Fullofit - That's grim news about your vacation schedule. I'll spare you the details then of a week on Martha's Vineyard...
I see Klaus is up to his usual tricks and acting as magnet for Entente aircraft. Well done getting out of the Nieup storm and scoring to boot. And now promotion! Keep it up and a staffel command won't be far off...of course those fiendish Strutters may have other ideas. The day off was well timed.
25 Kills and more. The itchy neck might get scratched after all. Unfortunate that his dreams are of the wrong kind of Strutters and not Countesses. At least the claims board is on his side now.

Carrick - Looks like Henri is finding his stride and with a certain Elan. He did well to come thorugh that tag team by the Albs adn Fokkers. Unfortuante about the claim but Henri survives to fight another day.

NR - Welcome Baptiste! Didn't take him long for his first victory, then another. Shame about the two denied. Those blasted 2 seaters. Glad the wounding wasn't lifethreatening but what's this?! Forgetting Boelke Dictum #7. Sacre Bleu. Time for escape and evasion. Run, Baptiste, run!

Albert - Zounds, man! I go away for a few days and Kevin has slaughtered half the Luftstreitkräfte! No wonder the skies are so empty of Huns. Congrats on the promotion. Bravo on passing Beery and ending the month on 31. Quite the triumvirate in 41 Sqn with Kevin, McCall and Claxton. Flaming June indeed!

___________________________________

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 92



29 May 1918
Somewhere in France

More fog this morning which didn’t lift until mid-afternoon. Even then the weather felt unsettled. My kit secured in the observer cockpit of the new Harry Tate I’d ferry to the No. 2 Aircraft Depot at Rang du Fliers, I took off and climbed in a slow ascending spiral over the field. At 5000 feet the RAF4a commenced chugging, and lost oil pressure. I dropped back to London Colney and landed safely. Another triumph of the Royal Aircraft Factory…

Finding another aircraft proved difficult but after an hour wrangling, I convinced the OC to let me have one of the three Bristol Fighters.

Airborne at 6.00. My plan was to fly towards Dover and if possible, attempt the Channel crossing. The gathering clouds were a concern but after a smooth flight to Dover I pointed the Brisfit SW of Gris Nez and crossed at 10000 feet. Made landfall without incident despite the cloud ceiling dropping to 4000. Weather was just good enough to lure me in. After another five miles inland conditions deteriorated rapidly. Heavy mists and darkening clouds forced me lower and lower.

It was soon clear that I’d missed Rang du Fliers. Doubled back into failing light as the mist forced me down under 100 feet. I flew along in the looming darkness fearful of a chimney stack or Church steeple swatting me out of the sky. It was then that the Falcon started overheating. Visibility was nil and the light was almost gone. Below, against a black background of what looked to be forest, I saw a manor house with 3 large windows illuminated. Aimed for a soft landing in the field fronting the house, and after a moment of terror hauling her up and over a fence, I put the Brisfit down on the field and taxied up to the manor.



A tall man emerged warily from the house but after determining that I was a British officer, invited me inside. Monsieur Henri Dupont was of indeterminate age between 60 and 75. Not a hair of grey disturbed the black mane covering his head. Round spectacles stood watch on a prominent Gallic nose.

When I inquired as to the nearest army base, he informed me that Rang Du Fliers was 6 miles west. Transport would have to wait until morning, however, as his horses were unaccustomed to nocturnal travel.

“It would be our pleasure, Monsieur, for you to remain our guest this evening,” he said.

I thought briefly of trying to walk to No 2 ASD but the steady drizzle showed every sign of becoming heavy rain. I ran my kit inside, then with M. Dupont’s assistance, pushed the Bristol under some nearby trees and covered the engine and cockpit with tarpaulins. Low, heavy mists swirled about and the skies opened up just as we returned to the house. I was going nowhere.

Madame Dupont greeted us as we entered. She looked to be in her 50s but like her husband, it was difficult to determine her exact age. M. Dupont’s English was far superior to my French though I believe he appreciated my efforts. Madame, by contrast, possessed very little spoken English but understood it well enough so I conversed in a strange bilingual traingle.

M. Dupont guided me to a large bedroom on the second floor, then retreated downstairs. I shed my flying suit and took stock of the situation. No chance to reach Étaples, the Depot or any other units in this downpour. There was nothing else but to enjoy my present good fortune.

When I returned to Madame and Monsieur, they stared at my decorations, eyes lingering on the Legion d’Honneur ribbon. M. Dupont excused himself then returned with a dusty bottle of Champagne, which he opened, sending the cork flying across the room. As he poured out three flutes, handing one to me, a large black cat I’d not previously noticed chased down the cork and batted it about briefly. It soon lost interest in such pursuits and began grooming itself.

“An unexpected honor, Major,” said M. Dupont.

The Dupont home was a spacious, two story brick farmhouse located 15 kilometers SE of Etaples near the Bois de Puiberaut. Just enough distance to prevent requisition by the military authorities. The couple lived here with a housekeeper and cook.

Dinner was simple and deliciously prepared. Accompanied by roasted potatoes and asparagus, a white fish served as the main course. It was similar to sole meunière but in a lemon caper sauce with additional herbs I couldn’t place. A glass of ancient port and a plate of cheeses far superior than the one I declined at Rules completed the splendid meal.

Afterwards, sitting in the soft firelight of the parlor, M. Dupont poured three glasses of Armagnac and told me a little of the family. The three Dupont sons served in the infantry and all remained alive. The youngest, wounded in the recent fighting, was in hospital somewhere in Paris. Of the farm hands who joined up in 1914, all save one were dead.

The black cat brushed up against my leg, purred deeply as I petted its sleek fur, then moved just out of easy reach where it remained expectantly for nearly a minute…an old game, and one I refused to play. Eventually the creature despaired of its newest human servant, sauntered away, and took up position on a nearby chair. Once there it commenced to stare with its deep blue eyes; blue eyes like a Siamese, something I’d never seen in a black cat before. The effect was startling, and grew more so as the animal continued to glower at me.

“Etoile finds you intéressant, monsieur,” said M. Dupont with a wry grin.

‘Etoile,’ meaning star. Odd name for a black cat.

As the evening wore on, the mellowing effects of the Armagnac took hold. M. Dupont spoke less, retreating into his own thoughts and letting his wife carry on most of the conversation. Madame asked many questions of life in America. She had distant relatives there descended from members of the Comte de Rochambeau’s expeditionary force during the American Revolution. I’d heard of Lafayette, but never the Comte.

I asked her about the painting which dominated the far wall of the room. Like Etoile, the man in the painting had been staring at me for the past hour.


I didn’t recognize the instrument

“Is it a cello, Madame?”

“Non, c’est une viol. Une Viola da Gamba,” she said, then fired off a quick inquiry to her husband that I couldn’t follow at all. M. Dumont, waved his hand in refusal, shaking his head from side to side. Madame persisted in what I now realized was a request to play. Her final entreaty, “mon Cher Henri,” cracked his resolve. He departed but soon returned in ebullient spirits with a large musical case from which he drew a honey-colored stringed instrument. I could smell the ancient varnish and rosin as he prepared the large bow.

M. Dupont set the Viol between his calves and began to play…



I listened enraptured as M. Dupont, gave himself over to his playing. The rich, resonant tones at once deep and in the next stroke of the bow light and dancing. It was a kind of music I’d never heard before, ancient and ethereal, but something about it seemed so familiar.

M. Dupont, completely transported by his playing continued without interruption for half an hour. When he finished, Madame gazed at her husband with eyes shining in a way that made her intentions plain. It was time for me to retire.



30 May 1918
No. 24 Squadron
Conteville, France

I woke at dawn to find Etoile laying sphinxlike on my chest, staring at me. Walking the grounds in the morning light, I realized how lucky I’d been last night. The Dupont home was at one end of a small clearing in the Bois de Puiberaut.



After a light breakfast and a farewell to Madame, M. Dupont drove me to the No. 2 ASD at Rang du Fliers, where the CO arranged a detail to take charge of the Brisfit. Major Robeson dispatched the 24 squadron Crossley and by 10.30 I’d arrived at my new home.

Conteville was very different from the shell ravaged pasture I’d known during my brief stay here in March with 84 Squadron. Bessonneaux hangers and Nissen huts now lined three adjoining airfields occupied by No. 24, 49 and 41 squadrons. A stroke of luck having 41 here with Beery Bowman as CO.

Busy day. Robeson gave me the tour then we set down to discuss the specifics of the squadron. Much like Major Blomfield would, he used his cane to point out landmarks or items. I carried my vitus with me, which drew some looks.

Afternoon flight with B-Flight Commander, Captain Cyril Lowe. Officially logged as ‘Showing Major Winningstad the lines.’ Before the war, Lowe played for England, winning the 1914 Five Nations Rugby Championship.

A familiar face here in 24 Squadron from my time with 84 - George Owen Johnson, C-Flight Commander. A good man who I helped train and will know how I want things done.



31 May 1918
No. 24 Squadron
Conteville, France

AM Orientation flight. Lunch at 22nd Wing HQ in Bertangles with Colonel T.A.E. Cairnes, DSO, my Wing Commander to be. He’d been out since early 1915, first as an observer with No 16, then later as a pilot with 27 Squadron. When Colonel Rees was wounded during his VC action, it was Col Cairnes who succeeded him as CO of No. 32 Squadron.



He was very direct, which I appreciated.

“Your mind is set on acting as a flying CO?” he asked.

“It is, sir.”

“Very well. When in command, Winningstad, command. But remember to listen as well, most especially to your Flight commanders and senior NCOs.”



1 June 1918
No. 24 Squadron
Conteville, France

Another morning flight “Showing Major Winningstad the lines.” This time I flew with Southey. Conteville is well behind the front. Only 10 miles from Abbeville. It's 30 miles as the crow flies to the lines at Arras and Villers-Bretonneux. We’ll need to watch our fuel very carefully when we operate East of Amiens.

Remainder of the day I spent with Robeson dealing with administrative matters.

Tonight was Major Robeson’s farewell party. Lt. H.R. South, our newly arrived Equipment Officer, certainly found his calling as Mess President. The fare rivaled anything I had in 56 Squadron. The celebration was a heartfelt if sedate affair by RFC standards. It was clear that Robeson had the respect of one and all. Their affection too. As the party went on, things got a bit livelier but stayed well short of a bust up. Robeson pulled me aside.

“Been a long time since the lads had a real go,” he said with a wink. “When the time’s right, a binge might be just the thing…”

24 Squadron was a well-run outfit under Robeson, and I saw little if anything requiring change. The only difference for the pilots was that their new Commanding Officer would fly with them.

Letter from Smokey.



He wrote this just before going up the line, four days ago. All hell is breaking loose down south of the Aisne. The Old Bull and his Marines are in it now. May the Gods protect them.

‘Proud of you.’ He never said that before. Ever. I read the words again and was suddenly afraid. Was this short note, penned in haste, his valedictory?