MFair - That dread feeling of sluggish controls. Nothing like it. Get's the blood flowing and not necessarily in a good way. Glad the big fella got himself down in one piece. Well done Ainslie. Very kind of old Tommie to share his flask. A few more like this and Ainslie may be carry one of his own.
Fullofit - Bravo to you for saddling up so promptly after the devastating loss of Toby. A very different kind of character is young Ziggy. Sort of a Prusso-Polish Buckaroo Banzai, going many places at once. I'm intrigued. Can't wait to see how it unfolds.
Shredward - Always good to see you dropping in. I'm the new guy here but can we tempt you into the air?
____________________________________________________________________ 5 May 1917 54 Squadron RFC Flez, France
I woke feeling surprisingly hale given the circumstances. Alas, the same could not be said of my companions in our merry hut. I tried not to laugh at their groans of outrage when Parker finally woke them, and the light stabbed their wounded brains. No morning jobs today – highly irregular. Did Major Horn actually stand the squadron down, anticipating the prize binge? That would be some cheek, but I wouldn’t put it past him. The Old Man’s a deep one. More than once he’s turned Wing down flat when they’ve sent down some hare-brained mission orders. Uncle too, for that matter, although I think there’s something afoot with him I don’t know about. Yesterday’s outburst was most uncharacteristic, like I’d stepped on a nerve. One moment he was truly “Uncle,” happy to welcome me home, contrite about the need to open Eliza’s letter, then he just snapped. Afterwards he was almost subdued with Major Horn. Later that evening he was back to himself, effusive in his congratulations and obviously pleased about my M.C. coming through.
Cole, Hadrill and Grevelink staggered off to the mess before heading out with the Noon patrol. I’ll be on Ferry duty for the next few days, my penance I suppose for the flight of Pups I’ve bent, maimed, or killed outright.
Parker brought me my uniform jacket and trousers which miraculously showed no discernible traces of my trip through no man’s land. There was, however, a new addition, the small white and purple ribbon of the Military Cross adorned the left breast. How he found that ribbon so quickly I’ve no idea but I’ve come to discover that Parker is a man of unusual talents.
Ugh. Five hours on the road to the No. 2 Aircraft depot at Candas only to find the Pup I was to ferry is not ready. Nothing for it but to stay the night. I’ll fly her home to Flez in the morning, then come back for another tomorrow.
6 May 1917 54 Squadron RFC Flez, France
Off early from Candas this morning and back to Flez without incident. My stomach continued gurgling from the rancid swill they call cuisine at the Candas officers mess but I managed not to soil myself by the narrowest of margins. One Pup safely delivered, intact and clean. The second machine wouldn’t be ready until late afternoon at the earliest. This delay would give me time to stop in Corbie.
I saw Ackers in the mess. He knew I’d be going near Corbie for the next three days and asked me to deliver a letter to Mme. de Rochefort at the Café Fou.
The Café was just as I remembered it as was the divine Madame de Rochefort. Madame possessed conversational English which she seasoned liberally with her native French. Her voice had a strangely musical quality to it, as if there were some barely heard second melody hidden there among the notes of her speech. When I introduced myself, she struggled mightily with “Winningstad” before finally admitting defeat and settling on ‘Lieutenant Oliviér.’
“Oui, Cinquante-Quatre, she smiled, but then with a worried look, asked, “Roman?”
“He is well, Madame, and sends you this,” I replied, handing her the letter. Her face brightened immediately, and a flush took hold briefly before she composed herself once again and put Ackers’ letter away in a pocket.
I was behind schedule and made my apologies for not staying but promised to return for lunch tomorrow. The roads were slow and by the time I arrived at the No. 2 Aircraft depot it was late afternoon. My Pup was ready and waiting and after a brief walk and cup of tea I was off and back to Flez.
7 May 1917 54 Squadron RFC Flez, France
“Going through Corbie again, Ripper?” inquired Ackers. “Who can resist the Café Fou?” I replied. “Madame is a lovely and charming hostess.”
“Yes indeed,” said Ackers dryly. “Ask Madame about 'L'Hotel.' She’s very particular about her guests so she keeps it très hush-hush. Long story, but since you’ve brought her my letter and you’re a dear friend of Roman ...” “L'Hotel?” “Trust me, old boy.” was all he said.
Biggins would be my driver. Excellent news. I’d have a chance to stand him to lunch while I explored Corbie.
My welcome at the Café Fou was something altogether different today. In normal circumstances, one of the four daughters de Rochefort would greet any guests but today as soon as I entered, Madame herself glided forward.
“Ah, cher Oliviér!” she cried, kissing me on each cheek. This was all rather sudden. Something had changed, literally overnight. Had Ackers written her about me? I made arrangements for the feeding of Biggins and a care package for myself, should I be trapped overnight in the wretched pit that was Candas. I inquired discreetly about L’Hotel.
“Mais bien sur, she said with a conspiratorial smile. Monsieur du Guesclin will show you.”
L’Hotel was the top two floors of a nearby three-story house which sat behind the main buildings on the street. We entered through a gated archway and were soon standing in a wide courtyard. The building was currently unoccupied. On the second floor were 3 spacious, high-ceilinged rooms, all of which appeared at one time to be part of the larger home. Now they were made into separate quarters, their design, and richly gilt furnishings at odds with their new role as bedrooms. On the top floor was the hidden prize; a bedroom suite with tall windows overlooking the river. Unlike the more opulent second-floor rooms, this suite was always meant to be a private space. The tasteful décor, of a style reminiscent of the last century, was more subdued, more personal. Monsieur du Guesclin opened the double doors to the bath. A gigantic tub sat center stage on the white marble floor. I recalled the sento in Yokohama, whose scalding waters, once overcome brought such a deep state of physical and mental relaxation.
Noting my interest, Monsieur du Guesclin gestured toward the water taps. “If the Lieutenant desires, hot water can be arranged.
“L’Hotel is a quiet retreat available to those persons Madame has blessed with her favor. The Lieutenant is most fortunate. Few receive such favor, fewer still are those granted access to this particular apartment. One would be wise to recall that fortune and a lady’s favors can be capricious. The Lieutenant should also remember at all times, Le Premier Règle de L’Hotel: one never speaks of L’Hotel.”
We discussed the particulars of how the arrangement would be made and the cost involved. Madame was generous. It was only a weeks pay for the private apartment on the third floor. At this rate, I might need to find Sgt. Spiv's traveling poker game after all.
I was uncertain in what capacity Monsieur du Guesclin served Madame de Rochefort. He was by outward appearance well past 60 years of age, possibly past 70, but he moved with the energy and gait of a much younger man. His lean figure and dignified bearing hinted at a military background. A magnificent silver mustache and triangular goatee in the manner of Napoleon III made me wonder if he’d fought the Prussians in his youth. He’d be about the right age, born in the middle of the last century. Was he there at Sedan in 1870 for the surrender of his King? I was suddenly very curious about him and this mysterious house.
“You bear a famous name, Monsieur,” I ventured. “That was a long time ago, Lieutenant,” was his only reply.
Monsieur du Guesclin accompanied me back to the Café, then with a brief nod, took his leave. I bade farewell to Madame, collected by basket of goodies and a very happy Corporal Biggins, now fortified for the grinding slog ahead.
My emergency rations from Madame proved unnecessary and I returned to Flez in good time with yet another Pup and the untouched basket of Café Fou provender for my hut mates.
Grevelink, our squadron artist, was putting the finishing touches on three of the illustrations for the soon to be published songbook, “Cinquante-Quatre.”
8 May 1917 54 Squadron RFC Flez, France
I hope today was my last trip to the festering orifice that is the No. 2 Aircraft Depot at Candas. Events could not have gone more smoothly. Made excellent time and even found two bottles of Glenlivet in Corbie! The price was rather dear, but I bought them both. One for the hut and one for the men. The flight home got a bit sporty when heavy mist descended over the river Somme. I dropped low and followed the river east to Peronne. After that it was trust the compass and hope. No landmarks to speak of that low, the Huns having devastated the landscape during their retreat to the Hindenburg Line. One close call with a tree but no chimney stacks or other surprises. The compass was true and after a few minutes flying the Étang de Trefcon hove into view. 210 degrees for 3 minutes and I was back at Flez.
I do hope the whiskey will help mend my relations with my long suffering fitter and rigger. Corporal Mitchell seems to be bearing up, but poor Cpl. Johnson rarely makes eye contact anymore. No doubt he considers me Pup Murderer-in-chief.
A letter from Father!
April 20, 1917 Dear Oliver,
Your mother and I were delighted to receive your letter of April 5th and to learn that you’ve fallen in with the stout fellows of No. 54 Squadron. Quite the cast of characters there, just like your shipmates on Astoria. I look forward to a more detailed dramatis personae once you get settled.
Speaking of Astoria, we had a surprise visitor not long ago. You friend Mr. Butler came to call, bringing with him your possessions left on the ship. Of course we insisted he stay for dinner, and what followed was a thoroughly delightful evening. I believe it did your mother good to finally meet her son’s nautical mentor, and you know how much she loves to entertain… “and no man’s hunger was denied a fair portion.” Apparently, Mr. Butler has left the ship’s company, although he politely deflected any inquiries about his future. With our country now in the war, perhaps he means to enlist. He is very much the charming and mysterious stranger and spins quite a yarn. Laertes son, wily Odysseus, indeed. I daresay he held your mother spellbound the entire evening with his tales of the Orient. She drank three glasses of wine! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think him a rival for her affections. Would it be fair to say your stories of him are somewhat incomplete?
With war declared, the atmosphere here is much changed. Many of your friends are joining up. I hope our intervention brings the conflict to a speedy conclusion.
Do take care as you strive against the sons of Tydeus, “in the fighting where men win glory.” It is not always necessary to “come striding far out in front of all others, in your great heart.”
Your loving father, Mikkel
Smokey left Astoria?! I never thought I’d see the day. I wonder what he’s up to. As for my stories, “Somewhat incomplete” doesn’t even begin to tell that tale.
Son of Tydeus, Diomedes of the great war cry. In his honor we name the Diomedea, the genus of the Great Albatross. Father does love his oblique references. I hope he and mother don’t worry too much. I keep the details of my combats out of my letters home but it can't be easy for them.
A grand time and late night with Hadrill, Cole and Grevelink. We gave the Glenlivet a proper send-off with full honors and solved many of the RFC’s outstanding problems along the way. Now, if only we could get the Brass Hat imbeciles at Wing and Brigade to pay attention…I’m the only one on the morning show tomorrow, they get to sleep in, the bums! I’m sure to have a head in the morning, but it will be a small price to pay for an evening with friends.
Epower, a Prusso-Polish Buckaroo Banzai. I would never think of such a comparison. We’ll just have to wait and see. So, big news! Smokey may be coming over. That definitely sounds like a reunion no to be missed. Can hardly wait for it to unfold. Oliver is also moving up in the world. A secret penthouse with a huge tub. I just want to know one thing. Will it fit Oliver and two demoiselles to help him take that bath?
8 June, 1917 08:25 St-Quentin-le-Petit, Marne Sector Jasta 17 Feldwebel Zygmunt Dolf Hahn No confirmed kills
It was Ziggy’s first patrol. There would be no circling the aerodrome to get used to the surroundings nonsense here. Straight to the task and learn on the job. There are certain expectations when it comes to Jagdfliegers of Jasta 17. Jakob Wolff, who looked like he could be Zygmunt’s father, took him under his wing and assured the young pilot everything will be fine, “- Just watch me and learn, Rauhbein. You will be flying one of the old buckets, so you will stay behind and observe. Don’t do anything stupid, like collide with other planes or fly into the ground. Easy does it, ya?” And that’s how it went. His Albatros D.III barely could keep up with the newer and faster D.Vs the rest of the Schwarm was flying. They were to patrol friendly lines just north of Fismes. As they were approaching the Front, Hahn could see it from far away, a freshly ploughed furrow. His excitement grew as he noticed a two-seater crossing their path. He wanted to wave to them like they always did when they met a passing by friendly plane back over Eastern Prussia in his oh-so-recent observer days. Then he noticed the propeller wasn’t turning and a faint trail of grey smoke streamed behind the machine. The gunner in the passing biplane sat in an odd position and was not moving. Ziggy’s enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by this sight. Good thing Leutnant Gros, the Schwarmfürher in his striped machine, turned them away from the two-seater and towards the Front the broken kite came from. They were now flying directly over the Front and the leader picked up a solitary enemy attempting to get away. The entire Kette followed as one. Suddenly the two trailing machines veered away from the rest and Ziggy wasn’t sure what to do. Follow the leader or the two turning Albatrosen? He looked up and understood what the commotion was all about. A flight of silver aeroplanes was swooping down on them. Enemy! The other two wingmen were already climbing to meet the Nieuports and Zygmunt could only watch from below. The silver biplane was now followed by his kameraden and Hahn was drinking in the battle unfolding in front of him. He was so engrossed in what was happening ahead that he forgot to check what was happening in the back. He saw another Nieuport diving on him and jerked his control column at the last instant to avoid the attack. The French machine overshot and Zygmunt found himself looking at the enemy through his gunsights. He fired and the Nieuport danced between the bullets. He corrected and fired again to see small debris falling off the silver machine. He continued to maneuver and fire. More scraps of wood and canvas came off. Ziggy couldn’t believe it. It was this easy. He was sure he is going to score his first victory, but the Frenchman began to weave from side to side trying to slow down. The Albatros was much heavier and wouldn’t slow down as much. They continued to trade places and finally they were level. The Nieuport made another weave and was now behind, continuing to swing his plane across and ripping into the Albatros’ tail. “- Mein Gott! He’s crazy! He’s going to kill us both!” Ziggy was in shock. The French pilot was so aggressive he was willing to sacrifice himself to take out an enemy. This was a different war altogether. He watched the Nieuport spiral away towards his aerodrome, while Hahn did the same, by clearing the Niemanland.
Ziggy was near his base now and still contemplating the wisdom of his decision to transfer into this hellhole. Getting rammed by the enemy wasn’t unheard of on the Eastern Front, but this ... on his first outing nonetheless! He was shaken awake from his rumination by some movement ahead. Flak above one of the aerodromes. Looks like La Selve, just west of his own aerodrome. He continued on. Hoping it was just a flight of enemy bombers. He wasn’t this lucky. It was, in fact, a flight of French SPADs and one of them already tracking him. Ziggy had been warned about these contraptions. Very fast, but not very maneuverable. He watched the tan shape grow behind him, getting ready to attack. Hahn knew he wouldn’t make it to St-Quentin and must make his stand here. He turned as hard as the sick Albatros would allow him. The Frenchman’s aim had been spoiled, but he was already coming around for another pass. Zygmunt was now desperate. Another SPAD just arrived to join the games. “- Quick, get to the airfield. There, La Selve will do. The gunners over there will make a short work of them.” Another bank to avoid an attack from behind. The two SPADs were turning now as one. Ziggy longingly looked at the aerodrome still too far to be of any help and then he heard a bone chilling sound of a crash. The two SPADs collided and one of them was falling to earth like a comet dragging behind him a plume of black smoke. What luck! The other tan biplane was retreating, but Zygmunt’s joy was short lived. The remaining two French pilots were already on his tail and gunning for him. Finally he arrived over the aerodrome with the Flak batteries throwing copious amounts of fire at the intruders. Despite that the SPADs continued to come after him. Ziggy was almost dragging his wingtips on the ground to avoid them. He could stall at any moment, but levelled out and made an attempt to line up for a landing. Unfortunately he was too far over and would have overshot the airfield. Hahn had to go around and the infernal French were gaining on him. One of them fired and hit the wing. Zygmunt decided it was now or never. He brought his machine from the side of the aerodrome and just above the tent hangars. He dropped down and let his machine roll to a stop. The two SPADs circled the aerodrome like a pair of sharks and after a while left without anything to show for their efforts.
Zygmunt was back at St-Quentin inside a quarter of an hour, just in time to see the rest of his Schwarm return. Wolf jumped out of his plane, soot all over his face. He came next to Ziggy and slapped him on the back. “- Don’t worry Junge. We got him!” He must have meant the Nieuport that nearly finished Hahn’s short career.
"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."
I must begin my comments by expressing my condolences to Fullofit on the loss of Squadron Cmdr Mulberry (a very touching photo of him flying into the sunset, by the way). He dodged so many desperate situations that it is nearly unbelievable that he was finally downed. And by a structural failure. I wonder if it was battle damage. Anyway, a word of warning to all the RFC/RNAS/Aviation Militaire combatants – Hun Toby is at the front (Zygmunt, that is). Best of luck in Jasta 17. Malaula!!!
epower -- I absolutely loved the story about Oliver's stay with the Gloucesters, especially Sgt Prewelt. And the wonderful account of the drunken binge and "Ripper's" christening caught the spirit of 54 perfectly! Congratulations on the MC. And I had never seen that photograph of Albert Paul's funeral before. Fascinating.
Carrick – François has really come into his own in that Nieuport.
MFair – congratulations to the Badger on becoming a temporary gentleman. Now we just have to show how to hold a knife and fork! That was a really close call on 7 June. Any time I am around Albatri with any amount of red on them I fly looking over my shoulder more than looking ahead!
Buckeye – so good to see you dropping in. I'd buy you a drink but we have a new officer, you see. It's a tradition. MFair, two whiskys!
Lou – your new Estree-Blanche mod is a work of art. I agree with Shredward that it will be an outstanding landmark on the Channel coast front. Please remind Swany that that pile of paperwork is what recording officers are for. If you teach the fellow to forge your signature, you should be able to sleep until noon and then take a pleasure flight after lunch every day.
Gott strafe England! Memoirs of Fw Werner Edmund Wollenberg
Chapter 2
I am desperate to be back in the skies over England but alas! It is not to be. Hauptmann Brandenburg, who commands the entire Englandgeschwader, has decided we need much more work on both machines and crews. He plans a series of shorter raids – all on this side of the Channel. On 26 May 1917, we fly above heavy cloud all the way to Boulogne and drop our bombs where the leader fires his flares. We do not see where they land. My money says that we have completely destroyed several manure-filled fields of clover and a square mile or two of open water. We fly home without seeing a single enemy machine. We are at 4000 m for most of the flight and until our bombs fall the enemy must think us warm in bed at home. This is the first time I use oxygen except in training. At such height one becomes easily tired or even confused.
On 31 May, six of our machines fly to Doullens. It is a busy town behind the English lines, full of soldiers and lorries and fat, strutting generals. We leave them some presents to remind them that there is a war on.
Another raid on England is planned, but first several of our machines must cross the lines to bomb an industrial area near Proyart, south of the Somme. It is a long flight from our base and again we find no aerial opposition. Every time I go up I wonder how our Gothas will manage against attacking scouts. But we are lucky, I suppose.
The British attack our base at Sint-Denijs-Westrem on 4 June, damaging three hangers and two machines. They know we are here and it is easier for them to find and hit us on the ground in Belgium than in the sky over England.
5 June 1917 – this is the day we are bound for England! But no. Instead, Hauptmann Brandenburg sends No. 13 and No. 14 flights. We spend the day in lectures. Our raiders drop bombs on military training establishments near Southend, on the north shore of the Thames estuary. We lost a machine to Flak over Sheerness, our first loss to enemy action. Our brave flyers damaged the naval base there with more bombs.
Meanwhile, my flight – No. 15 – did several short hops to play with new bomb sights. On 6 June Leutnant von Trotha led us to St Nicholas, near Arras, where we hit some factories. And then on 7 June, I led a flight of three machines for the first time. We were bound for Ypres, just over the lines, but I was in command! The “chauffeurs” of the other machines were Feldwebels like me, so it gave me a chance to lead. I don’t know how they picked the flight leader. I believe I am the tallest of the three so I suspect that was the deciding factor. We take off shortly after seven o’clock. I immediately turned south to a pre-designated spot across the upper Scheldt. There we climb in circles to 3000 m before heading west, still climbing. We pass Menen at 4000 m and angle a little more to the north. Before long I see the unmistakable outline of the fortress at Ypres. Now I must follow the roads and rail lines to find my target, a group of industrial buildings south of the city. Leutnant Schwind is hunched over his maps and equipment. We have worked out and practised a set of very fine hand signals so that he can look down and guide me to the right place in the sky to drop our bombs. But the damned man is flapping his arms about like a chicken and I have no idea where he wants me to go. I know where I want him to go.
Leading the flight as we climb towards Ypres
We let loose our bombs and turn for home. Unfortunately, most land hundreds of metres from our target. Something has been miscalculated. Ah well, I am only the chauffeur, after all. "Noch ein Bier, bitte!"
Francois Gaston Pistache Chevalier de France, Sergant, Esc 90 Mix N-23 and N-24 Bis Toul, Verdun.
5 Victory's 2 unconfirmed
Jun 8, 1917.
Security Patrol of Aerodromes: Ran into 2 Rumplers and a flock of (4) the older type scouts protecting them. The Bombers dump their loads the nosed over for home. but the Scouts stayed for a fight. They were 2000ft higher so waited for the to dive on us. Zee Bosche dove and started a turning fight scattering us . I turned ,dove and the zoomed as one passed by I latched on firing. More power closer then back on still firing, Repeat. Got good hits then he winged over and passed under me. I didn't see him crash, but couldn't see him after that so put in a claim. Esc lost 1 N-24 + 2 Damaged Huns lost 1 + mine maybe.
Carrick - It's comforting that Francois continues to manage well with that N-24. I don't envy him the task of flying that against something more maneuverable than the V-strutters the Hun currently have. Let's hope there isn't such an enemy kite in the near offing, something with three wings perhaps.
Raine - Werner has a few sorties under his belt I see, and while they may not have been the most productive in terms of damage done to ground targets he at least continues to survive in the Gotha. I am quite concerned what will happen when he and his crew actually have to defend against the enemy scouts that are sure to come at them eventually.
Fullofit - A superb introduction to your new man. It can be hard on a fellow when forced repeatedly to choose between which parent, and lineage, he will favor. Also, quite the baptism by fire on his first outing as a combat scout pilot. But he lived to tell the tale so he did well.
Epower - Wonderful stuff as always, a most enjoyable catch-up. And as mentioned by Fullofit, Smokey potentially entering the picture could prove most exciting. Now as for Sgt. Spiv's poker game, Oliver would be wise to watch the fellow's cuffs closely as cards have a habit of slipping in and out of them.
MFair - That was a nail-biter for Ainslie, but he managed to prevail and make good his escape through the shelling. Those Nieups can't take much punishment before they get quite bucky.
Shredward - Thanks, glad you like the new 'drome.
.
Major Swanson is settling in to his new position, and is discovering just how much of the menial labour can be handed off to his staff. His new batman, Corporal Reginald Jeeves, has proved a godsend. Not only is he a top hole personal assistant, but he seems to know just what is needed to make the task of "Officer Commanding" all the less stressful. On Jeeves' recommendation Swany has appointed 2nd Lieutenant W.E. O'Reilly, a shortish bespectacled Irishman from County Galway, to serve in the roles of RO and clerk/secretary. The man is a wizard when it comes to streamlining the paperwork and acting as gatekeeper to Swany's office. Also at his batman's suggestion, Swany has appointed another 2nd Lieutenant by the name of Milton Minderbinder as Officer of the Mess, and since doing so the quality and variety of the meals has improved tenfold. The young lad has a real knack for procurement.
Francois Gaston Pistache Chevalier de France, Sergant, Esc 90 Mix N-23 and N-24 Bis Toul, Verdun.
5 Victory's 3 unconfirmed
June 9, 1917.
A Bad Day. Departed in 2 flights of 4 for an aerodrome attack. Returned with 5 Machines.+ a pilot Wnd. Zee Bosche hit our Roving Flight with 7 V struts. I broke off to help while the other 3 machines made Zee Ground attack. I couldn't get through to help, but one e/a broke off so I followed, As he let down, I closed and got off 100 or so rds and his wing broke off. I banked towards the reforming B Flt as 5 D-II's jumped them Just as I got on Zee Bosche Bang Bang Zee Gun it Jammed . Ran and RTB, Claims 2 e/a for the ESC
EPower, your stories are better and better bud. Raine, your Gotha pilot lives still! Fullofit, close one! Lou, Nothing beats having good people. Carrick, let’s hope your latest Alb is confirmed
2nd Lt. Ainslie Harris Bruay June 9, 1917
Harris was sitting on his cot as his mate Mason entered. Harris was silent as Mason lay his coat across the chair and sat down. “Why the long face my friend?” asked Mason. Mason knew his friend had had a rough 2 days. Just yesterday he had escorted Harris and his shot up Nieuport back to Bruay after a fight with 3 Albatros. Just this morning Harris had returned with a damaged engine and a bullet through the windscreen after a bout with 2 reconnaissance aircraft. The bandage on his neck covered the stitches showing just how close the gunner of the Hun machine had come to taking his life. Another bandage and stitches on his left bicep bore witness to yesterday’s scrap. Harris started at the floor a moment before looking up. Well I ain’t got to tell you, but I’ve had my arse handed to me on a plate these last 2 days Pard! And, did you hear about that Tobias fellow? Shot down half the German air machines all by his lonesome! He bought the farm The other day!” Mason straighten his bad leg, flexing his foot and rubbing the thigh where the Hun bullet had found its mark a few years back. “Thought you were going to have an easy time of it eh?” Mason stated more than asked. Harris rubbed his chin and replied, “Didn’t know quite what to expect to be honest.” Mason poured a glass of wine from his personal stock. He motioned to Harris. Harris nodded back negative. Mason picked up his glass and looked at the red liquid. “There is only one thing I know for sure ol’ boy. We are here in relatively comfortable quarters. We had a good meal.......and most important, we are both alive.” Harris stretched out on his cot and replied, “Reckon you’re right Pard. Reckon your right.”
Last edited by MFair; 06/09/2010:00 PM.
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!
Fullofit - Close one there. Crazy Ramfliegier Frenchmen. Mein Gott! That "Brave, brave, Sir Robin" moment racing to the safety of the airfield was frightening. Glad Ziggy got down safely. Oliver and a guest will likely fit in the epic tub but what is this nonesense about Two mademoiselles. He's already got his hands full with that scandalously modern, independent thinking Eliza.
Raine - I think our posts crossed in cyberspace. You might have missed the ferry runs to the wretched hive that is the No. 2 Aircraft depot. Werner is getting the hang of things. Should be interesting once the training wheels come off. Can the Gotha withstand a daylight attack? Scary stuff ahead.
Carrick - Francois is still alive. Impressive. It's always shocking to me when the wings just fly off like that or the machine explodes. Terrible.
MFair - Your man Ainslie is finding he's not in "Kansas" anymore. I'm sure he'll figure things out. Those d@mn 95% or 90% wounds sure sting like hell, even if they don't quite rate a wound stripe.
Lou - A commander ascends only as far as his subordinates allow. Nice work on retooling the staff.
________________________________
9 May 1917 54 Squadron RFC Flez, France
0500 hrs Line Patrol. Havrincourt Wood to Cambrai. Rainy at takeoff. Towering Cumulonimbus reaching thousands of feet above. I’d be awestruck were I not so terrified of colliding. Fortunately, the weather cleared as we climbed through 12,000 ft on the second patrol loop. We saw nothing and returned to Flez for a hot breakfast.
Back to bed for a couple hours then Parker woke all of us for lunch and our respective afternoon patrols. My hut mates, Cole, Grevelink, and Hadrill will go with Nobby and A flight, led by Pixley. They will escort our neighbors, RFC-22 in their deathtrap Fees. I’m with B flight on a routine defensive patrol between Flez and Villeselve aerodromes.
A lively spirit in the mess at lunch buoyed by the news of Lancashire Hotpot for dinner. I’m off to the afternoon show now.
__________________
Hadrill has gone. Shot down over Lesdain.
I came back from a dud PM show at 1600 and after reporting to Uncle I waited for A flight. Only four of the five Pups returned. They'd had one hell of a scrap. Cole, Nobby, and Grevelink all bagged one apiece, but they were heavily outnumbered when the second group of Albatri arrived. Hadrill was hit and spun down with a Hun close on his tail. Grevelink had fired on a two-seater but his gun jammed and when he returned to the fight, he saw a Pup spinning down chased by Huns. The Albatros that shot up Hadrill had a heart and a twisted cross on his fuselage.
I kept wandering back to the Squadron office for the next hour as Uncle called up and down the line trying to get some news. Finally, he shooed me away. I walked over to No. 22 Squadron to see if I could get anything from them. Captain C. M. Clement very kindly filled in most of the missing narrative. The first flight of Huns attacked from below so 54 dove to engage them. Capt. Clement led his FEs down into the fray but couldn’t reach the Huns in time as the fight descended more rapidly than the FEs could follow. He reported 3 Albatri attacking a Pup running low after a solitary Hun. The Pup spun and then was forced to land in a field where it turned over, likely due to the freshly plowed furrows. Capt Clement and his G/O, Lt M. K. Parlee shot down 2 Albatri one of which crashed near the downed Pup. One of his FEs that tried to protect Hadrill was also forced down in the same area.
“What were their names?” I asked. Capt. Clement raised an eyebrow briefly as if he considered my question odd. “Lieutenants Furlonger and Lane,” he replied then added. "C.A.M. Furlonger and C.W. Lane." I thanked him and returned to the Squadron office. Uncle had some additional news which corroborated Capt. Clement’s account. A forward observer reported a spinning Pup flattening out at the very last moment before landing intact. Hadrill could be alive and made prisoner.
I asked Stewart what he knew about Capt. Clement. “Oh that one’s a real Hotspur, Ripper. A true fire-eater. Completely fearless. Has 3, maybe 4 victories, in a Fee, if you can imagine that.”
Hotspur. That was right on the mark. From his accent Capt. Clement was obviously Canadian. Thomas Prewett would have something to say about his pre-rhotic vowews, no doubt. The Captain was about my height, with a square jaw and a cleft chin of the kind to make the ladies swoon. Like many of the Canadians I’d met, he had a polite, confident manner but also gave the impression that he’d kick an arse or two if the situation demanded. If today’s claims held, he’d just become an ace. In an F.E.2b, by God!
Monty, Nobby and Grevelink each scored today but it was a somber mess tonight. No. 54 Squadron had come through “Bloody April,” as everyone called it, with only a single pilot wounded - R.N. Smith on 14 April, barely a week after I came to the squadron. Ironically, the men paid a much heavier price, Hamilton, Percival, McIntosh, and Smith killed and twelve others wounded. D@mn Hun bombers. Hadrill was the first one of our pilots lost, even if he were alive and a prisoner, Gods willing.
George Hadrill. His name was George, though he went by his middle name of Temple. I’d only learned that recently. It was all surnames and pithy monikers here like the one he’d christened me with. Some legacy of English public schooling maybe. He could be alive. I prayed that might be true. I’d buried a number of the men I knew in training, but this was different. Hadrill was the first real friend I’d lost.
epower - You're right – I missed your last story before I posted. Wonderful tale about the Café Fou. It will take a long career before all of madame's mysteries are revealed, I think. Your description of 2 A.D. lines up with everything I've read. Boring, and with a terrible mess and high messing fees. It's been many years since I've had a Lancashire hotpot. You had me looking up the recipe! Terrific stuff, both stories. Fullofit - I was worried that your new pilot was going to come a cropper in his first mission. That was a bit of a hair raiser. Good luck to Zygmunt. Carrick – let's keep fingers crossed for that claim! Lou – somehow I didn't see the man from the North woods having his own personal Jeeves! And his own Radar. And his own Milo Minderbinder. Quite a team...
Francois Gaston Pistache Chevalier de France, Sergant, Esc 90 Mix N-23 and N-24 Bis Toul, Verdun.
5 Victory's 4 unconfirmed
June 10, 1917.
AF Security Flight my section of 3. Reports of many e/a over lines were reported by Zee Arty Observers We found 1 Roland Type Intruder at 8000 ft. Chase him down to the deck all of us got hits,but # 3 a/c got in the last burst and the e/a rolled over and crashed.
Raine – Major Swanson has decided to take all the help he can get, having discovered that running an entire squadron is a far cry indeed from being a station commander and overseeing three planes and pilots and the relatively small support crew those required. As to Jeeves, Wodehouse made mention once that he served in WWI as a batman. Now you know one of the gentlemen this gentleman’s gentleman served for. And regarding Swany’s other two new aides, days of future past will show that Milton Minderbinder is to become Milo’s father, with W.E. O’Reilly destined to be Radar’s grandfather, (whom he was named after). To quote Ford Prefect, “Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so.”
Epower – Sorry about the loss of Hadrill, but at least there is some hope that he may still be alive as a POW. Perhaps word of such will find its way back via the Red Cross.
MFair – Living to fight another day is about the best anyone can hope for who is in the thick of this thing. Fingers crossed Ainslie’s remaining calls are not so close.
Carrick – Francois knocked the top wing clean off of that Alb. He must be using the big bullets.
EPower, nad about your man Hadrill. That Capt. Clements looks like a tough cookie. Carrick, your due for a promotion.
2nd Lt. Ainslie Harris Bruay, June 10! 1917
Harris had rid himself of the tailspin he was in but he still felt a nagging dread. B Flight was off to Menen to take down a balloon. As the flight crossed over no mans land the scene below was horrific. Barrages coming down on both sides. The carnage was easy to see through the clouds at 5000’. Suddenly, Barlow dove. “This move confused Harris as he did not think they were at the balloon yet, but he dove and followed him. Harris looked in all direction for trouble but could not see it. “There it is!” Harris said aloud as an Albatros crossed from left to right above. Harris turned to chase and they quickly began a tight circle. It was not long they were very low just over the lines. Neither could gain the advantage but were running out of sky. The black bodied Albatross with the white band around the fuselage gave up first and tried to disengage. Harris was on him in a second pouring rounds into him from less than a 100’. On the fourth long burst, the Hun nosed over and crashed into the ground as Harris pulled his machine into a climb. He could not find a single soul. The ballon had been winched down and it would be suicidal to go after it alone on the ground. He started climbing to the west. He saw a Hun airfield off to his left. He didn’t think long as he turned into a dive. As the Nieuport screamed toward the airfield at treetop level he fired all his rockets and pulled up again. As he looked back he could see one hanger and a building burning. “Eat that fer breakfast!” Then he gave out a yell and headed home.
The flight claimed 5 machines with no losses. There would have been a celebration but Major Tinley was not happy the balloon was not taken out. “You will be returning to finish the job tomorrow!” He had said.
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!
Thanks Raine, I still have difficulty adjusting and continue to catch myself write Toby’s name instead of Zygmunt’s. As to Ziggy emulating Mulberry’s successes, I highly doubt that. The wooden barrel he is flying does not compare to the nimble Tripe, or even a Strutter. I shouldn’t complain. Feldwebel Wallenberg is coping which what I assume must have the aerodynamic properties of a flying barn. He’s not complaining of any handling inadequacies. He’s a trooper. Yes please, another beer for our Flieger!
Carrick, Francois needs to take it easy. All these furballs aren’t healthy for him. Time to slow down and introduce yourself to some mademoiselles. N’est pas?
Lou, so much paperwork! Good old Corporal Jeeves. What would Swany do without him? Be careful of those paper cuts. Nasty business.
MFair, looks like Ainslie is being constantly welcomed by each Hun he encounters. The medic is soon going to have to requisition new supply of bandages if this continues. Please do bring your airplane back in one piece from time to time. Give your Ack-Emmas a chance to rest for a while. Congrats on that black Albatros. Let’s hope you get it confirmed.
Epower, you need two mademoiselles in the tub because ... it’s France! That’s why. Poor old Hadrill, May he rest in peace. Oliver will sorely miss him (even if he is alive in some Kriegsgefangenen-Mannschaftsstammlager).
10 June, 1917 04:45 St-Quentin-le-Petit, Marne Sector Jasta 17 Feldwebel Zygmunt Dolf Hahn No confirmed kills
Ziggy’s skin was crawling. They were sent again to patrol the front lines north of Fismes. The same place the crazy Frenchman nearly guillotined his tail two days ago. He would try to be more careful this time around! Leutnant Gros brought them over the Front lines and it all looked clear. Few moments later, however, the entire flight was diving, leaving Ziggy behind. He looked around to see what everyone was chasing after. He could see them now, little silver wings far below flickering against the brown scar of No-Man’s Land. Hahn was trying to decide which one he should target. By now, it was a twirling mass of Nieuports and Albatrosen and each one was as tempting as the next. He eventually settled on one that appeared not to have a German scout already chasing it. He dove right into the centre of the hive and took his position. Ziggy fired a few rounds but soon had to dodge other Nieuports that latched onto his tail. Where did those come from? All of a sudden he was surrounded by silver planes. It seemed there were twice as many of those as the straw-coloured ones. He was in trouble. Everywhere he turned there were two French machines behind him. The only reason he was not being shot at constantly was because the “black-tails” were swatting them away with every turn and twist. Finally the furball devolved into individual fights and Zygmunt was able to get behind one of the opponents after his wingman chased the Frenchman away. Hahn was firing Spandaus wildly at the enemy ahead. He could see debris each time his rounds found their mark. He kept well behind in case this Franzmann decided to pull the prop-to-tail trick again. Ziggy concentrated so hard on bringing his target down that he failed to recognize that the enemy was falling, not diving. He continued to follow and only pulled up at the last instant after witnessing the Nieuport crash into the ground. Zygmunt looped his Albatros and was now flying away from the crash site and back behind his own lines. Halfway to the ‘drome he realized what he’d just done and let out a whoop, then continued to laugh the rest of the way. There was nothing funny. He has just killed a man. It was a laugh of joy that he is still alive. He survived his biggest scrap yet!
"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 – congratulations to Ziggy on his first victory. What goes in the Ehrenbecher?
I thought I'd write a leave story for Vogel while I had a few minutes…
Tagebuch of Fw Hans-Dieter Vogel, EK2
Jasta 26, Bohain-en-Vermandois, France
Part 7
12 June 1917
How many years has it been? I put my small leather suitcase on the ground between my feet, light a cigarette, and look about at the shuffling mass of grey-clad humanity washing around the iron columns and green wooden kiosks of Friedrichstrasse station. Let’s see. I was 15 when I ran away. 1911. That makes six years. So much had changed. I am hungry so I make my way to the third class “restaurant.” This place always served cheap beer and good sausages. The beer is still cheap, but the sausages scarcely deserve the name. They taste like cow dung and wood shavings. There are potatoes and onions. I am full now.
I walk to Unter den Linden and turn towards the Tiergarten. The contrast is great. Here I see senior officers and officials with their ladies, the men fat and pink and the ladies pale and smelling of jasmine. There is too much saluting here so I turn again and head for Potsdamerstrasse. My father’s restaurant was here. I am drawn there like a fly to a gaslamp. I see the building from a distance. The same, except the shoe store next door sells umbrellas now. The sign still stands – “Gasthaus Vogel.” It is, of course, not a true Gasthaus; there are no rooms. But there is beer and the food is decent. The cook and owner, however, is a foul brute. The gilt lettering on the sign needs scraping and painting. I venture to the window and look inside. One table was occupied. There an older man is eating potatoes and eggs. There is movement. From the kitchen door my father emerges with a bottle of sauce and heads for the old man’s table. I move on before he notices me. If I had a duty, it is done.
It is Tuesday, yet I see for the second time a large group of young boys on the street, laughing and pushing each other. They look gaunt and in need of a wash. I wonder why they are not in school. Further down the street a wagon is surrounded by a small crowd. A woman on the wagon is filling small bowls of soup. Her sign reads “cheap lunch – 35 pfennigs.” This is what I have read of, the aftermath of the Swede-turnip winter. The people are hollowed out with sharp cheeks and sunken eyes. These are the same people who filled the streets in the winter of 1914, waving and cheering as I marched with my comrades to win glory for us all. A woman at the outside of the crowd curses like a sailor when there is no more soup left to hand out.
Queueing for food in Berlin, 1917
Still, the stores are open and the Litfass columns at the corners are still covered in posters and notices for shows and entertainments. [1] I pause and read. A place on Kurfuerstendamm has a dinner dance. Something called the Independent Social Democrat party are calling for a protest on Friday. A comedic tableau is playing at the Residenz-Theater. And what is this? A new film, Es Werde Licht, is that the Tauenzien-Palast. [2] The poster shows a naked man and woman from the rear. It is a stern warning to German womanhood of the dangers of sexual adventures when their men are at the front. Ah Berlin! My dear city, what a fine balance you find between dogmatic morality and titillating deprivation. Still, not my cup of tea as the English would say. The poster has given me an idea, though. Tauenzienstrasse has some decent cheap hotels nearby. I will find a place for the first few days. Then I have people to visit and letters to deliver. Steinmesser has a brother in Berlin. Loertzer major and minor are from here. I am commanded to deliver a small package to their parents.
Notes:
[1] Litfass columns are the names given to the ubiquitous corner advertising columns, the ones called Morris columns in France.
[2] Even in 1917, a little bit of soft porn could disguise itself as educational. The poor women on the home front must have needed a lot of education because they made four parts of Es Werde Licht ("Let There Be Light").
Raine, it will be “milk and honey” that will fill the Ehrenbecher, but first the victory needs to be confirmed and we all know how that can turn out. So, Hans is out of hospital and back home if you can call it that. That is another, less known side of the war. It does feel like being there when you describe it and that photograph definitely paints a picture. Ha! SD party is already up to no good. Let’s hope Hans isn’t about to join.
"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: Wonderful touch to the story. Hard Times for the people and they wouldn't get better. I remember doing a paper in school about the time period 1919-1939. Such hardship for the population.
Francois Gaston Pistache Chevalier de France, Sergant, Esc 90 Mix N-23 and N-24 Bis Toul, Verdun.
5 Victory's 4 unconfirmed
June 11, 1917.
Our section was outfitted for a Balloon mission. Departed 0950 , found the target deployed Zee 3 a/c in line astern and the flight leader took out the Balloon on the 1st pass. As we reformed I spotted another target further inside Zee lines. I made 2 passes then decided I better go home since I collected a few bullet holes . They seem to get closer all Zee time then the fabric started to make flapping noises.
Through the Cerulean sky of a June morning five Pups of 66 Squadron bore down on eight of the Kaiser's V-strutters that in turn were bearing down on a pair of the King's RE8s over Messines. Brief moments later the three separate formations merged into a swirling madness of kill or be killed. Myriad tracer lines sliced cleanly through the chaos, transecting each other and forming straight-edged geometric patterns amid the graceful curving arcs of the aeroplanes. One of the Harry Tates began painting a twisted ribbon of black smoke as the doomed craft sunk down out of the fight. An Albatros followed immediately thereafter, it too leaving an inky smear across the brilliant, blue canvas, and on its tail was the Pup of Major Swanson. The young ace fired another burst into his prey, and watched with satisfaction as his shots ripped through the cockpit of the target in front of him. The V-strutter nosed over and began to tumble towards the mud some three thousand feet below, its dark, curling smoke trail serving as a final signature to the work. Swany quickly climbed back up into the fight and latched onto another Alb that was attempting to align itself on the tail of the surviving RE8. The Major closed the gap, and as the Hun filled his sights he squeezed the trigger. Three rounds had cleared the muzzle when something slammed into the back of Swany's head, just above the neck, and then everything went bright - incredibly, unimaginably bright. His Pup was climbing, up, up, out of the swirl of men and machines. He was controlling it, he was aware of that, but the aircraft felt strangely lighter - feathery, and soft. He was also aware that everything had suddenly gone quiet and, despite the madness of the aerial battle raging beneath him, there was a stillness surrounding him - a calm. He guided his plane higher, and watched as the scene below began to change. The other planes faded from view, and the ugly, muddy, endless scar that was No Man's Land slowly healed itself, and in its place were pristine, emerald green fields.
Time seemed to stop as Swany flew on, further and further, away from the war, away from the killing - and the hatred. He watched as the fields turned to woods. Beautiful, deep, tall pine forests, that pushed up again a giant, clear blue lake. He knew this place, though it seemed a lifetime ago since he'd seen it. There, on the shore, was that? It was! It was the town of Warroad, and north of there, he could make it out now - his home. The Pup drifted down peacefully from the perfect blue sky and settled silently onto the cool, grassy pasture next to the farmstead. Swany saw his parents running towards him from the small white clapboard house he'd grown up in. He undid his harness, leapt from his mount with the lightness of a breeze, and raced towards them. An overwhelming joy washed over him as the faces of his mother and father grew closer, in another instant he would be in their embrace. Peace at last.
Anzac troops nearby ran to the Sopwith as it jolted to a stop, dropping nose first into one of the countless shell holes that marred the ridge at Messines. They had watched as the Pup drifted down, engine dead, pilot slumped over in the cockpit. The plane had fallen in a gentle glide westward despite having been riddled from behind by a pair of V-strutters nearly all the way down. The Hun attackers had broken off only when ground fire had become persuasive enough. The young airman was gently lifted out and placed respectfully on the ground. A quick examination by the troop's leader, a veteran sergeant who'd been in it since the start, told the tale.
"He's gone mates, caught two right in the back of the head, didn't know what hit him I'm betting. Let's get him out of here before we all get blown to hell along with that bus of his."
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I'll come back later and catch up with you all, I'm just too spent at the moment.
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