Ha, the Gong Fairy pays an unexpected visit! Thanks Lou!
I wonder how carrick's pilots always end up in hospitals with such pretty nurses? Friends in high places?
Tobias and Drogo seem to be doing well. With the Albatros now coming into service, things should become even more exciting for both of them. Of course it will take some time until all Jastas have them... This is definitely an interesting period in the air war.
"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
Thanks Lou, the good thing about videos is that they make themselves. As to the Eindeckers, Toby is actually helping the poor Hun pilots. When he shoots down ALL monoplanes, the Kaiser will have no choice but to equip them with better machines. Still not sure if it’s a good plan. Congrats on the Halbie, but it looks like tough times are ahead of the 70 Sqn. Those Albatrosen appear to be a tough nut to crack. Good luck!
Congrats to all the recent Gong Fairy awardees!
MFair, look who’s talking. Mister Caudron plague. Herr Kanone ... ah, wait a minute! You need 10 to be an Ace on the other side. Almost had me there Congrats! With that D.II you’ll be a double-Ace in no time.
Hasse, you have it backwards. It is not Carrick that ends up in a hospital with pretty nurses. It is the pretty nurses that end up in a hospital with Carrick in it.
One of the latest claims was credited to Toby. His tally stood at 20.
They took off in total darkness to arrive over the target at first light. It wasn’t enough that it was an early start, it was ‘B’ flight only show to boot. The flight to Habsheim took the better part of the morning. Toby’s wingman detached from formation as they were crossing the front lines. Had to have a dud engine. Toby continued looking back from time to time to check if Knight wouldn’t sort out his problem and catch up. He finally saw him in the distance. It was still dark and the visibility wasn’t great so Toby couldn’t tell if there was anything wrong with the plane but he was relieved to see his wingman back. He slowed down so that the other man could catch up. There was something odd about it though. Toby observed his wingman as he approached. He finally realized what the issue was. His wingman was flying a Strutter with only one pair of wings! It was a Hun in a sheep’s clothing. Toby turned around to face the sneaky enemy. He had him in his sights soon enough and firing, but then his gun jammed. He reached for his mallet. Aha! There it is! He pulled on it and felt his plane jolt and zoom up with a sudden release of weight. Toby accidentally tripped the bomb release lever as he pulled on the mallet. “- That’s just bloody great!” He thought to himself as he imagined the bombs descend with a loud whistle into the forest below, exploding harmlessly and scaring off the game. The gun continued to refuse to fire. Finally, with a final blow to the breach the bent shell dislodged itself and Toby resumed the onslaught. The gun jammed again, but the bullets continued to hit the Hun. Toby was befuddled and examined his gun closely. His Vickers was silent. It was definitely not him. Mulberry looked behind to see Knight, who re-emerged and continued Toby’s work. Mulberry’s mallet worked furiously. He watched as his wingman continued to harass the Boche. Again, the gun jam was cleared and Toby came to help Rick. A pale stream of vapour followed the Fokker wherever it went. The morning sun reflected in the trace, giving it a pinkish hue. Toby could see his target clearly against the dark forest below. The Eindecker was now gliding down without power. Few more passes and the Hun was forced down. It was a failed mission, but Toby was glad to be going home. Those German pilots get up pretty early in the morning to earn their Deutsche Marks.
"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."
Toby planned to visit his American neighbours in the hangars before the afternoon mission to check on “his” Nieuport, but he thought better of it when he saw Whiskey lounging near the entrances gnawing on a bovine femur. Toby could imagine his own leg between those feline fangs and decided to postpone his visit. Draper, Page and Colburn were ordered to bomb Colmar factories. Toby and Rick had the task of escorting them and dropping their own bombs if possible. Thick fog covered the target but Toby was able to place his ordnance on target. He watched the rest of the flight perform their bomb runs and turned back for home when it was all over. On the way back they encountered 3 Fokkers. They were well organized and one of them got Toby after the initial merge. There always seemed to be one on his tail. Finally Mulberry was able to get on the tail of one without being targeted himself. Toby was filling him full of holes as he attempted to climb away. One of the rounds caught the Hun in a place where bullets shouldn’t be placed and he took a long dive all the way down. He then followed another Boche attempting to leave the scene and crippled the Eindecker. The Hun crashed into the forest trailing thick grey smoke behind.
"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."
Some great reading this weekend. Fullofit, you're past 20 now. Lou will be agitating to send you to HE soon so you don't catch Swany. Great videos. Carrick, I think that I look forward to the interesting people you meet in hospital more than anything. Stay alive, but keep getting hurt, please! Hasse, great to see Julius about to make a move. Congrats on the EK II. That photo of Johannisthal was excellent. Lou, tremendous flying. The dogfight photo from 21 September is one of the best WOFF shots ever.
And now for something completely different...
An Airman’s Odyssey – by Capt James Arthur Collins, VC, MC Part Sixty-Five: In which the plot unfolds
After four days of rain, flying weather returned on 21 September – Wednesday. I waited desperately for Friday, partly to hear Alex’s plan and partly just to get a chance to have dinner with her. That Wednesday morning I called the section together to demonstrate a loading pattern recommended to me by the armourer sergeant, Sergeant Brady: one tracer, two Buckingham, two Pomeroy. Repeat and serve warm to the Hun. Sergeant Brady had another good idea. He loaded two groups of five tracers just before the last hundred rounds in the belt. It was needlessly risky to start a run at a Zeppelin with much fewer than a hundred rounds. We spent the morning checking our guns and ammunition, after which I flew a rigging check over to Chelmsford and back. We had a funeral. Poor Ness had killed himself during a night landing, stalling into trees.
On the twenty-second we flew timed navigation patrols, clocking our time to locations east of the city that were likely intercept points and letting the men who were new to BE12s judge their climb rate. Then Friday came at last. I arrived at the Savoy early, and Jimmy the bartender had a waiter bring a note to my table. It read: “Change of plan. Meet at the tearoom in Brown’s Hotel, Mayfair. Too many RFC officers here.” I asked directions at the front desk. It was nearly a half-hour by foot – I’d taken the train from Epping. I arrived to find Alex polishing off a cream tea in the company of a middle-aged man. The fellow seemed far too familiar with her for my taste. I watched for a moment from the doorway until Alex looked up and I pretended to have just arrived.
“Hello again! Hope I’m not interrupting,” I said, taking a seat. A waiter intervened and explained that the tea service was ending. “Just a cuppa,” I told him. To my surprise he addressed me as Captain Collins as he scurried off.
Alex placed a hand on my forearm and leaned in conspiratorially. “Jim, I’d like you to meet Price Bell of the Chicago Daily Record. Price is an old friend and a true mentor for a young journalist.” I was still processing this when she went on. “Price has been a fixture in the London press community since Queen Victoria’s jubilee year.”
Edward Price Bell
“Just after it, unfortunately,” said Bell. He offered a hand and repeated his name, “Price Bell. Pleasure to meet you.”
“So what’s the plan you referred to?” I asked, looking at Alex. It was Bell who answered.
“Miss Anderson tells me they plan to keep you from the front and you don’t want that. Is that so?” I nodded. “Take a look at this,” he said. He passed me a newspaper. It was in French: L’Humanité, subtitled a “socialist paper.”
“This is just one sample I picked up at a foreign newsagent’s on the way here. Notice anything different from your British papers?”
“It’s socialist?”
“That’s not different. You have the Daily Herald, for God’s sake. That idiot Lansbury’s last editorial wants Britain to pull out of the war. Socialist? That sonuvabitch is for free love and state-run nurseries.” Alex began to giggle. I was starting to like Bell. “What’s different?” he asked again.
My eyes fell on the photograph of a young officer. I read the accompanying article, translating out loud as I went: “The Activities of our Aircraft – Guynemer shoots down his fourteenth aeroplane. Heaurteaux stands at five.” It proceeded to detail the combats over the front in considerable detail. “Our press can’t run that kind of story,” I said.
“Right you are. The French make these guys heroes. The British are afraid to let the names of their top pilots get out. You’re a bit of an exception to that because you did your star turn over London, but I’ve been doing some digging about Americans flying with the RFC and do you realise that the number one killer of German aircraft is from the States?”
“Swanson,” I said. “I know him. He’s a good friend. We trained together in Canada and served together in 3 Squadron. I can tell you some tales.”
Bell seemed surprised. “Then you know he’s up for a VC as well?”
I was blown over and delighted. “No kidding?” I asked.
“I got it from a War Office source today. The Record won’t run a story about without confirmation from a second source. I’ll get that in the morning. But there’s a move afoot to keep Swanson in England, same as you. There’s a young fellow named Ball, an Englishman. He’s bagged about fifteen by all accounts. If the Brits are ever going to start publicising their pilots, you can bet your ass that Ball will get pushed out front.”
Bell lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair. “You know Max Aitken, right?” I nodded. Only now did it register that my tea had arrived several minutes ago. I poured a cup and stirred in some sugar. “Aitken is buttering up key conservatives who won’t want to see too much press about a Yank leading the RFC. But he’s tight with Lloyd George too. Lloyd George will support more publicity about airmen, but may have to placate the conservatives. You see, Haig thinks too much press about airmen undervalues the men on the ground. Trenchard is Haig’s man and backs him all the way. Trenchard doesn’t want his flying ‘aces,’ as the French call them, getting too much attention because he thinks it undervalues the pilots of his reconnaissance machines. But Lloyd George isn’t a Haig supporter. In fact, he can't stand him. Lloyd George and his clique value a bit more promotion of our airmen and to heck with Haig and Trenchard. But having a Yank and a Canuck lead the way upsets the old boys, so I suspect you’ve had all the front page photos a Canadian can expect. Not only that, but Aitken’s friends in Ottawa are pushing for you to go back to Canada for a tour to boost recruiting.”
“No.” I glanced at Alex. She was studying her teaspoon.
“So let me propose something,” said Alex. “Price is going to interview Aitken on Monday. He’ll ask him to make sure you get back to France. If Aitken doesn’t agree, Price is going to break the story about Swanson’s VC. In that story he’ll mention you, too, and suggest that Aitken’s Canadian War Records Office is helping the Brits make sure you colonials don’t get too much press too soon. Suppressing stories about Canadian heroes will put him at odds with his political pals back in Ottawa and with his minority shareholders at the Daily Express.”
She smiled and leaned towards me. “Now here is where I need your help. Price is prepared to let me break his story about Swanson being the top ‘British’ pilot in France. There will be following stories after that scoop. I need you to introduce me to Swanson so I can flesh out his tale. I’m going to ensure the Chicago Tribune tells the world that Britain’s top ace is from Warroad, Minnesota.”
Bell cut in. “Once my other source confirms that Swanson is up for a VC, I’m running with the VC story in the Record, probably by Wednesday. I need to get it out before it’s gazetted. It will be a one-two punch in the Chicago papers. Aitken’s Daily Express won’t be able to sit on the story once it’s on the wires from the States. He’ll have to run it himself, and that will start to upset his conservative pals. His only solution will be to get his connexions in Whitehall to ship you and Swanson back to France and out of sight as soon as possible.” Bell stood up. “Now buy this girl dinner. She’s earned it.” He strode out, leaving me with Alex and the bill.
In the moonless night of Saturday, 23 September 1916, the Zeppelins returned to London. There was a high, fine haze that blocked out the stars and a layer of cloud at eight thousand feet. I took off ahead of Ogden, a new man who had replaced Ness, and Atwell. It took a half hour of steady climbing to reach ten thousand. By that time, the Thames was beneath and I turned east towards Gravesend. Some ten minutes later I glimpsed something slightly higher and off to the left, north near Tilbury. It was more of an impression, like a school of charcoal fish floating against a backdrop of black sky. I turned north, climbing hard to fourteen thousand. The sky was empty. After a few minutes I turned west-southwest, back to the city. Searchlights began to drift across the night far in front. I opened the throttle fully and searched. It would be far too easy to fly headlong into a Zeppelin on a night like this.
A sudden flash of silver! The searchlights converged on an airship, perhaps a mile and a half ahead. The distance closed very slowly. To my alarm, I noticed the darkened shape of a Zeppelin directly above me, not five hundred yards away. When I opened fire on the Zeppelin in the searchlights, the one above me would have an easy target. I held fire a minute more, closing now to three or four hundred yards from the stern of the silver giant in the lights. And then I fired – long bursts of eight to ten rounds, again and again and again, trying always to target the same part of the thing, the curved dorsal section forward of the tail. A gunner on the airship hit me with an accurate burst. The Zeppelin above raked my machine with fire. I banked vertically and dived away.
Regaining my composure somewhat, I climbed back and searched for my prey. The lights had lost it. I spotted the higher Zeppelin. It had drifted a little to the north. A beam of light caught another. It was my target! I closed again to three hundred yards and began firing burst after burst with no effect. Two streams of tracer poured out – the last hundred rounds. Down to a hundred yards and still firing.
The Zeppelin began to glow. I was getting used to this so I wasted no time in turning and diving away. A ball of orange flame rolled up from the back of the giant. Heart pounding like a steam hammer. Search the sky for those grey ghosts – must not collide with a Hun now. I glanced left and was stunned to see a pair of Zeppelins no more than four hundred yards off. They were turning north at the very outskirts of London. I prayed that they had dropped their bombs on empty fields.
"A ball of orange flame rolled up from the back of the giant."
I flew north for ten minutes before realising I was too far to the west. Turning northeast, I saw a landing ground, but the configuration of the fields around it was wrong. It was likely Hainault Farm, so it was necessary to turn north. Within five minutes, I was cutting the engine and dropping over the trees and following the row of fire-pots onto the field at North Weald.
Fullofit - Chesty is a force of nature. I dread to think how many Bosches will fall if he ever gets his sly hands on that Nieuport of *ahem* his...
Raine - Wow. Just wow. THREE ZEPPELINS. That's huge...Collins is England's guardian angel! I wonder if we'll see the first pilot VC and bar in our altered-history timeline?
Sous. Lt. James B. Fullard, Esc. N.124 'Americaine', Luxeuil, France.
September 23rd, 1916.
The rain continued to hamper operations, and we spent much of our time in the mess among our new British and Canadian friends. To our amazement they seemed to fly no matter the weather, and more than once I saw their Strutters departing during Temps Aeronautique from my quiet little hotel room in Luxeuil. On the morning of the 22nd, before our scheduled patrol, I visited the hangars with Chesty and Raymond Collishaw to give my machine a final once-over. The Canadian was impressed with the type, but Chesty seemed...familiar...with my ship. Leaning closer to me, Ray whispered in my ear “he desperately wants one of those, you know. Been harassing daddy for days to get a shot in a Nieuport before you turned up!”.
We were all thrilled when our Nieuport 17s were wheeled out onto the aerodrome for their maiden flight. With a great grin on his face Rockwell slapped me on the back. “Hell, look at these darlings! We’ll win the war in a week with these ships!”. I laughed as I buttoned up my combination. We went through the ritual of passing cigarettes - it was my turn to provide, and I handed off my cigarette case to Blanchon. Smirking, he struck a match. “Well, I’m keen to see what our ace can do in one of these little coucous” he said, nudging me in the ribs. I laughed and waved him away.
De Laage gathered us on the airfield in front of our machines. “Ok, boys. Today we’re going after a Bosche Balloon South of St. Die. I will be leading, and Fullard will take over if I am indisposed for any reason. Remember, this is dangerous work, so keep a sharp lookout! Our English friends say that the Bosche are still flying Eindeckers in this sector, but all the same”.
We boarded our Nieuports and took off into the icy morning air. The horizon had turned a deep salmon-pink as the sun quietly climbed up into the sky, and as the first rays of light bathed the land in gold I was stunned into breathlessness by the beauty of the Alsace, its great rolling hills and expansive forests stretching on in wondrous, enchanted scenery. As we flew East towards the lines, I found myself transfixed by the sight. So enthralled was I that I almost failed to notice the qualities of my new machine - unlike its nose-heavy little sister, the Nieuport 17 was incredible to fly. Each twitch on the control column came with a feather-light reaction from the controls, as I tilted the nose up the machine hungrily lapped up the altitude, seemingly infinitely. Gently I weaved left and right. Now, this was an aeroplane. In that moment, with the mountains bathed in dawn, in this new machine, I felt completely serene for the first time since my arrival in France.
As we saw the scar of no-man’s-land coming into view my mind returned to that of a war pilot. Looking down at the vast forests below us, I checked my map for potential places to land, should I need to, before pointing us on course for the enemy balloon and dropping altitude. I spotted it shining in the morning glow and made straight for it, holding my breath in anticipation. Fighting my instincts telling me to turn away as a hail of machine-gun fire came up at me, I got close and let the Le Prieurs fly - all of them missed. "Damned useless things” I muttered, charging my Milatraleuse and circling around for a strafing run. Setting the balloon in my sights again as the ground crew fought to winch it down, I fired off a long burst. Suddenly smoke started to trickle from the bullet holes, and I banked away just in time to watch the balloon explode into a blinding fireball.
Satisfied, we headed home and I made my report. That night, however, I found Thenault in a heated argument over the telephone. After slamming the receiver down and shaking his head in disgust he turned to me. “Sorry, James. They’ve rejected your balloon claim. God only knows why”. I sighed and shrugged. “Well, it can’t be helped. Fancy a drink?”.
The next day I awoke early to the sound of an almighty commotion coming from the hallway. As I opened my door there was a yellow flash at my feet as Whiskey bolted into my room, diving underneath my bed. In puzzlement I tried to retrieve the cub who growled in protest. A moment later the two young daughters of the proprietor knocked on my door. “Monsieur, ‘ave you seen Whiskee?” they asked me. One of them was holding a pink ribbon in her hands. I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to put that there ribbon on poor old Whiskey by any chance, are you?”. The two girls feigned shock. “non, Monsieur! Of course not! We just want to, ah...feed him some leftovers!”. I smirked. “I saw him go down to the end of the hall”. The girls faces lit up, and with a quick “Merci!” they ran off.
I opened a bottle of Yukon Gold (bought from the Canadians) and poured a small amount into a mug, laying it at the foot of the bed and coaxing the young lion cub out. “You owe me one, buddy” I told him, scratching him behind the ears as he lapped the drink up.
The morning of the 23rd was cloudy, but the rain had seemingly receded once more. Fortunately for me, I was scheduled for only one patrol in the morning, leaving the rest of my day free to lounge around the aerodrome as I pleased. Around noon I returned to the hotel for lunch. As I was sat at the dining table I choked on my coffee at the sight of an utterly defeated Whiskey trailing at Luf’s feet - around his neck was a large pink bow.
After watching the evening patrol depart and having a quick drink in the mess with the Canadians, I retired to the hotel for the night, heading into the lounge where I found Thenault, Lufbery and De Laage sat at one of the smaller tables. “Evening, fellas!” I happily greeted them. Thenault turned to face me, but did not answer. It was then that I noticed the tears welling in his eyes. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What’s wrong?” I asked him quietly. It was Lufbery who answered me, a disturbing mix of venom and misery caught in his voice.
“Kiffin Rockwell’s dead”.
Historical Notes:
1) Whiskey's Ribbon:
Taken from George Thenault's Memoir: "At the Pomme d'Or Hotel, Whiskey won the hearts of the two charming daughters of the proprietor, who put a pink ribbon round his neck and took great pains to find out what he liked best to eat".
Fullofit, congrats on Toby hitting the 20 mark. Beautiful sunrise shot, and super vids of course. But when oh when is Chesty going to sneak away with one of those Nieups. No one is about to bust the chops of the top-scoring RNAS pilot for taking a plane out for a joyride, or at least not very much.
Carrick, it's amazing what money and connections can do for a fellow.
Raine, outstanding episode, another Zep! And the intrigue continues to grow. Captain Swanson still has no idea what is about to land on him, not only in terms of the VC but also as concerns the drama surrounding him being the RFC's star turn.
Wulfe, great episode as always, most enjoyable.
.
24 September 1916 Fienvillers, France
It was a godawful afternoon sortie for A Flight. The skies were filled with ugly gray clouds and the winds were picking up. As Captain Swanson led his team across towards Delville Wood he was wishing he could just scrub the whole thing and turn back. His head was aching today for no particular reason, sometimes it just came on stronger, and this was one of those times. As the trio of Strutters crossed the lines and turned south to begin their patrol Swanson caught sight of something. They were being followed. Swany swung his bus around to the west and stared into the late afternoon sun that was winking through the heavy clouds. There it was, coming directly out of the glare, a trio of Halbs bearing down on them at full speed. The dogfight developed immediately as the six planes twisted and turned, each looking for the advantage. Swanson and his G/O, Lieutenant Chatwick, made quick work of one of the Boche biplanes, sending it down out of control over No Man's Land. As the Captain brought the Sopwith around to go after a second Halb that was harassing the new crew, Lieutenants Graham and Pearson, he was horrified as the Hun flashed down upon the Strutter, its portside wings slicing across the G/Os office. A split second later the upper and lower planes of the Halb broke away in pieces and fluttered aimless against the clouds as the remainder of the enemy ship flamed like a dart towards the earth below. The Strutter had lost its top wing in the collision and was also burning as it too fell away. Swany watched the smoke trails of the wrecked kites, his jaw clenched, his hatred rising. Two more men lost to this madness. But there was little time to dwell on it as a pair of Rolands suddenly joined the fight. The Captain tore into the nearest one as it approached and let loose a vengeful volley directly into the engine and forward cockpit, the two planes closing at incredible speed. As the Roland screamed past Chatwick blasted the Bosche with his Lewis gun, raking its entire side. Both of the King's airman watched with satisfaction as the pale blue plane flipped over and fell, never to recover. The Roland's partner immediately turned tail and ran east as the other team of A Flight drove off the remaining Halb. The two crews returned to camp and filled out their AARs and claim forms. Yet another day of losses for 70 Squadron, how long could this go on.
.
A sky filled with ugly gray clouds and rising winds.
Beware the Hun in the sun.
A horrible sight.
One of the Kaiser's fearsome Rolands about to meet its end.
Raine, send Mulberry back to Blighty for HD duty? Preposterous! What would Robert, George and Henry say? They would probably say that Collins fellow will soon become a blimp ace. Congrats on destruction of yet another terror weapon. Do these get confirmed automatically, or is there a chance of a rejection? Interesting, so Swany may get to meet Alex after all.
Wulfe, what? Not again! Les Poilus strike again. I don’t know how but that balloon must have spontaneously erupted when one of them looked at it. I can’t explain it any other way. Good, a lion doesn’t look so menacing when it wears a pink bow. Perhaps now Toby will have enough courage to visit those hangars with the Nieuports. Rockwell’s dead? How did that happen? It couldn’t have been an Eindecker!
Lou, as you can see it isn’t as easy as walking up to the kite, hopping in and taking it for a spin. The bloody lion’s in the way!!! And speaking of danger, that was another tough fight for 70 Sqn. Good thing Swany can take care of himself. This looks like the new norm. How long before it all overwhelms our plucky hero?
"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."
May I second all comments! And , with no disrespect to anyone else, Raine, you are taking I intrigue to a whole new level! Lou, another set of fantastic shots.
If I may draw on this illustrious crowds knowledge, a few questions. I am getting into the swing of Drago but I am not German. I’ve never been to Germany. I don’t know anyone well from Germany. As Drago is a Feldwebel, I will assume he does not associate with officers. Is this correct? Also, I would assume the German Die Fliegertruppen was very spit and polish. Any advice is appreciated. Thanks!
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!
It's my understanding , inferred from photos and personal accounts, that the officer / NCO divide in the Luftstreitkraefte was not as strong as in the RFC. The Kasino (mess) was effectively a pilots' mess rather than an officers' mess. I believe that the German class distinctions would not be erased despite this so I'm sure they sat at table by rank and the officers would probably have reserved certain events exclusively for their own kind. Depending on the facilities, the NCO pilots would room with each other rather than with officers, although I suspect they could on occasion be under the same roof.
I believe Offizierstellvertretern were housed and messed like officers.
NCO pilot life in the German service wasn't like the RFC, where a sergeant pilot was strictly a member of the Warrant Officers' and Sergeants' Mess and billeted apart from the officers. Once he landed, his companions were nearly all technical NCOs and he would have been lucky to have another pilot to hoist a pint with. Must have been tough.
I stand to be corrected on any of this, so am interested in others' comments.
Drogo’s good spirits after his 5th victory would soon be dashed. Kette Zwei with Kette Eins were to patrol their lines north of Verdun. Over the middle of NML they were attacked by 3 Nieuports. Two of them engaged Drogo. He found himself on the tail of one and let go with three quick bursts. He must have left his mark as the Nieuport dove out of the fight. He had no time to see what happened to him as the second Nieuport was coming around on his tail and hitting him. He quickly turned right and engaged the Nieuport head on. Neither could bring their guns to target as they passed each other. They made five or six circles but neither could get the advantage. On the last circle the Nieuport broke off and headed south. Drogo dove to go after him but quickly decided it was time to call it a day and pulled the Fokker up in a circle. If anyone else was around he could not see them. With one last look he headed home. The other machines came in one by one. Marconnay pulled himself from the cockpit holding his arm. Jeschonneck had to be helped out of his machine and Geich collapsed after stepping onto the ground. None were seriously wounded. Drogo heard Marconnay say Mayer went down in flames. Drogo was the only one of the Jasta that was untouched. Obviously there would be no flying for a few days.
Drogo lay in his bed staring into the darkness. He thought of his life in the trenches not too long ago and smiled. “Well if I die, at least it will be after a good sleep in a nice bed and a full stomach “ he thought.
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!
MFair, I don’t know about those flieger types, but Countesses seem to be very promiscuous. Certain Countess von Klugermann comes to mind. Looks like Drogo has the right attitude. Despite the adversities in the air he still maintains positive attitude. Just keep it all together and better times are sure to soon arrive.
"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, thank you Sir! I will go with that unless someone has other information.
Fullofit, ah, Countess Von Klugermann, now that’s an interesting subject. On his first leave Drago will be on the lookout for a certain vintage champagne. 1903 I think. I understand it is very hard to get.
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!
MFair, a tough mission for Drogo and his kette. But your man is wise to look on the bright side. The air service does have its advantages. To your questions concerning the German side of things, I will echo Raine's remarks. There was much less of a class division among pilots in the Fliegertruppen than there was in the RFC and RNAS. That's not to say that there weren't German nobles who felt that the rank and file should know their place, but it was not the norm. Also, an ace pilot of the common class could become "landed and titled" more readily in the German Air Service, thus getting to add "von" to his name.
.
25 September 1916 Fienvillers, France
Captain Swanson was just finishing up his report of the morning's first sortie with A Flight, an uneventful run over to Corcelette and back with nary a sky Hun to be seen, a thankful change of pace from the chaos of yesterday afternoon's outing. He'd no sooner signed his name to the document when he was informed by the orderly that Major Lawrence wanted to see him in his office. A few moments later, after the obligatory knock on the door and announcing of himself, Swany was invited in and instructed to take a seat. The Major, a cigarette in his left hand and a single slip of paper in his right, smiled across at his star pilot and asked, "Do you know what this is, Captain?"
"No idea Sir, German surrender statement?" The young ace replied with a grin.
The Major gave a short laugh, "Unfortunately, no. It is however notice that you are about to be gazetted for the Victoria Cross. Congratulations Captain."
Swanson was momentarily speechless, a surprised look flashed across his face. After several seconds of stunned silence he responded with, "Victoria Cross? Me?"
"Yes, you Captain. I put you up for it personally after your stellar performances during the opening of this latest push, and with General Trenchard's wholehearted endorsement I might add." Major Lawrence took a long draw on his cigarette, looking proudly across at the young man in front of him as he did so.
"I ah - thank you Sir. I'm - I'm honored", Swany stammered.
"You needn't seem so shocked. Your actions and the devotion to duty you've displayed since coming here have been beyond exemplary and we are going to sorely miss you."
"Again Sir, thank you, I truly am - wait - what? What do you mean you're going to miss me?"
Major Lawrence, a faint look of regret now tainting his face, elaborated, "Yes Captain, miss you. You're being sent back to England, to a newly-formed Home Defence squadron east of London." The CO glanced at his desk as he pulled another paper from the top of the stack next to him. "Stow Maries, it says here. 37 Squadron. How does that sound to you?"
The Captain paused for a moment before answering, letting it all sink in. A break from this insanity? And the VC to boot? "It sounds fine to me Sir, fine and then some. When am I to report?"
"You're to leave first thing tomorrow. They want you at Stow Maries no later than the 27th which doesn't give you a lot of time to dawdle." Lawrence finished his cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray, then stood up. Swany rose as well as the Major reached across the desk and shook hands with the Captain.
"This is all happening awfully quick, isn't it Sir", Swanson asked concernedly. "I mean, shouldn't I stay, at least until you have a few more replacements come in?"
"There would never be a good time to have you leave Captain. Besides, you and I don't get to decide these things, HQ wants you back in Blighty PDQ and so you go." The Major assured. "We will of course be giving you a send-off tonight, so you'll want to be prepared for that. And your purse best be at the ready to settle up your mess tab, I'll not have you leave us with an open bill." Lawrence flashed a warm smile as he sent the Captain on his way.
Swanson walked across camp, not quite believing what had just happened. He was about to receive a break from all this: the endless sorties, the constant air battles, the killing, the death. While he felt bad about leaving his comrades short-handed and fated to deal with the new Albatros scouts that were clearly growing in numbers, not to mention those dam'nable Rolands, he selfishly was thrilled with the prospect of no longer having to suffer it all himself, at least not for a while anyway. And the Victoria Cross - the Victoria Cross. The thought of it all caused Swany to break out in a full run, racing along the edge of the south field past the row of Bessonneaus. He felt the cool morning air going deep into his lungs, felt his heart pounding in his chest. He was suddenly and honestly happy for the first time in a long while, and it felt marvelous.
I don't have much to add to the question of NCOs in the German air services. Whereas an NCO pilot was an anomaly in the British system, the Germans had lots of NCO aviators. Interestingly, the Austro-Hungarian air force had even more of them. Typical Austro-Hungarian squadrons had only one or two officers among the flying personnel; the others were all NCOs.
On the Entente side, the French and Italians also had plenty of NCO pilots. In fact, the English-speaking world seems to have been the exception with their preference for officers as pilots.
Congrats on the VC! And the other VC recipient, Mr. Collins, seems to be doing a stellar job at shooting down all the worlds Zeppelins!
"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
Keith Cunard Mallory LT, Rfc Bed 3 Ward 4 Lil Sisters, Hospital Cannes, France.
Sep 25, 1916.
The ward Batman sowed on to my uniform The Wnd Stripe which was awarded. A few hours later the Intell boys came by with pics of the Hun Fish shape fighters. They wanted to I.D. the units. I told them to *(^% off. When ur flight is being copped and U might go for a burton U just dont have time, They wore Camo on the wings thats all I said.
Lou, I wouldn’t worry too much about going back to Blighty. Swany will start downing those pesky Zeppelins and get a bar to his shiny VC. Congrats! It’s official.
Carrick, are you thinking of defecting? They may have those Countesses, but think about those German nurses. You have to weigh the pros against the cons before making such a decision.
Both Fokkers from 23 September mission were confirmed.
The ‘A’ flight machines have started their racetrack flightpath over Grandvillars when Toby’s wingman started to wag his wings to catch his leader’s attention. Toby noticed this and looked at Knight who was pointing with his gloved hand down. Huns below! Mulberry took immediate action and dropped his flight to a lower altitude and on the tails of three Eindeckers. The two quickly turned around to face the attack, but one continued on. That made him the automatic target for Toby. If he doesn’t want to fight then he has no business being up here and Toby was going to be the one to teach him that lesson. He could only do one pass, knowing well that the other two Fokkers would now be well on their way to get on his tail. He quickly turned around after the initial attack and saw, as expected, the other two Huns getting into position. Knight already was chasing one of them away and Toby went after the remaining Eindecker. He was starting to feel sorry for the pilots forced to use these obsolete machines with little to no chance at all of success against latest Entente machines. The Boche machine went down over Manspach Woods. While looking around for the rest of the flight to rejoin, Mulberry noticed a dark vertical streak in the sky. It was the Fokker Knight was dueling with and now going down in flames. He saw his wingman follow the flamer, as if there were more of them down below. Toby couldn’t see anything. Eventually the ‘A’ flight completed their rounds and Mulberry followed them back home. Knight didn’t rejoin the formation. He didn’t return to base this morning either.
"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, it sounds as though Knight May have been a bit too ...”keen” as they say. I hope the Eindeckers is confirmed. Watch out though, victories will be harder to come by very shortly. Not to mention survival.
Carrick, the countess was something in her day. But as Mr. Ritter said in “Broken Trail”. Time can be hard on a women.
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!