Epower, that was an interesting race to get the 200 kills. The HQ is giving the confirmations out like candy. You must forgive my claims board bitterness after Ziggy’s recent experiences. As to the two-seaters, there’s nothing to it. You come up from behind, shoot as you go and stop before you collide. Easy! Compared to writing that letter to Eliza, it is easy.
5 October, 1917 08:45 Ceurne, Flanders Sector Jasta 36 Oberleutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO 61 confirmed kills Awaiting one claim confirmation
Still no word on Ziggy’s Strutter. Most likely a lost cause. Today is another airfield defence, this time over Aertrycke. They never reached their destination. Just after takeoff Zygmunt heard an explosion and quickly looked around to find a wing of enemy planes fanning out to wreak havoc on the Albatrosen still taking off. Ziggy barely avoided being skewered by one of the Camels from behind, then even much closer collision from the same foe turning in on him. They were circling well below treetop heights and in danger of stalling any second. Hahn’s heavy Albatros nearly caused him to splatter right into his own airfield. It was a close call and the Britisher took the opportunity to get away. Zygmunt went after him, but realized very soon he’d never catch him. Instead he joined another fight a little further south and quickly found himself following another Camel. He could see bullets zipping by from his wingmen just behind, but he was determined to get this Camel for himself. Soon after the unfortunate Sopwith was spinning down into the ground. The defence of Aertrycke would have to wait for another time.
"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."
Lou - Congratulations to Freddy on the double Gonging. DSO and the Croix de Guerre in one fell swoop! Those ribbons will bring some fine ladies in range of the 'Majestic Royal Sceptre,' for sure.
À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 34 of many
1 October 1917 56 Squadron RFC Estrée-Blanche, France
In honor of Maxwell bagging our 200th Hun I thought he should carry the A flight colors on his plane, so I’ve changed from letter ‘A’ to ‘X.’ It was confusing having both our planes bearing the ‘A.’
6.00 Line patrol Menin to the Armentieres-Lille Road. Perfect day for hunting. Visibility excellent. No Huns sighted. Returned Estrée intensely frustrated. Abused the bag for an hour.
2.00 Afternoon job was Deep Offensive Patrol over Avelin aerodrome. Found no Huns. Went hunting north after an hour.
Seven Albs high over Rumbeke.
He fell out of control then burst into flames.
Confirmation came through an hour after landing. My score stood at Sixty-nine. No mood for celebration though. Sloley was killed today. I asked Mac what had happened.
“I saw an SE circling inside four Albatros scouts,” he said, “and as I glanced, I saw a Hun turning inside him and at 20 yards range he shot the left wings off. The SE went down spinning. It was poor Sloley.”
Sloley always did find his way into the thickest part of the scrap, and once there he fought furiously. He was doing so well. He came to 56 just two weeks after I did and already had 8 victories. Such a shame.
2 October 1917 56 Squadron RFC Estrée-Blanche, France
8.45 Line Patrol. Bethune to Athies. Maybery, Maxwell, Hoidge and Jeffs. Lost both Maybery and Jeffs to dud engines before hitting the lines. At 16000 feet we had the sky to ourselves. After an hour on station we dropped to 10000 feet heading north. Attacked by a single Albatros over Menin.
White Snake Albatros.
The Hun soon reconsidered his rash attack and spun down to low altitude after I’d put 20 rounds into him. I thought for a moment he might go in but then he flattened out at 1000 feet. I dove down and began firing 150 yards out until I had to pull up to avoid a collision. He was no longer maneuvering. Another fusillade from 30 yards sent him down. He crashed just north of Menin aerodrome.
Weather closed in after lunch and made flying impossible.
The dispatch rider was late this evening and didn’t arrive until 9.30pm. Wing confirmed the White Snake Albatros. Seventy victories now. I’d celebrate tomorrow.
3 October 1917 56 Squadron RFC Estrée-Blanche, France
10.00 Late morning attack on the Vimy Rail Junction. A Flight was Jeffs, Young, Maxwell and Turnbull.
For the first time ever, the Huns contested our attack run. A single Albatros jumped Turnbull as we dove on the Railyard. I was directly behind and slammed the throttle forward to close the gap.
I could see the bullets tearing into the white painted canvas of his fuselage.
He crashed near the Rail Yard that he died defending.
Landed to an eventful communique. McCudden has a Bar to his MC, Barlow has a second bar to his. Amazing! Arthur has the DSO. I will add a bar to mine. That beat a congratulatory telegram from General Boom any day!
The morning Albatros was denied. I didn’t care. Tonight would be a celebration of all our decorations and my seventieth victory.
Dinner was to be a special celebratory affair. At 8.30 sharp we entered the mess to the orchestra playing “Old Comrades.” After dinner, speeches by one and all. Arthur’s was one of the more memorable since he concluded by expressing his appreciation of the enemy we fought each day, who he thought put up fine examples of courage. He felt it might be unprecedented but asked us to rise and drink a toast to “Von Richthofen, our worthy enemy.” Why not? If I had shot him down in August, he’d survived the crash, else the Huns would have announced his death like they did for Voss.
“Von Richthofen, our worthy enemy!”
4 October 1917 56 Squadron RFC Estrée-Blanche, France
10.00 Deep Offensive patrol over Riencourt aerodrome. Crossed the lines at 8000 feet, just above a cloud layer. Two dots 3000 feet above moving north to south across our line of flight. Climbed in chase and engaged. Got into perfect firing position and let fly. After 15 rounds both guns stopped. I peeled away and let the others have a go. The Vickers was stuck fast. I’d just cleared the Lewis and set it back up the Foster mount when Silver Huns joined the scrap. These were the new Pfalz type.
I watched his silver machine spinning down to earth.
Four black columns rose from the funeral pyres girdling Riencourt aerodrome. Circling I spotted a low flying Albatros.
Green Tail!
I saw the pilot slump forward, dead before the plane caught fire.
Circled for 5 minutes looking for A Flight but found only Albatri. A flight of four flew 3000 feet overhead but they didn’t see me as I discretely withdrew west into the clouds above the lines. So I thought anyway. One Green Tail followed me across the lines seeking vengeance for his fellows.
Northeast of Bapaume we fought and there he joined his fallen comrades.
Three more Albatri north of Bapaume, well over the lines. Fortunately, they’d done their mischief and were racing home. I did the same.
A Flight preceded me to Estrée-Blanche by nearly 20 minutes. Maxwell had seen my Pfalz and Albatros over Riencourt but the forward battery near Bapaume couldn’t confirm the second Green Tail Alb. Two claims confirmed, one rejected. Seventy-two.
Fullofit - Our most recent posts crossed in cyperspace. How you didn't collide with that scissoring Camel I have no idea. I went to Youtube and played the clip at 0.25 speed. Inches from doom, or centimeters in this case since Ziggy flies for Der Kaiser. Centimeters man! The Dark Gods of his ancient ancestors must be watching out for young Ziggy. Czarnobóg maybe, since we're not to the Winter Solstice yet.
Epower, I must admit all I could do was wince when that Camel went by my nose. By all rights Ziggy should be biting dirt, but I suppose Odin himself stepped in and presented Zygmunt with a reward for all those denied claims. I’ll take it. Now, Oliver broke 70. What a streak! Soon MvR himself will have to admit defeat and relinquish the crown. And that is one lovely shot of that SE downing that Pfalz. Gong Fairy will definitely need to pay you another visit soon.
"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'm away from Woff for three days and it seems like I have a year's worth of material to catch up on…
Epower, Massive kudos for your excellent account of the evening of 23 September 1917! The line about the tug breaking free of its barge was a masterful bit of writing. Shredward's congratulations said it all. Congrats on the bar to the DSO.And a special congratulations for reaching and passing the 70 mark. Outstanding!
Fullofit, Vogel has had very little luck since his return and Ziggy is disappearing over the distant horizon. Are you sure the Kaiser doesn't need Ziggy to go visit the Turks or something? I still have some catching up to do on all your videos. They are splendid stuff.
Lou, thank you for your brilliant work conjuring up exotic gongs! It really adds so much. I look forward to hearing about Freddie's adventures in Blighty.
Carrick,with Marcel on the loose in Paris it will be hard to keep on the right side of the SimHQ NSFW policy!
MFair, Lederhosen, Congratulations on the new decorations!
Here's the latest from Vogel…
Tagebuch of Oblt. der Res. Hans-Dieter Vogel, PLM. HHO, EK1, EK2, Hanseatic Cross
Jasta 12, Roucourt, France
Part 41
2 October 1917
The morning sun has a bronze metallic edge, and the chill air burns the lungs as a good brandy burns the stomach. From 1000 metres the change of season is clear. Forests have lost their virile green and already show daubs of brown and red. We meet our friends – three DFW observation machines – over Hénin-Beaumont and follow them to the lines. We are to take them south of Monchy, there to tend to their every need. And so we pass the next hour, flirting with stalling speed while the two-seaters parade back and forward along their assigned route, their observers changing plates and beating their frozen hands against their thighs.
It is Feldwebel Koelpin who sees them first: a formation of four single-seaters about two kilometres to the east of us, heading north as we headed south. The DFWs are ready to head home, there are no other machines in the sky, and I am bored. I give the signal and we turn toward the enemy formation. They are alert, these Englanders, and soon turn toward us. I can tell by the dihedral on their lower wings that these are Camels. It is a thrilling fight. Our Albatrosen are beginning to show their age and it takes a few tricks to gain an advantage over a Camel. In the end, I get behind one of them and force him into a spin. The Englishman thinks he can trick me into believing he has been killed, but I have seen this game once too often. As he pulls out of the spin I am again on his tail. It takes only a short burst before the Sopwith falls out of control and crashes into a line of trees edging a farmer’s field. I am several miles into enemy territory and far too low, so I climb away and head toward Roucourt.
As I approach our aerodrome I see that Schobinger and his flight are engaged in a low-level scrap with several Nieuport scouts. It is a simple matter to surprise one of the enemy machines. My first burst does damage and he tries to head west. He does not go more than a kilometre before my second burst finishes him off.
Koelpin witnessed my Camel, which becomes my forty-seventh victory. The Nieuport, however, is claimed by a machine-gun position on a nearby hill and I denied credit for it.
I spend the afternoon in the office and retire to my room until dinner. I have had a frame made for the little farmyard sketch by the girl Marenke. I hang it on the wall beside the mirror above my washbasin. There’s something appealing about the scene and about the letter. I have received a package of cards from Herr Sanke and send her a new card with a written dedication. The card she sent me with a request that I sign it had been bent in the post. I will package this one with a small piece of board to protect it. I attach a short note.
“Gracious Marenke,
Please forgive my crude handwriting and style as I have not had the advantage of long education, having been required to work from an early age. I do not know if life on a farm forces similar sacrifice, but I suspect it might do so. Thank you for your kind letter and little sketch. It made a great impression on me. Have you ever noticed that there are some things that tell you much about another person, or at least tell you whether it is a person with whom you would enjoy a cup of tea? Shoes are like that. One can tell quickly by another person’s shoes whether they are someone with whom you would be comfortable. To some degree, a tone of voice may do the same thing. And like these things,your little sketch made me want to write to you and understand more about you.
Your postcard was badly bent when I received it. I enclose a new one for you. Should you ever have the time and inclination to write me again, you would make this young soldier very happy.
Faithfully yours,
Hans-Dieter Vogel Oberleutnant”
My hands are shaking as I prepared the little package and addressed it. This is the first time I have written to a girl and the thought that I might be seen as too forward is more terrifying than a pair of Camels on my tail!
We receive a visitor at dinner. Fourth Army Kofl has sent a staff officer to present me with a rather impressive medal called the Hanseatic Cross. It is apparently issued by various Hanseatic ports, mine coming from the city of Bremen. It is a lovely scarlet thing that hangs on your left breast. The boys are having a great time teasing me about it, though. Typical is a comment from Immer, who said that “Real heroes like Richthofen and Hahn get their medals by command of the Kaiser. Why are you getting yours from a municipal sewage committee?” Still, I put it up proudly and declared myself the Pasha of Douai. Unfortunately, it cost me as much in beer as the Pour le Mérite did. I have only recently paid Bruno Loerzer the last of the sixty marks he lent to me. Now I am broke again!
3 October 1917
We fly south of Monchy to patrol over our balloon lines. The fighting season is nearly over Headquarters remains concerned that there could be another offensive farther south than the fighting at Ypres. The enemy has increased the number of attacks on our balloons down there.
I lead the Jasta south over the lines, looking for trouble. When we arrive at our assigned area I find it. Five English scouts approach from the west. They have a slight height advantage and are five to our four. But they are the de Havilland single-seaters – one of the few machines over which we still have an advantage. Still, these de Havillands are skilfully handled and one of them manages to put a few rounds into my machine. But that cannot last and I soon get into a position above and behind the Englishman. I damage his machine and he dives away. For the next five minutes we repeat a little dance. I fire into the de Havilland. It snaps about and tries to bite me back. We circle about and get lower and lower. Finally the Englishman makes another dash for home and I shoot him again. This continues until we are two miles beyond the English trenches and down to 200 metres. I am taking ground fire but am determined to finish him off. At length he slips away out of control and crashes about three kilometres east of Arras. I climb eastward, zigzagging to avoid fire from below.
Unfortunately, this victory was not witnessed and I do not receive credit for it.
4 October 1917
Line patrol to the north. We begin pacing our beat north of Lens, heading south. As we approach Vimy at 4500 metres, a lone Nieuport passes beneath. There are four of us: Joerke, Neckel, Becker, and me. I lead the attack. It should all be over in seconds. But the pilot of this Nieuport shocks us. He turns inside our formation and we scatter to avoid collisions. He fires at one Albatros and then the other. We all take damage. In the end he becomes bored and dives away. Joerke and I pursue for several minutes but there is no point. We return to Roucourt and discuss enthusiastically who the Englishman might be. Joerke is convinced it is Bishop, the Canadian. Neckel speaks of McCudden, whom I do not know of. None of us noticed any distinguishing marks on his Nieuport. It must remain a mystery.
5 October 1917
I plan to spend only a couple of hours at the field because there is a great deal of administrative work. Koelpin did not return from a patrol yesterday and I have a letter to write to his family. Mueller has a backlog of reports to work on and we divide the tasks.
While I am enjoying a coffee in the pilot’s hut, we are notified of incoming British machines. We take off at once and climb as quickly as possible. Two British machines – RE8s, probably – circle high overhead and drop several bombs about Roucourt. We chase them back over the lines but do not catch them. We return home and find three French Nieuports over Douai. We give chase and one of the Frenchmen turns to fight. Again we suffer an inconclusive result. My engine is missing and I turn home while Joerke follows the Frenchman over the front but does not catch him.
I feel like I have lost the touch for hunting enemy aircraft.
Gents, I’ve been off grid for a while and as usual have a lot of catching up to do. Hope to get my story up to date after taking care of the ponies feet, getting some bloodwork done,(routine) and getting ready for the 3rd Hurricane this year! Lou and Raine, thank you both for making this all happen. EPower, I will add to others, that was a superb and touching piece of literary masterpiece.
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!
Raine, where is Steinmesser when you need him to give the HQ a little nudge with those claims of yours? I know exactly the pain you are going through and despite the lead Hahn has over Vogel the tables could turn easily. As you’ve suggested all we need is to arrange for Hahn a visit to the Ottoman Empire, maybe shoot down that Bullet Sandbagger is building? I am very curious to find out if Marenke will write back. And it is always a treat to be surprised by a skillful pilot to fight against. WoFF will always have that advantage over any other sim.
MFair, keep safe! Those hurricanes are no laughing matter. Hopefully it’ll all blow over soon and you’ll be able to get back to the unfriendly skies over Flanders.
6 October, 1917 Ceurne, Flanders Sector Jasta 36 Oberleutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO 62 confirmed kills
As expected, the Strutter has been rejected, but the Camel was his. There would be no flying today. An unusually early snow blizzard grounded all machines. Hahn couldn’t find a warm enough place to keep comfortable. Occasional swig of cognac seemed just about the only thing that kept him from feeling frozen over.
"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."
Sep 7 1917. Actually, 3 am of the 6th. Mon Dieu ! everyone a waken and given directions. Orders move to Pierrefonds in the Marne to Support the Offensive near that area. Ypes ? Be able to fly a patrol in 48 hrs. Madness, but Kay sara sara. I was assigned to the lead group enough carts , horses and trucks. to move 4 a/c dis assembled to the Marne thus meeting the deadline. Grabbed a tin of biscuits, jam, wine, and some English Bully beef along with a wheel of cheese also extra boot rubbers for the Mud. while the trucks loaded.in the downpour As part of the uniform I strapped on the holster for the Lebel 1892 wheelgun and shoved a box of Lebel 8mm calibre ammo in my pants pocket. For safety sake, I put a 32 cal. Ruby Pistrol in my boot. Then it was On y va !
The rain was coming down and a the sky was a thick fry mass. Immer was sipping a cup of coffee thinking of the past days events. The new flier, Eckhoff, who had been posted to Immers flight had got off to a rough start. Several days earlier when 2 foolish Strutters had engaged them near Athies. One was easy meat for Neckle and the other had dove back acres the lines with Eckhoff in hot pursuit! Immer watched and wished the new flier luck as they continued patrol. Coming back north Immer had spotted 2 aircraft coming back across the lines. It was now Eckhoff who was being chased by the Strutter! Immer immediately chased the Strutter off his tail. Back at Roucourt, Immer had given the young pilot the dressing down of his life. His mind moved forward to 2 days ago. They were to meet two recon aircraft near Lille. Approaching the rendezvous point Immer saw Archie and then 2 smoke trails headed to earth. A few minutes to late he thought. In the next seconds the were engaged with 2 Camels. Immer turned in on one and climbed to fast. He stalled. In that instant the Camel pilot rolled over and came straight down on him. He shredded both right wings. Getting his nose down the Albatros wanted to roll to that side and the Camel was coming to finish the job. He spied Douai and dove for his life with the Camel on his tail. He pulled up and screamed across the field hoping to get some help from the ground gunners but it didn’t come. He cut the engine and side slipped with tracers flying all around him. He set the machine down and bounced across a field finally coming to a stop. He was shaking violently. In the afternoon he was leading another patrol and attacked 7 Camels. The 2 flights passed each other in a head on rush! He climbed and saw one one on Eckhoff’s tail. The Camel opened up on him as Immer did the same to the Camel. The Camel immediately disengaged and spun down. The main fight was now above and Immer climbed as fast as he could. To his right and above one was closing on Schobinger. He knocked him off his tail and the Camel ran for home with Immer in hot pursuit. Just before the trenches, he took careful aim and fired. The Camel slowly rolled to the right and spiraled all the way to the ground. As he sat in thought, Schobinger sat down. “Why the serious look Herr Wolf?” Immer sat his cup down without looking at his friend. “Too many close calls” was all he said. Schobinger edged closer. “We are holding our own! Which, I am afraid, is all we can do at the moment.” Immer remained silent.
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!
A rainy day story… Tagebuch of Oblt. der Res. Hans-Dieter Vogel, PLM. HHO, EK1, EK2, Hanseatic Cross
Jasta 12, Roucourt, France
Part 42
7 October 1917
Leutnant Mueller was in his glory – Master of the Hunt at last! Our two lorries and three wagons leaned drunkenly on the verge of the farm lane, already threatening to sink their wheels in the mud. Mueller stood on the tailboard of the second lorry like a pastor anxious to begin his new sermon.
“Pay attention! All shooters come here. Gather around. Hurry, or we will spend all morning here.” He kept up his pleading and a few of the more diligent fellows gathered about. The others, shivering in the cold drizzle, compared the contents of their flasks and tried to light each other’s cigarettes under greatcoats pulled over their heads like capes.
“When I give the command, we will proceed in single file along the edge of this field to the tree line, and then along the tree line to the slight rise on the left.” He held up his right arm and extended two fingers. For an instant I thought this was an English affectation, but then Mueller continued. “Reference the left side of the tree line across this field – two fingers to the left of the tree line. You see a line of stakes driven into the ground. Each stake is a shooting position. When we are there, I will assign each shooter his spot and his left and right limits. You will shoot only within your limits. You will not shoot at any bird on or close to the ground. If you do, you will likely kill someone. You will shoot only at birds above your position. You will not shoot at birds above another shooter’s position. Only Schwabians and Poles do that.”
A loud and obscene phrase was barked by Leutnant Falke, a Schwabian. Mueller waited for the laughter to die down. “We will have men in the woods and fields in front of you and to your right who will be forcing the birds toward you. This is why you must not shoot at birds close to the ground. I will blow this whistle…” Mueller then blew the whistle. “… And only after you hear it blow may you shoot.”
“Herr Leutnant, what about our dogs?” It was Feldwebel Neckel, the owner of a particularly odorous bulldog.
“You can shoot the dogs only after we are finished with the birds,” said Joerke. “And your Mitzi will be first.”
Mueller called out several times, trying to regain order. “We have assigned men to pick up any birds that are shot. You should take note of any bird you drop, especially any that may not be a clean kill. You can let the pickers-up know where to look for them. We want to keep all your dogs behind the shooting line until I give the command. If any dog goes in front of the shooting line before that, its owner will be required to remove it and tie it up back here at the road. Your dog’s discipline is your business.”
I looked at the sad collection of mongrels about us. There seemed to be little chance that any of them would prove to be skilled hunting companions. Mitzi was scratching herself raw and rolling in mud to soothe the skin. Rollo and Ruprecht, two large and hairy mongrels (part shepherd, part poodle, part spaniel, and part artillery horse) were competing to see which could leave the largest deposit in the middle of the lane. Schatzl, a cross between a dachshund and a weasel, had already gotten into one of the food hampers and was rolling a piece of cheese about in the mud.
Mueller led us off across the fields. Immer and I stayed close together, a pair of working-class city boys. We had both been quietly enquiring about how this shooting business is done. We need not have worried. Scarcely had we travelled a hundred metres from the lane when there was a loud report from behind. Mueller immediately went insane and began screaming at Vizefeldwebel Holck. Holck’s shotgun has a tell-tale wisp of smoke trailing behind.
We all made fun of Holck. Mueller had him nearly in tears. My gun was still broken open and I took a surreptitious glance down the barrel to be absolutely secure. And then very quietly I slid the safety latch forward. I should have probably done that earlier. Immer noticed and grinned.
At the shooting line I was assigned the third peg from the left with Immer on my right. We had only eight guns and so would shoot in two relays, with a break for soup in between. The second relay waited behind with our cartridges. They would be our loaders. The wind picked up a little and the drizzle turned into rain. We stood there and watched the drops fall from the brims of our caps while the dogs ran about biting each other. Immer commented that we would be lucky to get any birds the way we were shivering.
The rain shower passed and we could make out distant voices. Walter Ewers stood behind me as a loader. He passed my shotgun forward with two cartridges in place. I began to raise the barrel and Immer reached out to stop me. “We are supposed to bring up the stock to the barrel, not the other way around,” he said.
“Now aren’t YOU the country squire?” I chirped.
Rollo and Ruprecht suddenly launched themselves across the field toward the oncoming voices. In response, a bevy of partridges took to the air. Mueller, who had his whistle to his lips to stop the shoot until the dogs were retrieved, relented. It was probably because he had forgotten to give us a “Don’t shoot” signal. Now he blew the whistle – our permission to let loose. I watched a bird come in my direction, but Immer raised his gun and took it down with the first blast. I reluctantly conceded that it was closer to his position than mine. Now two birds came directly at me. I gave the first one a good lead, just like a Sopwith and pulled the forward trigger. Miss! I pulled the second trigger and the bird fell fifty metres in front. Ewers quickly reloaded and returned the gun. I saw another bird coming, still a little low but just high enough. I pulled the trigger only to discover that Ewers had – properly – engaged the safety catch. Nearly all the birds were gone and I was about to unload when a lone hen circled about and came straight at me. I fired once and it fell.
Now Mueller gave a succession of short sharp blasts which were obviously his newly-made signal to stop. Up and down the line, we broke open the guns and engaged the safeties. It was nearly time for soup, but first there were birds to collect. The pickers-up wandered about the fields in circles and after ten minutes had found only a single bird. We pilots finally agreed to form a search line and look for the birds ourselves. Of course, the dogs joined us, but no one was sure what they were looking for. Then someone started to bark and it was picked up along the line.
This was about the time when the general of one of our frontline divisions pulled up in a staff car and trudged in from the road to see what was happening. He was highly impressed to discover that Jasta 12 was out for a good, proper German hunt. That impression lasted until he saw twenty men linked arm in arm stumbling through high stubble and barking like a pack of foxes. I saw him talking with Mueller and told the other pilots to take their time finding the birds. In the end, we retrieved eight birds. Seven of them were in good condition and the eighth, which had been shot at close range, was a pincushion.
The general was gone before we returned to the shooting point and Mueller looked the worse for wear. I heard him mumble something about “never in my whole life…”
The soup was good and we turned things over to the second relay. The second relay had to do their own loading because most of the first relay had emptied their flasks and were reduced to sleeping on the muddy straw beside the shooting point. This second group did much better and contributed thirteen more birds. I volunteered to bring our eight birds back to the wagons. By the time everyone returned to the road I was comfortably in the front of the lead lorry, reasonably dry and warm again. It was probably Mueller’s seat but I figured that I was the Jastafuehrer and for once I would pull rank.
It had been a good day for everyone except perhaps Mitzi. For much of the afternoon, Rollo and Ruprecht had had their way with the little bulldog. We anticipate a litter of a ghoulish pups.
Raine - Vogel slaughtering animals for sport at a Shooting Party, eh? Decadent habits the Teutons and Britons have in common it would appear. And the animal abuse continues with poor Mitzi getting Dutch-Doored by those two ruffians! Oh the Humanity...
Raine, another great episode. EPower, Well dont forget us Yanks. Only I do it for supper and never dressed like a gentleman.
Ltn. Ivan Immer Jasta 12, Roucourt Oct 7, 1917
As Immer sat starring at his coffee, his commanding officer came through the Kasino at a brisk walk. "Immer! With me!" Immer jerked up from the table. "Yes Sir." he replied. As they walked to a waiting Lorry, Immer asked, "May I ask where we are going?" Vogel snapped around and replied, "A shoot Immer! We are going to an estate to have a little fun. Besides, from the look on your long face, you could use a bit of distraction!" It was a distraction all right. More like a ship of drunken fools but Immer had to admit, It was a lot of fun and he was honored Vogel had chosen him to be among the crowd.
Oct. 8 The weather was still crap but the business of war had to continue. Immers flight had to be up for a morning patrol of the lines near Lille. It was a boring patrol as even the English and French had better brains to be up in this soup Immer thought. As they turned for home Immer spotted 5 Triplanes below. He signaled and dove. The Triplanes spotted them at the same time and climbed easily to meet them. Immer got on the tail of one and damaged it. It tried to disengage but Immer was on him. The Englishman's engine was smoking. Immer checked his tail and was ready to send him down when Schobinger came overhead and gave the Triplane a good burst. It spun down and Schobinger followed. Immer pulled up. "He's all yours my friend.
Last edited by MFair; 10/08/2005:04 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!
Arrived here late in the day night will fall soon. Our carriers bogged down in the Mud only the horse drawn carts and on foot can get thru. Stopped by a Commo unit to get word to Hq and the rear Esc detachment. Luckily, there was Rene's on the Road ( open 24-7 just wake the person ) side so picked up some eggs for dinner. Another thing that was luck was the old unit had left their Hangers Tents so we moved right in.
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