & Bar, CdG 12 confirmed victories
Lieutenant Swanson is at last back in France! He is stationed at Fienvillers which shares field space with the Depot at Candas where, if you'll recall, he'd done his Morane stunting against the captured Eindecker for Trenchard and the gaggle of Brass Hats - fate can be a funny thing. The weather on the other hand is not funny at all as it has been pouring rain the entire day. With little else to do Swany decided to go over to the hangar where his spanking new mount is parked, Sopwith Strutter number A996, and see about having some personal livery painted on it. He's not sure what he's going to do yet, but he has an idea or two. Hopefully by tomorrow the weather will clear so he and his G/O, Lt. Christopher Dent, can get back up into the skies above the front. It's been too long away from the fight.
Fullofit, I can't quite believe that Gaston was denied all three of those claims. You would think that with his record and his ace status that HQ would be more open to taking the man at his word.
Lou, I have moving pictures to prove it!
So, Swany is finally on the correct side of La Manche! Can't wait to see what he'll come up for his new machine livery. I bet it will be very Vikingish. Too bad about the weather.
Hasse, keeping a seat warm for you here. What is this Real Life people keep talking about? Is that a new mod?
24 May, 1916 05:40 morning mission Senard, Verdun Sector Escadrille N37 Capitaine Gaston A. Voscadeaux 27 confirmed kills
The mission to attack Sivry airfield was an early one. By the time they reached the target, the aerodrome was just beginning to bustle with activity. They’ve caught an Eindecker taking off the field for its morning patrol. Gaston followed and brought him down still within the aerodrome's visual range. German ground crews would make perfect witnesses to his claim, but S.Lt. Japy will have to do. The aerodrome itself wasn't damaged significantly. They all returned home after their ammunition stores were depleted.
Scramble! Three enemy monoplanes were "lost" over Senard. Gaston took off with Japy and de Gueser close behind. As he climbed to meet his foe, Voscadeaux lost the Fokkers from view, obscured by his upper plane. It was a good thing his wingmen were in a better position behind and alerted Gaston to the Fokker's sudden change of direction and the imminent attack. Gaston spent most of his ammo trying to bring the monoplane down. Finally the Boche went into a spin with only a few bullets left to spare. They did not chase after the other two. Gaston ordered his flight to land. The mission was over.
"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."
More off and on Heavy Rain so no flights Me mates and I went into town and stopped at the Canteen. I say a crowed place but they have those Ami things called Doenuts. On the way back, we came across a crashed Air Ship. looked about but no sign of the control car Fell Off ? The posted Guard wouldnt let us look closer and only spoke French so we buggered off.
‘B’ flight was en route to enemy troop camp north of Valmy to perform CAS duties in cooperation with the ground forces below. Gaston led Japy, Boillot and de Gueser over the NML when out of the corner of his eye he noticed some movement. The sun was thwarting his attempts to get a good look. It looked like an Aviatik was falling out of the sky. No, it was attacking! But it was no Aviatik. It was that new type of fighter striking out of the sun. The Wheelfish! It was an agile two-seater biplane. The pilot was very skilled, maybe even the very same one that took out Thuillier? Gaston had a difficult time trying to get a bead on the Boche. It didn't help any that his wingmen were getting in his way. One flew so close in front of Voscadeaux’s plane that Gaston had to back off and give the hothead extra space. He watched from distance his wingmen chasing the two-seater all over the sky and the German expertly avoiding the brunt of their attacks. Eventually the Hun’s battle-damaged machine lost control low over the front and crashed in NML on the German side. They’ve reformed and continued with their patrol. Once over the target, their patrol stretched between two points above the troop camp, but they were not welcome there. In addition to angry Flak bursts from below, they were asked to leave by a trio of Fokkers. The Germans were not very convincing and their attempt to chase the Nieuports away failed. The fur ball that followed made it clear to them. It was during this battle that Gaston found out Violette wasn't performing well. When chasing the new type, Voscadeaux must have damaged some of the controls and the plane was sluggish in a roll. It didn't matter. A damaged Nieuport was still more than a match for the Eindeckers. They continued to chase each other in circles. One Fokker ran away right at the start of the engagement, the other two fought valiantly. Gaston kept on the one trying to get away by climbing ever so higher. A few well placed rounds brought him back to an even level and on the defensive. His wingmen were chasing the last Fokker. During his difficult battle with Gaston the German pilot drifted closer to the troop camp, trying to lure Voscadeaux into a trap, but Gaston wouldn't have any of that. Finally the French Ace ran out of ammo and watched as Adjutant Boillot swooped in and set the poor Boche on fire. His machine kept on flying straight. The pilot must have still been alive and attempting a landing. Gaston watched as the flying pyre was getting closer and closer to the ground and to his astonishment, very close to another smoldering hole. It had to be the second Fokker. They appeared to be wingmen even in death. The flaming Fokker finally touched down and stood on its nose. Gaston couldn't see what became of the Boche. He was already flying home, being hurried by the Flak.
On their patrol of friendly front lines north of St. Mihiel salient, the ‘B’ flight encountered two Aviatiks overflying the Hesse Forest. Thankfully they were really Aviatiks, not the hellish Rolands. Gaston led the charge and attacked the wing leader with a few rounds, then spun out of the way to let his boys do the rest. He watched as Barnay finished the leader off while Japy went for the trailing machine, getting wounded in the process without firing a single shot. He then patiently waited for the last remaining plane to be taken out, but both of his wingmen emptied their ammunition trays without bringing him down. It was up to Voscadeaux to end this. He crept under the immensely shot up Boche, wondering how the thing is still staying afloat and brought it down with a few well placed volleys. He stayed behind to watch the Hun crash into the outskirts of the forest and was the last one to land back at Senard.
"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."
Break in the weather. we were up and at them. Railyard Strike : 4 a/c putting holes in the roofs of sheds. Loss 1 a/c to Ground fire a Lt North. The 2nd Mission was a defensive Patrol. 3 a/c B flight 1 a/c cover from A flight. The boys Knocked down 1 Recon type chased off a 2nd one near Loos.
Fullofit: I've just finished watching all your videos, and I'm impressed! Good flying, good filming, good editing. I hope I can figure all that out someday. Keep it up!
Some people are born stupid. I've had to work hard my whole life to get this way. I'm proud of the job I've done