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Wulfe, we all need to recall that we do this for fun, and I hope you'll enjoy your break. But know that we'll miss your tales and will be waiting to welcome you back. Let me also second MFair's view that Fullard should go on sick leave rather than retire.

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Wulfe, this kind of behaviour is unacceptable. DiD pilots don’t retire. In addition you are hurting those around you the most. I for one am going to miss those exciting stories with the characters developed to the point of feeling genuine loss when they kick the bucket. If you let Fullard retire, it will be one unfulfilled end, leaving us unsatisfied. Sort of like the last season of Game of Thrones.
Take your time and pick up when you get the chance. All the best.


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The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain,
From out of my arse take the camshaft,
And assemble the engine again."
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I agree with the consensus. We are having fun. Dont stress if you fall behind due to other commitments. Just come back when you're ready.

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Cheers for the responses, guys! Alright - Fullard will remain in the wings until future notice

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Wulfe, I'm late to the party here myself, RL this summer has been crazy busy for me as well. I have managed to keep up with my DiD flying, (more or less), but have had no time to post an update of Swany's story. Very glad you're going to keep Fullard going Sir!

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Keith Cunard Mallory
2nd LT, Rfc
29 Sqn, Ablee AF.
DH-2's
4 Kills

Aug 18, 1916.

Flew with Sqn 7 a/c on Patrol this late morning, Spotted 2 Recon types on the enemy side down at about 2800 ft. Wagged my wings but no one paid attention so attacked alone, I caught the lowest of the 2 shooting a drum then did a roundabout reloading and fired off a second drum from 500 yards to 300 . Saw no hits but caught 5 rounds from the e/a. Decided that I should RTB down to 50% fuel.

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FSL James C Cameron

Aug. 18
James had not had time to learn all the names of the personnel at his new home. It was an elite squadron with some very fine pilots. His new hut mate since Barkers death was an Irishman. He seems to be a friendly enough fellow, but on their first flight James was dumbfounded at how bad a flier the man was. He could not keep formation but for a brief time before falling behind or pulling ahead. His landed was awful suspect to boot. Luckily, on their first tow flights together they had no contact.

At 0400 they had taken off for a line patrol northeast of Ypres. At 9000’ in good weather, James, the Irishman and Flight Commander Keeble approached the mud at their patrol area. Just as Keeble wagged his wings James saw the unmistakable silhouette of 3 monoplanes ahead and above. The 6 machines closed the distance between them in no time. James turned and climbed for the highest machine. Just as he was ready to fire bullets smacked into his Nieuport and he rolled to port. Coming back up he could see a Fokker closing on his Irish friend and dove in behind it driving it the Fokker of his tail. The rest of the fight was a genuine dogfight! Turn, evade, fire and turn again. After one last round and round with the last Fokker James could see he flew home alone. The other two had just landed as James landed. He was glad to see the Irishman had made it. At least he had survived his first combat.


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Carrick, good show!
MFair, looks like the Irishman has got himself a guardian angel.


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Good show Fullofit

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A free morning at last has allowed me to not only catch up here but put together an update on my pilot as well. Wonderful stories and reports and videos and pictures folks, thanks as always for sharing them.

.

20 August 1916
Randolph Arvid Swanson
Captain
70 Squadron, R.F.C.
Fienvillers, France
Sopwith Strutter
24 confirmed victories, 41 claims
203.48 hours
136 combat missions
MC & Bar, CdG

.

Swany sat silently in his corner room at Mme Corcelles boarding house. He had dragged the room's only chair in front of the westward facing window and was now sunk deep into the dark, embroidered, overstuffed cushions of his refuge. His booted feet were propped on the low sill of the tall fenêtre in front of him. The sound of a lone motor car, making it's way lazily along the Rue de la Gare, drifted in through the open sash, carried along by a cool evening breeze of late summer. Pigeons could be heard cooing softly to each other from the rooftop across the way, and beyond that a dog barking somewhere in the depths of the village. The sun would be setting soon, the blue of the sky inching darker and darker. High, fluffy clouds dotted the far horizon, their undersides now a brilliant gold. It was an almost idyllic scene. Yet far away, off to the east, the big guns could be heard. Their low, muffled, constant "woomp - woomp - woomp" just barely audible, but audible none-the-less. The War was ever-present, it could not be escaped, short of death.

The young airman was on his second glass of a not unpleasant Bordeaux which he'd determined tasted more like a plum wine than anything else. He wasn't sure yet if he was going to sit and finish off the bottle or walk back over to camp for a sing-song in the Officers' Mess - or possibly both. It had been a hellish time, these last eight weeks, beginning with the death of his good freind and fellow American, Mark Jericho. Swany had been crushed when he received the news, and hated himself for not following through with his plan of visiting his friend after returning to France and being assigned to the field at Fienvillers. Now it was too late, Mark was dead. Swany vowed then that he would travel at his very first opportunity to visit his other good friend, James Collins. But then the Somme Offensive began, and it was relentless. Since the beginning of July crews were flying two, and ofttimes three sorties a day in support of Allenby's ground forces along the northern end of the proceedings. No one was being allowed to travel more than a few miles from camp, and only for a good reason. Seeing an old friend did not qualify as such.

And then came the woundings. The first was on the 9th of July while Swany and his long time G/O Lt. Christopher Dent, and two other crews of 'A' Flight, were engaged with a trio of the new Hun two-seaters - the Rolands. They were beasts and could put up a fight like nothing else, more than a match for the Strutters the King's airmen were flying. After a very protracted battle over Delville Wood Swany and Chris were at last gaining the upper hand on their opponent when suddenly things went black for the ace pilot. Swanson came to brief seconds later, his head pounding, his vision blurred, and his G/O shaking him by his shoulder asking if he was still alive. After assuring him that he was Swany managed to find his was back across the mud and land in a field near the town of Bouzincourt. Blood was oozing through a slit on the right side of his flying cap and after being helped down out of the cockpit he fell to the ground on his hands and knees and retched uncontrollably, so severe was the dizziness and pain. After being taken to a field dressing station and from there to the New Zealand Stationary Hospital at Amiens, (as it was the closest), it was determined that Lieutenant Swanson had suffered a serious concussion from a bullet that had slammed into his skull just above his right ear. Owing to the angle of the incoming round, and the hardness of his Norwegian head, said bullet had bounced off rather than burying itself inside his brain - he'd been very lucky. After sixteen days of recovery and rest Swany was allowed to return to flying duties. Now a Captain, (he'd been given a bump while in hospital), he was returned to his position as the leader of 'A' Flight. During his absence the final members and aeroplanes of 70 Squadron had arrived and they could at long last muster three full flights. Among the new fellows was Lieutenant William Kennedy-Cochran-Patrick, the young test pilot Swany had met while passing through St. Omer in April. The two men had hit it off right from the start then, and now that they were serving in the same squadron they quickly became good friends.

The second wounding came in early August, on the 7th, and again involved the damnable Rolands. During another long go-round with one of them, this time over Monchy-le-Preux while on a contact patrol, Swany was shot through the calf of his left leg. Despite this he fought on and in the end the Hun's best fell under the combined fire power of Swanson and Dent. After returning to Fienvillers Swany's wound was treated and he spent the next nine days limping around camp, his activities again being limited to the ground. He was still dealing with the pain from his head injury in July and since then would often take a dose of headache powder dissolved in a shot of rum before going up as it took the edge off and helped to clear his head for combat. He'd been given a goodly supply of Sitruc's powder upon leaving the hospital in Amien's, but that hadn't lasted him long. He was now having it mailed to him regularly via a pharmaceutical supply house in London.

Captain Swanson downed a third glass of the Bordeaux before corking the bottle. He had decided - he would walk back over to camp and continue his drinking there in the company of his fellow airmen. It was a quiet stroll and it found Swany making good use of the cane he had fashioned from the prop blade of his most recent victory; a twin-gun Eindecker he and Chris had sent down just north of Albert on Friday last. It had been an easy kill, the Hun pilot seeming quite green. By the time Swany reached the Officers' Mess his head was feeling somewhat better, the evening air helping to dull the pain, along with the wine he'd enjoyed before. As he made his way to the bar he was called to by his G/O who was already well pickled.

"Swansong my good man! Get yer arse over here and teach us that one again about the lumberjack. I'll stand you a pint and a bump to get you started." Chris nearly hit the ground as he attempted to lean against the end of the piano but missing the thing entirely. His stumbled recovery started everyone on that end of the room laughing.

Swany made his way over and by the time he arrived the promised drinks were waiting for him. He downed the shot and followed it with a large quaff of ale before squaring off next to the piano. "OK den, those who remember just jump in, the rest of you can learn as we go. You know da tune, right Wendy?

G/O Lieutenant Jeffrey "Wendy" Wendall had come in with the last bunch of "C" flight lads and, as fate would have it, was an outstanding musician. He gave the Captain a nod and began playing the melody. Swany finished the rest of his pint then sang out at the top of his voice:

As I sat down one evening in a timber town cafe,
A six foot-seven waitress, to me these words did say,
"I see that you are a logger and not just a common bum,
For no one but a logger stirs his coffee with his thumb.

"My lover was a logger, there's none like him today,
If you'd sprinkle whisky on it, he'd eat a bale of hay.
He never shaved the whiskers from off his horny hide,
He'd just pound 'em in with a hammer, and bite 'em off inside.

"My lover came to see me one freezing winter day.
He held me in a fond embrace that broke three vertebrae.
He kissed me when we parted so hard it broke my jaw,
And I could not speak to tell him he'd forgot his mackinaw.

"I watched my logger lover going through the snow,
A-sauntering gaily homeward at forty-eight below.
The weather tried to freeze him, it tried it's level best,
At a hundred degrees below zero, he buttoned up his vest.

"It froze clean down to China, it froze to the stars above,
And at a thousand degrees below zero it froze my logger love.
They tried in vain to thaw him and if you'll believe me sir,
They made him into ax blades to chop the Douglas fir.

"That's how I lost my lover and to this cafe did come,
And here I wait until someone stirs his coffee with his thumb."



Cheers went up from the room and several more pints and shots were passed across to Captain Swanson. It was going to be a very squiffy night.

.

NOTE: James Stevens first published "The Frozen Logger" in 1929 and later again in his collection of lumberjack songs and stories, "Bunk Shanty Ballads and Tales" in 1949. However, it is quite likely he'd heard something similar to it in the early 1900s during his time working the lumber camps in Minnesota, Idaho, and Washington.

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Welcome back Lou, (and Swany!) Great catch up story.

MFair, 0400 is simply too early. Hope the sunrise was magnificent to compensate for the short sleep.

Wulfe, have a good break.

Carrick, dunno how you manage to fly that DH2. I have no luck in 'em.

My new fellow will debut today or tomorrow. Just putting the back story together. Not another villain, more the opposite.


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Harry H : I only attack the easy targets and avoid all stalls.

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Keith Cunard Mallory
2nd LT, Rfc
29 Sqn, Ablee AF.
DH-2's
4 Kills

Aug 20, 1916.

The plan was to attack a enemy Aerodrome at dawn catching all on the ground, A Flight's 2 machines attached 1st then B flight, 3 e/a came in from no where and everything fell apart . I fire at them as they passed then reloaded and attacked the airfield, Rloaded again and did a reversal firing off another drum. I see 1 e/a force landing in a field. I ran for home. Score we landed with 4 a/c out of 6 and claimed 3 e/a.

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Carrick, I think the Hun knew that Keith and his mates were coming.

Harry, thanks.

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Feldwebel Lazlo Halász,
KeK Nord, Bertincourt, France
August 20th 1916

[Linked Image]


Lazlo was born in the small Croatian fishing village of Gradac. His mother struggled desperately in bringing her first born into the world, since Lazlo weighed only slightly less than five kg. He measured 22 inches from the top of his head to his feet. The neighbour that delivered him swore she had never seen a baby as large in her entire life, and she had delivered a number of babies during her time. At birth he'd had a shock of reddish ginger hair which only became a deeper red as grew up. As a young man, Lazlo would frighten his fellow fisherman whenever he boarded one of their boats, due to the sudden rocking back and forth that he would cause.

"My god, Lazlo, you're going to sink us all!", his uncle would complain, but he was used to these kinds of things being said. He would simply smile and get on with things. No one dared to annoy him for fear of what he might do in response, and yet, no one had ever seen him lose his temper. He was truly a gentle giant.

When the war finally commenced, Lazlo's village immediately and unavoidably became swept up by it. A base was established just along the coast and the Austro Hungarian military had plans to fight the Italians from the air, using flying boats. They had the pilots, but what they needed were observers capable of managing things at sea, should the planes have to "ditch" for any reason. Lazlo was fascinated by all the activity at the base and would often wander down the road to stand and look through the fence at these incredible "airboats". The first time that he saw one take off he was enthralled. It captured his imagination to the extent that he just knew he had to fly in one. As luck would have it, one of the base commanders came to their village one day in search of able bodied seamen looking for adventure. They could hardly hold Lazlo back! At first the commander was a little unsure due to Lazlo's sheer physical size, but he eventually agreed to enlist him in the observer training course. Such was his keeness and determination to fly that he quickly completed the requisite training. Two months later he was in the air, hurling incendiary devices over the side of his Lohner type L seaplane and manning the machine gun to ward off any approaching enemy craft. His finest hour came when, after experiencing engine trouble, the pilot of the machine he was in had to make an emergency landing almost 20 miles off the coast, hitting his head and falling unconscious in the process. Lazlo, unaided, had rowed the seaplane back to shore. He was hailed as a hero for accomplishing this mighty feat. Over the course of the next year, Lazlo seized his chances to pilot the seaplane and gradually learned how to fly. He became quite adept and eventually his commander encouraged him to apply to join Die Fliegertruppen des deutschen Kaiserreiches.

It was August of 1916 and Lazlo found himself comically wedged into the sidecar of a motorbike being driven at speed through the French countryside, his legs dangled outside the passenger compartment. He hoped there would be a little more room in the Fokker Eindecker that he was to be assigned to. They were five miles from Berrtincourt when the engine began to cough and splutter. They pulled to the side of the road. Lazlo would have to walk the rest of the way.....

To be continued......


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Keith Cunard Mallory
2nd LT, Rfc
29 Sqn, Ablee AF.
DH-2's
4 Kills


Aug 21, 1916.

Posted to 2 flights today. The 1st offensive Patrol had No Contact. The second Patrol saw all 6 of us diving on 3 Recon types I was doing fine til I got to close and the rear gunner got my fuel line and chewed up my lower right wing. I made our lines,but it was close.

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Lou, a fine story you have crafted. It plays on all the senses. No wonder you were quiet this long. It had to take a while to hone and polish this jewel. Hopefully we can hear more song performances from Swany in the future. May he stay drunk for a long time.
Harry, that is some bio! How do you row in a flying boat?! That motorcycle engine failure is a sign. I imagine Lazlo will experience quite a few of those in his poor Eindecker. Will you fly it 3/4 throttle at all times to simulate the extra weight? Looking forward to further adventures of Herr Groß Laci.
Carrick, it’s “always above and never below” when fighting other scouts, not two-seaters.


"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."
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Originally Posted by Fullofit
... Will you fly it 3/4 throttle at all times to simulate the extra weight? ...

That is good idea biggrin

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Fullofit: Opps.

HarryH: There was two strangers near the Aerodrome a few days prior,

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Carrick, those two look a bit shady to me, I don't trust them.

Fullofit, thanks, glad you enjoyed it. I wrote it up in about 2 1/2 hours over the course of a couple of early mornings with a portion of that time spent checking some historical facts. So when are we going to hear if Chesty's last three claims were approved or not? You must keep us abreast of his progress.

Harry, great intro to your new pilot. I'm predicting a big career for Lazlo in the Kaiser's Fliegertruppe.

.

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