Two confirmations this morning: the Roland from two days ago. The argument with the gunners was cleared up. And the second was yesterday’s Aviatik. The Fokker could not be confirmed. No witnesses and too far into enemy territory. Oh well. It was an early morning mission. They were up at 03:00 for a four o’clock take off. Despite the early hour, Gaston’s wingman, Sergent Berneart sat down beside Voscadeaux at the breakfast table and pulled out his family photo album. The said album would always be opened at the first page featuring Leblanc’s fat wife. Suddenly Gaston’s gruel lost all of its elusive taste. He barely listened as Berneart described one of his children. He just received another photo where the photographer placed the chubby boy behind the wheel of a toy automobile used as a prop in so many pictures. Leblanc proudly announced that this one will be a race car driver. What was the child’s name? Jacques? Gilles? No matter. Thankfully it was time to get ready for take off. Their target was the Athies airfield just across the mud. They’ve gone up to a brilliant sunrise. The villages below were asleep, or just waking up to the sound of the droning of the aero engines flying above.
They were over the enemy airfield in no time at all. The world was still at peace. The only signs of war were sporadic Flak bursts and the scarred landscape below. They’ve been circling the airfield for a while when the rising sun betrayed two of the Boche machines by reflecting its rays on the pale-blue wings. The ‘B’ flight dove and Gaston gave signal to attack. Dagonet, like a mad-man, dove on one of the enemy machines and soon after it was spiraling down, trailing a light grey column of smoke. Gaston dove for the other Hun, firing long bursts, then diving under to avoid a collision. When he turned around, the Boche was dragging behind him a black-smoke tail. Voscadeaux came about for another pass to finish the Hun off. He was concentrating so much he didn’t notice Dagonet make another mad-man dive on his left side. Gaston reacted too late.
"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."
Oh no!!!! That's terrible!!! Tell me it's not true!!! Voscadeaux is no more??? Terribly sorry to get this news, Fullofit. I wouldn't have believed it except for the video. A sad day
I just came in to check on how everyone was getting on....I'm in disbelief.
Bloody hell, so sorry Fullofit. What an understated way for Gaston to go. I really thought he was going to top the Bad Baron's score, and I was looking forwards to N.37 and N.124 being based at Cachy together next year.
Even in death, Gaston shall pass into legend as one of the DiD greats. Never again shall we see his like, who had topped pilots such as Guynemer and Voss within a half-year of flying. Truly, Le Violet was in a class of his own. He shall be very sorely missed.
...Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour, Adieu toutes les femmes, C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours, De cette guerre infâme...
Combat fatique. Early show, too much cognac the night before.....
Having 4 wingmen and 2 targets.....let the boys do the work. I sort of hold off and look how the guys decide what to do....safer. But a very historical death too, probably common.
CHAPTER TWELVE - BACK FROM THE SLOPES. TANGLING WITH SOME GIANTS.
Konrad Berthold von Blumenthal July 14th, 1916. Sivry-sur-Meuse, Verdun. Fokkerstaffel Sivry
Konrad leaned back in his seat, smiling to himself, as the train trundled gradually north toward the Belgian border. Immediately after his father’s funeral had concluded, he had upset his mother by declaring his intention to visit his old school friend, Otto, in Zermatt.
“I’m sorry mother but I have very limited time before I have to get back to my unit”.
“Yes, but why can’t you spend it here with me?”.
“Frankly, because I’d be bored stiff! Besides, I haven’t seen Otto in over ten years and he has just sent me this telegram to say that the glacier is open for skiing, so I simply have to go, don’t you see?”. He waved the piece of paper in front of his mother impatiently.
“So, you’ll be enjoying yourself in the mountains while your poor mother has to grieve alone”, she pouted.
“Nonsense. You’ll be partying with all the other widows, rejoicing in your new found freedom! I know full well that papa was a weight around your neck. He certainly never had a kind word for me and I expect it was similar for you too.” His mother gave him a mock look of disdain and he knew he was right.
Konrad made good use of the rest of his time away from the unit. He and Otto had managed to get in several runs each day, over the period of a week, and he was feeling refreshed by the mountain air. As the countryside rolled by he contemplated his return to the war, wondering if that blasted man Strunze had made it out of the hospital yet. Eventually, after a long journey, Konrad found himself back in Sivry. His hut showed evidence that, indeed, his room mate had returned, although he wasn’t actually there at this moment. Konrad growled to himself. A pity. He’d enjoyed his privacy while that annoying man had been laid up in a hospital bed. Oh well, all good things come to an end, he thought. He changed his clothes and made his way over to the office to report in.
Strunze had apparently been given leave, and was still recovering from his wounds, but would be back in the air soon. Konrad learned that nothing else terribly exciting had happened during his absence. Their field had been attacked a couple of times by that fearless purple Frenchman and his cronies, but other than that, it had been quiet.
The next morning they went up and Konrad had to get used to his new Eindecker once more. It was so much more powerful that the Halberstadts that the rest of the unit were flying. He wondered why they were deploying these machines instead, and was in no hurry to move to one himself. He soon got comfortable with his mount again, and became excited when his unit encountered a pair of those lumbering French 2 seaters. As usual, they had to climb to reach the slow giants. Konrad was the first to get there, due to the EIV’s superior climb rate. He should have waited for support but decided to approach the pair, keeping low and behind. His first pass was quite successful and he managed to put a few bullets into the Caudron before breaking off. However, on his second approach he caught some return fire. Nothing too serious, but with a couple of holes in his windshield, he decided to withdraw.
That afternoon they went up again and encountered yet another pair of Caudrons. Konrad thought he might fare better this time, but the results were similar, only this time he managed to keep his windshield intact. However, a stray shot from the rear gunner of one of the machines had nicked his fuel tank. Konrad could see the telltale vapor trail over his left shoulder and decided, once again, that caution was the best policy. He returned to Sivry for repairs.
The next day, gathered in the office, they were given news that shocked them all: the fearless French fighter pilot, Gaston Voscadeaux, the "purple terror" as he was known by the Fatherland, had been killed! A decision had already been made to fly over the Frenchman’s field and drop a wreath, in condolence and as a mark of respect. Konrad was not in favor of this, but he kept his concerns to himself. It was true that the French had done the same when Immelmann had met his end. However, it's simply a waste of flowers, thought Konrad, just as he had at his own father’s funeral. He turned his mind quickly back to the matter of engaging those 2 seaters. He needed a better strategy…..
Fullofit, what a horrendous end for poor Gaston. You must be really upset. He was a wonderful character and we'll genuinely miss him here. I hope you won't be long climbing back into the saddle. Just PM me and you'll be on your way. I'm away next week so I'd like to set your new man up by Friday.
Thank you Gentlemen for your kind words. I see you were just as shocked as myself, although it really should not come as a surprise. Gaston has used up all his 9 lives long time ago. What gets me is the pure skill with which Dagonet took Voscadeaux out. I wouldn’t be able to time a half roll like that even if I tried.
"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."
So. Any ideas on the new fellow yet? I need some stories to take my mind off the loss of Gaston...
Adj. James B. Fullard, Esc. N.124 'Americaine' Bar-le-Duc, France.
July 17th, 1916.
The last few days had been hard . On the 13th, we attacked the Spurline junction at Stenay, just off the Woevre Forest. Through low cloud and rain we cruised across the lines to the artillery-fortress that was the junction to set about our work. I had developed a hatred of ground-level work - it was suicidally dangerous and seldom had any effect. We crossed the lines at Verdun and headed towards the German side. As we were overflying the rear trenches, a flash of light caught my eye to the right. It was a burst of tracer. I squinted, and made out the shape of a Nieuport - no, two - dancing among a group of Fokkers. Without a second thought I circled away from my patrol and coursed towards the furball. With a lurch, I realised that I recognised the machines. It was Thenault’s patrol. I dove into the Melee and singled out an opponent. Getting onto his tail, I fired a burst into his engine. Immediately the machine slowed, and I got in another burst. The machine pitched sharply up, and in alarm I lifted my own nose, but there was a sickening jolt as my undercarriage caught the German machine. Alarmed, I circled away and turned for the lines. There was a flash as I saw the Eindecker, its pilot streaked in crimson and slumped over in his cockpit. A moment later and it had fallen down and out of my vision.
When I landed at Behonne, I only remember the sensation of feeling my undercarriage touch the ground. Without knowing what had happened, I woke up in the medical tent on the aerodrome with my head bandaged. As I later found out from Bert Hall, who had followed me back after the fight, my undercarriage had buckled as I landed and my head had been whipped into the dashboard, knocking me out-cold. The injury would ground me for three days, and I struggled with my frustration as the pilots discussed the battles they had gotten into each night. Nungesser had shot down two in one scrap, but neither could be confirmed. Nor could my Fokker.
When my undercarriage had collapsed, my Nieuport had been shattered in the ensuing smash. Despite my mechanic’s best efforts, the aircraft had been written off. And so, on the 16th, the Nieuport company sent a replacement machine to Behonne, for my allocation. My new ship was a Nieuport 16 - 30hp more powerful that the Nieuport 11 but, as Prince had told me before, considerably nose-heavy.
On the morning of the 17th, we seldom spoke among ourselves. Terrible news had arrived in the post, and in our mute shock we read the headline of the day’s paper. Printed in bold, funeral-black letters were the words “VOSCADEAUX KILLED IN CRASH”. Blanchon, ever the idealist, refused to believe the headline, but the rest of us could almost detect in the air, the staleness of the morning, that it was true. There was not a cloud in the sky, and yet the morning felt chill.
The news had stunned me. Even in the world of blood we existed in, we had never suspected that Le Violet could die. The story went that he and a wingman had collided in the air. I remembered the day I arrived at N.37’s aerodrome, and wondered if any of the pilots I had met were the one that shared in the fatal mistake. Before his death, Voscadeaux had downed more than fifty Bosches. Some idealistic rumour-mongers claimed he had gotten over 100. How could we not think he was invincible?
Fullofit, one again -- I really feel the loss of Voscadeux. What a great character. I wasn't sure he was really gone until I watched your video. I lost one of my best DiD careers in an accident that was nearly identical.
Welcome back, Harry. Your RL trip to France must have been wonderful. It's good to have Konrad back to his evil ways.
Carrick, glad to see you're being cautious.
Wulfe, everyone is getting in trouble this week. Glad it was only a short break from flying. We need more Fullard!
Here's the latest from Collins. A light wound helped me catch up to today.
An Airman’s Odyssey – by Lt James Arthur Collins, MC
Part Fifty: In which it is all never-ending
It had all gone wonky. Casualties on the first day of the great push were appalling by all reports, and success was little enough to be a poor bargain. The exception was on the southern end of the assault, where the guns had been sufficiently concentrated and the support of the French on the flank was solid enough to allow the advance to claim its objectives. The position around Boisselle that I’d seen blown skyward, or so I thought, still hung on.
Our lads spent the second week of the attack trying to take ground around Contalmaison. Now at last we were getting some response to our klaxon horns during contact patrols. We flew three times a day, falling into bed exhausted and being shaken awake two hours before sunrise. The Hun flying corps seemed to be licking their wounds, for we saw little of them on most patrols.
At sunrise on 9 July I led three machines – mine and Wilson’s, the Major’s, and Whistler’s – north to take photographs around Ovillers. On our return we approach two Hun two-seaters returning from some mischief. They were only a little above us and I waggled my wings and turned to get ahead of the nearest machine, attempting to stay where the Hun’s own wings would interfere with his gunner’s view of us. Wilson loosed off a half drum and I was a moment too late realising that the Hun had drifted to his right. The Hun gunner got off a long burst and rounds snapped past us. I turned under the noses of the two machines – Aviatiks, I think – and we fired again. But this time the farthest machine got a good shot at us and I felt a blow to my head as if I’d been hit with a bat. Two holes appeared in my windscreen and blood poured off my chin onto my lap. I’d like to say I was a hero and pressed on with the attack, but to tell the truth I had a good case of the zephyr vertical. Instantly I gave up all thoughts of Hun-getting and pointed our nose down and to the west. The field at Bellevue was not far off and we were on the ground safely in minutes.
"...I was a moment too late realising that the Hun had drifted to his right."
A medical orderly checked my wound and pronounced it superficial. “Just enough to trim the hair, sir!” he announced with a cheeky grin. Wilson, at least, was perturbed. The bullet, or a fragment of it, had split the scalp of my right temple and a tiny bit of metal was extracted from the bone. I was told I should see our MO before flying.
A tender came out and brought Whistler, who flew Wilson back to Lahoussoye while I was driven back. The Wing MO came to the village around tea time. I was told he’d meet me in the flight mess, which he did. After inquiring how long I’d been out, he mentioned that he’d heard I’d been somewhat reserved of late. I told him I’d had some family trouble, but nothing serious. I’d lost a good friend, too, but that was to be expected. “C’est la guerre, you see.”
He ordered me off flying for a week and said I was due for a proper break from the war. I tried to explain that the war was where I belonged, but he seemed to think that was a problem. It didn’t matter anyway. We needed every veteran man as long as this push went on. It would go on for a long time, it seemed. For the next week I was orderly officer for four days. Time dragged. All the other fellows were in the air nearly every waking moment. I thought of Captain Mealing. He’d recently been sent back to England, but the poor fellow was confined to administrative duties for nearly a month before that. I’d have to shoot myself if that happened to me.
Sergeant Wilson met me for “tea” every few days and relieved me of a considerable portion of my Yukon Gold whisky supply. He seemed genuinely worried that he wasn’t flying with me. There was, however, a new pilot, Captain Portal. Portal had arrived to take over Jericho’s flight and seemed a solid type, he said. I would go out of my way to get to know him, I promised.
At last on 16 July I was cleared to fly. My first patrol was a reconnaissance just after sunrise to the north near Contalmaison and Pozières. Two French Nieuports came along for the show. As we approached the objective, three Fokkers made a diving attack. They were of the newer two-gun type, and the Frenchies had their hands full. I continued and we got our photographs. I had barely turned back for home and Wilson was sorting out his camera kit when I noticed a lone Fokker about two thousand feet below, approaching a mile off. I banked and began a dive, pointing out the Hun to Wilson. It must have been one of the three we’d left with the Nieuports, although no other machine was in sight. We had enough speed from the dive to pull alongside the Hun, but I misjudged our position and we were nearly two hundred yards away. Wilson fired a long burst. The Hun, apparently unharmed, put down its nose and disappeared over his lines. I glanced back. Wilson was laughing and changing his drum. He pulled off his mitt and gave me a rude sign. I responded in kind. I was back.
Harry, another evil story. At last we get a glimpse at why Konrad is such a vile individual. Looks like those Caudrons are more than von B can swallow. Time to play nice and beg Strunze for help. Oh, and thanks for the waste of flowers Wulfe, the new pilot has submitted his application to the Game Gods. It is up to them to place his sorry heinie somewhere along the Front. All I can say is that he is wearing Feldgrau. Back to the living. That was some adventure! Fullard appears to have taken over from Voscadeaux when it comes to being reckless. Taking out that Boche with your undercarriage takes skill. You could say you tired him out. A sound strategy, yet too literal. Now, I am very curious how James will handle the Pig. Looking forward to the first impressions after being used to the nimble N11. And thank you for a wonderful homage to Gaston. His widow is grateful. BTW, that over 100 claims is a gross exaggeration.
"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."
Raine, you still have any of that Yukon Gold left? I’m surprised. That stuff seems to last. Looks like more bad luck keeps going around. First Voscadeaux, then Fullard and now Collins. Glad it was just a scratch.
"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."
Willi was quite nervus this morning. After reading events here I was a little loath to fly. First combat KEK Nord took out 2 Frenchy Caudron's. Later we had 3 Sop 1.1/2 crossing the lines who wanted to get at us. We retired, pulling them over into our side and waited till they broke formation. Then the 4 of us went in.
Must say those Sop's are a hard nut to crack. A very dangerous enemy indeed. After a few minutes of fighting it seemed everyone decided to go home, and Willi was inclined to agree.
Oh no, not Gaston! But there was definitely a certain realism to his death; quite a few Great War aviators were lost in mid-air collisions. Undoubtedly the most famous such casualty was Oswald Boelcke himself.
I enjoyed reading about Gaston's adventures and watching the videos. I wish you better luck with your next pilot.
I've been busy with real life, but I hope to get back to DID flying soon.
"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