Fw Drogo Dorn Spincourt Verdun, France Oct. 3, 1916
Things were looking better at Jasta 7. They now had 9 pilots and could put a bit of a force in the air. They had two of the new Albatros fighters that the two flight leaders flew with the promise of more to come. They had moved to Spincourt which was very close to the front so it didn’t take much time at all to get to the front. Drogo had been at the front for a month now and was getting very comfortable in the air. Their newest member Auman had been placed in Drogo’s care and would fly on his wing. He would need it. He had only flown one combat mission and was as green as a gourd.
Jasta 7 sat at mess by rank with the Kommandant Fritz Von Bronsart-Schellendorf at the head of the table. On either side of him were the two flight commanders. On one side was Oliver Freiherr Von Beaulieu-Marconnay. Drogo had flown many missions with him and admired him immensely. He was an even tempered man and always looking out for the fledgling fliers in his care. On the opposite side of him was Herman Goering. He had transferred in when the Jasta moved to Spincourt. Drogo did not care for him one bit. He was brash and arrogant. He never missed an opportunity to put Drogo in his place, which at the time was near the end of the table because of his rank.
The kommandant tapped the table for silence. He then raised his glass and in his best aristocratic voice said, “a toast gentleman. To our highest scoring flier, Fw Dorn.” A rowdy cheer arose from the crowd. Auman, the newest member of Jasta 7 sitting next to Drogo, let out the loudest cheer. Drogo could see Goering lift his glass red faced. It galled him that Drogo’s latest confirmed victory over a Coudron put him on top. Drogo rose for his seat and made a subtle bow with a smile and sat back down. It was a pleasant night.
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!
Hasse, looks like Julius got himself a cushy job, safe from any stray or for that matter well aimed bullets. All he has to worry about is the wing loading and glue.
Lou, looks like there already is some competition between good friends for the attention of the American journalist. Looking forward to Raine’s description of the feast and who will be the one spending the reminder of the night on the virtuous couch.
MFair, and the first point goes to the lowly Feldwebel. Göring seems like a righteous ass. Hopefully Drogo will score more victories to put the pompous arse in his place. Go Drogo!
This morning Toby met his new wingman, Flight Sub-Lieutenant Alex Eggleston. The Canadians have already christened him “Eggy”. In other news Mulberry’s last Fokker has been confirmed. Morning mission involved escorting the ‘A’ flight on recon of front lines north of Lunéville. Mulberry made a forced landing with a dud engine right after take off.
It was another recon mission in the afternoon. This time north of Baccarat. Toby had to turn back with another dud engine. A second one in a row. Mulberry will need to have a word with his Ack Emma.
"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. Yes, a talk with the wrench turners might be in order. I have not fully caught up on stories yet but hope so real soon, a brief scan shows some intrigue! But, the main thing is we have not lost anyone.
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!
Lou, I'm having great fun with the reunion story. I loved your last episode. Hasse, terrific continuation of Julius's story and a really interesting photograph. Wonderful to have you back. HarryH, that's quite a character on your machine. If Lazlo is anything like the image, you need to visit the Mercedes works with a special order. Carrick, if I were Keith I'd never want to get better. Fullofit, you're very close to a milestone. Take care.
The few days in Salisbury continue.
An Airman’s Odyssey – by Capt James Arthur Collins, VC, MC
Part Sixty-Nine: In which I go fishing for Alex
Now, when I feel an odd tingling in my cheeks I know my bloodstream is warning me that it’s time to switch to lemonade, but the second bottle of champagne was better than the first and the port sat on the table making goo-goo eyes at me while Alex spent the whole damned evening batting her eyes at Swanson and taking notes. “Ooh Swany, that must have been terrifying!” “Ooh Swany, and what did the General say to you then?” “Ooh Swany, how did you know they were Chippewa?” At one point I excused myself and sat in the tiny toilet of the Haunch of Venison with my head between my knees, hoping that the place would stop spinning. It didn't work. I made my way gingerly to the downstairs bar and asked the fellow at the taps to send a message that I’d been called away. The journey across Poultry Cross, down the lane and over the high street to the Old George was long and perilous. Once past the desk with a cheery wave and a manly “Gah ebenin’,” I climbed the stairs, pausing briefly to consider sleeping on the landing. But I made it to my room, left a trail of uniform items from door to bedside, and was asleep before I hit the covers.
I woke briefly in pitch darkness to stroll down the hall to hurl my steak and kidney pie and Stilton and bless Thomas Crapper & Co for their achievements. Much enlivened, I weaved my way back down the hall to my open door and this time tucked myself in. Some demon pounded on my door at nine. It was, of course, Swanson. He was dressed in a woolen shirt, dungarees with braces, and Wellington boots. “We’re going fishin’,” he announced.
“Oh dear God,” I said joyfully.
Swany sat in an armchair while I washed and shaved and tried to comb my hair. I didn’t have the right clothes for fishing so I put on my uniform with the maternity jacket, slacks, and shoes. I watched him in the mirror while I asked how he liked Alex.
“Not too bad for a city girl.” Swany was nothing if not understated, so I knew Alex had him beguiled. “She shore asks a lot of questions, she does.” After a few minutes he said, “We met a man at the Haunch of Venison, Thompson. Dey call him a river-keeper. He works for a guy named Lord Bath and da lord has a big place near here wit good fishin’ – fly fishin’.”
“Can you fly fish?” I asked.
“Ja, you betcha. Alex said she always wanted to fish like dat,” said Swany. He explained that the hotel had arranged for the fishing gear and he had directions.
There are some things that if not learned from one’s father, one never learns at all. How to play bridge, for example. Skin a rabbit. Fly fish – that one is certain. They are things that take too much time for anyone else to teach or things that need a change of clothes after. My father was up in the Yukon most of my childhood. I had never cast a line in my life.
I had scarcely time to wolf down a piece of dry toast and some tea downstairs, and then the three of us were loading the car. Alex wore a pair of high-waisted corduroys and a plain white blouse. She carried a bulky knitted sweater and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a green ribbon. I started the motor and to my relief, she jumped in beside me while Swany got in the back alone. “What happened to you last night?” she asked.
“Problem back in North Weald,” I lied.
“Is North Weald feeling better this morning?” she asked with an evil smile.
“North Weald is bloody marvellous,” I said.
Alex read the directions while Swany regaled her with tales of my goose-hunting prowess in Flanders alongside my trusty sidekick Sergeant Wilson. We came a half-hour later to a vast estate, the signposts telling us it was called Longleat. Longleat house was enormous Elizabethan manor of palatial dimension. The house proper was serving as a relief hospital. Recovering soldiers in badly-cut blue tunics walked or sat in deck chairs on the lawn, while nursing sisters hovered about. We paused on the drive to speak with a fellow walking several fine dogs. He directed us to a side building close by the main house. There we would find Mr. Thompson.
Longleat House, c. 1916
Thompson was a splendid man, middle-aged, with a massive moustache and bushy eyebrows. He was all tweed and worsted and patches, the perfect English man of the country. He directed us to follow him and, mounting a horse, led us past sheep pastures and barns and villages and copses to a broad meadow where the trees were turning colour and dropping their leaves into the winding Avon. There brown trout awaited our cast. He told us we could bring our catch to the house and he would have the staff prepare our lunch. Swany tied our flies – orange mayfly – on and immediately began casting lessons. He was having the time of his life and Alex was laughing merrily. I buried my hook in the front tyre of the Vauxhall and missed the advanced lessons.
Swany ribbed me mercilessly and I answered him with unfettered profanity. Alex was, thankfully, entertained by this. She caught on to fly fishing very well and actually landed a trout but it was too small to keep. I lost two flies to branches across the stream and grew accomplished in replacing them quickly from the leather fly case we had been given. By one o’clock the sun was warming the grassy banks and the fish were no longer seen splashing as they had before. I excused myself and drove back to the house. I found Thompson and promised him that I would leave a prepaid ten-pound chit at the Haunch’s bar if he’d be good enough to see we didn’t starve. He asked me to give him a few minutes and he disappeared into a side entrance. I had a smoke and walked in the gravel drive. Thompson returned a quarter-hour later with a large hamper and a blanket, declaring us all set.
I drove back and spread the blanket, announcing my “catch.” Three glasses, two bottles of chilled Muscadet, a battalion’s worth of smoked salmon sandwiches, lemon tarts, and tea in a vacuum flask. Alex proposed a toast to Jim Collins, champion in the catch of the day contest. Swany gave me a wink, silently acknowledging that the score in the struggle for Alex’s attention was now one-all.
The sun straining through a willow speckled the grass, cows lowed in the far fields, white clouds scudded across a cerulean sky, and Alex caught a stray wisp of hair and tucked it behind her ear. Tomorrow I was back to London, but today I was here.
Raine, marvelous episode, thoroughly enjoyable. RL has me away for a day or two so I'll be holding off on my next installment until after you have Jim back in London. This is great fun!
Fullofit, Eggy and Chesty, sounds like a vaudeville comedy act in the making to me. The dud engine issues have to be getting old, in particular when Toby is so close to that elusive 25.
MFair, congrats on Drogo leading the jasta in confirmed victories, well done. So nice to see how much it irks Goering. The next bit of bling that Drogo will undoubtedly earn soon should really put Hermann in a foul mood.
Great stories all, I've been peeking in here every so often to see how it's going with everyone. Still struggling to find any flying time - stressing out as I fall further and further behind
However, in a bid to contribute at least something, I've been trying to do a little bit of book-keeping of the DiD Challenge's history - I'm hoping to find a way to incorporate it somehow.
You two have got this thing down! I love the slightly competitive edge that's creeping into things. As for Alex, I'm beginning to think she's enjoying being a bit of a troublemaker between these two old friends. How will it all end I wonder?
Keith Cunard Mallory LT, Rfc MC B Flight Commander 29 Sqn, Ablee , France DH-2's 5 Kills
Oct 3, 1916.
I say, bit of a cake walk this morning, I used my loner a/c from 24 Sqn to leed the chaps 5 machines on an Escort. The Be 2's were doing all of 85 miles per hour so we did a bit of circling.
Raine, somehow I have a feeling it’s the other way around. It’s not Collins fishing for Alex, but Alex fishing for the two VC recipients. Could she be a German spy?
Lou, yes your story was nice too. Eggy and Chesty. It does sound like a comedy act. Unfortunately for Chesty he can never get to the show with those constant engine failures.
Wulfe, looking forward to what you’ve got brewing over there.
Carrick, finally some easy missions. Hopefully this will not dull your senses. Stay alert!
Squadron Commander Tobias C Mulberry was standing by the edge of the road near to where his sick Strutter has landed. He had a warm feeling below the belt and spreading quickly onto the back of his thighs. It smelled bad. It all began when his engine started to make strange noises near Eloyes on their way to bomb enemy trenches NE of Baccarat along with the ‘A’ flight. He gave the signal to “Eggy” to continue and split from the formation looking for the closest aerodrome. Toby aimed for Épinal, just NW of his position. He was concerned with the fog forming near the ground. The Strutter was starting to sound worse, but still manageable. He was getting closer to the ground but couldn’t locate the aerodrome. He pressed on and followed the road below, hoping it will lead him to the ‘drome. Something made him look to the rear. There was another Strutter just behind. Why was Eggleston following him? He gave him specific instructions to continue with the mission! And then it hit him, what if that is not his wingman? What if that is not a Strutter? But what else could it be? It all happened in a split second. Toby still looking back, banked abruptly and the air he had just occupied was filled with bullets zipping by. He was shocked and scared, but his muscles were working on instinct. The Strutter continued to turn in a tight circle and Toby finally saw for the first time the back of his attacker. It was a biplane, but not an Aviatik. It was fast and very maneuverable. The rear gunner was perched on top of the machine, almost straddling it, like a horse. Mulberry only heard of these machines. They called them Rolands, like the French Knight. Very odd choice. But where did it come from? Are there more? Will his engine fail any minute? The questions were flying through Mulberry’s mind as he squeezed the trigger of his Vickers. The enemy machine was getting hit, soon smoke started to come from the engine and before Toby knew it, the Hun was falling. It hit the ground but did not disintegrate into a million pieces. The fuselage was made so strong that it remained in one piece. Mulberry was shocked and scared even more when he saw that. They are nearly indestructible! This is not good! He quickly came for a landing right then and there. The engine began to run very rough. He had no time to locate the aerodrome. It was safer that way. As he unstrapped himself and picked himself up from the cockpit he felt his seat was warm and something slid down his pant legs. The stink mixed with the exhaust fumes, oil and hot metal. The stench told him more than his current state of hygiene, it told him what each Eindecker pilot must feel when they see a Strutter on their tail.
"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."
Finally got caught up! I’m glad everyone is still alive. Hasse, great to see Julius back. Lou and Raine, this will be very interesting. Wulfe, looking forward to what you have in store. Fullofit, that was a real mess of a mission Bud, Carrick, got to have an easy one every once in a while. Harry, your new skin should make any Strutter pilot poo his pants.
My apologies if I missed anyone. Lots to catch up on. BTW,if you have not downloaded WOFF PE, do so now. It is fantastic! As for the new bleed out feature, get to the ground quick. I got hit in a quick combat mission, 66 percent health. By the time I got down in 2 or three minutes I was at 35 percent. Hospital for 20 days. I don’t remember every seeing a hospital stay that long.
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!
Glad folks enjoyed the story Lou and I contrived. Fullofit, that was a close call. At the first glimpse, I really did think it was another Strutter. Carrick, it's good to break in easily after a spell with the nurses. Here is the latest...
An Airman’s Odyssey – by Capt James Arthur Collins, VC, MC
Part Seventy: In which I am condemned
We returned to Salisbury in the afternoon. I’m not sure how it came up, but Alex mentioned that she had a fondness for English chocolate, especially chocolate gingers. It was late afternoon by the time we pulled the Vauhall up around the corner from the Old George and unloaded the fishing gear.
“What about dinner?” I asked casually.
“Not too hungry yet,” said Swaney. “Maybe we meet in an hour or so. Vat you tink, Alex?”
“I need to write some notes,” she said. “How about seven in the front hall?” I suggested we go to the White Hart and we all agreed.
Swany stopped at the desk and returned the fishing gear. I climbed the stairs and waited on the first floor, listening carefully. Swany and the clerk chatted a few moments, and then nothing. I returned to the lobby but Swany was gone. I raced out the door and down the high street until I saw the sign: “F. Sutton, Baker and Confectioner.” I pulled open the door and scanned the glass-covered counter for enrobed chocolates. That was when I recognised that unmistakeable accent – “No, da marzipan is nice, but I need da ginger.” I backed out the door silently. A block away a policeman gave me directions to the only other confectioner close by. He advised me to hurry as they closed at six. I ran four blocks to the small store on Bridge Steet.
“Chocolate ginger,” I gasped. The girl behind the till laughed and commented that I seemed to be in great need of them.
“How many do you want?” she asked.
“All of them,” I said. And if an American fellow comes in, tell him you’ve never heard of the things.” I grossly overpaid for a large waxed bag of the things, and bloody good they were. I’d like to think they all went to Alex, but that would be less than accurate. I strolled to the White Hart in triumph after a brief detour to leave a pre-paid chit at the Haunch for Mr. Thompson, who had provided our lunch at Longleat.
Dinner was delightful. I had Alex all to myself for the first half-hour. Swany finally appeared, sans dungarees and in uniform. He explained that he’d tried to find chocolate gingers all over town, but they must be a London thing as no one knew about them. Over coffee, port, and cheeses, I presented Alex with the bag of gingers. She squealed with delight. Swany said “Faen” and something else Norwegian that did not sound complimentary. But give the man his due, he was smiling.
We returned together to the Old George, where the clerk announced there was a message for me. I was to report as soon as possible to Major Higgins at Woodford Green. To my dismay, Alex said she wanted to get more information about Swany and would return by train. I left by car in the morning. ... Major Higgins was friendly but curious. “You’ve really kicked a hornet’s nest somehow, Collins,” he said. “Apparently the Yankee press says that we are hiding our pilots' accomplishments in the RFC, and colonials like you are being especially downplayed. They’ve caught wind of your last two Zeppelins and every paper in Britain is camped out in North Weald. I had a call this morning from Colonel Aitken at the Canadian War Record Office. He said he was personally offended by the idea he was downplaying your work and wanted to know why nothing had been said about the last two Zeps.”
“You know, sir,” I replied. “I was ordered to keep my mouth shut.”
“I’m quite aware. That order still stands. In any event, you shan’t be my problem for long, Collins. I have orders to pack you off to France.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. You take the train to Dover and the first boat to Calais. On the other side you report to 19 Squadron in Fienvillers, by Candas.”
“Why do they fly?”
“You’ll be right at home, Collins. They have BE12s.”
“In France?” I was being condemned to death.
That night the Huns returned. I took off ahead of McHarg and Ogden and headed south. Before we reached the river the searchlights were scanning the hazy night sky. I was at eight thousand feet when the first Zeppelin was caught in the beams. It was low down, no higher than five thousand. I dived in a series of S-bends and approached from behind and below, firing from four hundred yards. When nearly on top of the airship I broke away and looped around. Several dark shapes loomed in the hazy night. Collision was a real danger.
"When nearly on top of the airship I broke away and looped around."
The second approach was slower and steadier than the first. I fired in short bursts all the way in. And then there was a metallic thud as the breech slammed forward and did not return. I was out of ammunition. I gazed helplessly as the Zeppelin rose slowly into a cloud and disappeared. This was my last hunt over London.
Later, in the station office, I was completing my combat report when news came that Ogden’s machine had gone down over the river. He was gone.
Carrick, you are right there, those Aircos are a death trap.
MFair, I’m really excited about that bleeding out feature. I’m sure I’m going to hate it the first time it happens, but that’s immersion to the max. You will have to save your skin instead of attempting to go for another pass and perforate some other bloke’s hide. A wound stripe will now finally mean something.
Raine, that was some quick thinking! All is fair in love and war and Collins can tick both boxes. So, this is it. Flying to France to get measured for your coffin. Hopefully he will fly night missions and avoid all the Huns. As to Alex, I’m afraid Swany’s got her all to himself. He will be her chocolate ginger now. Tough luck.
"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."
Keith Cunard Mallory LT, Rfc MC B Flight Commander 29 Sqn, Ablee , France DH-2's 5 Kills Oct 4, 1916.
Dawn Patrol: Woke by my batman, Boots pulled on Flying Togs then down to the mess for Bully beef, bread, Jam, and a shot of Rum. The Wrench people already Revving the Motors. Then off into the Blue. No Contact.
Late morning off again for a balloon. I stayed high sense there were only 5 of us. The Hun Ground fire knocked out Sgt Blackwell, Must have been a pilot kill shot, His a/c just fell like a leaf in the wind. ,but the chaps got the gas bag.