@ Brian:

Thank you, sir! You're too kind, though - my writing is very much still at the amateur level.

If I were to turn it in for a paper it would be marked "B-" with a "See Me" note.

I've got this and one more mission to add, but the second is a rather lengthy one, so will probably have to wait.

@Wheelsup:

One can't get mad for stuff like that; he was just wanting to use the computer for himself, and figured the best way to get out of the sim was to get a little secret stick time.

Anyhow...

Spilled Milk
13 July, 1917
1030 hours
Maintenance hangar

Rene and I were elbow deep in castor oil and gasoline residue, taking turns scrubbing the inside of the engine cowling to number 17, with our pauses to laugh making the work much slower than it should have been. Rene's command of French vulgarities was impressive, and he made a very good language instructor. Other mechanics were shouting suggestions as they worked on their respective aeroplanes as well, making it a merry time for all. We had something of a game that went with it; if someone should repeat a curse word or phrase that had been covered before, we would whistle in disapproval.

Neither of us saw or heard the Escadrille Commander until he was standing right behind us.

"Merde," he said, and Rene and I both whistled, looking over our shoulders to see who had gone for such an obvious one.

Rene took a step back and stood at attention, dirty rag transferring to his left hand as he saluted. It seemed odd, but later learned that when an enlisted man didn't know what else to do when surprised by an officer, he saluted. Apparently this is universal in the armed forces of every country on the planet.

Saluting back, the Commander took stock of my appearance with a look of amusement and distain. He was an odd fellow that way. He could frown with his face and smile with his eyes, or do it the other way around. When they matched, though, they had an intensity one wanted to shy away from. Aloof most of the time, he could be very attentative and easy to speak with when he desired. He was regarded with a positive respect by the men, that being the only way I can describe a man that one gains trust while still never to be trifled with.

"Why are you cleaning the cowling of this aeroplane?"
"Sir, the post-flight maintenance gets rid of most of the oil and gas, but there's a residue that builds up along the seams and the inside lip that requires extra attention."
"No, Sergeant, that's not what I meant," he continued, "why are you cleaning the cowling of this aeroplane?"
I looked at him somewhat puzzled. It was my aeroplane, Rene's opinion on the matter notwithstanding, and so naturally I would take part in its maintenance.
"You are a pilot," he said patiently, "not a mechanic."
"Julien-" I began, and then corrected myself, "Lieutenant Torma was a pilot and an officer, and he took part in maintaining his craft."
"Ah," the Commander said, as if about to arrive to a point that would win the debate, "so Julien performed maintenance, did he?"
"Well, yes," I said somewhat sheepishly. I felt like I was being forced into an argument I did not want to have.
"And how many times did Julien Torma - and we are talking about Julien Torma - actually get his hands dirty while taking part in it?"
"None," I admitted after a moment. I hadn't actually thought about it, but he usually took up a chair and smoked cigarettes as the rest of us did the work. Other times he would lean against a post or the aeroplane and drink coffee while we did the work.
"Get cleaned up and report to the pilot's briefing area in an hour."
"We've already had the morning briefing, sir," I protested. The last place in the world I wanted to be on this side of the line in France was there.
The look he gave me booked no reprieve; I saluted him and walked to the showers, throwing the rag into the metal bin as I left the hangar.

The other pilots were hanging about and fell silent as I entered the area of a hangar used for a briefing area and pre-mission lounge. My head up, I walked purposefully to the table with the large coffee urn, poured myself a cup, and moved to the briefing map. It was a straight forward mission covering familar territory, but it seemed the thing to do.



The Germans seemed to be very interested in Malzeville, slipping a pair of recon birds at different times of the day on short jaunts over the front to look at it. It wa a crossroads town, and if one broke through the front, there was roads leading right to it. The rail station there certainly had been busy carrying troops in and the wounded out.

"The English call this a 'Milk Run,' as it is as easy as going to the grocery for some milk," a voice behind me said. I turned about to see the pilot the Commander had replaced on my last mission (Rendell? I am terrible at remembering names but not faces, and I had seen him many times in briefings) smiling at me. I grinned politely back, but said nothing; while he had no part with the Kangaroo Court attempted the previous night, I wasn't in a bantering mood with him or anyone else in this room. I turned my back to him and to the board.

But there is only so long a man can stand and look at a map, so I made for a chair next to a small folding table, pulling out a deck of cards as I did so. I had learned the game of Solitare while in jail the last time, and meant to pass the time with it.

Shuffling the deck, I noticed a group of three new pilots to the Escadrille looking at me curiously, as if they wanted to say something to me. I ignored them, trying to concentrate on setting up the game correctly. I was ten cards in when their shadow cast over the table. I also saw that they were joined with one of the veteran pilots, who seemed to be taking the role of spokesman. Steeling myself for a fight that I was quite ready to start if they insulted me, I stood, fists balled.

The Veteran pilot began to introduce them to me by name, each offering their hands as if glad to meet me. I was dumbfounded by the gesture, and accepted, shaking each in turn. Awkwardly the four of us just stood there afterwards, looking at each other and not saying anything. The veteran pilot laughed, patting me on the shoulder as if we were long friends, and walked away, taking the rookie pilots with him.

Shaking my head, I sat back down and continued to play until it was time to suit up and fly the mission.






A gentle right turn at the waypoint, and I contemplated digging out my sock pile of coffee for a swig.



Looking back to my left, I was astounded to see the flight had suddenly turned left! I moved to catch back up!



Of course they had seen the recon machines, and now that I was low and out of position so could I.



As we closed the distance, I frowned at the steep climb the rest of the flight was in, as if they could meet them right away.



It is an odd thing about flying machines that they seem to climb much better if one maintains a fast airspeed with a slight incline of the nose rather than a slower speed with a greater one. I let the two Germans fly overhead without altering my flight path.





I was rewarded for the effort, as when I did turn about, I was level with them and possessed plenty speed to turn about and chase the Hun.





Indeed, I sprinted ahead of my fellow Nieuports and began to close in, staying low to avoid their observer's machinegun.







Or, at least I though I had. The flight leader was very skilled and was in firing position before I was. Fire from both directions crossed the air.





Having learned my lesson about getting between a friendly and an enemy's guns, I began to line up for a strike on the lead of the Jerry pair, staying clear of the trailing one!



From the looks of it I wasn't needed for it at any rate; the observer seemed to have been injured or dead and the wings tattered.



I laughed at the sight of his engine knocked dead, and gave a wave to the flight leader!



But there was work to be done, and I carefully lined up my aeroplane to deliver a killing blow:









The delivered true, and I could clearly see the observer framed by the flames of the engine looking back at me. He was doomed, but rather than simply accept his fate, he fired a long burst at me!



I crouched behind the engine, hearing Hun bullets striking it, and then a blow to my right leg, as if I had been kicked by a mule. Reaching down with my mitten, I felt where it had been and came away with a smear of red. This was no graze!



My motor began a terrible clanging noise, and I began to look about for a place to land.





It was an odd sensation, more numb than painful, until I went to move the rudder, which sent a poker right through it.



Though it sounded terrible and I was losing RPM's, I keep the engine turning, making for Malzeville.



I certainly expected a much better effort from myself than the crumpled Hun below me!



It did not last, and the propellor clanged to a halt. I began to pick out an area to land in.



Not the most ideal location, but it did look flat enough and without obstructions once I cleared the line of trees.







I must say I was very pleased to have made it with the smallest of bumps, rolling to a halt.



My flight made a low pass over me, and I waved to let them know I was alive. They continued on to the aerodrome.

A group of soldiers arrived twenty minutes later, and by means of a stretcher carried me to the road and then to Malzeville; after a quick survey by the doctor there (I think he was disappointed at my wound, as he covered up a tray that included a bone saw after probing it most unpleasantly with a metal rod) and a bandage was delivered by ambulance to the aerodrome's small infirmary. They would retrieve my aeroplane by truck the next day.

Our own surgeon looked over my wound and provided an injection of a sort that sent me into a swoon. It was the oddest thing; I was aware of the pain, but as if it were happening to someone else, and oddly at peace with the notion. In fact, I was quite at peace with everything, feeling very thick and magnanomous. I fell asleep shortly thereafter.

In the morning when I woke up there were two very unexpected things to behold. First, there was a very pretty Catholic nun pouring some water into a glass for me at my bedside, and the second an addition to my one military award:

I quite approve of this Martin fellow. Glad to see he kept his leg about him.

Good job Dart!

Dart, you are the king of AARs for me. Very enjoyable read.

Oh, and I burst our laughing, when I saw the 'Hello Kitty' symbol on the plane the first time.

Martin is doing good.
Nice dead stick landing.


Wheels

Oh, good grief. Mission seven's screenshots were lost in the upgrade to Win7! So the account will be with only one screenie!

You Can't Kiss Your Sister
14 July 1917
0800 hours
Aerodrome infirmary

The next morning I woke up somewhat confused, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. I had been having a dream about that two seater I had set aflame and the look the observer had given me as I drifted out of the range of the machinegun. The dream changed to where I was in his place, looking back at my Nieuport, the flames of the engine reaching around the dead pilot as I stood helpless to do anything about, the flying machine beginning a shallow dive to the earth. The crackling of the wood and fabric as loud as the wind around me, my clothes beginning to catch fire as well.....which is when I woke up.

A pitcher and a glass was beside the bed, and I sat up, pouring some for myself.

It was odd for our aerodrome to have such a thing as an infirmary, especially one as well appointed as this one. Six beds sat in a room with a large stove in the middle, and there were two smaller rooms on one end. The door to one was open, and I could see a young girl sitting at a chair in front of a desk reading a magazine. The other was closed; if it was empty, then we were to only two present. She looked up at the noise I had made, put down her reading, and walked over to me.

Brunette, blue eyes, and a face that looked as if it was very used to smiling. I was smitten! Her nurse's uniform was topped with an odd white head covering rather than the red cross hat most of them wore.

"Good morning," she said in an accent that was decidely un-French, "I thought you were going to sleep all day!"
"You speak English!"
"And you have your wits about you, too," she continued, giving me a grin. I tried to place the accent, which was almost but not quite British.
I made to sit up against the top of the bed and instantly regretted it - my calf objected in no uncertain terms to being used to push anything. She grabbed me under my arms and pulled me up and back with suprising strength.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yeah, actually I am," I admitted, and she smiled.
"Good. I will bring you some breakfast." and with that she turned and walked right out of the room, passing by a window on the opposite side from me as she assuredly headed to the mess.

I rolled over to my left and looked under the bed. Damnable luck, the chamber pot was on the other side, meaning I'd have to put weight on my right to get it. But time was fleeting - I had no idea how quickly she'd return - and I decided on a quick lunge that netted me a gasp and white lights popping in my eyes as well as the pot itself. That taken care of, I pulled my leg up back on the bed from a seated position with my hands and pushed into a comfortable lounge. The small dresser also had a drawer on it, and it was with glee I saw that much of my personal effects had been placed in it.

I was smoking my second cigarette and doing my best to play Solitare on the covers when the doctor walked in.

"Good morning," he greated me, and I did my best to grin at him. The man was short, fat, bald, ugly, and wasn't speaking English. Not an improvement from what I was expecting to walk through the door! I scooped up my cards as he pushed back the sheet covering my leg and unwound the bandages, revealing the wound. It wasn't a bullet hole, as I expected, but a cut as if I had been stabbed with a knife.
"Shrapnel" was the only word I understood, but I immediately grasped what had happened. A piece of the motor or frame had been knocked loose from a bullet and stuck me just like one. He smiled at me and then left with a knowing look in his eye.

Immediately he returned with four large men who looked pretty unhappy, and then opened the door that had previously been closed. He returned with a tray covered with a towel and a large brown bottle. He sat down the tray and removed the towel to reveal all manner of implements, and handed me a five inch long strap that had been made from looping it against itself until it was about as round as one's thumb. He pantamimed that I should put it in my mouth as he had the men help me into the supine.

One man pushed down on my shoulders, one on my hips, and two grabbed my legs above the knee and at the ankles. I nodded to the doctor.

In truth, it wasn't as bad as all that; the doctor was skilled and was quick about opening the wound further, spreading it open, pouring the solution (which burned tremendously) into it, and then stitching it close. The men at my shoulder and hips were hardly necessary, though my leg did protest and jump quite a bit over my best efforts and needed strenous effort to be held still.

Dripping with sweat, I was shaking like a leaf as they put me back to sitting up after fresh bandages were put on. One of the holders shook my hand before leaving, which I took as a measure of strange admiration.

The nurse came in just as I had composed myself with a small basket. Bread, cheese, poached eggs, and a small carafe which was blessedly filled with coffee! She caught the doctor's eye and went over to him; the conversation was in hushed tones, which made me chuckle. It's not as though they were talking about anyone or anything but me, and it wasn't as if I'd understand what they were saying anyway!

"The doctor said you did very well when he took care of your wound," she said as she walked back over to me.
"What is your name?" I asked, drinking in her eyes.
"Sister Ruth," she replied with a smile in them.
"A nun?" I exclaimed, "You've got to be kidding me!"
"Yes, a nun," she replied with mock scolding, "so you're wasting all of your charming schemes on me, Sergeant Martin Miller."

We both laughed, and in short order I learned that she was from Ireland and had joined a convent in France at the age of sixteen just before the war. Her order had taken to nursing duty, and she had been posted with the nearby hospital; they had detailed her here at the request of the Escadrille Commander when news arrived that I was wounded.

Wandering conversation from here to there in no particular direction, an hour flew by and I was a little annoyed to see the aforementioned owner of this flying show come in with Rene close behind.

Giving greetings to the nurse-nun, he passed my bed and made for the doctor's office. Rene had brought a kit bag full of comforts for me, including a fresh uniform and my razor. He reached into his jacket and pulled out my sock-flask, handing it to me with a grin.

"Get that dirty thing out of here!" Sister Ruth demanded, and I laughed, accepting it. I pushed back the socks, which admittedly were soiled with castor oil and smelled slightly of gasoline to show her the whisky flask within. It was filled with brandy, though, and not coffee, which caught me completely by suprise as I took a large gulp from it.

The Commander arrived as I was sputtering and gasping for breath; and he patiently waited for me to recover myself.

"The understanding doctor says you are to be on bed rest for three days and then light duty for the remainder of a month, after which you can resume flight duties."
"Sounds good," I replied, cheerfully.
"I am not an understanding doctor, however," he continued, "and so you have two weeks, if not less, to be ready to resume duties."
"Sounds good," I said again, keeping the same tone. The laughter crept into his eyes, but it was the only hint of any breaking of the serious visage he presented me.
"Sister Ruth, I have a task for you in addition to your normal duties," he asked with a decidedly softer tone.
"And what would they be?" she said back, suspiciously.
"Teach Sergeant Martin to speak French while he recovers; I think it may take someone very close to God to make it happen."
He nodded at me and began to move to the door, but I halted him.
"Sir," I asked, "how did the rest of the flight make out on the way back?"
"Caught by scouts," he shot back, "two dead."

The next nine days were wonderful for me, as Sister Ruth sat with me outside in the warm French summer air and worked through children's books and common items to help me get a grasp on this foreign language. They were ominous days for the Escadrille, though, as far fewer planes came back on each flight than had started out. All of the pilots in my original flight were dead but for me, and many were welcomed to the unit at breakfast and eulogized before dinner. I took to haunting the hangar, cane in hand, and even slipping into the back of briefings. Number 17 looked very sad and lonely, being pushed to the rear and out of the way of active aeroplanes, so I spent several minutes in the evenings just leaning against it and feeling the cloth of the wings and fuselage against my hands.

On the evening of the 22nd the Executive Officer arrived to tell me that my recovery was complete and that I would report for the morning's briefing prepared to fly. Crazy how my thoughts felt conflicted; I did want to fly again, even though my wound was still weeping, and yet I cherished the company of the Irish nun and didn't want it to end. I knew there could never be any romance between us, but secretly I had pretended otherwise.

It was just after breakfast the next morning that she stepped into an automobile that would carry her back to the hospital in Malzeville. I saw her from where I was at the hangars and waved to her. She did not look my way.

One of the very few regrets of my life is that she didn't, as it would have at least been a weak good-bye.

I never saw her again.

23 July, 1917
0900 hours
Briefing area

While we had been knocking down German planes spying behind our lines, the Hun had been doing the same to ours, and we were going to intercept the patrol that had made a dangerous habit of showing up in the same area in the early evening. Reports had put them as a flight of three.

My leg was stiff and grumbled against the pressure of pants, overpants, and boots, and I settled into the cockpit with the help of Rene feeling a little miserable. It had only been ten days, but somehow it felt foreign to me.

I took off sloppily, skidding this way and that, nearly ground looping before I had begun, and struggled to tune the engine to the proper RPM's. The rest of the flight was struggling as well, holding poor position around the lead. The air was smooth, and I frowned. These pilots were more green than myself! Our station keeping was so poor the flight leader lead us around the aerodrome, and looking back I saw one of our planes still on the grass! We crossed over, low, and seeing the cockpit was empty - it had a pilot in it not moments before - continued on our way.

Four pilots instead of five against three or more Jerries, with not enough skill to fly straight and level. I felt a sense of dread come over me.

The landmarks moved under me, and soon we were climbing over the front. I seemed even more desperate than usual, and every air burst was either too close for comfort or made the shape of an aeroplane in the distance. We crossed back over to our side of the lines, then to the German's, and the flight lead waved his hand in the attack signal.

Three Huns alright, in those wooden tubs, diving down towards us. I staggered to the right to avoid their shooting - the Hun always shoot as they approach - and then left, turning back towards them. It was horrible. They seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, slashing about me, diving on me and climbing away as I spoiled their aim, and having another come from the left or right before I could take advantage.

It was a mess of confusion, and all I remember of it is snatches of machines throwing themselves about like photographs frozen in my mind.

Suddenly a German was on my tail, and turning with me despite my best efforts, his tracers narrowly missing my elevators. I was frantic with panic, not knowing how I would escape, when a flash of brown caught the corner of my eye. British scouts had joined the melee, and the Hun was forced to abandon his murder as a long stream of lead stitched across his wings.

We were saved! The tables suddenly turned, the Tommies dispatched two of the Jerries, and the third made to run away.

My senses returned, and I cut the corner on his egressing curve, firing a long burst ahead of him. I had meant it to spoil his maneuver, as he was much faster than I, but to my shock he wheeled his machine over and into the ground! Whether I had hit and killed him or suprised him to where he had lost control remains a mystery, but I whooped with relief.

A close by shell impacting the ground lifted my Nieuport with its concussion (we were that close to the ground), and I climbed as fast as I could away from it. I spotted another aircraft to my west, and after re-charging my guns, moved to intercept. Thankfully it was another Nieuport, and we circled until we had gathered the others. The British planes, however, had departed for places unknown, and were lost to the blue skies.

Near the double bridges where I had landed on my last sortie, I waved to the rest of my flight and made to fly over Malzeville. I buzzed quite low over the town, looking for the hospital, but didn't recognize it. In a most lazy manner I followed the river south towards our aerodrome.

I almost didn't spot the two German recon aircraft that had flown low in the hopes of avoiding being seen.

My track was taking me head on to them, so I decided to try the German trick of shooting from head on. The firing solution was very easy, but it was an evil fact that these two seaters also had a forward facing gun (which I didn't know), and it was only luck that kept me from being hit. Apparently my own had rang true, though, as the lead aeroplane turned to his right with steam rising thick from his radiator! Swooping low behind the second, I let a long burst find his fuselage, hoping to put down the motor, pilot, and observer. I was rewarded with them diving hard to escape, overstressing their machine and crashing into some trees.

I carefully considered the steamer that remained, coming at him from above and diving hard, shooting for the cockpit. I missed the engine and the pilot, but the observer slumped limp over his gun and slid to the bottom of the well.

Curving to the left, I dove for an attack from underneath but held my fire as I neared. The engine had stopped, and the pilot was leaning left and right, looking for a place to land. I blipped my engine, slowing until I was off of his left wing, flying as if in formation. The German divided his attention between my plane so close to his own and setting his plane down until he was committed to a large field.

His landing was very good; my own a short distance away was acceptable.

I got out of Number 17 with my pistol in hand, limping hard to the recon bird. The pilot was in the observer's position, looking at the body of his second, and didn't resist when I demanded his surrender. He climbed out of the aeroplane quite pale, and only when once on the ground glanced back at where he had been. It dawned on me at the same time that I had come to his plane across open ground from the tail while he was an arm's length from the twin machineguns that lay idle but facing me.

I had him remove his flight gear using the language of hand guns and marched him back to my Nieuport. I had him tie his hands and placed him behind the cockpit seat inside the fuselage, and warned him that I would shoot him if he did anything stupid.* Placing a couple of smallish rocks in front of the wheels, I set for engine start and worked the propellor.

The idea had been that they would be enough to hold the aeroplane for a moment after it started, and that the rocking motion of blipping the engine would free me. Instead the wheels jumped them immediately, and I almost lost the aeroplane in a pilotless crash. I made it around the wing and grasped the top of the cockpit just in time, climbing in like a trick horse rider!

My leg was wet from the exercise opening my wound and ached to the point of distraction, but I didn't care. Let them try to deny that I had shot down these planes when I present them with one of the pilots that had flown one of them!

On the way back the German reached up and touched my side once, but a quick dive followed by a roll to the right quickly quashed any ideas of heroics on his part.

I turned Number 17 about after landing and moved across the grass right up to the hangar where Rene stood waiting. He was very suprised to see that I had a pistol in my hand as he ran up to me, and doubly so when I pointed out my cargo. The German emerged looking somewhat worn from the flight, but stood tall, as if defiant. He said something about "das Commandant," and was taken away by some of our Infantrymen that served as security for us.

Almost immediately afterwards I was summoned to the Commander's office, where there was much slapping of my shoulder and incredulous looks to go with it. Indeed I was still more mad at the Escadrille's efforts to discount my scores against the enemy than happy to be in their good graces.

I was awarded an addition to my medal on the spot, though, and was certain my claims would be taken without controversy.



Dart says:

* I have no idea if a man could fit behind the seat of a Nieuport 17, or if he could if it would interfere with the elevator and rudder controls. Truthfully, I don't care - when I saw the recon aircraft conk out and land, I landed behind him and then took off again, the notion of being able to take him prisoner tickling my senseabilities.

This mission actually had ninety-nine screenies to go with it.

Oh, these are good. Dart ... excellent stories.

Please continue.

It's a shame about the screenies.

Most excellent episode and a "love interest" to boot.


Wheels

Y'all are only encouraging me in the worst sort of way.

Getting Our Feet Wet
27 July 1917
1300 hours
Aerodrome hanger

The afternoon of the 23rd signalled the arrival of a line of clouds, and by the morning of the 24th it was clear that no flying could be done. I took this as a godsend, as half of the cut on my leg had re-opened, and having it re-stitched closed hurt far worse than the initial go-around.

It also itched to no end, which the doctor said was a very good thing.

One of the new pilots to the Escadrille was hanging around Number 17, walking around her as if in admiration, going so far as to work the control surfaces by hand and check the wiring. It looked suspiciously like a low key pre-flight check, and when he put his foot in the well on the side of the fuselage, I hollered at him.

He jumped away as if shocked by electricity, and I fairly well stormed up to him.

"That's my machine!" I exclaimed, "So don't even think about it!"
"I am so very sorry, Sergeant Miller," he said, looking almost afraid, "I was not going to fly your plane!"
"Then what were you doing with her?"
He looked stricken, and then sheepishly admitted "I only wanted to look at a famous aeroplane."
Now it was my turn to look stricken! Some veteran had told him some whopping story in order to make him look like a fool, which was pretty much right up their alley on how to treat people.
"It's not famous. It's just another Nieuport 17 in the Escadrille with an emblem painted on the side as a joke by the Escadrille Commander on me. Go ahead, sit in her and see it's special only to me, and only because I am her pilot."
I was a little embarrassed by the way he scrambled into the cockpit as if it were a treat, moving the stick about and leaning over the sides as if he were actually flying the thing. I decided to leave him to it and go to the rear of the hangar to my quarters.

Rene had somehow come up with some lumber from which a frame was made and stretched with canvas from a tent to form walls, making a room of sorts for me, complete with an actual wooden door. An electric line was spliced and over it so that I had an incandescent bulb for reading and late night sorting of machinegun rounds. They had placed the table which held the coffee and old bread from the mess for the mechanics immediately outside of the door, which I found very convenient.

I was pouring a cup for myself and looking over at the bread, wondering if the small basket covered with a bit of cloth might be hiding some cheese when I heard the young Lieutenant call for me. Turning around I saw that he was coming over with a serious look on his face.

Grand. He had just figured out that he was an officer and I an enlisted man and that my yelling at him and giving him permission to do things isn't how that system works. I'd better act fast or I'd be on report for sure!

I saluted as he approached, and he returned it absentmindedly, looking almost stern as he asked if I would answer a few questions for him back at Number 17.

"Yes, sir," I said from the position of attention (well, almost - I had my coffee cup in my hand!), and went in trail as we retuned to my machine. Once there he took a long look at her and then turned back to me.
"Sergeant Miller," he began, "how exactly can I shoot down German planes and make it back alive?"
He was so doggedly earnest in his question that I couldn't help but laugh. After a moment he laughed, too.

His name was Jaques Lafayette, a distant relative of the famous Lafayette (of which he was very proud and explained his study of English), and very likeable. I was honest with him in that I didn't really have any answers for him beyond what he had been taught by far more qualified instructors than myself, but would tell him what I knew.

If, of course, he would help me in my frustrating efforts to learn to speak French.

In short order we had left the aircraft for a couple of chairs next to the table in the rear of the hangar (no cheese, the basket was empty and the cloth a ruse!) and let the discussion wander from flying to women and sport (as if there was a difference) and back to flying again.

And so the next few days went as the rain fell in sheets, preventing us from flying.

On Friday, the 29th, we did fly to an aerodrome near Touls during a break in the weather; it was unclear if this was a temporary or permanent transfer of operations, and I was thankful that the flight was short. The air was full of chop and drifts, but we managed without an accident. Rene had arrived there earlier with his tools and baggage (including mine, which he bothered to unpack and place for me!) and immediately had Number 17 in the hangar, wiping down the slight rain that had wet her.

The morning of the 30th was the same - more rain, though it looked as though it was giving up the ferocity of the last week, with visibility still very short and the clouds hanging a scant thousand feet above the ground. It was with great suprise that I acknowledged word that we were to report to the briefing area. Perhaps someone was to get an award or promotion; surely they would not re-commence operations in this soup.

I was wrong.



"Sufficient visibility for ground reference flight" seemed hopelessly optimistic, even if they had picked the most obvious of land marks as waypoints. While I was concerned over this, the young pilots seemed positively terrified, going pale as they got the news.

I guess they didn't have the benefit of their first flying lesson being in a rain storm!

They accepted it without a quibble, as was expected of them, but Rene took no such stoic demeanor. The string of expletives was impressive by any standard, and my growing working of French let me understand that it was all a conspiracy against him, as why else would they willfully endanger his aeroplane in such a foolhardy manner?

For the next four hours as he went about his work he maintained a steady rumble of profanity punctuated by short, loud outbursts as if he were the cussing train rolling down the tracks, blowing the whistle when too much steam had built up.

My hopes that there would be an improvement in the sky were dashed as the hour approached, and without any mention of cancelling it, we made to take off.



The two spy planes we were to escort had already done so and circled eagerly for us to get this over with.



As I lifted off I looked left at Tours just over the river, dismayed to see it was mostly obscured by fog and rain. I had no idea how we would navigate in this soup. The good news was that it would take pure luck for the Hun to find us!



We circled the airfield once and then began the climb to take us above the recon machines.





The air was rent with holes, bouncing us around as we made to stay with the lead. The challenging air and the inexperience of the pilots nearly made for disaster!



Avoiding the chance to pile into a another machine, I turned right, slowing to giving them a wide berth, and made to catch up with the the flight leader.



The gaggle dispersed somewhat wildly, and I took the opportunity to fly ahead to the lead, afraid of losing sight of him.




My comrades were struggling to keep up behind us.



The lead slowed, turning, looking down and to his right and paying no attention to us.



This allowed the rest of the flight to catch up, coming in too fast for us and nearly causing another wreck!



Moving right to avoid them, I looked down and actually saw the two seaters we were to protect!






And so we proceeded in an accordian fashion, with the lead advancing forward to clear the way, which left the others behind, only to turn about to stay with our charges, which caused them to bunch up against us, until we had reached the front. At first I thought I was hearing thunder, but the rain was no discouragement for the artillery!



I had been looking about, and began to wonder if I had lost the formation when I saw a plane diving in front of me through the mists!



I instantly lost him in the fog, and looking over in the distance I saw the omnious curl of smoke that could only have come from an aeroplane! I hoped it wasn't one of ours!



Looking about, I was jolted by the sight of a German Scout right below me! It was small wonder how it was that we could fly so close together without noticing one another in these poor conditions!



Blipping my engine, I silently dove down unseen, starting the engine up only when close in, making short work of the trailing Hun.







He went straight down into the trees, and I closed in on the second, hoping they wouldn't realize my substitution within their flight!







He dove, and I with him, even as my bullets struck him. I followed to little use, as he quickly crashed into the trees either injured or damaged in some way I couldn't see through the rain. My wild idea of downing all three were dashed, as I noticed the lead Jerry was far above me, if none the wiser of the fate of his wingmates!



Looking to my left, my breathe left me and a sickness came to my stomach. Whether by damage or accidental overstressing of the frame, a Nieuport suddenly fell apart in the air, shedding wing and plummeting straight to the ground. Willing my aeroplane to go faster and climb higher, I tried to join the melee.





I was of little use, struggling to catch up with little chance of engaging.









Fortunately I wasn't needed, as he was downed by one of my fellow Nieuports!



Latching onto the nearest friendly in a desperate effort not to have to fly through this soup alone, I formed up with him.



An airburst of artillery struck close to him, making me wonder if I would yet have to find my own way home!



Another of our flight joined up, making us three. I hoped that the fourth would find us as well, knowing it was unlikely.



The rain was coming down as sheets, putting up dark walls in the air that would toss us about when crossed.









Avoiding it, I waited until I was past and rejoined.



Whether by luck or fantastic navigation by our lead, the large Tours aerodrome suddenly appeared through the mist and rain!





Even more incredibly, the two seaters had survived and made to land there!



It was simple enough to find our own aerodrome from there, and we circled over it.





I passed over Tours, which I planned on slipping away to later, before making to land.



The wind took me long to the aerodrome, and a downward slope made things even worse. It would be a long walk back to the hangars, and they'd need to bring a truck to pull it back.



The rest of my flight didn't fare much better in landing, likewise sliding down the hill!





But those of us who had made it back home had in fact made it home, which is more than we could say for at least one of our flight.



Gathering in the mess, we drank coffee and brandy in an effort to calm ourselves, pausing between sips and puffs of cigarettes to mop ourselves with towels. The Escadrille Commander looked somewhat relieved to see us and still sad that not all of us had arrived. He questioned us about the flight and it took all of us to piece it together. None of us had an idea of where the lead of the flight I wiggled into had gone, and I was shocked to find out that there had been three of the wooden tubs in the air against the two seaters.

At their mention, four men walked in - the pilots and observers had secured an automobile and driven over to us. They supplied the rest of the information for us, telling the tale of shooting down one of the Hun themselves when he had approached too slowly within their gun's reaches, and that they saw one of our flight fly to the north away from the rest of us, chasing the second. They confirmed the two I had downed, but were similarly at a loss as to where their lead had flown off to.

It was only then that I learned that Lafayette had volunteered to take the place of one of the scheduled pilots and was one of the two pilots that had failed to return. I was crushed by the thought of his death and asked to be able to go back up and look for him. He surely must have been the pilot that had flown to the north, as the idea of his plane simply coming apart on him during his first flight seemed impossible to comprehend. My request was denied, as the weather worsened even as we stood indoors against it.

At dinner he did not arrive and the aerodrome was silent but for the workings of men an machines firmly attached to the ground.

For reasons unknown, I was presented with two more clusters for my medal.

I thought Lafayette might be a red shirt.


Wheels

...and another great story! Thanks, Dart!