Maeran, great entry. Looking forward to what Captain Stanley can do with the DH2. I like the startup procedure description.
Wulfe, I think you’ll be easily able to catch up. The skies are empty. That priest creeped me out. Fullard’s father would probably creep me out as well. Also looking forward to Masson’s antics in the air.
Voscadeaux with Sergent Frougier and Adjutant Barney were tasked with escorting the ‘A' flight on a bombing mission to Spincourt aerodrome. The enemy continues to elude Gaston and his flight mates. Has the Kaiser ran out of Fokker aeroplanes to pit against the French Airforce? At least the weather is improving.
Patrol enemy front lines south of St. Mihiel salient. No contact.
"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."
...and dark stuff from you, Wulfe. Very good description.
CHAPTER NINE - BALLOON HUNT, NEW MACHINES
Konrad Berthold von Blumenthal June 26th, 1916. Sivry-sur-Meuse, Verdun. KEK Sivry
05 00 hours early morning patrol along the friendly lines. Konrad was barely awake as they lined up on the field. The cool air soon woke him up as they climbed into the overcast sky. After about an hour they returned. No activity.
After an early lunch, the squad went up again. This time, a balloon busting mission. A particularly troublesome French gasbag located just north east of Verdun had been causing major problems for the German infantry, scouting out their positions. Boelcke led the way with Von Zastrow to his left and Konrad to his right. After what seemed forever, and deep into enemy territory, Boelcke's machine jinked downward. The three fokkers began to scour the area for the balloon. Konrad was pretty certain they were in the right vicinity, but after five or six minutes they had not found it. Konrad had lost sight of Boelcke, but he spotted von Zastrow banking and climbing away to the east, where the lines curved around to meet the edge of the foret de la Reine. He followed, and soon they arrived at Le Chenois field.
"What happened to the Hauptmann?", asked von Zastrow.
"I'm afraid I didn't see him, sir", replied Konrad. The two men made their way to the office to see if there was any news. After waiting around for forty minutes and having refueled, they took off for their home field. Boelcke was already there attending to his damaged plane when they got back.
"Just some shrapnel damage", said Bolecke. "Nothing to worry about. Anyhow, take a look over there!" Konrad and von Zastrow turned to look where Boelcke was pointing. On the other side of the field stood six brand new Halberstadt DII machines. Konrad's heart skipped a beat in excitement. "Ah, sorry von Blumenthal, you won't be receiving one of those just yet. I've decided that Strunze should have first crack. He does have nine victories after all, and you have your EIV, so all is well, yes?".
Yes, sir", growled Konrad in response. Later that evening, alone in his hut, Konrad cursed out loud. "#%&*$# that Strunze!" He hoped the damned man wouldn't ever make it out of his hospital bed to pilot his Halberstadt. Or if he did, he hoped his injuries would prevent him from flying altogether!
"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."
Wulfe, your writing is wonderfully engaging. The story of Chapman's death was touching. Maeran, loved the detailed account of Stanley getting to know the DH2. Fullofit, bon retour to Gaston. It's good to have him back in action. HarryH, I'm not sure I'd want to be in Strunze's shoes at the moment. I suspect some horrible accident is about to occur. Hasse, glad you appreciate the cruel Glasgow sense of humour (Like the story about the fellow in Glasgow who hits the car ahead of him at a stop light. The driver of the car in front, a dwarf, gets out and looks at the crumpled back of his car. He points at it, and tells the fellow who hit him "Look at whit's ye've done, ye bluidy fool. Ah'm no happy." To which the other driver responds, "Aye? Then which one are ye then?"
An Airman’s Odyssey – by Lt James Arthur Collins, MC
Part Forty-Seven: In which I contemplate the sad arithmetic of war
It shook me to realise I was alone in the world. My father was long dead, and now my mother had rejected the letter I’d written trying to re-establish our relationship. She was still offended because I had not welcomed her “string-pulling” to bring me home from France like an errant schoolboy, and she had even sent back the framed portrait I had done for her. I placed the photograph in a drawer in my room at the Poidevin house, a room I now shared with a new pilot named Moore.
The squadron was my real home now. I regretted not really getting to know as many of the fellows here as well as I should have. Swany, Jericho, and I had been a bit of a team to ourselves, and of course there was Sergeant Wilson. But I’d made few true friends outside that little group.
Moore had recently arrived. The Major was appalled by the paltry number of hours he’d logged so he’d been ordered to spend his first two weeks walloping about the countryside learning his way about. He chatted endlessly about Romans. A public schoolboy, he was enamoured with the classics and was determined to share every speck of his knowledge, generally when I was trying to get some sleep. Perhaps I could engage him on another topic.
Lewis was part of our household now. He was a decent fellow, a schoolboy until mere months ago. Of course he wasn’t that much younger than I. It was just that I’d chucked it in with school a bit early in order to learn about my father’s business and thus I felt so much more mature than he. Lewis was affable but a bit reserved with colonials like me. He engaged himself with keeping a private journal of his war.
Chickering lived in the room next to ours, roommate to Lewis. He was an observer and a good-humoured type. I resolved to get to know him. He was, however, dedicated to playing dance music on his gramophone, all day every day. I wished that we had a unified squadron mess. Being split into three separate messes prevented us from forming more friendships.
Whistler lived upstairs, sleeping on a cot in an attic room that was insufferably hot, a condition he shared with a new observer named Mazzini. They referred to their "bedroom" as the Black Hole of Calcutta. Harry Whistler had taken Sergeant Bayetto’s place in the flight. Bayetto was a splendid fellow, another man I wished I’d got to know better. His well-deserved commission had come through and he was quickly packed off to England to become a temporary gentleman.
On the morning of 24 June 1916, I was to join Whistler on a photographic reconnaissance. Late on the previous day, the sky had darkened and we were treated to a dramatic thunderstorm, rain lashing the windows and even a bit of hail. The worst had passed but it continued to rain all night. I awoke after first light with a start, fearing that I’d slept late and needed to be at the hangar already. A corporal named Willey normally brought my tea when I was due for patrol. I now heard clattering in the kitchen and went downstairs in my pyjamas and slippers to investigate. It was Willey, who announced that the patrol was off, he’d let me sleep, and tea was ready. I pulled on my greatcoat and headed through the rain across the little walled courtyard behind the house to visit the outhouse which leaned drunkenly next to a dilapidated and empty shed. Scarcely had I taken my place in the darkness inside, the greatcoat neatly folded over my knees, when a ear-shattering sound like a rockpile collapsing washed over the village. There was a momentary silence, and then an even louder tumbling thunderclap of noise. I concluded my business prematurely and stepped outside. The sky was lightening now, but the low clouds rippled with green and white light. The guns were paving the way for the great offensive. The guns were lined up hub to hub for many miles, firing to cut the enemy's wire.
I did not fly that day. B Flight got off a couple of patrols late in the day, but not us. On the next day I led Moore and our Captain Mealing over to observe several German rail lines behind the front. It was Moore’s first time over and he went on about crossing the Rubicon. The sky was now clear. We carried a few bombs which we deposited on a station, hitting the tracks and some carriages and generally causing a very satisfactory nuisance. Not being one to want to linger over a hornet’s nest, I fired a flare to reform and led the little party home. We were nearly back to our lines when I heard a faint banging of a machine gun. It was Mealing’s machine. His gun was manned by our leading observer, Captain McNaughton, who was leaning over the side of their Morane looking under my tail. I banked left and turned a little south. Instantly, Sergeant Wilson began rattling off short burst. About two hundred yards directly behind us and a little below, a nasty green Fokker had been about to knock us out of the air!
The HA broke away as he had now attracted fire from all three Moranes. None of us, however, noticed the Hun’s partner. A second Fokker had closed on Moore’s machine. At the first burst, Moore’s Morane began to smoke. A burst of flame puffed out from beneath the cowling. In an instant the flames washed back over the Parasol. I turned to engage the second Fokker and passed above and across Moore’s path. His figure, a black silhouette through the bright orange flame, was hunched forward. Brown, his observer, was on his feet and facing backwards and waving his hands about. The burning Morane continued westward in a straight line, keeping formation for another terrible half-minute until it toppled out of the sky trailing its black column of smoke. A piece of its plane came off, fluttering and aflame. It turned slowly in the air as it fell. There should be no more lessons from the classics.
"The burning Morane continued westward in a straight line..."
I thought of Kipling’s lines, some of the few I’d memorised in school:
A great and glorious thing it is To learn, for seven years or so, The Lord knows what of that and this, Ere reckoned fit to face the foe - The flying bullet down the Pass, That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."
Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in "villainous saltpetre". And after?- Ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies.
A scrimmage in a Border Station- A canter down some dark defile Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail.[1]
NOTE:
[1] The lines are taken from Kipling's 1886 poem "Arithmetic on the Frontier." It refers to the Second Afghan War (1878-1880).
Raine, that was a dramatic encounter and you told it so well. Also, those Scottish jokes are killing me.
Here's the latest from Julius:
13. WAITING FOR THE BIG PUSH
“Nothing can exist at the conclusion of the bombardment in the area covered by it.”
- General Sir Henry Rawlinson on the artillery preparation preceding the Battle of the Somme
Bertincourt, June 28th, 1916.
Julius felt a gentle summer breeze coming in from the open window of his room. He was sitting next to the window, reading a letter he had received from Leni von Steinmetz, his girlfriend in Berlin.
“…and when I met Hermann at your father’s apartment (we were waiting for him to arrive), I had a chance to chat with him a bit. Julius, I think he is a changed man now. Something seems to weigh heavily on his heart. I could see he was very proud of the great honor of becoming a Knight of the Pour le Mérite Order, but I also got the impression that he has had to pay a heavy price for that achievement. He brushed off my questions and said the Battle of Verdun has been quite unlike anything he has experienced so far and that nobody is having an easy time there, but he believes that the French must break soon and then we can finally put an end to this bloody war. I can only pray he is right. I hope you get a chance to talk with him soon, but of course I understand it may be very difficult for both of you to get leave at the same time…”
Julius lowered the letter and sighed. Suddenly the distant rumble of artillery seemed to get louder again. Since the 24th, the British guns had been relentlessly bombarding the Somme sector. Julius had never heard anything similar. It was obvious that a big push was going to happen soon. Maybe we’ll get our own Verdun here, Julius wondered. At least I’m not among the poor bloody infantry like Hermann! How anybody in the trenches could endure such destructive firepower was a mystery to Julius. Yet men on both sides of the lines did exactly that, often on a daily basis.
Fortune had finally favored Julius in the patrol flight he had flown yesterday above the Bapaume-Albert road. The offensive preparations had greatly increased the number of British machines operating behind German lines, and so Julius, taking advantage of cloud cover, had managed to surprise a Blériot type two-seater. He had fired nearly 300 rounds from his Spandau at the British plane, until it had finally spun out of control and crashed down on a field along the road. The two-seater had been a total wreck, and the mangled bodies of the unlucky British aviators had been a sorry sight. Upon seeing the men, Julius had felt like he was still very far from that archetype of the ruthless Prussian military brute bayoneting mothers and eating babies the enemy propaganda was so fond of portraying in cartoons and posters.
But war was war. There was no helping its draconian laws. If somebody had to die, Julius preferred it was those two Englishmen and not him or any of his friends.
Offizierstellvertreter Diemer’s sudden appearance in the doorway put a stop to Julius’s dark thoughts. The young Bavarian pilot was eager as always. “Julius, new orders! We just got a call from the Stofl[1] – he said an absolutely ridiculous number of enemy machines are operating on the XIV. Reserve-Korps sector. Every available scout is being thrown in there right now!”
“Well, that sounds like fun! The more the merrier, eh?” Julius stood up and without another thought began preparations for his next flight.
[1] Stofl, Stabsoffizier der Flieger. The staff officer responsible for coordinating air operations in the sector of each German army.
"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."
James McCudden, Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps
Good stuff! Raine, sad to see youth wasted so soon. RIP pilot Moore. Dramatic screenshot!
Hasse, looks like Julius is in for some serious work any day now!
CHAPTER TEN - NEW PILOTS, KONRAD TAKES A SPIN, A VICTORY OF SORTS
Konrad Berthold von Blumenthal June 27th, 1916. Sivry-sur-Meuse, Verdun. KEK Sivry
Konrad entered the mess that morning to find new faces among them.
"Ah, von Blumenthal", Boelcke beckoned him over to his table. "Meet Leutnant Carl Haller and Oberleutnant Stefan Kirmaier". Konrad leaned over to shake hands with both men. Just at that moment another new face entered the room. "So, Bruno, finally, you're here, you old devil!", exclaimed Boelcke, clearly pleased to see the new arrival. All three men rose from their seats, ignoring Konrad for the moment as they turned to greet the latest member of the "Fokkerstaffel", as it had recently become known. This man was Bruno Loerzer, a pilot with a growing reputation and two victories to his name already. Konrad recognized him from pictures he'd seen in the newspapers. The squad was clearly ramping up for something important.
Out on the field the new Halberstadts were lined up and waiting. Konrad knew now the real reason why he wasn't flying one. Strunze was still unfit to rejoin, but clearly the new men were reckoned to be superior pilots to himself. His own EIV sat at the end of the line of Halbs, looking small and lonely, the odd craft out. Konrad climbed into the cockpit muttering to himself as the mechanic spun the propeller and the engine coughed into life. Moments later they were in the air, on their way to escort a lone Aviatik on a reconnaissance of the front at Etain. Konrad wondered if they'd meet those Nieuports again, and resolved not to run this time. After all, he thought to himself bitterly, he had all these brave men in the shiny new Halberstadts to look out for him!
However, within minutes, Konrad's mood lifted. He found that his Eindecker was more than capable of keeping up with the new machines. As for firepower, Konrad would rather have his twin Spandaus than the one machine gun mounted awkwardly to one side, as was the case with the Halberstadt. Perhaps the next few weeks weren't going to be so bad after all!
They had been patrolling around Etain for about ten minutes, while the Aviatik did it's work, when suddenly Boelcke banked hard to the left and started to climb. Konrad looked up and saw a dark speck descending toward them. Nieuports, again. Two of them it seemed. Well then, four against two! No reason not to get into this scrap. He followed Boelcke up and around to meet the threat. Very quickly the Nieuports split up and two separate dogfights began. Konrad sized things up and went after the second enemy aircraft, which was already being pursued by one of the Halbs. Down he went and to his great surprise, he found himself with a shooting opportunity soon afterward, as the Frenchman turned and flew right across his path, being chased by the Halb. Konrad tried quickly to turn to follow, but in doing so, misjudged his application of the rudder and immediately found, to his horror, that he had put his machine into a spin! Trying to stay calm, Konrad manipulated the stick, blipped the engine and was at last able to recover, looping and then climbing at the last moment, as the ground rushed up to meet him. He had no time to think about his near-miss, glancing to his left and seeing the battle continue. He banked back toward the fight and managed to get a couple of bursts on the Frenchman who immediately dived toward no man's land below. Konrad thought he saw several puffs of smoke... the Frenchman was nowhere to be seen.... had he just downed his first victim? Excitedly he looked around, but thought it wise not to spend too much time this low over the lines. He climbed away to the north east, back to the comparative safety of the foret de Spincourt. Unable to locate any of his flight members, he landed at Spincourt field.
When he finally arrived back at Sivry, he was eagerly greeted by his new mechanic.
"Sir! You're wanted in the office, immediately!". Konrad wondered what could be the matter. He didn't bother to get changed, but headed straight acroos the field to report in.
Boelcke was sitting at his desk. Loerzer and Kirmaier were standing to one side and they turned to look at him as he entered.
"Oh, von Blumenthal, you're back!", said Bolecke. "We received a report that a French craft went down over the lines eariler today, in the vicinity of our little go around." He paused, leaning forward with an inquisitive look on his face and continued. You don't think you might have winged one, do you?". Konrad felt a lump develop in his throat.
"Erm, I think I might have sir", he replied tentatively.
"Hmmm. Did you actually see it go down?"
"Well, yes sir! Well, I mean, I-I-I-I saw the smoke, sir, from the crash!" Konrad stammered. He was in too deep to change course at this point. Boelcke stroked his chin.
"Because you see, your fellow pilots here do not feel they have sufficient confidence to make a claim for themselves, given the hectic circumstances at the time." He leaned back in his chair. "But apparently, you do", Konrad felt his knees buckle slightly, but he held his nerve.
"Yes, sir", he replied, firmly. There was silence all around, for what seemed like an eternity to Konrad, until the Hauptmann finally spoke again.
"Very well, we shall put in a claim for you and see what transpires. All three pilots saluted smartly and marched out of the office. Outside, Haller turned to Konrad.
"Well, that's exciting for you, von Blumenthal. Let's see if it goes through, eh? First victory?", Konrad was almost in too much shock to be able to respond, but he managed a small nod. "Fingers crossed, then.", Haller gave him a slightly amused smile, nudged him in the chest with his fist and turned to walk to the mess. Konrad didn't know what to think. Had he really scored his first victory?
Raine - Great, but tragic, story. Poor, unlucky Moore. You wrote him excellently, and I was just looking forwards to hearing more from him when I read about his firey demise. C'est la Guerre, I suppose. I'm also very much enjoying your plot lines - Collins is such an expertly crafted character, you've done a stellar job of bringing him to life.
Hasse - Congratulations on the victory! And I thoroughly enjoyed Julius' speculations on the battle to come. I wonder how his story will be shaped with the upcoming Somme offensive...perhaps a Pour le Merite is in the cards for him as well?
HarryH - Boelcke, Kirmaier, Loerzer...quite the roster of pilots you're with, there! Congratulations on the victory! Who needs one of those silly old Halberstadts, anyway? But, just be careful with those spins! We wouldn't want to lose our favourite villainous Hun!
Added a couple more profiles to the DiD Aircraft Profiles thread - Swanson's Strutter, Stanley's D.H.2, and Fullard's N.11!
Adj. James B. Fullard, Esc. N.124 'Americaine', Bar-le-Duc, France.
June 26th, 1916
Thenault had looked tired as he issued our orders on the morning of the 26th. It was clear that the Squadron’s losses, the first he had experienced as its Commanding Officer, had taken their toll on him. The pilots, too, were in a funk, except for Bert Hall, who, with any mention of Balsley or Chapman, would simply sneer and remark “At least it wasn’t me”. However, when I heard mention of Michael, he seemed to suddenly be the picture of compassion - at least when I was present. I can only assume he took a similar diplomatic approach around the other two’s good friends.
As per the custom, we were to fly two patrols behind the lines with our two newcomers. I admit, I was excited to learn that Masson was assigned to my flight, which was to be led by Nimmie Prince. Lawrence Rumsey, our other newcomer, would be joining Thenault on his patrol. As our Nieuports were readied, the famed aviator approached me. “‘Allo! You are Fullard, no? l’As Americain? I heard you do good work in the air! Maybe you can teach me a thing or two about air fighting?”. I felt myself redden. “Ah, well. I do my part. But, surely there is nothing I could teach you! I’ve heard about your flying since before the war”. He shrugged. “Mon Ami, nobody was trying to kill each other in the flying circuses!”.
Prince arrived and presently cut our encounter short. “Come on, fellas! The Bosche won’t wait all day!”. We quickly climbed aboard our Nieuports, and Masson flashed me a grin as he pulled his goggles over his eyes. The sky was cloudy, its blue washed out, but thankfully there was no rain to contend with. We started our engines and Prince lurched forwards, and one by one we lifted. I noticed that my engine was only giving 1100 RPM, and before long I was starting to lag behind the patrol.
We climbed up past 2,000 meters when the fog started to roll in, obscuring the land below and casting us into an otherworldly realm of pure sky. Blanchon, whom had dropped back to stick close to me, looked over the side of his cockpit with a worried expression. No doubt he had a similar thought to my own - that, should one of us have to make a forced landing, we wouldn’t be able to see the deadly telephone wires below. I checked my RPM indicator again, and quietly pleaded with it not to drop further. To make matters worse, the wind had picked up significantly, and we were rocked around in the air like autumn leaves.
I had almost caught up to the patrol over the Argonne Forest when, ahead of me, Prince started furiously rocking his wings. I peered forwards and saw three Eindeckers on our level, charging at us headlong! There was almost no time to react - in an instant, we were in the furball.
I found myself behind one Bosche, who curled away as I fired a burst into him. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a second German turning to face me. I doubled back and begun to circle with him, slowly catching him in the turn. I got behind him and fired a burst at him as well, and he turned tail towards the front. Below me, Luf circled with a Bosche of his own. I spiralled down and hovered above him, leaving him to his work, when suddenly he looped away and turned back towards Behonne. The Bosche turned to follow, but I was on him before he could enact any revenge, and a long burst soon had his engine smoking. He attempted to make a desperate run for his own lines, but I was soon behind him again and lining up another attack. I fired for a second time and the Fokker shuddered violently. A moment later I saw his propeller come to a stop, the tip of one blade shot away. Flying ahead of him, I watched as the German’s head rocked left and right as he desperately looked for a place to land. Despite myself I felt a certain pity for him as he sunk lower and lower into the awaiting Argonne forest, before finally smashing heavily into a tree and splintering to pieces.
I circled back towards home, overflying the road to Verdun, upon which was a mile-long convoy of infantry trucks, all of which had stopped and their inhabitants piled out onto the roadside to watch our dogfight. As I flew overhead I was astounded to see hundreds of blue-clad figures, waving and cheering. I rocked my wings at them and flew over low, dipping my wing and waving back. As I did so, I heard my revolutions fluctuate slightly, and decided that I should perhaps land at a closer aerodrome. I turned East and took my ship in a shallow climb out over the edge of the forest. Checking my map, I decided to head to Senard.
Above me I noticed another Nieuport - it was Blanchon. I assumed he must also be making for Senard. He noticed me below and swooped down, forming up beside me with a large grin on his face. We landed at the aerodrome, switching off our engines and climbing out. Excitedly, Blanchon ran over to my side. “Merde! But that was exciting! Did you see me? I got one!”. I was astounded. “You got another! I’m afraid I didn’t see”. Blanchon shrugged.
“Oh well. Perhaps it won’t be confirmed, unless one of the others saw it. But, Nimmie and Masson fell out of the fight quite quickly, chasing that first Bosche you scared off. I saw you and Luf chasing another, did you get him?” he asked, his eyes shining. “Yeah, I got him. Luf ran out of ammunition, I think, but I chased him over the Argonne and his engine stopped. Poor Bosche went straight into a tree”. At this, Blanchon laughed aloud.
Just then, a mechanic strode up to us, looking over our machines. “Engine trouble?” he casually asked. I nodded. “The revolutions were dropping. I thought it better to put in here, rather than trying my luck”. The mechanic smirked. “Oui. I would do the same if I was mad enough to fly”.
I helped the mechanic wheel my machine towards a hangar at the end of the flight line. As we got to its entrance, I peered inside to see a Nieuport 11, painted in a striking purple. “Sacre! But that’s Voscadeaux’s machine!” cried Blanchon, and the mechanic broke into a grin. “Gentlemen! Bienvenue à l’Escadrille 37!”.
Before long, a Lieutenant had been drawn out by the noise of us coming in to land. As he strode over to us, there was a vague, implacable familiarity in his face. The mechanic stood to attention. “Lieutenant Dagonet! These two gentlemen have landed with engine trouble. We’re already seeing to their Coucous. The Lieutenant thanked the mechanic, and turned to us with a look of interest in his face. He seemed to frown slightly when he looked at me, as if he was trying to place me. “Engine trouble, eh? Hard luck. Not Bosche-related, I hope!”. “No,” I replied, “but we did just have a scrap over the Argonne”. “Oh? Get any Bosches?”. Immediately Blanchon’s chest swelled. “Oui, we both got a Fokker each!”. “Fantastique! Well, come on then. I’ll let your C.O know you’re here, and then we can have a spot of breakfast”.
We were led into the Squadron mess, in which a couple of pilots were scattered, idly chatting among themselves. “Who’s this?” called one pilot, from his reclined position in an armchair. “They just came in with engine trouble. They’re from...er…” Lt. Dagonet looked over at us. “Who did you say you were with?”.
“Oh, sorry. We didn’t. We’re from the Escadrille Americaine” I replied. Suddenly, Dagonet’s eyes widened, and he broke into a wide grin. “Mais, oui! I knew I recognised your face! You were the drunken Americain at Chalons!”. I blinked. “Er…?”. “Yes! You nearly flattened poor Gaston when you came around that corner!”. Realisation washed over me, and I felt my face flush. “Oh, right. I’m terribly sorry about that…” I started, but Dagonet waved away my apology with a laugh.
After Dagonet had called the Villa, we were treated to Croissants, hot Coffee and buttered toast as our machines were repaired. Unfortunately for us, Le Violet had gone out on patrol not long before we had come in to land (much to Blanchon’s bitter disappointment). However, the crowd at Escadrille 37 was an interesting mix of fellows. We dined with two other pilots, as well as Dagonet. There was Etienne Tsu, born in Shanghai and of Chinese heritage, who was one of the first air fighters in 1915, and Andre Boillot, who had been a racecar driver before the war. We didn’t stay for long, and after a pleasant chat in which the fascinated Frenchmen asked me about life in America (“What’s San Francisco like? Are the Americans going to come into the war yet? What do they think of the war in general?”), we boarded our Nieuports and headed back to Behonne.
Back at the villa, I was pleased to learn that Luf had seen my Bosche fall, and I was awarded my eighth victory. Poor Blanchon had no such luck, however.
Wow! You folks have been busy. Fantastic stories. We have more than a few genuine authors in this distinguished crowd. Been a bit busy myself but Jericho will be back in the air tomorrow. Keep the stories coming.
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!
Raine, the Major needs to see that the Parasols get a proper escort. Lives could be saved this way. I am hoping Collins will soon be assigned a machine that can defend itself as well as attack. Watching a helpless flight-mate burn alive can’t be good for morale.
Hasse, like Harry said, Julius is about to get his hands full. Congrats on the BE kill. Hopefully this one will get confirmed.
HarryH, that’s not spinning. That’s a standard Eindecker manoeuvre. I see the Fokker jockeys perform it all the time when a Nieuport is nearby. Great video and close call! That’s quite a team Boelcke had assembled. Hopefully they’ll let the lone Fokker driver play with them. But if he keeps on claiming phantom victories ...
Wulfe, what, no new Voscadeaux machine?! Violette 2 is begging to have her picture taken. Bert Hall should meet Konrad von Blumenthal. I enjoy your descriptions of the air battles. Congrats on the latest victory and the bit at Senard ... Superb! I enjoyed it immensely, grinning at the exchange with Dagonet.
The talk of the two pilots from L’Escadrille Americaine that landed yesterday with dud engines continued even this morning. Dagonet kept on ribbing Gaston that the American they bumped into some time ago in Châlons had come to return the favour and knock Voscadeaux on his fat arse. Gaston remembered young pilot’s face well. It was full of agony after losing his brother recently. No amount of alcohol could hide it. Gaston was sorry to have missed the American pilot. He wanted to let him know the French people appreciate every sacrifice and the memory of his brother will not be forgotten. The first mission of the day was a nice babysitting job of the ‘A’ flight flying SW of Spincourt and tasked with bombing enemy front lines. On the way to the target area the ‘B’ flight ran into a pair of Aviatiks seemingly returning home after a mission. Gaston led his formation to harass the enemy planes. The wind wasn't helping and the little planes were jostled all over the sky, making it hard to aim properly. He made a pass at the trailing two-seater and watched one of his flight-mates attack as well. Voscadeaux observed how Sergent Frougier struggled to stay behind his target and was reluctant to engage. The lead Boche was not being harassed until Voscadeaux introduced him to his Lewis. They chased the Huns all the way across the No-Man’s Land and all the way to Sivry aerodrome before Gaston run out of ammo and watched his wingman finish the job. Sergent Frougier was the only one to claim an enemy machine. Gaston had his windscreen turned into a sieve for his troubles. Luckily the windscreen was the only thing hit.
The afternoon mission involved escorting a recon flight south of St. Mihiel salient. The formation circled the assigned area for 30 minutes but didn't see any activity with the only excitement provided by the Flak. The flight promptly returned to base for dinner and drinks.
"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 real live is get- in the way of flying. I have to tear down the computer and relocate so will be down til after the 7th of jul. Have fun and keep em flying.
Konrad Berthold von Blumenthal June 28th, 1916. Sivry-sur-Meuse, Verdun. Fokkerstaffel Sivry
The next day did not start well for Konrad. Climbing out of his bed he spied a note tucked under the door of his hut. He unfolded it and read...
Sorry, von Blumenthal. Your claim has been rejected due to lack of evidence. Better luck next time.
Boelcke
Konrad cursed, crumpled the note and threw it against the wall. He could have sworn that Nieuport went down. Whether it was he that caused it was a different matter, but he would keep that to himself. He dressed and went over to the canteen to have some breakfast. He saw Boelcke, huddled in close coversation with yet another new arrival, a very smart looking man with an air of authority. The two men clearly knew each other well. Konrad felt a nudge in the back.
"What's puzzling you?". Konrad turned to face Holler, who was smiling at him, mischievously.
"Err, I was wondering who the Hauptmann's guest might be", said Konrad, trying to act nonchalantly.
"That's no guest, he's our latest squadron member! Ernst Hess and our Hauptmann flew together in FA62. He's a damned good pilot by all accounts."
Holler was about to share more information when he was abruptly cut off by Hauptmann Boelcke rising from his chair to announce that he wanted everyone to assemble outside, by rank. He had an important announcement. There was a loud commotion, as chairs scraped and people srarted talking loudly, wondering exactly what was about to happen. Everyone trooped outside and lined up as instructed. After several minutes, Boelcke emerged and stood in front of the men.
"Now then! Please quieten down and give me your full attention. I have some news for you all. As of today I am no longer your commanding officer. I have been recalled by high command to assist with strategic planning of the war effort. I have seen this unit grow in stature during my time here. There are some remarkable pilots among you. I want you to continue the excellent work you are doing for the Fatherland! You will be in good hands... some of you have already met Oberleutnant Kirmaier. Please also welcome Vizefeldwebel Hess! These two gentleman will be taking over my responsibilities here. Do everything they ask of you, and give your greatest effort for a grateful nation!"
The assembled group roared it's approval of Boelcke's stirring words, as Boelcke himself commenced upon a round of handshakes with each individual present. When he eventually got to Konrad, he leaned in and whispered, "Hard luck on the claim, young man. Perhaps you'll really deserve the next one, eh?". He winked at Konrad and moved on to the next man in line. Konrad's face drained of color. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
A routine patrol of friendly lines followed Boelcke's departure. Nobody was really in the mood and after 45 minutes they returned to Sivry. Upon arrival, Konrad was given his second message of the day. This was a telegram. Konrad read it, his face immediately twisting with concern and fear. His father was gravely ill and he was to return home at the earliest opportunity. Within the hour he was granted a leave of absence on compassionate grounds. By that same evening Konrad was boarding a train bound for Konigsberg.
Wulfe, another victory for Fullard! Congrats, sir.
Fullofit, love the way you're trading off stories with Wulfe, very neat. And yes, Konrad's practicing his "intentional" spin, of course!.... and please have Voscadeaux stay away from my field in future!
I'm about ready to head off to France for real! Wine tasting in Burgundy and the Loire Valley in prospect. I'll try to keep up while I'm away. Will be back on the forum in a couple of weeks' time. Stay safe up there in them "unfriendly skies"
„Ltn Rosenstein obediently reporting as ordered Herr Hauptmann“.
“Morgen Willi, good romp this morning?”. The Hauptmann moved over to his desk, picked up a letter adressed to him. “Have a read and tell me what you think Willi”.
Willi relaxed a little and took the light brown colored paper into his hand and started to read. It was an official order from the top. Willi finished and looked up at his C.O. “umm, right away Herr Hauptmann?”
“seems so Willi. Look things are about to change, had too really. Tommy and his friends can't have it their way all the time. It's all hush hush but the Kaisers' Luftstreitkräfte is to be totally reorganized. And I've heard that new aircraft types are to be introduced to the front.”
“But Sir, this group fly's those useless monoplanes! They need us to bodyguard them !”
“Yes yes yes Willi you are correct but unfortunatly some Pilot in a green Fokker made this request. Say's you saved his bacon from an N16 a few days back.”. Willi knew who he was. The Pilot in the green Fokker had flown over to Willi and gave a salute as 'Dankeschön'. “He's a good man Willi, one of those instructors up at Douai. It's nothing permanent Willi, trials actually. He's been tasked with creating a scout unit at Bertincourt, KEK Nord they call themselves. I've sent him a copy of your files, reports etc last week.”
Willi sighed in protest but caught himself quickly, showing despair wan't a good thing to do. “Jawohl Herr Hauptmann.”
“Good! Look at this as a few days rest from front duties. Go down there, meet some new faces, learn something new maybe. I'd hate to see you go Willi but things change in love and war. Do your best Willi, remember you represent every man here, including me.”
So with a heavy heart Willi packed his kit and said all the good bye's.
Maybe it's just me but I think that everybody's recent entries have all been particularly enjoyable reading. I imagine Fullofit's pilot will be the first one to score 50 kills! Seems Willi is going to be stationed at the same field as Julius, who just got his second kill confirmed. Bertincourt is home to both two-seater and scout units, and Jasta 1 will be formed there later this summer.
Have a nice trip, HarryH!
"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."
James McCudden, Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps
Hasse, it’s not just you. The level of writing here is fantastic. Actually, when I get my coffee in the morning and open up the iPad and there are no new stories it’s a bit of a letdown! I can’t wait to see everyone’s next adventure. Harry, hope you have an enjoyable and safe trip.
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!
Jericho had returned from the hospital and flown 1 mission but his wound had not healed yet. He was put on desk duty helping the Major with paper work. As the big push was coming, so had the increase in paperwork. Jericho was in high spirits, his 27th birthday had come and gone with no fanfare on the 21st. Because of his good friend James, his mother now knew of his whereabouts. He had also confided in James of his intentions to marry Camille. It seemed all was where it should be. He had led two bombing missions the day before. One of the front lines southwest of Monchy and one to Bertincourt. Both had been uneventful. They had 3 Nieuport escorts going to Bertincourt and Jericho was not worried in the least.
This morning at briefing, everything changed. He and Jordan were tasked with bombing Bertincourt again. This time there would be no escorts. "That's suicide!" Jericho had protested. The Major firmly said, "We need maximum effort and that airfield has to be neutralized!" Jericho had grabbed his kit and motioned to his flight "Lets go to hell boys!"
It was a rainy day with low cloud. They crossed the line at 1800'. Any higher and they would not be able to see through the clouds. The Archie was not bad but it was accurate. Between the bursts and the wind Jericho was reminded of riding a spirited 3 year old. Approaching the target his gunner, Wickam, signaled trouble. "We've come to far now Amigo" Jericho thought as he nodded in the affirmative. 30 seconds later they dropped their eggs and turned for home. Jericho was looking for the Huns when he noticed 2 go for Jordan and Wickam swung his Lewis to the opposite side and opened fire. Wickam made good use of his gun but the Hun pilot was persistant and he was good. He kept coming underneath them from behind giving Jericho's gunner a difficult target to hit. Jericho was doing his best to keep heading west. After 10 minutes of fighting which felt like a lifetime Jericho could see the lines ahead. "Hold him off for a few more minuets Pard!" he thought to himself. All of a sudden Wickams gun went silent. Jericho took a quick look and saw he was slumped over in his cockpit. Keeping his eye on his adversary he maneuvered his machine to stay out of his line of fire. All of a sudden bullets smacked into the Morane and another Eindecker flew past. Jericho was numb. Over enemy lines and defenseless. He turned and twisted. Maybe they will give up.
He never felt the bullet that went into the back of his head. The Morane slowly nosed over crashed into the ground 3 miles from No Mans Land. It was over.
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!
He never felt the bullet that went into the back of his head. The Morane slowly nosed over crashed into the ground 3 miles from No Mans Land. It was over.
Noooooo!!!! I'm gonna be sad all the way to France
Oh no! Jericho was a great DID character. And you did a such fine job at developing him through all these months we've flown the DID campaign, MFair.
Sending unescorted two-seaters to attack Bertincourt, which is at the center of the German fighter defense of the Somme front, is utterly stupid. Even the old Fokker E.III can easily shoot down a Morane. The brass hats should be ashamed of themselves (but I know they aren't).
"Upon my word I've had as much excitement on a car as in the air, especially since the R.F.C. have had women drivers."
James McCudden, Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps
Devastated. I'll miss my cowboy friend - he'd almost become real to me (no doubt because he reminded me so much of a certain Mississippian WOFF aficionado I know). I do hope you won't delay in getting your next fellow airborne. For the next week and a half I'll get very little WOFF time since I'm involved in some out of town work followed by a family wedding in Toronto. But then I'll be back with a vengeance.