And so Bloody April comes to a conclusion. It is been a tough month for campaign pilots.

Fullofit, the switch to a two-seater has not slowed Toby down at all. Watching your videos makes me pity your gun-layer. The poor fellow must simply hold on tight with his eyes closed. Perhaps you can teach him to make sandwiches.

Carrick, your lot is going through a tough time.

Lederhosen, wonderful to have Willi back. I love his new livery. And that Steuber is a piece of work. In another 18 months he will be leading a soldier's council, I bet.

Lou, sorry to hear about your loss of Corruthers. That scrap with the red-nosed Albatros was a great one! And the new livery is a cracker. As long as Trenchard approaches it from the front you should be in the clear.

MFair, welcome back Ltn Ganz! It has not taken him long to get back in the groove. Congratulations on the new victories and good luck with the new CO.

Maeran, I have been hoping for your return for so long. I had forgotten that Stanley was with 60 Squadron when I started my new pilot there on 13 April. We missed an opportunity to coordinator stories. And I really enjoyed your take on Bishop. So many pilots and their long campaign careers with a collision like Stanley's. I feel for you, mate. I do hope that you will come back as time permits. We're in this for the fun, so please don't feel that we expect daily reports!

epower, that was a wonderful instalment with some excellent photographs. Limping home with a punctured fuel tank was a nail biter. I am glad that Oliver is fitting in so well at 54. They seem like a really good crew.

I won't get a chance to fly for the next few days so I thought I would cheat and fly tomorrow's mission tonight. 12 days is a long time to wait but it likely allowed me to survive the April slaughter.


A Bluenoser’s War: the letters of 2d Lieut. Michael Colin McKinnon, R.F.C.


1 May 1917

Dear Robbie,

Well, I’m back on my feet and the Huns have been good enough to save some war for my return. The Medical Officer sent over a young man who called himself a therapist but who in reality was a sadistic torturer. He had me out of bed and doing stretches and physical jerks, walking, and bending. At the end of each torture session he would have me lie on a table for a massage. Except that instead of a massage, this horrid man would twist and pull my arms and legs and push on my spine. I would never confess it to him, but I felt better after each visit. Of course, it’s like the pleasure of hitting yourself in the head with a hammer – it feels so good when it stops!

Major Scott had me as duty officer from the 28th through the 30th. As duty officer, you are required to assist the adjutant (I think I mention we call him the recording officer in the RFC). You take messages, complete reports, then fly (I was exempt), then conduct inspections of each part of the squadron. For the inspections I was accompanied by a duty NCO, generally a corporal. The duty officer is not allowed alcohol at any time and has the unenviable task of ensuring that the senior NCOs’ and other ranks’ messes close up at a decent hour. And then there is the job of censoring letters, but I’ve already told you about that one. The worst part is that you have to sleep in the squadron office. That meant giving up my new bed for the little cot. It’s really a crime to make an injured man sleep like that. I am thinking that I shall start a trade union for pilots!

April has apparently been the worst month for the Flying Corps since the war began. The squadron has lost 18 pilots in the month – that is one hundred per cent of our complement! I have moved a fair bit up the dining table since my arrival here. Some chairs at dinner are on their third occupant since I came. New pilots take some time to adjust to war flying. They get shot down quickly and the few who survive have a decent chance after the first month or so. I am still a novice here, although one lucky enough to have three Huns to his credit. I still struggle to maintain my station in formation flight, especially on cloudy days. And I still rely on others to spot enemy machines in the air. It is damnably difficult to see aeroplanes at a distance, especially if the sky is not blindingly clear. Usually my first indication of approaching Huns is seeing the more experienced pilots break formation and turned towards the enemy. I just follow them and look about the sky until somebody starts shooting at somebody else. It’s getting better, but it will take a while before I develop the eagle eyes of a Bishop or a Scott.

Speaking of our star Hun-getter, Bish is now a captain and is boasting a bag of 14 Huns. He downed a balloon several days ago and yesterday a scout, both while out alone. I don’t know how he does it. I am tempted to corner him in the mess and talk tactics, but it is not considered proper to speak much of one’s victories and I am reluctant to put him in that position.

So now to today... I didn’t get my clearance to fly until well after breakfast this morning so I missed all the early shows. Around noon the Major decided to take on a dreaded “DOP” – a distant offensive patrol. That means an expedition into darkest Hunland to stir up trouble. The last time I was on a similar run was a couple of weeks ago when my engine gave out and I had a tour of the trenches as a result! Squadron commanders are not supposed to fly over the lines, but when I was working in the squadron office this week, I saw that Major Scott records his involvement as recreational flight. That’s not exactly the term I should have chosen. Anyway, the OC was leader and Fry was his second-in-command. Rutherford, Young, yours truly, and a new boy named Evans rounded out the team. We circled west of Arras until we were up to 9000 feet and then we headed north towards Béthune, where we were to cross the lines. In the end we did not cross over because just south of Béthune a large formation of Albatros scouts dived on our group. I saw Fry break into a climbing turn and followed him. The Huns sent half their group down among us while the other half circled like vultures overhead. Fry took on one of the Huns who came at us head-on. I turned to follow in his direction but continued to climb. Before long the other Huns joined in and a minute later we were joined by three Nieuports from our own A Flight, who were returning from a line patrol.

With so many machines turning about like maddened flies in front of a screen door, collision is a constant worry. It is even more of a worry when, like me, you feel the need to look back over your shoulder every two seconds. I was just turning my head back to the front when a brown and purple Hun machine flashed in front of me in a climbing turn to my right. I followed him and got on his tail before he noticed me. I fired 30 or 40 rounds before he reacted. The Albatros rolled to the left and dived downward. I followed as quickly as my meagre confidence in the Nieuport’ s construction allowed me to. It took quite a while for me to find the Hun again. He had dived almost to the ground and was camouflaged against the mud and water of the trench lines. But I had the advantage of height and went after him in a shallow full-throttle dive. I closed to about 25 yards before firing. The Hun swerved and fluttered one way and then the other. Finally he crashed just east of our reserve trenches.


"The Hun swerved and fluttered one way and then the other."

As so often happens in the scraps, I looked about to find no trace of friendly or enemy aircraft. By now I was down to my last drum of ammunition and turned back to Filescamp. For a couple of minutes I absent-mindedly confused Béthune with Arras and headed due west. I woke up when I saw the Lys River to the north and change course south for home. All the other pilots landed away from Filescamp and have not yet returned. Evans is missing. It was his first trip to the lines. I have filed my claim and am hoping that the RO can get someone to confirm it when they are back. I nearly dropped the Hun on the heads of our chaps on the reserve trenches so I am reasonably confident that the Army will confirm it if need be.

That is enough swashbuckling adventure for one letter. Remember not to use your sleeve to wipe the table. You’ll get your nose all dirty.

Your more sophisticated brother,

Mike