Touring Touls
31 July, 1917
1400 hours
Tours Aerodrome

The weather slowly improved all through the day, but high winds prevented flights; none of us were particularly upset at this, particularly after having to go up in a rainstorm the day prior!

It went unnoticed in my flight, but the combination of wind and rain had loosened the fabric on one of my elevators, and I worked with Rene in repairing it. I was holding the bucket of dope while he applied it, my coveralls becoming soiled as he sloshed it at every opportunity.

I scarcely noticed the Executive Officer walking over to us.

"Survived another, I see," he said as he approached, but not in an unfriendly way.
"Well, there is always tomorrow," I shrugged back to him.
"I just wanted to tell you that we will be here for awhile," he frowned, apparently unhappy with my unwillingness to embrace him.
"Any word on Lafayette?"
"None," he admitted, "but he is listed as missing, so there is hope. The pilot that crashed has been identified, and the memorial service will be tonight after evening mess."

The service that evening was noteable only that I understood most of what was said. It might be that my French was improving or that I had now been to so many that it almost sounded like rote that was the reason, but either way I stood silently, doing my best to honor the man.

It's a very cold thing to say, but I felt far less sympathy than I should have to the fallen. None of them except Lafayette had ever treated me with any sort of respect; quite to the contrary, they had been either hostile (standing proud and eager to accuse me of lying and conspiring to denegrate my actions in the air) or all too keen to avoid me. Nothing could silence their chatter than my entry into a room, though I certainly got more than my share of stares as I went about my business.

So I took my own company, and that of the mechanics and armorer, and avoided them. Rene had upgraded my quarters to walls made of wooden panels, oddly completed with a canvas roof, at the rear of the hangar, and apart from taking meals I had little reason to converse with my fellow pilots.

The next morning brought hale weather, and I was summoned to the briefing area:



So once again I found myself at the controls of Number 17, but under decidely better skies!



Lifting off of the ground, I glanced over at Touls, happy to see it wasn't obscured by fog and rain. I still hadn't had a chance to escape the aerodrome and see the city, something I would definately be rectifying after this flight!



Keeping station as we climbed, we soon were over the main Touls aerodrome, a huge place that seemed to have extra aerodromes to support it hanging off the sides!





The flight to the factory was uneventful, but once there I fully understood why it needed protection. It was right next to the front lines, nearly within normal artillery range of the enemy, and a very short flight across them to strike!



The flight lead began a right hand track around the factory, and I with him, blipping to stay on the inside of his turn.



The rest of the flight struggled once again to keep up. I shook my head - it didn't take a genius to adjust fuel and air to keep 2,000 RPM's at the same altitude!



And so it went for quite a long time, circling about with the flight becoming more and more strung out until it was a single file line behind the flight leader and myself! He motioned several times for the flight to form up to no avail. Still, it went quickly between keeping an eye on the flight leader and the rest of the skies for the Hun. I was uncertain how long we rotated about the skies, but soon a British flight arrived to relieve us and we were on our way back home!



I was feeling pretty good about things - for once we weren't thrown into the middle of brawl before and at the mission's objective, and I had only to enjoy the French countryside. Simply beautiful - it reminded me of Alabama between Montgomery and Birmingham with rolling hills with field and woods resting around small lakes and ponds.

I signaled to the flight leader that all was okay and from his motion back I took permission to leave the formation as we approached Touls.





At least I took his signal as permission! If I hadn't seen Touls from the ground, there was no reason this fine day to see it up close from the air! I flew towards the city.





Two aircraft were also flying over the city, no doubt sight seeing themselves - or perhaps circling for a landing at the Touls aerodrome.



As I flew under them, it became clear they weren't supposed to be here!





You had to admire their nerve. With all the traffic in and out of this major hub, they had bet they'd be mistaken for French or British machines, and certainly I was very suprised to see them!

I reversed as they went over me and began to climb.







They knew they'd been found out and the observers began to fire as soon as I was within their arc:



This was a mistake for them, as I simply dove under the guns, denying them their chance, and closed within striking range.



Each time I climbed to gain true with my gun, though, the lead would descend, giving his gunner a chance at me.



Forcing me to dive as well to avoid the fire.



I decided to try a different attack, turning right and then back at the rear Hun to the left, making an S shape and firing as he crossed my path.







It worked! Looking up at the German, I saw that I had shredded his upper wing!



A sudden blow to my head made me blink hard and dive away. In my haste to make another attack, I had opened myself to the lead machine's observer. I had stars in my eyes and a terrible pain, but I was still alive. I made for the large aerodrome beneath me.



A large section of the upper wing frame was missing to the right and left of the cockpit, chopped clean away from a machinegun round, and I landed without incident otherwise.



Once on the ground I removed my gloves and reached up to my leather helmet. Something was sticking out of it on the upper left side, above my ear right at the crest of my skull. Without thinking, I pulled it out to see it was a piece of the ribbing that had flown with such force at being struck that it had served as an arrow! Blood immediately began to flow down the side of my head, and I clamped my hand down hard on the spot. The medics soon arrived and helped me from the aeroplane.

Soon stitched up against the swelling knot under the wound, I was forbidden the pain elixir given to me for my leg wound and out of anger for being so stupid, insisted on flying Number 17 the short distance back to our own aerodrome. The Escadrille had been telephoned, of course, and I was met by a relieved looking Commander and a very angry mechanic.

"It was very brave to attack them by yourself," the Commander commended, "and a flight of scouts has been dispatched to shoot them down." And with that we exchanged salutes and I made to my quarters.

"Are you an idiot?" Rene exclaimed, "Every other plane in your flight comes back without a mark and clean guns! And look at yours! I'll be working all night to repair this, and you'll be up cleaning that gun!"
"Rene," I smiled, almost pleading, "I have a screaming headache. Leave me alone."
"Martin, you are lucky the Germans knocked you in the head," he shot back, "it saves me the trouble of doing it myself."

True to his word, he returned to my quarters carrying the machinegun and everything needed to clean it ten minutes later. Every half hour or so he'd peek in to see if I was still at it, and when I was done with the gun he presented a case of rounds and cloth belts for sorting. When I protested, he softly but firmly said that I would be kept up all night long, as often men with even minor head injuries who went to sleep right away refused to ever wake up.

Wheels

Marvellous!

Visitors And Empty Chairs
9 August 1917
0900 hours
Touls

I had finally made it into the city of Touls, having been pleasantly suprised that the paybook they had handed me along with all my other credentials came with actual pay! I had insisted that Rene come with me, and we had walked about the streets sampling the sights and the food of the small restaraunts that dotted them, enjoying the summer air.

Much of the menu was short, owing to rationing, and I strongly suspect the steaks we had at dinner were horse; still, it was very nice to sit at a table that seated less than ten - or on a chair that didn't fold up to be put away in the corner of my quarters!

We got a lot of strange looks owing to the bandage I sported on my head instead of a hat as well as the fact that we were enlisted men with our own car, which the Escadrille Commander had loaned us. Though Rene was married, he had absolutely no problem spending the time required to fully appreciate the girls walking around town!

We had come in the morning this time in order to follow up on a rumor that a certain butcher had some beef to sell, but it turned out to be spurious. So we decided to simply sit in the square outside of the cathedral there and have some coffee. A truck drove slowly through and had passed us when a man in the back of it began to yell at the driver to stop, using the coarsest of language when it kept going. When it did stop, a nearly empty kit bag flew onto the cobblestones from the back and immediately after it the fellow that was riding there.

Rene and I were highly amused at the spectacle, and then both stood when we saw who it was that caused such a scene.

Lafayette had returned, looking the worse for wear in a filthy, tattered uniform, but was all smiles and hand shakes. Ordering wine to toast him, we listened as he unwound his tale.

He had in fact chased after the Hun that day until he became lost in the weather, forced to fly lower and lower in a vain attempt to spot a landmark. With his fuel running low, he spotted a town with a large cathedral, and thinking it was Touls, landed in a field nearby. It wasn't! In fact, he had landed behind German lines - thirty kilometers behind German lines - and had spent over a week hiding in woods and the cellars of people willing to give him refuge for a few hours until he managed to find a river that crossed the front. Gathering up his nerve, he waited until the darkest part of the night and swam past the German lines nearly undetected. He was forced to get out and crawl through crater after crater on his belly to transit no-man's land over the course of a day and a half, when a French patrol found him. From there he had hitched rides on whatever transport he could until he met up with us.

Why he hadn't of gone to any Regimental Headquarters and have them phone our Escadrille was simply a matter of his youth and lack of clear thinking - he turned pale at the realization that the last two days of his begging for the back of a truck was an unnecessary addition to his adventures.

Still, it was a grand tale and we were very glad to see him back.

Rene brought him up to the present with the Escadrille and my own exploits in a most negative light, marking each day with the damage I had done to Number 17 or the maintenance required to it. Lafayette enquired about other pilots, but to be honest I didn't know them and had to admit as much.

"Ever the solitary Ace, Martin," he laughed.
"I'm no Ace," I scoffed.
"Oh?" he said, surprised, "I thought for sure you had downed enough for that."
"No," I corrected, "I need two more."
Rene sprayed a mouthful of wine onto us, as if he were caught unawares by a very funny joke, but was instead reduced to a coughing fit.
Before he could explain what had made him fountain, a motorcycle made its way across the square, pulled up next to our table, and the rider told us to report back to the aerodrome immediately.

Leaving more than enough money on the table, we made for the car and a short ride later had made it back. Arriving at the anteroom to the Escadrille Commander's office, we were intercepted by the Exec.
"Lieutenant," he deadpanned, as if Layfayette hadn't been missing, "your uniform is atrocious, and you are unshaven. Change it at once and then report back to me. Sergeant Miller, the Commander is waiting on you; go right in."

Since the door was open, I knocked on the frame and entered as the Commander waved for me to sit down.

"I have a decision to make, Sergeant," he began speaking in French, "and I want to know what you think about it."
"Okay," I replied in that very American word.
"Tomorrow you will have visitors, and I'm not sure how to deal with them."
"Visitors?"
"Yes, visitors. First a man from the papers, and then someone from the AEF."
"AEF?"
"The Americans. They seem to have heard a rumor that one of our pilots isn't really French, and have been trying to lure all Americans into their Escadrille now that they've finally come to their senses and joined the war."
"Oh no."
"Oh, yes," he smiled back. "Do you want to talk to them?"
"Hell, no," I immediately answered.
"Well, I have an idea," he said slyly, "and I want your opinion on it..."

It was brilliant. It was fantastic. It was elegant in its simplicity and sure to be a winner. We shook hands and toasted brandy over it.

"Get your aeroplane ready," he advised as I left, "I'm clearing you for duty and you're to fly with a sortie tomorrow."

That night I was in great spirits, though my little Lieutenant friend was quite dour.
"He put me on report, can you believe it?" he said over and over, and no matter what the diversion we came up with to pass the time routinely came back to cursing out the Executive Officer.

The next morning we were both in the briefing area, seated at the back, taking notes:



Afterwards I joked with Lafayette that he had a three in four chance of staying in our lines, as the wind was coming south and the lines ran east and west, which would blow him into friendly territory.

For the first time they involved me in the briefing, asking which position I wished to fly. Fifth, of course, in the junior position, I replied, annoyed. The games the other pilots continuously played were tiresome in the extreme; what did they think I would ask for, flight lead? I wouldn't give them the chance to slap me down if I requested anything else. Layfayette would have the number three position, immediately to my front left.

Formed up on the turf, we had to wait for a pair of British SPAD fighters that decided to circle our aerodrome as if to land, but in short order they got the message of repeated flares and cleared out.



Lifting into the air, I noticed a convoy of trucks on the road moving to our little base. No doubt the visitors that would be waiting on my return.







Two recon aircraft were high above us, and I incorrectly guessed it was they we would escort.



The flight leader ignored them, though, and I found that I had to catch up with the flight when they went straight on rather than climbing up to meet them!



Rene had done a great job tuning my machine's motor, though, and I soon caught up, having a steady 2,500 RPM's without any strain coming from my rotary!





The twins we were to shepard were lower than us, having just taken off from the main Touls aerodrome!





The trip was uneventful, and as always I enjoyed it until the first sight of the ugly scar of the front lines came into view.



Always a horrific sight, I caught myself wondering about the villages and towns that had become blown to their skeletons, laying dead and shattered in the middle of the catastrophe. Would they be rebuilt after the war, or torn down the rest of the way and abandoned in an effort to wipe clean the memory of this terrible conflict?



We doubled back over the craters in order to stay with our charges, the airbursts flowering in the air as a warning.








Finally we were across, which wasn't much of a consolation, as it meant we were on the enemy's side of the lines!



Every air burst looked like Hun scouts to me, and I was thankful for my silk scarf; without out it, my neck would be raw and bleeding from all the looking about!



We circled once more towards the muck below, having run ahead of the two seaters.



They flew low, too low for my liking, but they had to in order to clearly see through the camouflage the Germans were so good at placing.





With the spying eyes of our friends over the front, we made once again to circle.



Looking back, though, I saw two scouts approaching from the east!



Waving a warning to the rest of the flight, I turned towards them, uncertain as to which side they were on.



Definately the Hun! I let them fly underneath me, unwilling to dive on them and either wreck my machine or give up my position on them.



Turning to the right, they split directions, each taking a different tact on me.



The scout to the right seemed to be the one trying to keep a steady turn and climb, with the other staying lower, and so I leveled about to cut him off.

Looking back to see where the one that went under me went, I was in for something of a shock.

The German was looping up towards me, trying to reverse onto my tail.



Frustrated that there was no way that he could execute such a manuever, he fired, no doubt as a spoiling attempt - it would be a very unlucky pilot to be hit by such an unaimed burst!



I put my nose up slightly to slow and let him fall away beneath me, noting his wingmate to my left.



He stuttered from a right hand turn into a left, having attempted to climb back too soon, and I decided to dive in for him.



Looking back at my Nieuport driving in on him, he desperately turned right, but I had only to tap the blip switch to have him in my sights.





He spiralled into the ground just off of the treeline.



Looking about for the second German, I saw that he had more than his share of problems as the rest of the flight swooped down on him!



I came around as he reversed, watching him desperately trying to escape over the front lines.





I tracked him as he turned, flying conservatively, until he presented himself right off of my nose!



It was five to one, however, and I was content to simply build up speed and let my comrades in arms shoot him down.





They seemed to be unwilling to strike at him, however, and I closed with the enemy scout.







Of course as soon as I was near enough with my hand on the trigger ready to fire, tracers sped past me from behind!



I blipped the motor, slowing slightly, allowing whomever it was that wanted this aeroplane's scalp to take it.



But there was no follow on attack! Perhaps it was an ill conceived snap shot, but I saw no Nieuport behind us and once again closed as the German crossed my nose.







He was very good, shaking off my pursuit as I fired a few bursts. I stilled my guns (and my breathing) as one of my flight flew straight at him!



It was by luck neither collided and poor aim that the German wasn't downed!



That foolish maneuver completed, I again chased closer, ignoring the flash and thunder of artillery that struck around us.





I fired a long burst into his aircraft, and as he slowed and I climbed to maintain position, it was clear he was going to go down very shortly.



Another pilot came in from my left rear, firing a long burst of his own.





Staying high, I was astonished to see we had knocked his rudder completely off his tail!



Backing off, I stayed with him as het closed in for the final, fatal blow, perplexed to see a Nieuport crumpled on the ground before us. Surely it wasn't part of our flight!



My French fellow didn't fire! Whether out of ammunition or a machinegun jammed, he simply closed in behind the German.





More incredibly, I moved to re-charge my own gun and discovered I was out of ammunition! We had no choice but to stay in the only safe place - behind the German - and wait for him to crash (or run away if he were joined by others).



Thankfully it did not take long for him to tumble into the mud below.



Looking about, we found that the skies were empty but for the pair of us, and we made for home. I noticed something very odd about the way the aeroplane was being piloted in front of me.

He was flailing about with the elevator, as if struggling or wrestling with it for some reason.







As we approached our aerodrome, he seemed to be sluggish at the stick,





He turned too hard for his final leg.



His plane bounced from the turf just as he met the downslope that marked many a botched landing.







I made another turn, frowing for what I had just witnessed, and approached at a shallow angle across the aerodrome.





Rolling to a stop, I shut the engine down as the hangars stood empty - everyone had already started running down to the crashed pilot.



I got out of my aeroplane and walked around it in a cursory check, and ignored the claxton of the ambulance as I continued into the hangar.

Rene was in my quarters in dress uniform, wearing Sergeant stripes, aviator's wings, and a war cross with four oak leaf clusters. He looked very nervous and uncomfortable. My fatigue and distress of the flight left me at once and I began laughing, a deep belly laugh that rolled out from deep within me.

I had forgotten the ruse we had planned, and while I thought it was a stroke of genius, Rene looked as if he were going to be sick.

When I finally had control of myself, I bowed deeply to him and then with a flourish of my arm pointed towards the door.

"Your audience awaits, Sergeant Miller," I said in my best French.

He swore at me, scowling, and then stomped out and made towards the headquarters.

It was only after he left and I had shed my flight gear that something terrible struck me. Of the flight of five, only two of us returned, and one with a terrible wreck that meant the pilot was injured. Normally such things were beyond anything but a curiosity to me, but Layfayette had been the number three. I rushed out at once, shirt tails and untied boots, to have both my best hopes and worst fears confirmed. Lafayette had indeed been the one to make it back, but he had been injured in the fight and the crash and rushed to the hospital in Touls. The grave look of the Executive Officer did not give me much hope.

The evening brought good news on two fronts. First was that my pilot friend would not only survive but recover, and second that Rene had not only impressed the newspaper men but completely convinced the American aviator as to Sergeant Miller's French heritage.

After the all too common memorial I was presented with yet another addition to my medal.



Afterwards, I sat alone at the table in the mess, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. It was very easy to do so, considering all the empty chairs available.

I am still looking forward to each AAR.
Another good one Dart.


Wheels

Gosh, these are superb.

Truely amazing Dart!
Reading up on Martin's exploits is about as good as flying a sortie myself. This is suspension of disbelief at its finest!

Add me to your list of fans. I'm very much enjoying these, it's making me want to actually start a campaign. Neoqb should hire you. Seriously.

Enjoying this superb report about the aerial adventures of Martin so much, I couldnīt resist any longer and got me a copy of RoF.
Without Dartīs wonderful AAR, I probably would have passed on that fine sim simply because it didnī t have caught my attention.

Now I only need to dust off my old flightsim equipment and learn to fly these beautiful biplanes.

WOW!! great story Dart! Your writing skills are second to none.