Forward

This is a continuation of the career in Rise of Flight I wrote up here, and rather than make that one AAR a zillion pages, I figured I'd start a new one.

To summarize, Martin Miller fled the USA to escape arrest by stowing away on a troop transport due for France and, in a botched attempt to escape the port once they arrived, wound up impersonating a French aeroplane mechanic. Through a convoluted set of plot points, he became a Nieuport 17 pilot and was given a set of false papers in order to continue to fly.

Although he had amassed 18 victories in the air, his Escadrille had made a poor showing and they had been given more and more support missions behind the lines, which freed up more modern scouts to take the fight to the Germans.

A New Cat For An Old Fox
30 August 1917
0900 hours
Dommartin les Toul Aerodrome
Commander's Office

I was nervous.

The Escadrille senior enlisted was alternating between glaring at me and writing on a large sheet of paper, jabbing at it with his pencil as if attacking it at his desk in the foyer outside of the Commander's office, and the clerk was acting as if I were not there at all.

The Executive Officer had passed through from his office to the Commander's with a smirk and a bounce in his step, winking at me as he closed the door behind him.

Anything that made the Exec pleased enough to display a friendly gesture my way could not be good for me. He had once suggested I be hanged by the neck, after all. True enough that we had improved our interactions considerably - saving another's life tends to do that - but that was no hinderance to delighting in minor mischiefs.

"Martin," the Exec shouted through the door, "if you're still out there, come in here."

I entered without knocking. The Commander rebuked the XO for yelling for me, and asked that I sit down in a pleasant tone. While I had sufficient wariness when it came to the Exec, I had a like amount of respect for our Commander. Older by a third for those he commanded, he had a presence that calmed men in distressful excitement and excited men in depression.

"Please sit down," he said with a grin and a pleasant tone that suggested I was not in any sort of trouble, but his eyes were very serious. An unnerving quality; often his eyes held a completely different emotion than the rest of his face or his voice.

"The 84th Escadrille has been all but wiped out in the last two weeks," he said matter-of-factly, "including their commander and executive officer."

I said nothing. As much as it was terrible, we too had taken many casualties. Of the pilots I had started out with three months ago, only four of original twenty-eight were still with us!

"I am to take command of the 84th, and have been given the perogative of taking a couple pilots and a few crew with me. Who do you suppose that will be?"

"Rendell," I said immediately. He had been my flight leader from the start, and was very competent at getting us to the objectives and back home again. "Lafayette, when he is healed," I added, as although he was very young and impulsive, I liked him a great deal and knew he stood the best chance of survival with the Commander guiding and training him.

I took a deep breath. Either they had brought me in to tell me I was to go with them and were looking for me to volunteer, or they had brought me in to tell me I was to remain. My papers were only as good as Higher Command allowed them to be, and should I be left behind and given a less understanding Escadrille commander I might find myself in chains being sent back to Alabama. Well, maybe not that, as I was more than a triple Ace, but perhaps drummed out of the service or transferred to the Infantry.

"And me. I would like to go with you."

"That is very good, Sergeant Miller," he said flatly, "because you wouldn't have had a choice to stay."

I suppose I had been very tense and noticeably relaxed, as he began to grin.

"It is not to be so rosy," he continued with a serious tone (but those damned eyes were smiling), "as I am not promoting you at the wishes of your flight leader and the Exec. You will remain a Sergeant and continue to take up the last position in the flights."

I tried to appeared admonished, but didn't care in the least. I preferred the Last Man position, keeping an eye on our flanks and rear as I am terrible at formation flying and it gave me an excuse to fly more loosely.

"Rene will also be coming along, in order to keep up the ruse should a reporter or the Ami's come around the Escadrille."

Again, this was not bad news. Rene was my mechanic, and a great friend. When my actions in the air had gained attention of the press, we had Rene give the interviews and have his picture placed in the papers; when the Americans came around on the rumor that the Ace of the 87th was from Alabama, it was Rene who put them off of the trail.

"Who else is going along," I asked.

"Rendell, as you guessed," he admitted, "The Exec is coming, the Sergeant Major is not," which explained his terrible mood, "and I might have room for Lafayette, not that you mention him.

"The morale of the 84th is dismal from the reports," he added, "and the replacement Captain they sent resigned after three days, waiting only to finish six Courts Martial for disrespect and unruly conduct before taking a position leading a equestrian supply platoon."

"Oh," is all the wit I could muster.

"There is an upside, though. You'll find out what it is this afternoon. None of this has been announced, so I will ask you to keep it confidential. I do not plan to let the men know until my replacement arrives and we perform the change of command. Dismissed."

I left the office, walking back to the hanger and the quarters I had there. Rene was in great spirits, a bucket of dope in his his hand and whistling as I sat in a chair, contemplating the changes to come.

Rene began to carefully paint over the cartoon the commander had placed on my aeroplane's fuselage, erasing it in thin layers and blending the greyish white along the length of the machine.

Now, then, I had never liked the stupid cat drawing, but ugly or not it was my stupid cat drawing, and I had not told Rene to remove it. Neither, I was sure, had the Commander. I had dressed him down two days before for altering the appearance of Number 17 with a red star on the upper wing (which he had removed) without my consent, and here he was doing it again.

"Rene!" I yelled, "Stop that! What are you doing?"

"Martin," he smiled slyly, "You won't need this one when you go to the 84th."

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. So much for secrecy.

"What have you heard?" I asked.

"Enough," he admitted, "and we are going to have a great time in Reims! I know it from before the war, and am sure many of the people and places are the same."

"What do you mean I won't need my aeroplane in the 84th? Last I checked they were an Escadrille, not a truck company."

I spent the remainder of the day with Lafayette in the infirmary, playing cards and very pleased to see that he was recovering quickly from an infected bullet wound to his leg. I whispered the news to him, swearing him to secrecy, and it lifted his spirits even higher. We listened to the sound of aeroplanes taking off and land on the other side of the large hangers, ticking off the types. Dolphins, Nieuports, and even some SPAD XIII's; Touls was a beehive of activity, and our proximity to the village of Dommartin les Touls (and more importantly, its brothel) lent itself to visits from both British Squadrons and French Escadrilles.

The next morning the weather was much improved, the clouds having moved off to reveal sunshine and scattered clouds. Oddly, I was not included in the day's sorties; the Exec had me supervise the emplacement of an anti-aircraft emplacement, as if I would know if they were doing anything wrong. The machinegun certainly was pointing upward and there were sandbags around it, so I could find no fault in the installation.

In the afternoon the Commander walked up just as the work was completed.

"Martin, come with me, I have something to show you."

I followed, and as we came to the side of one of the hangars caught a glimpse of an aeroplane within:



A SPAD! I began to be both excited and worried. As much as I had heard and seen about their great speed and durability, I had only ever flown my Nieuport 17.

It look large even from the window!



I laughed out loud as we walked forward. Damn that Rene!



As we came to the front of the hanger, I frowned again. The SPAD had an inline motor with a radiator in the front; not only could it overheat or be damaged, I had only ever flown a flying machine with a rotary engine. It was also twice the horsepower of my little Nieuport.



And yet I had to admit it was a beautiful machine. Not much longer or wider than the Nieuport, it was a foot taller with much wider wings and two sets of braces. Everything was thicker and more substantial than my Nieuport; it would need double the engine just to get off the ground! It probably weighed 500 pounds more with all that wing, motor, and wood!



Rene had been warming the engine, and lept out at seeing us approach. Several mechanics trotted up and pushed it out into the sunshine.



"I want you to take it up after I familiarize you with the instruments," the Commander ordered, "and give me your impressions on the strengths and weaknesses."

"Certainly," I agreed. As much as I had a love affair with my Nieuport, I certainly wanted to fly this beast!

Putting on a flight coat, helmet and goggles (no need for full gear, as I was going to make a short trip at low altitudes), I was shocked at the modernity.

I had never understood the laments and accusations that the Nieuport 17 was "obsolete;" it had performed very well even for a poor pilot such as myself against the Hun! True enough, I had complained at the lack of a compass, but working out landmarks and paying attention to the map had made up for it. The tachometer was all the gauges a man really needed when it came down to it.

Sitting in the cockpit, however, the leap from one year's model to the next hit me like a sledge hammer!

A huge assortment of gauges lined themselves up around me.

On the left was an air pressure gauge for the fuel tank, a tachometer, a water temperature gauge, an oil pressure gauge, and on the floor a compass!



To the front, along with selector switches for magnetoes, fuel tanks, etc., was a clock, a slip and bank indicator (consisting of a ball in a curved tube of glass), and a fuel gauge on the floor!



To the left was an airspeed indicator and an gauge by which a man might know his altitude.



I tried to hide my shock at the huge assortment of information I would be given with a flip "what, no wireless radio?" but the Commander was all business.

"There is no 'blip switch,' Martin," he warned, "RPM's are controlled with the throttle. If you disengage the magnetoes in the air you may not get the engine to restart, or you might damage it.

"Likewise, the engine can break if you run it too high in a dive; throttle down if you point it at the ground."

I laughed, but his stare stopped me.

"Martin," he warned, "this aeroplane will not fall apart in a dive before the engine is damaged, like in your Nieuport. We will be taking it to the other side of the front, and if you ruin it and have to put down it will be in German territory."

With that he pushed off of the fuselage and made a sign for Rene to make ready for my takeoff. The engine roared into life and lept forward without any sway of the machine; I immediately missed that I would not feel the rocking of wings that blipping a rotary produces.

It took off cleanly, with the slightest of left rudder needed to keep it straight, and I leaned the engine slightly to produce a nice 2,000 RPM's.



I looked over and was shocked at the speed. It had to be broken - 200 Kilometers per hour would about 125 miles per hour - insane in my Nieuport, or at least impossible in anything but a dive!



I began a few maneuvers, and the strengths and troubles of the SPAD became immediately apparent.

I could indeed dive vertically at the ground, throttled down to avoid damaging the engine at great speed without damaging the aircraft. It climbed about the same when in a broad ascent, but not rapidly with the nose brought up quickly. It fell to the right when stalled, as expected, and did not try to spin. It is a most peculiar machine in that slipping to the right was simple and well behaved, but not to the left; I wound up in a rough right hand stall each time I attempted it. The rudder is not one piece that moves entirely like on the Nieuport, instead being attached vertically to a fin with hinges, which might explain the trouble.

Similarly, I found a barrel roll to the right very easy but the left difficult, even more difficult than in the rotary pull of my Nieuport.

Turning to the left was simple enough, it just didn't want to roll or slip that way.

Landing was rather scary, as the SPAD doesn't glide at low RPM's so much as drops out of the sky! The Nieuport drifts gently to the ground, happy to stay up, but the SPAD rushed to the turf at what must have been a thirty to forty degree angle!

Still, it was very well mannered and despite what I thought was a tremendous speed sat on the grass with barely a bump and almost imediately stopped.

Rene clapped me on the back in congratulations, thanking me for not turning a factory new aircraft into a pile of splinters and rags.

I made back to my quarters, sitting at my desk and writing up a summary for the commander.

Looking forward to this new series!

Bonne chance, Mr Miller

He He

Great new tale!

I wish these stories were all chained together in a campaign "for beginners", with matching missions. Would be a great way to start the fun in RoF.

OK Dart, you are out of the cross-hairs - momentarily.

Once again an excellent story. You did a very good job of giving the feel of changing to another aircraft with different gauges and flying characteristics. An excellent read.

Whew, I was getting a little anxious there.

Good job Dart!

Nice story!

Great transition Dart.


Wheels

cheers mate

eagerly waiting new episodes

Always nice to see a new chapter in the Martin epic...but a disappointing lack of fruit pudding intrigue in the plot.

New Lows Over Trenches
1 September 1917
1700 hours
Chaudun Aerodrome

I flew the new "Number 17" the 130 miles to the northwest in good weather without incident, leaving a nearly empty aerodrome behind me. The rest had entrained the night before, and those we were leaving behind (the bulk of the Escadrille) looked strangely sad to see me go. The Sergeant Major himself kissed my cheeks before I climbed into the SPAD and insisted on pulling on the propellor for me.

Putting it behind me, I circled the aerodrome only once before landing, but even from the air I could tell things were not going well at my new home.

Aeroplanes were placed sloppily on line or seemingly haphazardly, wagons and trucks parked just here and there, and there was a refuse pile between two of the hangars! A group of men were digging a trench further on, and even from 300 yards I could tell the Corporal in charge of the detail was yelling and waving his arms at them.

Rene looked grim faced as I rolled to a stop and he walked from a hangar; Rendell trotted over from a tent to the side of them. There was no other greeting party, and looking about no other mechanics. The three of us pushed Number 17 (I had no idea which number the machine actually was in the Escadrille, but couldn't help but christen it with the same as my Nieuport) into the cleared half of a hangar. The other half looked as though spare parts, tools, and broken furniture had been piled into it.

"We should go back to Touls," Rene grunted, gesturing around him, "this place is rotten."

He began a litany of things wrong with the aerodrome and the Escadrille, peppering the whole with the most obscene profanity he could muster and getting red faced. I gathered between the rants that had been so distressed by the disorder in the hangar that he had not only thrown all the materiel to the side of the hangar to make room for my aeroplane he had knocked out one of the resident mechanics that dared to protest his actions with one punch!

Leaving Rene to steam under his own power, Rendell lead me to the Officer's Mess that doubled as the club. Entering, I was quite shocked to see that though it was hardly empty, it was as quiet as a church. An upright piano stood unattended in the corner, and several of the pilots appeared to be reeling drunk; one fellow lay under a table, clearly passed out! The whole of the place was dirty, with the floor unswept and a overly used bar towel left crumpled on the counter, as if wishing someone would use it to actually clean.

Rendell went behind the bar, and having secured two bottles of beer, came back around to sit next to me. It tasted odd, and I said so. Rendell laughed.

"You're used to having a mouthful of castor oil after flying!"

I laughed as well, realizing he was right. I had become so used to having a film of castor oil on my face that I scarcely noticed it after flying, but with the inline engine of the SPAD, no such spraying occurred!

We turned about on our stools to survey the scene when the Commander burst in, a scared looking Corporal right at his heels. He lead the poor soldier behind the bar.

"You, Corporal Metz, are the Escadrille bartender. Only you will serve drinks from behind this bar, and you will not allow my pilots to continue to be a collection of drunks."
"Yes, sir."
"If I see such drunkeness as this again, it will be you that faces the Court Martial, Corporal."
"Yes, sir."

The population of the mess suddenly woke at the news, every eye locked on them.

The Commander grabbed a bucket, dumped empty bottles it was holding onto the floor, and placed it on the bar. He grabbed the dirty towel that was beside me, moved a stool to the other end, and stood on it.

"Should you have a question as to when to refuse service, a pilot must stand on this chair and throw the towel in the bucket. Three tries."

I laughed. This group would have trouble standing on the stool, let alone throw a rag into a bucket ten feet away.

"Any pilot that refuses to comply will be banned from the bar for a week."

"Do you think it is funny, Sergeant Martin?"
"Yes, er, no, sir."
"Good," he said angrily, "then you won't mind passing the drinking test."

I must say that I made it on the second throw.

After he left, there was much grumbling and cursing from the pilots, and much of their hositily was directed towards us. I had long been rendered uncaring to what other pilots thought of me (considering the harsh treatment I had received in the 87th), but Rendell had always been highly regarded and respected and was quite offended. I pulled him from the room before a fight could break out - it was two against six!

The next morning the briefing was held at 0600, with my new comrades looking very hungover and sully. Their uniforms looked as though they had slept in them! They bickered with each other before the briefing and glared at the Executive Officer as he gave it. I paid attention and took notes, marking my map.



Rendell was leading, I was trail, and I gave him the thumbs up that I was ready.



Soon we were in formation and making our way to the trenches.



As we crossed the river, I made note of the irregular pool and features left and right of me. Compass or not, nothing beats knowing landmarks!





Soon the green revealed the ugly churned brown of no man's land.



Such an ugly scar - I hated flying over it!



The tanks were to be just the other side of the river, and we made for them.



Rendell never, ever failed to amaze me at his ability to not only lead, but to get us precisely where we were supposed to be! Machinegun fire poured from the metal beasts as they crawled over the craters that would stymie a man or horse!



Looking at the latest way of killing our fellow man had distracted me - there were Germans about!



They whipped past me and towards the remainder of the flight - I would have to swing about and try to catch up.



The SPAD's tremendous speed suprised me again, as it took only a few seconds to reach the melee.



Jerry split directions, one staying high and the other turning sharply and diving.



Since three remained on the one that held his altitude, I decided to go after the other.





I wasn't alone in the idea, as another had anticipated the Hun's maneuver even as I glanced backwards, ready to reverse. Rendell, no doubt!



The incredible speed of the SPAD made for catching up with him in a wink.



I must say I whooped at the ability to close with him - I had gotten used to Jerry outrunning us at every turn in my Nieuport.



Speed, though, had to be traded for maneuverability, and the German turned hard inside me.



Rolling right with rudder and stick, I put the nose down and then rolled it back high towards him.



He must have cursed me for regaining his tail!



The Hun began to scissor back and forth in front of me while I waited for my shot.



Suddenly he pitched up into a hard right roll.



I did the same.



Letting the nose fall to the right, I fired, striking true!





I knew I had probably wounded him or his machine, as he contintued his turn without change.



Another SPAD (later I was to learn I was correct - it was Rendell) moved in to take a shot.



But it was simply the coup de grace, as he was clearly done for.



His forced landing in the stumps of the old forest and craters was actually quite good.



But there was another Hun about, and I glanced up to see he was right in front of me!



Somewhat chagrined that the three fellows on him hadn't brought him down, I put my nose on the horizon, gained some speed, and came back into the melee.



I would like to say that I showed tremendous skill, but in fact the poor Jerry was very slow, making for an easy shot.





In the end, he had climbed, hoping that his pursuers would overshoot.



Instead he made for a stationary target, hanging in the air.



Twin machineguns make a rattle one can hear even above the roar of engines and wind, the vibration rolling through bone to one's ear.



I was thankful we were at such a low altitude, as it meant that death would come more quickly.





I glanced down to see that the tanks were still rolling across the front line and that I was far too low over them.



Straightening up, I was horrified at what I was witnessing. The flight was strafing the crashed German that Rendell and I had brought down!



Twice they made runs against the disabled pilot until his machine began to burn, and with a waggle of their wings formed up together.



I was sure Rendell had witnessed it as well, and flew close to gesture to him.



He only shook his head, and motioned that I take my place in formation as he circled for the others.



I was furious, thinking of letting loose with my guns on them.



Soon enough the aerodrome came into sight.



I dove under the others after Rendell.



And landed with him, rather than wait my turn in the line.



On the ground it became clear his anger was even greater than mine. He pulled one of the pilots from his SPAD even before it halted holding off of the ground by his great coat with his left hand and punching him twice in the face with his right before I could stop him.

The other pilot looked shocked and confused at his treatment, and his two companions began to protest loudly when they found us in the hangar. The Executive Officer had seen Rendell striking the first and made it to us just before the fight would have started. Rene, not knowing what was going on but more than willing to lend a hand, had joined us as well, crowbar in hand; on that score I was glad to have things broken up before they began!

We were ordered to our quarters, which for me meant the tent Rendell had been assigned to.

I don't know why it upset me so much. I had 19 confirmed aircraft downed - 21 unofficially - and several of those had been twin seaters. There were no illusions that all but one in those machines had been killed by my hand, but to shoot a man after he had crashed was.....murder.

An hour later the Commander came to visit us. He explained in measured tones that the men had seen their comrades butchered in the air over the course of just a couple of weeks and the anger within them lead to their rash action, and that the fact that they had not had any leadership to speak up since then up to our arrival was as much to blame as that lust for blood.

That evening an assembly of the entire Escadrille took place in front of one of the main hangars.

The Commander made it clear that no reprisals against the pilots would be taken, but that such actions in the future would see the man responsible transferred to the Infantry and placed in the most forward trenchline. He also placed the mechanics under Rene's control, assured everyone that the Sergeant Major's newly found energy for straightening up the aerodrome (to include removing rubbish and putting order to things) was not to be questioned, and that the Escadrille would look and act more like a French Escadrille than a vaudeville troop.

He went out of his way to praise the history of the 84th and their actions against the Germans, and promised that it would be continued and built on through victory.

A fine speech all the way around, it was given with such conviction that few doubted him. I, naturally, was one of the few that did.

Rene was feeling quite full of himself afterwards, at least until I asked why it was that no quarters had been made for me in the hangar. Of course the reason was that he had been too busy getting the mechanics, hangars, and shops in order, and it took him a full ten minutes to figure out that I was only partly upset over his oversight.

Tease!

Sorry about the half post, I had to do a bunch of stuff around the house!

I gotta say I was really shocked to see the flight strafe that poor German - first time I've seen them do that.



I might squeeze it in, but it might be as difficult as wiggling in nude sexy pictures of Angelina Jolie.

Again first rate story.

Thanks.

Excellent again Dart.

Absolutely.


Wheels

Brilliant. I'm Speechless. Do you Dart actually write for living???

Well, if you haven't done so yet, you might consider it. Another excellent AAR, very enjoyable.

Thanks for your kind words once again! I've been tinkering with the idea of trying my hand at novelist, but it is such a long shot...and is a lot harder than this, as AAR's tend to write themselves.

Anyhow:

It Always Comes In Threes
2 September 1917
0200 hours
Chaudun Aerodrome

I couldn't sleep. Between Rendell's snoring, the terrible cot that was harder than bricks, the sound of tinking metal and the state of affairs in the Escadrille I finally gave up and decided to walk around.

Two in the morning is usually very quiet at an aerodrome - there are no flying machines warming up, trucks idling, or men walking about and shouting at each other to stop walking about and do some work. Even the bar tends to settle down by this time, with pilots either in mournful retrospection or reduced to half sentences of slurred phrases at each other. Most are asleep; an hour or two in the air seems like a full day, and often I found myself exhausted to the point of needing help out of the cockpit on landing!

Yet there was light coming from around the hangar doors where Number 17 was stored, and the sounds of activity. Lighting a cigarette as I crossed the grass, I went in through a side door and was absolutely stunned at what I saw.

Where twelve hours ago was what had looked like a storage shed had been transformed to a cleaned and organized hangar, with four SPADs neat in a row facing the large doors, tools hung on the walls, and two mechanics working on an engine set on a large stand. Two more were replacing lightbulbs in the high fixtures by means of ladder. Rene stood three paces in front of me, hands on hips, and made no change in posture or even move to look at me.

"Good morning, Martin," he said matter-of-factly.
"Good morning, Rene," I replied; "quite an improvement here."
"Oh," he added, making his voice loud so it would carry across the hangar, "these men are excellent. They only needed someone to let them show it."

The mechanics looked up to smile, a few shaking their heads and one rolling his eyes. But it was clear they were working more for the desire to work than from any sort of threat.

"It is two in the morning, Rene," I reminded, "perhaps they have done enough."
Rene turned to me with an oddly emotional look, almost as if he were ready to cry, and admitted that he had told them they were released from duty three hours before.
"How much money do you have?" he asked.
"Maybe seventy francs," I admitted.
"Give it to me," he demanded.
Unsure of why I would, still I produced my billfold and handed it to him. Rene removed all of the money and stuck it in his breast pocket before handing it back to me.
"Tomorrow night I will take them to the local house as a reward."
I didn't have to ask what kind of house he was referring to.

Leaving Rene to his happy elves busy in his workshop, I walked to the mess, which also had a light on.

Inside were three men, full in their cups and seated lazily around a table. They saw me before I could withdraw, and demanded I come over to them.

I couldn't tell if they were morose by nature or catatonic from the cognac, but they began to spin a tale of woe and defeat that I found myself unable to pull myself away from. The Escadrille had done very well for itself, handily outflying the Albatross fighters they encountered and downing photographic and artillery observation aeroplanes, until they encountered a new machine flown by a different Jasta, as the Germans called their Escadrilles. The triplanes we had been told of in the 87th had been placed against them, and had cut through the ranks of Frenchmen like a scythe through a stand of wheat.

"It flicks over on its tail in a climb, reversing in the length of the aeroplane," one protested, "and turns to the right in the same space! One cannot turn against something like that! They can not stall, as the devil himself keeps his hand under them."

The more they talked, the more carefully I listened. While I would never voice anything contrary, it seemed that they had tried to turn with the triplanes, which after taking their statements and halving the claims of performance, would be playing into their strengths. The SPAD was speed; while very manueverable at what I still thought of as rediculous velocity, it was sluggish at slower ones.

"You should go to your quarters," I advised.
"Why would we listen to you?" one asked me, "you'll be dead in two days."

Still, they helped each other stand and made their way out. I made my way to the bar and as a lark stood on the chair at one end and threw the towel in the bucket on the other.

"You may have a beer," said a voice from a dark corner. The Commander's voice.

Doesn't anyone sleep at this place? I asked myself.

I pulled a bottle from a bucket of water behind the bar as he approached, and then another as he opened the one I had placed for myself.

"Interesting conversation," he said.
"Oui," I agreed.
"Keep it in mind tomorrow, Martin," he winked, and walked out.

I made my way back to Rendell's tent, laying down and failing to fall asleep.

The six o'clock briefing was both too early and too late, and I drank coffee as I marked my map.



Rendell was flight lead, the three at the table in the middle, and I on the end. At least that is how I thought of it, though we flew in a wedge. Rendell was in a foul mood, and he openly scowled at them.

Still, I put it behind me as I checked the controls, set the magnetoes, and gave the thumbs up to start the motor.



We took off and immediately I saw that Rendell was far more angry than I had given him credit. Rather than circling to allow the formation to cement itself, he rushed ahead, looking for the aeroplanes we were to escort.



While I managed to close up the distance, the other three fell behind. They had more sense than either Rendell or myself in that they stuck together in good order.



Our charges were soon under protection.



My flight lead hammered well forward of them, scanning the skies.



Rendell continued to fly as fast as he could, though, making a turn to stay with the observation planes; I hoped he would take a broad turn to allow the flight to re-join as our sweep about met them head on.



Instead he went opposite of them, causing them to fall even further behind.



Another quick turn to keep our "baby chicks" close as they crossed the front, and he roared forward again. I was beginning to get equally worried and angry. Rendell was the calm one, and he was behaving recklessly.



With the bulk of the sortie fading into dots in the dust of the front, we would be facing any enemy scouts alone. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up at the prospect of being outnumbered. This was trouble!



Everything looked like a German aeroplane! I saw a smudge in the air to my right front and instinctively flew towards it. Only the smoke from an airburst!



And a Jerry scout! He must have dove in the blind spot that the large top wing gave me to the front.



No, two Jerry scouts, and I slipped slightly to avoid their machinegun fire!



It worked, and I managed to fly through their lead unscathed.



Climbing, I reversed, noting they had gone low. I grinned - swooping down and slashing at them would match my plan against them.



This would not be so hard.



Even as I dove, however, one of them spun about in the air to face me, as if it were on a pivot, and I climbed away, aborting my attack.



As I let the SPAD fall to the right to dive and gain speed, he fired.



A horrible ripping noise to my left and I let the SPAD fall to the right, picking up speed, and climbing away. Looking back, the Hun machines seemed to be laughing.



Disaster! Eager to get into the fight, the trailing three SPADs had rushed in at once, and one machine struck the other.



The first simply fell apart at the wing.



The second, nearly broken in half, plummeted to the earth.



Having made a broad turn to build up steam, I came back in and targeted on of the Fokkers that had climbed into a slow right hand turn.



Firing as I came, I was amazed to see him waving his arm on high, as if signalling for help.





He pulled up sharply as rushed him, but I had gauged my speed to his.





I expected the right hand turn, and rolled slightly as my SPAD slowed towards the stall.



It fell away no more than ten feet from him, but he was nearly stationary as well.



We both recovered and I looked over to see the German shaking his fist at me!



Performing what the others had described as "flicking about," the Hun nosed up, reversed direction completely with his rudder, and dove under me before I could complete half of a roll!



There was no way he could strike me at the extreme angle, but there was nothing I could do to counter his move.



Looking his direction it was clear he was abandoning me in order to help his comrade. The arrogance!



I turned about to see him climb high as one SPAD engaged in a head on pass....



...and the other sought escape.



I fired at extreme range, getting his attention. Suprisingly, the tracers looked as though they were close to finding their mark!



I pulled high as he crossed over me, firing blindly. I had little choice but to complete the loop. It was a terrible decision!

The German pivoted once again, turning inside me, firing as I was helplessly committed to the maneuver I started.





The tiny machine looked huge so close to me, and I was lucky in his poor aim that whistled his bullets through the empty box of my fuselage.



I was doomed, having little recourse but to roll the aircraft in an odd sideways loop and hope to continue to ruin his shooting.





Once again it was the great speed and durability of the SPAD that would save me.



Even as he swung around to lead my mount, I could see he was stalling, hanging in the air and rotating with his rudder.



I took my chance, diving hard, hoping that I would be under his nose and able to avoid being killed.



Perhaps it worked as I had hoped (or, more likely) his guns had jammed, but I managed to race away.



He recovered immediately and climbed. I turned as hard as I dared, desperate to get my nose pointed at him.



There was no time to waste if I wanted to survive. Firing as soon as I had him in the sights, I rushed at him with all the finesse of an enraged bull.



Perhaps he though I would have run away rather than turn and fight, but he was slow to meet my attack.



I could see my rounds spark on his engine even as he tried to roll away.



I should like to say that I pulled up to avoid him as his machine fell through my machinegun fire, but in truth I had closed my eyes convinced we would collide.



Fatally stricken, the triple decker spiralled in broad turns until crashed into the trees.



Looking about I noted two things. First, I was alone in the sky. Second, somewhere in the fight the outer strut on my left wing had either been shot and broken from its braces. I shivered at the though of what that sort of damage would mean in my late Nieuport 17, and disbelieving at the strength of the SPAD.



The linen on the top wing had been torn between the ribbing as well, split on both sides and held in place by being caught by them.



Although it had held together for all sorts of aerobatics, I became nearly frantic with fear that it would suddenly disintegrate. I brought the throttle to half and gingerly made my way back to the aerodrome, cringing with every tiny dip and bump in what I normally considered smooth air.

As I neared the end of the flight, I spotted a very familiar shape.



A Nieuport 17, and it had landed at our aerodrome! For a second I thought wistfully that they might have brought it in for me to fly instead of the SPAD, and then discounted the notion.



My own landing was terrible. I had been too cautious in my approach, and the terrible dropping of the SPAD at low speed was witnessed by all as I flopped to the ground on three points, slapping the left wing on the turf and driving the undamaged spars through both top and bottom wings!



But I was down and alive, and with the machine in repairable condition!



My thoughts were on that Nieuport, though.



I stood rather unsteadily on the seat after unbuckling the restraints, turned to the center of the cockpit, and put my foot in the appropriate place to step down. I hooked the heel of my right boot as I picked it up, however, and fell from the aeroplane straight backwards, sprawling on the ground with my arms outstretched. Applause and laughter came from the hangars even as Rene (who had been walking up) ran the few feet to help me up.

"That was almost as good a landing as the one you did with my flying machine," he said dryly, reminding me of his notion that while I piloted it, he was responsible for it. Keeping his arm around me, he spotted the look in my eyes.

"Trouble?"

"Rendell nearly abandoned the flight and then we ran into those tri-wings," I said softly, "I barely survived. Did they make it back?"

As if on cue, we heard two scouts approach the field.

"And the other two?" he inquired, sadly.
"Lost."

He released his grip on me as we made it to the hangar, backing away and forcing a grin.

"That's two troubles, Martin," he observed, "and you know they come in threes."
"Are you saying I'm a 'trouble," Sergeant?" asked a voice in mocking distain as its owner stepped out from behind a support post.

I laughed out loud despite myself. There, propped on a cane and still in his flying suit, stood Lieutenant Jaques Lafayette, holder of the War Cross, late of the 87th Escadrille and undoubtably an aeroplane thief.

I would like to say that reading your action reports was the thing that made me hop off the fence and buy Rise of Flight. I really need to get started on the training mission though.

I agree with KJakker, I'm almost buying this game...

cheers Dart :), you should definitively think about some short fiction stories for starters, talent is here :), obviously

Nice ending to the last AAR! Made me smile as I could picture the scene in my head, as if I was watching it on TV.

Dart, you have a talent. These are really good.

Another good read Dart.


Wheels

Medals and the Metal of Men
2 September 1917
1830 hours
Chaudun Aerodrome

We stood rather awkwardly in front of the Escadrille, which had been seated in chairs pulled from tent and hangar; Rendell, myself, and the other pilot that had survived the day were in our best uniforms while the Exec stood farther off with a large square of wood in his hands.

The Commander walked up from behind the assembly, adjusting his tunic, and stood to our right.

"Tonight," he began, "as we pay tribute to those that have fallen, we also pay tribute to those who survived to fight another day.

"These men have each demonstrated the spirit that makes this Escadrille the best in the whole of the French Army," he continued without so much as a hint of irony, "and so while we award medals to them, it is the entire Escadrille that wears them in their hearts.

"Lieutenant Pierre Rendell is hereby awarded the War Cross, second silver oak leaf, for actions near Reims that allowed the successful reconnaissance behind the line of resistance by attacking and defeating a German scout as mentioned in the day's dispatches." The medal, adorned with both silver oak leaves, was pinned to his left breast, a kiss put on both cheeks, and a salute given and received. The commander moved in one step in front and to the side of the pilot between us, at an angle so that the group could hear him.

"Lieutenant Robert Boucher," he started again, and I found myself thinking so that is his name! "is hereby awarded the War Cross for actions near Reims that allowed the successful reconnaissance behind the line of resistance by attacking a German scout as mentioned in the day's dispatches." A plain medal, without cluster, came off of the board the Executive Officer and placed on his chest. Two kisses (which was done in a most manly nature - something one from Alabama must witness to believe can be performed as such), a salute, and the Commander made one single step to stand beside me, half facing the assembly.

"Sergeant Martin Miller is hereby awarded the War Cross, second silver oak leaf, for actions near Reims that allowed the successful reconnaissance behind the line of resistance by attacking and defeating a German scout as mentioned in the day's dispatches." The medalwas pinned to my left breast, a kiss put on both cheeks, and a salute given and received. The commander moved to stand in front of me, facing the Escadrille fully.

"As you all know, Sergeant Martin came to the French air forces in an unusual manner," he started, and I thought here we go to myself as I began to fidget. "Not many mechanics are tricked into piloting an aeroplane during a rainstorm, and few that had would ever have such an initiation would ever set foot near a flying machine again."

There was the appropriate laughter.

"Yet in three months, despite being wounded twice, Sergeant Martin has downed twenty German aeroplanes."

There was a pause and silence from the seated Escadrille, as if they were shocked with a terrible private secret exposed in public. Except for handsome young Lafayette and the rough and portly Rene, who was oddly in his dress uniform; they sat in the back row grinning, as if about to laugh.

The Commander turned towards me, taking a medal, one I had never seen, from the Executive Officer.

"For actions that have displayed courage, audacity, and skills that have resulted in the downing of twenty German aeroplanes, Sergeant Martin Miller is hereby awarded the Military Medal."

"This concludes the award ceremony," he said firmly, and as we took our seats at the back of the group, he continued, "and so we must now take time to more fully honor those that fell and are no longer with us. Exec, if you will read the names and biographies, so that we may learn more about those who we will so sorely miss..."

I let my mind wander, as I always did during memorials. The bit about reading biographies so that we may learn more about the fallen was an effort to put a name to a pilot that may have only lived six hours after joining the Escadrille and barely introduced (if at all). It had seemed like far more than three months since Torma had fooled me into that Nieuport; it was more like a lifetime.

Soon enough it was finished, and we were instructed to go to the mess.

The Executive Officer instructed that the three of us that recieved awards and Rene remain behind, however. Just outside the hangar they stopped us, and the Exec was gleeful as he removed the medals from my chest and placed them on Rene's.

"The press is inside, and they insist on speaking to Sergeant Miller and taking his picture."

Of course! Rene had long been my stand in for such things, and no addition to a list of German aeroplanes was going to change things. Besides, it would break his heart to have to drop the ruse. He had "dug his own trenches," as he put it, using my name at every opportunity with the ladies.

I laughed and made my way to the mess. There would be no need to confuse the proceedings by entering the hangar.

In the mess the atmosphere was markedly different than the night before. The piano was off key, but being played, and there was lively conversation filling the air as thickly as cigarette smoke. I bore scant attention, but when Lieutenant Boucher entered there was a rousing cheer.

One of their own had met the dreaded triple winged death machines and not only survived but had recieved a medal for it! They forced him to recount the affair, which interested me as well - I had no idea what happened to Rendell and this young man while I was being nearly killed by my own German.

He played down his part, giving credit for Rendell at every turn, but the mob wasn't having any of it. They had soon switched roles in his tale, where Rendell was the one outmatched and helpless while Boucher made a daring high reverse to shoot down the Hun.

I glanced over at Rendell as he grabbed a chair at my corner table, but saw he was amused rather than upset at the facts being altered right before his eyes. Lafayette limped over to us as well, and shouted for Rene to bring us beer.

The four of us sat with secret grins, taking a vicarious thrill at the lifted spirits that were singing the British tune Tipperary. Things seemed quite alright at that moment, and we let it wash over us.

But we knew that tomorrow would bring another sortie and the chance to have our biographies read so that others might better know those that they would miss.

[Dart says:

The actual next mission AAR will be done tonight or tomorrow morning; it's a hum-dinger (or at least I thought so), but I didn't think Martin's twentieth official kill should go without its own little vignette.]

The kill sheet is a nice touch.
I am looking forward to the humdinger.


Wheels

Hornets and Nests
3 September 1917
0600 Hours
Chaudun Aerodrome

Rene was smiling as I entered the hangar, meeting me at the nose of Number 17 and waving with a flourish to the rear of the large hangar. Somehow he had once again encouraged the mechanics to work into the wee hours of the night to build a room for me, and within I saw an actual bed with matress to go along with some well worn but welcomed furniture - a wardrobe, a desk, a book shelf, and two chairs. He apologized that the lamp was oil, and assured me that an electric lamp would be installed in the near future.

On one chair was a flying coat, helmet, goggles, and mittens; in the other, Lafayette, looking very boyish in the bulk of his overly large sweater and flying boots. One could easily discount him for the cheery disposition that hinted at naitivity, but he had proven his metal by escaping the German lines and crawling through No Man's land under fire for two days, as well as enduring grievous wounds on a later mission. There was, for all his efforts to conceal it, too much grit in him to allow for the goofball act to be sold completely.

"What are you doing, Jack?" I asked, Americanizing his first name.
"Waiting for the mission, just as you are, Martin."
"So soon?"
"Soon enough."

And he was right. We were always short on pilots; the wounded were always pressed to resume flying as soon as they were fit enough to operate an aeroplane, and often earlier. Men who lost hands, feet, and even an eye were accepted into the cockpits across the front; always volunteers after such injury, they were however never declined.

The planned mission to patrol the front was scratched, however - a pair of observation planes had been spotted, and we were to engage them:



Rendell was lead, Boucher his second, and a grinning Lafayette took the number four position, next to my number five at the right of the takeoff formation. I was dismayed that Boucher paused to put on a pair of spectacles before fitting his goggles - eyesight is important in the skies - and at the amount of assistance required for Lafayette to get into the cockpit.

We took off in good order, forming up even as we left the turf of the aerodrome.



Within moments, however, we saw machines curving about ahead and above us!



Enemy scouts so close to our hangars? We moved up to render assistance.



Lafayette shifted left in the formation, climbing as he did so.



I kept my track, letting the SPAD rise with just a slight pull to the rear of the stick.



Leaning forward, I squinted hard to make the shape of the scouts in front of me, trying to resolve friend from foe.



A Fokker! Devilishly tricky, it was probably the best scout the Hun had in the air, as it could dive as well as it climbed, turned quickly, and could regain airspeed just as fast. Worse, this one had spotted me!



He performed a rolling dive towards me, and I knew that if I did not slip and turn his twin guns would be on me. The Germans were very good at shooting!



I had spoiled his aim, but he had steamed past me and began a tight turn.



The SPAD is an excellent machine, but outmatched by such maneuvers.



Indeed, he reversed so well by use of rudder that he had to change the direction of his turn to try and get his guns on me. He had one and a half turns to three quarters of my own!



I could do little but watch as he danced around me, rolling my aircraft in a hope for a pursuit postition.



But I wasn't alone in the fight! A SPAD caught him even as he sped away from me, firing a long burst as he turned about.



Smoke poured from his machine as he pitched high in a failed attempt to escape.



A small wisp of flame flowered on his engine.



By the time he crossed under me it had engulfed his machine.



I looked about as quickly as I could and still make out details, and there below me was another Fokker.



Rolling to the right, I kept the nose high to see what he would do. Another tight turn to the right!



But followed with a dive to gain speed and put distance with the other scouts. I had and opportunity!



I'm certain the Hun was cursing the SPAD's diving ability as I was on him in an instant! He pitched up hard to avoid me.



I fired in an effort to place some bullets through his fuselage as he crossed my guns, but he was far too nimble for me to follow through.



A shadow flashed across my SPAD and something plummeted immediately after. It startled me, and I glanced down to see a French plane screaming towards the ground missing wings. How it happened I had no clue, and the distraction caused me to loose my Jerry.



Others had taken up my cause, though, and I rushed to catch up to the melee.



They were clearly struggling to shoot him down, and the German seemed almost to be toying with them.



He danced out of the way of the bullets in a tight turn. Damn these machines! If I had my way they'd all be destroyed, forbidden to ever be made again.



He continued his turn to the left, and I hesitated, hoping he would complete it.



Success! I fired as he crossed my guns!



Perhaps I hit him; he certainly slipped to his right and dove away from me.



I went after him, firing from long distance.



I did my best to aim ahead of him, guessing as to where he might be as my machineguns chattered.



He turned more sharply, and I craned my neck against the blocked view my upper wing was frustrating me with.



There! He was slipping, slowing so that I would over shoot, but I thought I saw what might me a trail of fuel coming from behind the cockpit.



Even as I continued my roll to strike again, one of my comrades had finished the job for me.



Bringing the nose up, I marked the SPAD to my left so that I might form up with him after he crossed under me.



He wiggled his tail by means of pushing the rudder left and right quickly and I smiled. Lafayette, trying to be the clown even in the air!



We found Rendell and the others and chased to catch up.



The SPAD that had fallen from the sky was not one of our own, and I began looking about for the Hun two seaters.



There, just through my sights as small dots against the blue sky, resolved two flying machines.



We raced forward, and it was soon clear they were the offending aeroplanes we were to bring down.



I forumulated a quick plan in the hopes of bringing them down without getting shot for the pleasure. I would make for the lead observer....



And fire at an angle, letting my machinegun fire find him as I climbed in such a way as to keep me from the rear facing gunner.



As he crossed my fire, rather than turn with him to get his tail, I would hold the climb, slowing.



This would bring the rear observation plane into my sights.



Where I would rake the observer with my twin machineguns.





After which my SPAD would come back down to the left so that I would engage the first, leveling out and dropping my nose.







The plan worked just fine, with the exception that I didn't down the planes or kill the observers, as the flash of machinegun fire and tracers narrowly missing me proved!



Still, I raked across the top of the fuselage and into the wings before diving away.



From below I couldn't tell if I had done any damage.



Climbing back up behind them, the gunners seemed to be unfazed by my attack, but they hand their hands full with the rest of the flight!



A SPAD's engine was knocked still by their fire as I advanced.



Eager to catch up, I made for the lower of the pair as my gliding comrade fired before he was forced to fly away.



Two of the flight also pursued, flying in much faster than myself, but they were clear from my sights as I fired from long distance.



We hammered at the two seater, the SPADs ahead of me diving to avoid collision as I continued to close the range.



The Hun slipped, a fatal error, as it exposed his observer to my bullets - he was dead as I approached, hoping to strike the pilot.



My guns chattered faithfully, without stopping, as I neared.



I pulled up as late as I dared, knowing that the slumped Jerry in the back had sealed this aeroplane's doom.



We had shredded the upper wing as well, and I wondered if the pilot was wounded.



I circled the pair, deciding to take on the Hun machine that still presented a threat.



He fired at me too far away as I turned for my attack and checked my guns.



Staying under his gun's arc, it was an easy thing to close the distance with the powerful SPAD.



Although we were both slipping in an effort to make each other's shooting more difficult, I could see linen from his machine ripping into the air and the German struggling to bring his gun around.



As I charged on, continuing to shoot, I became close enough to see the Hun's face looking back at me.



Too late he tried to defend himself, as I shredding the thin fabric around him, no doubt causing mortal injury. I saw his last act of defiance as I pulled up, a wild press of the trigger. His face was pale, emotionless, even as he slumped over his gun.



I pulled up over the gruesome display.



Looking down, I was chagrined to see both machines still flying. Both were defenseless, and I was sure one of them would have been downed!



Disaster! Even as I made a wide turn to come back on the helpless Germans, one of our own collided with an observation aeroplane. The madness of it! The SPAD fell away, spiralling to the ground, as the two seater inverted from the shock and dove, no doubt to break up.



I was angry to my bones, and yelled against the noise of engine and wind as I sought revenge. I howled down after a SPAD, impatient to take my turn at the Hun.



I was too hasty, too excited, and my attack demonstrated it.



I fished the rudder left and right, too eager to bring my bullets on him.



None of them hit home, even at very close range!



I backed off, checking my guns, and forced myself to calm down. If the pair of SPADs didn't finish him, I would.



The dove together, avoiding a collision. I would have my chance for a killing blow.



I started long, firing a steady stream into his plane as I neared.



His fuel tank exploded (or perhaps an internally stored bomb they sometimes dropped by hand).



Either way his machine fell apart in flames.



Amazingly, the other two seater had survived the collision with the SPAD and had dove low in an effort to escape.



I was on him in an instant.



My guns chattered again, raking his machine through the cockpit.



I pulled up as the dead pilot slumped back away from the controls.





The three of us formed up for the short trip back home. I waved over to the plane to my left, but there was no wiggle of the rudder. A sick feeling came over me, as I knew it was not Lafayette.



The second plane dove down close to the lead, who looked as if he were struggling with his engine.



I closed in as well, diving below and frowning at the sight of the bottom engine panel hanging down. The pilot lay to the side of his cockpit, as if injured, as we approached the field.



The second machine passed him and made to land.



The lead machine stuttered in the air, stalling to the right, barely recovering back to level flight after a sharp right turn. The treeline lay before him, ready to receive his aeroplane.



I continued along, landing beside the second and rolling long of it.





Turning about towards the hangars, I couldn't see where the lead had gone. It was if he had vanished.



I drove Number 17 close by the hangar and shut the engine down.



Ripping the mittens from my hands, I found that I could not make the restraints release me. My fingers had a mind of their own, and my hands were shaking terribly. Rene powerfully forced me back against the seat with his left arm and undid the buckles with his right. I wanted to leap out of the machine, but he kept me pinned until my eyes found his own.

I stopped struggling, and he released his grip.

Climbing out, I threw my helmet and goggles to the ground and unfastened the belt and buttons to my flying coat. We half ran to the trees, following the tracks left by the ambulance towards it. As we reached it, the Executive Officer was there to greet us with a raised hand.

"Do not go in there," he ordered with a grim face.
"Was it Rendell?"
"Yes."
"Is he alive?"

The Exec looked to the ground, not answering.

The stretcher bearers came a minute later from the trees. The terrain had been rough for them, and they had no blanket for the body. Rendell's arm trailed off the side of it, and his head lolled back and forth with each step, the neck completely broken.

The wood panelling of the ambulance's side cracked at the force of my punch, and I ignored the pain in my hand as I ran my fingers through my matted hair in grief. As I stormed back to the hangar and my quarters, Boucher raised his hand as if to offer comfort, and then let it fall.

Noo! Rendell!

the horrors of war....

another great AAR

Another good one Dart.


Wheels

Turning Around
2 September 1917
1900 hours
Chaudun Aerodrome main hangar

I was sitting outside of my little room at the back of the hangar, bothered so by the loss of Rendell that I hadn't changed from my flying boots and woolen trousers, instead compensating against the warm of the afternoon by stripping down to my undershirt.

A truck pulled up just outside of the open doors and Lafayette bounded from it, smiling as he walked up to me.

"He holed my radiator, but I got him!" he exclaimed, "did you see it?"
"Rendell is dead," I said flatly.
"How?" the young pilot asked incredulously, the joy sucked from him in one breath, "I saw him fly back towards the aerodrome as I was making to land. My engine completely froze up."
"Crashed on landing. He had been injured by one of the observers and couldn't bring it down right."
"Merde," he swore, and sat down on the hangar floor to my right. We said nothing, simply staring out of the hangar and ignoring the sounds and movement of mechanics.

Eventually he got back up, and as if suddenly deciding on a course of action, demanded that I change into a proper uniform at once. Rather than taking it as an invitation to fight, I went along with his request.

"Where are we going?" I asked as he led me out of the hangar.
"You'll see, Martin," he replied with far more cheerfulness than I cared for.

I trailed him to the small headquarters building and frowned as he opened the door and asked the Sergeant Major for a moment of the Exec's time.

"Yes, Lieutenant Lafayette?" the Exec asked, eyebrow raised.
"I need the use of a car and a twenty four hour pass for myself and Sergeant Miller, starting now," he ordered.
"Is that all?" he asked, suprised by the junior officer's imperious tone.
"No, I'll need three passes," he amended, "We're taking Rene with us."
"And where is the Lieutant going, if I may be so bold to ask?" The Exec seemed more amused than irritated, but his tone also let on there was to be a big non at the end of this conversation.
"Reims."
"Reims?"
"Reims. Martin has barely seen anything of France from the ground, and none of it very good. I'm afraid he might be getting the wrong impression of our great nation."

"Approved," said a loud voice from an office adjoining the anteroom. The Commander's office. He stepped out looking very serious.
"Yes, sir," replied the Exec, clearly unhappy about being unable to deny the request.
"Don't look so glum, Paul," the Commander chided, "you're going with them."
"But sir..." he protested.
"You haven't taken a leave in six months, and it would do you good."
"Yes, sir," the Exec, clearly in disagreement.
"Besides," he added, "I need you to watch over them and make sure they don't get into trouble. They don't have the sort of connections that Torma has to bail them out."
"Naturally," the Major smiled; the idea of having fun - with or without us - was something that wasn't in his character, but playing proctor was right up his alley.
"Take my car; Rene has the keys from the last time he borrowed it without my permission."
"Thank you, sir," Lafayette grinned.
"Just come back in one piece and stay out of trouble."

And so we did. Reims was a wartime city very close to the front, which was both good and bad for four men looking for a vacation spot. Soldiers were everywhere, many buildings had been damaged from bombing and errant artillery, and there was an undertone of chaos that made people busy for the sake of being busy, an artificial rush that was the antithesis of what I had seen of the French. However, this also induced a devil-may-care atmosphere in the bars, dance halls, and the men themselves that bred vice on a scale that would make the city of New Orleans at Mardi Gras blush. The black market had so consumed things that I doubted there was a legitimate one in operation; from pornographic playing cards to German cigarettes, nothing was unvailable for a price.

Rene had an uncanny ability to find the most clandestine of operations was almost as impressive as his immediate acceptance into them, and with his passage our own. In the space of four hours we had played poker in an opium den (though we left very shortly once it became clear Lafayette was becoming woozy from the smoke), craps in a basement casino, and Vingt-et-un in a very fancy bordello. We stayed the evening there.

The next morning I was suprised to see the Exec join me as I enjoyed some black market English tea.

"Martin," he said in a familar, friendly tone, "don't look so sad. She was a very pretty girl." He chuckled to himself at a sudden thought, adding "unless you were hoping to go to jail and discovered she is unmarried."

"I was just thinking about how Rendell's death will effect the Escadrille."
"It won't hardly matter at all."
"How can you say that?" I demanded. Rendell had been an excellent flight leader, an Ace in his own right, and just an all around fine fellow.
"They didn't know him," the Exec said with a shrug, "we've only been with the Escadrille for a week. It isn't like they could know him enough to miss him either way."
I said nothing.
"Of the many pilots I have flown with since July of 1916, only three are still alive. From the start of this year, only six."
"So many lost, sir."
"While we are on leave, it's Paul, Martin," he corrected gently, then made a wry grin. "The worst of it is that you had to be one of them."

Soon the others joined us, and after a quick round about the town we headed back to the aerodrome. I drove, as both Lafayette and Rene had managed to become so drunk that they swished around the back seat with every turn or bump, and the Major wouldn't have been caught dead driving a Sergeant, even one he was on a first name basis with.

4 September 1917

The weather was fine, if getting colder, and so we would be flying in the morning.

A simple escort of a convoy that would be bringing supplies so critical that they had to be delivered in daylight. Lafayette was again flying the number four position, opposite the formation from me, and Boucher was the flight leader.

I advanced the engine to just before the grass gave way against the wheels.



I was secretly proud of taking off in synchronicity, four plane lengths behind Lafayette when my SPAD took to the air. We formed up quickly and all thoughts of worry left me. For all the danger, flying had addicted me to it.



Lafayette was holding perfect formation, focused on the flight around him, and did not respond to my wave. I would have to speak to him about that. He should be scanning the skies first and always!



A small farm estate caught my eye, resting along the gentle bend of the river. I made a mental note of it on my map (my grease pencil had fallen under the seat); it looked like a fine place to fish and beg a meal.



Soon we were over the river and nearing the front. The convoy should be close at hand, and I split my attentions between the sky, the formation, and the road below. Somehow we had crossed over a group of trucks without noticing, but closer inspection showed they were moving away from the ugly earthen scar. Ambulances taking advantage of our air cover, no doubt.



Ahead lay the large group of trucks making its way to the Infantry.



I glanced up and cursed. So much for watching three things at once! I had been distracted and our flight was milling about, no doubt meeting with the Germans.



Keeping my machine level, I turned gently towards the discussion, figuring out the right men to pick a fight with.



There, that was a German! I dove forward towards him.



He had made a hard turn to his right and I pressed on, looking to suprise him.



He was pitching high, slowing, and I made left gently with stick and rudder.



I fired too early, trying to lead him, and he spotted me. Whether committed to his maneuver or frozen from fear, he continued on as I raced up to him, firing.



He brought the nose up high, letting it stall to the right from the nose.



Damn my poor shooting!



I raked across him as best I could, missing, and pulling up sharply so as not to hit him with my SPAD!



Looking behind me as I passed him, I was astonished to see he had staggered the stall in the other direction, coming left instead of the anticipated right.



He dove in a curve to the right, hard inside me. Damn these German planes and damn their pilots!



He continued into a sharp hairpin, but I knew he had to climb.



He did!



But there was no way I could follow his turn.



I was absolutely useless against him as he sprinted away from me.



Pushing towards him, I could only hope that he would slow for a climb or turn.



From on high, another German flashed before my guns, and I fired reflexively, kicking the rudder to the right as hard as I could.



I could see that I had hit his top wing!



Coming off the rudder to avoid rolling my machine, I corrected it and saw that he had made a quick right turn under me!



The other German must have been in front of me, judging by the smoke trails of a comrade's bullets, and I was unsure as to which one I should be concerned with.



The answer became clear as I saw the one I had performed the snap shot at reversing himself.



I made a hard right turn to meet him, and jumped in my seat to see that I needed to be concerned with both of them! By pure luck my maneuver had spoiled the one on my nose's aim. SPADs were hard on his heels, so I whipped my head where the other was.



Headed right for me! I dove under him, slipping to the right, and he flashed over me.



Turning as hard as I dared, I saw that he too was making to put his nose on me.



This time I powered over him, staying to the outside of his turn.



I brought the nose high, letting Number 17 slow, and kicked the rudder hard to rotate it much in the same way I had my Nieuport. The German had done his version better, though.



I hammered the stick to the left and stomped the rudder that way as well, twisting my SPAD about as we both fired. Neither struck home, and Jerry passed over with a few feet of room to spare.



He made a left turn past my tail, and I decided to put the nose down and regain some speed - I was playing his game, one with the odds stacked against me.



Low to my front was another German. How many of them were there?



I kept the nose down, chasing after him and hoping the other Germans were left behind. I mentally added them up - three or possibly four Fokkers with us.



Blinking against the sun, I pressed him as he straightened up and climbed.



Firing as he turned, I could see my rounds were wide and to the right.



He slowed as he turned, and I reduced the throttle, determined to follow him and bring him down.



It was a mistake, as my SPAD began to droop in the air, my bullets streaming between his wings and not seeming to do anything.



I pushed the throttle back forward, but it was a losing proposition.



I rolled right to stay behind him as my engine fought to gain speed, and I saw that he, too, had slowed too much.



He dropped to his right, obscured by my upper wing, and I craned my neck about, hoping he hadn't done some sort of radical turn or a roll.



There he was! I had to keep my next turn gentle, but I was certain that I could extend the turn to the right.



Yet another Hun crossed my nose, but this one in a left hand turn!



I aborted the right in favor of the left; gripping the stick with both hands. Did this make four or five of the Hun we were tangled with? Regardless, I fired as he crossed my guns.



This seemed to discourage him, as when I came about he was some 400 yards away. Unless this was a different Jerry and he had done a quick reverse underneath me!



I charged forward, checking my guns. I fired at long range.



He did the most incredible slip, rolling diagonally against the ground, and escaped me.



A German climbed straight up from underneath me, his wings barely visible at my nose one instant...



....and past my guns the next. There was no time to shoot!



His velocity was greater than mine (a clear indication that I was in a very bad way!), and I tracked as he made a climbing turn to the right.



I kept my track, expecting the fish hook shaped turn.



He did not disappoint! I fired a short burst, hoping to catch his engine.



Perhaps I did, as he dove long into a shallow turn. I rolled Number 17 hard to the right, smelling blood.



He went left as I neared, shaking my aim.



Perhaps he was wounded, or exhausted, or simply thought I would dive with him as he turned, but he suddenly climbed, giving me a momentary chance to score some hits on him. I ruined it, of course!



I could see his rudder clearly, and anticipated his sharp left turn. I fired as he cut across in front of me.



How I was missing him was a mystery!



Perhaps I hadn't, though, as he pitched downward towards the ground. Of course another German approached from a higher altitude.



He went past me overhead. Where was the rest of my flight?



I shot at him while he was at the apex of his fish hook. It was long range, but it was the best I'd had.



His turn was much more shallow as he dove away, and I could see fabric from his wings had shredded. And a SPAD!



I moved to strike the German, even as another from my flight attacked him.



He had slowed considerably, and I lined my shot up carefully.



Aiming high as he climbed against my aeroplane, I fired.



Lead streamed into the Fokker.



He made the slow roll towards the ground, one I had seen many times before.



Not bothering to watch him crash, I reversed my roll and spotted another German. Now I definately knew there were at least three Huns, if not four or six - I had downed two already!



I hit him at point blank range, right to the nose!



He turned left and was rewarded with fire from one of my flight!



Reversing, I rolled with him.



He flew up from under my guns, and I gave a short tap to the triggers.



As he came high, I saw that my aim had been good, if my timing uncertain.



He turned back left and high, hanging in the air, as another of my flight sent a huge stream of tracers into him. Flames billowed from his machine and he made a curl of smoke through the air.

I glanced about and spotted what I hoped to be the last of the Germans.



Diving under him, I hoped I had been unseen as he turned.



He went too far to the right and found himself with a very French greeting!



I was the one that had him in my grip, however.



Even dazzeled by the sun, I knew my rounds had hit home.



As I watched his Fokker incenerate, I was welcomed by an even more disturbing sight - the bottom of the inner spar had broken away!



When in the fight it had happened was a mystery, and I was once again in awe of the strength of the SPAD.



Owing to the damage, I landed first, bringing my machine off of the landing area and to the hangars even as the rest of the flight came in.



It was in large measure vanity that I had brought Number 17 within a few feet of the hangar. My muscles burned and ached, my eyes hurt in their sockets, and I doubted that I had the strength to climb out of the machine, let alone walk any distance at all. Rene and another mechanic lifted me from the cockpit and half dragged me to a chair at the side of the door. They pulled mittens, helmet and my goggles off of me, and loosened my flying coat. Rene lit a cigarette and placed it in my mouth.

Lafayette came limping up, forgetting the use of his cane, and sat on a barrel he wheeled over. He was playing the clown, but he was struggling to roll a cigarette, as if his hands were wooden.

Boucher stormed up.

"Martin, what were you thinking?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You had both of them and let them go!"
I shook my head, uncomprehending, and looked at him, puzzled.
"You may think it is fine to drive them down, but I expect you to finish the job," he blustered, "there is no need for charity to other pilots. Never give the Germans a chance!"
Jaques laughed, causing Boucher's ears to turn red.
"What do you think is so funny, Lafayette?"
The young Lieutenant looked at me and then our flight leader, and let out another guffaw.
"Boucher," he smirked, "Martin thought he had shot them down! How many Germans did we face, Martin?"
"Four," I said confidently.
"Two," he corrected. "They feigned the death dive, and you fell for the trick!"
"Oh, sweet Jesus," I said in English.

Boucher said nothing, staring at me, and then snorted in disbelief.

"How the hell did you ever become a quadruple Ace?"
"Luck," I said plainly. It was the truth!

As we sat, my strength slowly returned; for Lafayette the opposite was true. His leg stiffened and he began to wince from it with every tiny movement. I asked Rene to have him moved to my quarters and propped up on the bed, and as I took the chair next to the desk demanded that he send for lunch and a nurse.

Wheels

I look more and more forward to these AARs, well done.

A great series Dart, very well spun.

A good yarn indeed.

Gosh, I was holding breath to the final word. Impressive.
Dig this, Dart. Big time!

Great stories! Elaborate a bit on those and make an eBook out of them!

Legend is right.

Great to see another of these. I really like your writing. However reading this reminds me that in this game I can't seem to hit anything.

OK. Need another one.

Oh my, OG's getting restless again.




Wheels

The Gang's All Here - Hale and Hail
5 September 1917
0700 hours
Supply Hangar

Rene was once again on a tear, barking at someone quite angrily, so I decided to walk over and see what was the matter, carrying a cup of coffee in each hand as Lafayette was favoring his cane rather heavily and insisting on joining me.

"Are you going to be okay?" I asked him as he winced, refusing to slow down.
"You only wish your third leg was as long as mine," he shot back, smiling.

I shook my head. The young man was irrepressible in his cheery attitude.

We arrived to see Rene's source of irritation. The handlers had heard that we were to take bombs with us on today's mission and had seen fit to uncrate and fuze them. Of course this was a terrible mistake, as they had to be taken across the aerodrome to the hangars and be placed inside the machines. Once fuzed, they were armed, and it was more dangerous to remove the fuzes than to transport them. He was yelling at them to place them back into boxes and pack the wood shavings around them carefully. The boxes were then being placed very carefully on the back of a horse drawn wagon.

"Idiots!" he exclaimed, "They've just been transferred from an Artillery unit, where they've grown used to immediately unpacking and fuzing shells at first mention."

The two men looked worn and shaken from the abuse. They had found spare boxes (since it was too dangerous to repack armed bombs tightly as they came from the factory) and were going about the task quite cowed. Rene took one of the cups of coffee from me and took a drink.

I was quite unprepared for this and a bit shocked; Lafayette laughed (as he always did about anything that might be taken as funny) and began to roll a cigarette.

"Rene," he said with a grin, "I believe you just took Martin's coffee."
"My coffee?" I asked, incredulously.
"Well he certainly didn't take the Lieutenant's, did he?" He asked with a wink.
He had me there, I had to admit, and I handed over the cup to him, shrugging. Jaques laughed again, holding his hand up, refusing it.
"I was kidding," he admonished, "you need to lighten up, Martin!"

Once again my friend was correct. Maybe it was the sum total of events, but I found that there was less and less every day that I found to be worth smiling over. Even the inexplicable cheeriness of my comrade made me hollow inside with every joke and mirthful diversion; it seemed inevitable that the day he would be lost to bullet or shell and silenced would soon approach. Maudlin as it was, I felt as though I was mourning his death even before it happened, as if these were simply memories of how joyful he once was and the man standing before me a ghost who hadn't yet given up the body.

We shared the cup of coffee, and when it was done made our way to the briefing area.

It was to be a patrol of the front near a German Field Artillery Battery. If we didn't encounter German scouts or observation aeroplanes, we were to attack the guns with our two bombs.

I was concerned that the additional weight would hinder the machine, and Rene assured me it wouldn't, since we were instructed to reduce our fuel to sixty percent of full. I did not care for this. My penchant for getting lost meant that I needed every drop in the tanks!

Yet at the appropriate time we were all in line and taking off one after the other.



Soon formed up an on our way, I took up my traditional spot in the rear, flying high trail and looking for enemies.



In short order we were over the front, and I continued to scan furiously for the Hun.



Of course it is very difficult to guard the rear of the formation from a higher altitude and keep track of it, owing to the SPAD's giant wings. As crazy as it sounds I had an aptitude for spotting the enemy ahead of everyone else and at the same time an inability to stay with friendlies!

They had turned underneath me, and had flown quite a distance from where I was headed!



They broke to the north, and I peeked over the top of my wing to see a melee had already started!



Checking my guns, I rushed over, squinting hard to sort the wheat from the chaff.



A Nieuport 17? Incredible!



An odd sense of pride and nostalgia washed over me as I rolled to meet them. I really did miss my Nieuport! The German rolled behind him, denied a chance to shoot.



The German cut under my guns as I inverted over him.



Turning about I was astounded to see the number of aeroplanes whirling about!



What a horrible mess! A flight of Dolphins had jumped in as well! The German went high behind me, trying to turn about with his tail, and it all went wrong for him.

Twisting and spinning about, tail to nose, like a whirly-gig he fell towards the earth. It was both fascinating and horrifying - I had no idea such a thing was even possible! At the last minute I was almost sure he might contrive to escape such a thing when he managed to point the nose downward, but then the wings of his machine simply fell away, fluttering back up into the air.

A second Jerry looped and turned in the hive of French and British aviators, and I stood clear of the fight, worried that I might be struck by another aeroplane.



He was an excellent pilot, but in the end it was simply too much to survive.



I had fired perhaps ten rounds that were well wide of the mark and had forgotten to jettison my bombs, so I climbed and looked about. Somewhere near here was a collection of portable "Field" artillery guns that had been heaping trouble on our boys.



I spied their breastworks and made to attack!



There were ten guns more or less in line, and I decided to fly low along them and release my explosives as I crossed the first one. I had no idea if this would work or not (having never used them before), but it seemed like it might work.



Pulling hard on the release, they tumbled from their nest within my fuselage and onto the Hun position.



Timed for delay in order to allow a pilot to escape their blast, they sent dirt and flame high into the air!



By luck I must have hit their stores of phosphorus shells, as there was a huge flame that spread to the guns next to it.



I left the blaze behind me and made my way across the front.



Once again I had lost the rest of the flight.



Flying straight across No-Man's Land to escape flak, I soon began to wonder if I had managed to become temporarily or completely lost. Struggling with the map, I guessed that I was northeast of the aerodrome, but kept a due south track in an effort to find a definative landmark.

I soon found a town with an odd building in the middle of the square and an aerodrome next to it.



There were two aeroplanes flying over it, and I decided that I would take up position with them. If they were British it might tell me better where I was; if they were French I'd be starting from scratch, as we held most of this sector!



I put the nose down and thrilled at the speed of Number 17 - I would make a show of introducing myself to these unknown comrades!



Tracers whizzed over my head as I turned towards them. Germans!



Fine. I checked my guns and made after them, climbing just under the tail of the rear machine to escape the observer's fire and shot upwards towards his engine.



It caught fire immediately, and I dove beneath it, not pausing to watch it crash.



I attempted the same with the lead machine, but they had seen their brother go down and did not wish to meet the same quick end.



Even as I fired, the Hun slipped rolled to escape my guns.



I met their manuever, raking across their machine with little effect.



Jerry rolled left and slipped again, sinking in the air and exposing my machine to them. The observer started to lean his gun at me as I slipped right behind them.



I could see the bullets leave his gun!



The tracers and smoke when high of me, though, and I was unscathed. I decided to fire at long range in the hopes of wounding or killing the rear seater.



One again my Hun slipped, but to the right. By happenstance this put his motor in the path of my machineguns, turning a terrible shot into perfect aim.



I dove beneath the doomed machine, as I had been previously injured by an observer giving his last before burning up.



I was concerned for a moment the machine might fall onto the hangars of the aerodrome below! It would be hard to explain why I had bombed a friendly unit with a German flying machine! It fell wide, though, causing no damage.



Circling while placing the aerodrome on the map, I figured that I would need to go south by southeast to hit the road to home. I was once again grateful for a compass!



I followed the roads as I understood them, and hoped I was correct. My fuel gauge looked rather unoptimistic.



I spotted what I thought of as the "bald spot farm" in short order, though, and relaxed. It was not far.



And a very happy sight indeed!



Coming in low over the trees and the hangars, I still managed to land very long from them, bouncing twice on the grass. Still, coming down a little fast and rolling over the turf was much better than too slow and either slamming into the ground or looping a wing.



As I taxied up, a Dolphin made to land. Odd, and somewhat unwelcome. The last time we had visitors a transfer was soon in the offering.



I needn't have feared, though. They, too had become lost and low on fuel; having seen me land they decided to follow on.

Boucher and Lafayette were waiting on me in the hangar. They seemed neither suprised or unpleased that I had lost the flight and arrived much later than them. I had scarcely begun to remove my flight gear that he launched into the retelling of the sortie with great enthusiasm, waving his hands about to describe the flight of the Germans as if I hadn't been there at all!

I have to say that while it was told with gusto it was also without embellishment of the facts (though peppered with the sounds of engine and guns he imitated quite well). When he got to the part where he downed a German scout while in the inverted portion of a roll I had to raise my hand and whistle (which was the Escadrille's way of shouting "bulls---!"). Boucher, however, shook his head and confirmed it as truth.

Incredible.

Young Jaques continued the story all the way to landing and taking seats in the hangar, waiting for my return, having switched to English, since the British pilots had joined us in the hangar and were as captured with his telling as I was.

"And what happened with you?" he finally asked.
"Got lost as usual," I admitted.

"Pasted that battery, though," one of them said.
"Really?" asked Lafayette, impressed, "I dropped mine as soon as I saw the scouts."
"I forgot to," I admitted, "and decided to try my luck."

We all clammed up and Lafayette and Boucher stood up as the Commander entered the hangar. We saluted reflexively, and he waved it down.

"I was telephoned to ask if the next time you shoot down observation machines you try not to have them crash into aerodromes, Martin," he said in a deadpanned tone, but there was a smile in his eyes.

I was bound to tell what happened, which I did with a minimum of words. It was not such a big deal, after all.

Lafayette and myself were mentioned in the dispatches, of course, and so both gained another oak leaf for our War Crosses.

Rene was pleased that Number 17 returned undamaged, though he did ask if I was trying to destroy the undercarriage with landings like that. I assured him I was, as he appeared to be lacking of any real work of late.

Oddly I felt the malaise leave me for the afternoon, and even joined our British visitors in the Officer's Club for a drink after dinner. Perhaps it was because for once there was no memorial service that followed it.

*thunderous applause* You are a great storyteller.

These stories are truly wonderful. Whoever said you should compile and post them was right. You have a real talent for this.

Thanks again.



Wheels

Again thoroughly enjoyable. It is great to see how you weave random things like the Dolphins landing at your airdrome or the locating of the observation aircraft's crash into the story. On another note I final got the QMB for ROF to download so now I can practice my gunnery properly. Hopefully then I can at least hit the target.

Neat stuff.

Now it's another two weeks of a boring and pointless life until we get to read the next chapter.

Thanks again for another great episode! Always love the banter at the end, that's my favourite bit.

Next time they complain about you dropping an enemy kite on their aerodrome, hit them with a Christmas Pudding from 200 feet and show them the true meaning of disaster. Got to get fruit cake into this story some how...

H

Ug, I've got the killer headcold. No use trying to fly when I'm sneezing and weeping continuously!

Don't worry, pudding and fruitcakes are in the offing.

Martin wouldn't let himself be stopped by catching a cold.



Get well soon. The sooner, the better. Totally selfish, I know, but imagine: You could feel better as well, and isn't that a great thing? So it's a win-win: You get better, we get a story. Deal?

Great story. And I found out that Dart has a flying suit too!

Reveal!

That's just wrong Beach.



Wheels

Oh dear, you've found something so entirely ghey that even I couldn't wear.

None Asked, None Given
5 September 1917
1630 hours
Main Hangar

Lafayette and I were enjoying afternoon coffee, cigarettes, and the music of a phonograph he had somehow come up with. I had no idea where he got the records, but they were all of some lady singing in German. Still, she had a lovely voice and it was better than nothing!

Boucher joined us after poking his head around the opening of the hangar, pulling a cigarette from the box on the table.

"Jaques," he asked, "why do you insist on rolling your own cigarettes? You should take Martin's example."
"When I was a boy I used to steal tobacco from my uncle's ashtrays," he admitted, "and put the remainders in a pile until I had enough for a cigarette."
We were astounded. Young Lafayette came from a wealthy family, after all, and for all his courtesy to everyone he met clearly came from the higher rung of society.
"My mother had the notion that she could keep me from smoking, you see."

A fine story for the tail of the afternoon, and we laughed.

Rene ruined it, of course, storming up with a piston rod in his hand much like he was ready to club someone with it.

"Martin!" he accused, "look at this! Do you know what it is?"
"It is a piston rod," I replied calmly, taking it from him after he thrust it my direction as if it were a rapier.
"It is a worn piston rod!"
He was correct. Where it met the crankshaft and piston there were signs of wear.
"I just pulled this from Number 17, and the engine has less than one hundred hours."
"Okay."
"No, not okay. Do you know why it is worn like this?"
"Hit him, Rene," Lafayette suggested cheerfully.
"You've been running the whole time with the radiator vanes wide open."
"Oui."
"The oil is too cool. If it is too cool, it doesn't flow. If it doesn't flow, do you know what happens?"
"The piston rods wear out?" I answered as a question.
"The piston rods wear out," he confirmed. "There are two little red lines on the oil temperature gauge, Martin. The bottom one is minimum cool, the upper one is maximum heat. Stay between the red lines, or I'll have you rebuild the next one yourself! And what is this crap you are playing? We are Frenchmen, find someone who can sing in it!"

And then he stormed off to the other end of the hangar, behind the aeroplanes, and began to clang tools about.

Boucher and Lafayette found the whole thing hilarious. Jaques grabbed a bishop from my chess set (which was in a box under the table), and by means of a tack through the top of his hat affixed it in an imitation to the spike the Germans wear on their helmets.

One of the new pilots, a fellow that had joined the Escadrille even while we had taken to the air earlier in the day, decided to intrude. It was clear he both wanted to join us and was intimidated to for some reason, quailing before our curious looks and becoming speechless. We just stared at him, wondering what he wanted.

He stood mute for several seconds and then suddenly took the position of attention and saluted, looking scared.

Lafayette, ever cool under pressure, casually returned his salute as if he were part of the General Staff, and asked for him to report.

"Lieutenant Rene Guillaume," he said stiffly, as if he weren't sure that it would be better to just run away, "I just reported to the Escadrille."

It was too much. Tears rolled from our eyes as we recovered from the laughter, and my side actually hurt. The poor kid looked wounded.

"Rene," Lafayette repeated, "we know he'll be swearing at us the whole time."
"Guillame," I continued, "and putting us on report while he does it."

It was hardly his fault that he shared his first name with my mechanic and the surname of the Executive Officer, but that didn't stop us in the least in having some fun at his expense.

Boucher took pity on him, offering his chair after a warm handshake and assurances that we were simply crazy and he was more than welcome to join us. Naturally we demanded the "real" Rene to bring us food and many bottles of wine to celebrate, which he did after demanding we give him the money for it, which no doubt had a considerable mark up for handling fees.

We had already been briefed on the next morning's mission:



A bridge right behind the lines had been repaired, and they were setting up the air defenses. Until they were dug in, however, they remained vulnerable and required constant protection from being bombed (the reverse slope hindered Hun artillery).

The upshot is that while we were drinking it was decided that I would leave the flight once the patrol was done and perform an overflight of Reims and drop a bouquet of flowers on the brothel we stayed at during our leave. I'm not exactly sure how we came to the idea - perhaps Lafayette suggested it on a dare - but when the morning came a bunch of flowers had been installed under my seat!

Guillaume looked terrible. We fed him coffee and Rene dunked his head in the horse's water trough, swearing it would clear his head of the hangover.

Regardless of his condition, he climbed into the number three machine of the flight as Lafayette mounted number four, which was next to my own fifth position on the right end of the line. I charged the guns, advanced the throttle and mixture and gave the thumbs up for Rene to pull the propellor and remove the chalks. Retarding the throttle to 1,400 RPM's to keep me in place (but still give me but a little bump to full power without damaging the motor), I frowned as Rene pointed to the front of Number 17. I closed the radiator to half to allow it to stay warm enough for optimum oil flow.

The flight to the front lines was uneventful, other than I was continuously adjusting the radiator as it seemed impossible to find the right setting that was in the middle of the red lines. I finally gave up and cranked it open. It seemed to hover at the lower mark, but didn't go below.

One other thought came to mind as we crossed the river:



What was the purpose for the ponds? Were they flooded fields, or some convention of topography? It was too cold to grow rice here, and I was unsure if they even knew what a catfish was in France! I'd have to ask Boucher or Lafayette when we got back.

It was such a pleasant day that I found that I had become distracted. When we reached the bridge the rest of the flight pulled ahead of me, sweeping low in front of it! I would have to dive hard and to the right to catch up.



Ahead of them an angry swarm of flak erupted in the sky. The spotters on the ground had much better eyes than we!



The flight charged forward as two Germans raced through the blooms of explosion.



They slashed past one another, firing as they did so.



One continued on, straight at me, and I punched him in the nose with my guns!



I wondered why there would only be two German scouts for such an important target. Later we were to learn that they were stragglers for a much larger flight that was being engaged a kilometer away at a much higher altitude!



We were ignorant of this, naturally, and were pleased that is only these two. Still, they twisted and turned low to the ground, hoping to get our SPAD pilots to slow and tumble.

It was a horrible mess, to be honest, and I elected to remain higher than the main melee below. Six aircraft sixty feet in the air whirling about each other while the flak battery continued to pound away as if their shells weren't harmful to Frenchmen so long as they were aimed at Germans? A recipie for disaster!

Finally I spotted a German pop out of the swarm:




I pounced on him while he was looking downward, unaware that I was there.



A short burst as he slowed to attempt an Immelman and it was the end of him.



The sky clear of Germans (at least in our vicinity), we climbed a bit and circled the bridge. I was pleased to note that everyone had made it through the fight as a relieving flight of Nieuport 17's (!) arrived, and I gave the thumbs up to Boucher and headed east along the front towards Reims.

As I climbed to 3,000 feet, an odd sight greeted me. Leaning right to look over the motor, the green woods and fertile fields of France looked inviting and pleasant:



Leaning left showed only ruin and the terrible waste of war.



It angered me. This countryside was not unlike my native Alabama, and the people very much the same. They wanted only to work, eat, sleep, and make their way in the world of man. The Germans were ruining this, and no payment extracted would ever settle the bill.

It was unfortunate for the flight of observation planes below me that I had taken such a foul mood.



They did not see me as I approached from above, slashing down as fast as my SPAD would take me towards the lead machine.



The pilot made no evasive manuever, the observer in the back unaware and looking the wrong way as I lined up, waiting to fire until the last minute.



I am sure they saw the flames cover them before they realized it was I that made them erupt.



The remaining two went into disarray, one circling behind the lead for a moment, confused as to what happened as I climbed away in a shallow zoom. Perhaps they thought there must be a full flight on them and were looking about to sight the next threat.

Whatever the reason, they were now spread far apart and unable to support each other with the rear facing guns.

I turned back left, too late realizing it was the wrong direction to meet them, and had to reverse back to the right. I approached low and to the rear aeroplane's left.



Rather than come straight on, I slipped under his tail, climbing to his right to confuse the observer, and fired along his fuselage.



I could see my tracers run true.



The German jerked as machineguns riddled his body, the features of his face quite visible to me at such close range.



A quick press of the rudder to go with the trigger and the pilot went lifeless at the controls.



The machine drifted to the earth, never to threaten peaceable people again.



The lead machine was in the distance, trying to run away, but this was in vain.



I came firing from long distance, aiming just above the elevators of his tail, hoping to inflict the same mortal injuries as I had a moment before.



The tracers looked on the mark, and for every one there were four that could not be seen but did the damage.



As I neared and then crossed over him it was clear that I had hit my mark.





I made a wide turn to the left, and as I closed with the Hun retarded the throttle, slowing to match his speed.



He made no move to evade, no signal, or even made to look back at me.

He simply accepted his fate, surrendering to it. I took careful aim and fired one short burst at the back of the flying helmet in the pilot's seat.



And then it was no more.





I threw the flowers under the seat as I passed over their bodies even before the were smashed on the ground. I had little humor for the stunt I had originally planned.

Instead I made my way south, towards home, spotting a familiar aerodrome after a very short while.

This greatly improved my demeanor! I meant to fly low over them, regretting that I had so rashly tossed away the bouquet. It would make a lovely cheer to them!



Instead the all too familiar outline of German observation planes came into view.



This time there would be no suprise, however; I was clearly spotted and made a dash towards the lead, hoping to disable his motor:



I missed, naturally, and had to come back around to strike them. Unlike the Jerries I had dispatched less than half an hour before, this pair stuck close together, setting up a crossfire.



I made for the right, coming high and slipping to point my gun at the observer. Bullets whistled and clanged against Number 17 from his partner as I misjudged my speed, missing entirely!



I dove beneath him, making a circle to the right and climbing, hoping to attack from above.

They climbed as well, together, and I took a gamble, coming low until the last moment, pulling the stick back and then to the left, looking to fire straight into them at close range.

It was disasterous! The machinegunner had guessed my move and in an instant everything was sparks and great chunks of linen and wood flying past me.



At once my engine began to make a most horrible noise and I ducked low behind it even as I made to dive away.



With RPM's dropping quickly, I was instantly out of their range.



Forcing myself to breathe, I closed the fuel switches and tightened my restraining straps even as I looked for a place to land. Nothing looked terribly flat here, and I was too low for the aerodrome I had flown over.



The landing was a poor one. The SPAD drops like a stone when denied its engine, and even so I had thought it might have been acceptable but for the irregular field I had to contend with.

Whether by my lack of skill or an obstruction that chalked a wheel, at the last of it Number 17 pitched hard to the right, ground looping the left wing into the turf. The terrible splitting of wing and struts sounded like someone chopping wood as hard as they could.



But I was down and alive.

Pulling my sock covered flask from within my coat, I took a drink of the warm coffee within and made to undo the restraining belts. Walking a few feet away to the front of the machine, I lit a cigarette and surveyed the damage. It was a wonder I survived, judging by the riddled radiator and engine. Indeed, the exhausts had been holed as well! Oil dripped onto the grass, as well as gasoline. One spark, realized, just one spark.

In the distance I heard the blipping of a rotary coming my way.

Judging the wind to ensure it would go away from the plane, I pointed my flare gun upwards and fired.

Soon the most amazing sight came into view. It was a Nieuport, but one I had never seen before. The upper wing on one side had been painted yellow and the other black, and the pilot made a low circle over me before flying back to the north. A truck arrived an hour later and took me to the aerodrome I had nearly dropped a German observation plane on a day earlier!

The appropriate calls were made and it was decided that I would return the next day to the 84th along with my wounded bird.

More interesting was that the flying machine that had found me was perched near a hangar at the extreme end of the line of buildings. I couldn't resist walking over to inspect it.

The pilot came out to meet me as I arrived. Five feet tall and thin, he nonetheless looked ancient beyond his years. His skin was leathery, scarred, and he had but a tiny strip of mustache as wide as his nose on his upper lip. He also sported a wooden leg, which gave him a sailor's gait.

"It's a Nieuport 11," he said by way of greeting. I'd heard of them, but thought they had long been retired, and said so.

"We use it for Artillery spotting, since the pursuit Escadrilles won't see fit to spare anything else."

His name was Sergeant Thomas Forager, and I took an immediate liking to him. The irregular color scheme was his idea in order to assist the spotters on the ground and it wasn't working as intended. "Everyone - and I mean everyone - shoots at me!" He then gave me a lesson on his trade: by flying certain patterns, the appropriate corrections to the guns could be made to ensure they struck the target.

It seemed to be terribly dangerous work. He laughed and agreed. Few desired the duty, desperately working towards a transfer into a regular Escadrille. Indeed, he was assigned to the Division's Artillery specifically, which made without an Escadrille at all! As wireless communications became possible from the air (making his overly dangerous work unnecessary), he was probably one of the last in his trade as well. I wondered if anyone would ever know of his efforts after the war.

His mechanic looked to be thirteen years old! In loose coveralls the boyish appearance was accented, and without the close haircut might have been mistaken for a girl! A high pitched voice and a shy demeanor to go with it didn't help the lad, that's for sure. But the rough hands and coarse language put one on the right track; he shook hands with a suprising grip.

Thomas was also regarded as something of a misfit and a madman by the Escadrille he shared the field with. His mechanic avoided the others as well, never socializing with them.

Incredibly, he had been a pilot since 1915, in observation planes and scouts, having spent some time as an instructor as well. We drank through the night as he regailed me of tales when pilots used to wave at each other in the air regardless of nationality (though he admitted it was before his time; as soon as aeroplanes were armed and they could start killing one another they did so).

The next morning I arrived early to my own aerodrome, meeting Rene with a smile. He seemed to take the wreck in stride, which put me off a little, until I noticed the Little Kitten had been painted on another SPAD. He had spoken to the mechanics before I had arrived and deemed Number 17 a complete wreck by the reports; I would have to learn the quirks of a different machine.

Very good story! I hate to think what Rene will say about that broken plane!

Oof, added that part in while you were posting.

Rene did what Rene does when met with a task that is both unpleasant and easily avoided: he avoids it. The "old" Number 17 will become someone else's problem (or a pet project hangar queen), and so is no longer a concern for him.

Again I say BRAVO. Great story telling.

Great story telling Dart.
Your vivid imagination keeps me coming back for more.


Wheels

Great story again, Dart...

OK... silly me... for a moment I thought Forgeron aided in flak calibration... but artillery is still surface-to-surface.

edit... or is it? AAA is Anti Aircraft Artillery...

aaaaahhhh.... the suspense is killing me!

another great AAR


cheers

Another great one!

@ Legend: nope, he was an artillery spotter - ground to ground, so to speak. IIRC, it was a skill that they taught LNO pilots right up through WWII (at least early on). Talk about practicing the "big sky, little bullet" theory!

Anyhow, this last one is post-upgrade, and wouldn't you know it an opportunity to show the new raindrop effect. Normally I disable the post processing in order to improve performance and eliminate jaggies, but I couldn't for this one!

Ghosts and Kindling
7 September 1917
0900 Hours
Aerodrome hangar

Lafayette was in a foul mood, which was unusual. While his version was more like someone who was slightly annoyed rather than upset, it was clear that the worsening weather (overcast and the first of the cool weather that hinted at Winter) was playing hob with his still healing injuries. My own ached as well, but I had long gotten used to it. He gave scant greetings to Guillame as he joined us for after breakfast coffee and ammunition duties.

The SPAD carried twice as much ammunition as the Nieuport 17 - 800 rounds versus 400 - which meant that twice as much time was taken sorting through boxes of bullets for our ammunition belts. We had dumped about two thousand brass and lead beauties onto our table, and in addition to the belts we'd be putting the best in, three boxes. The largest was for rejects; any perceived deformity or dent in bullet or cartridge wound up there. The other two smaller boxes were for those that were marginal or worth keeping for later. It was a never ending process, as even when one didn't fire during a sortie, having some very carefully stored belts of hand picked feed for our guns was prudent. We kept the spares under lock and key in my quarters - it wasn't unheard of for a pilot to "borrow" another's belts to save himself from the dirty task of sorting.

The new pilot hadn't done it before (his first aeroplane having been fitted with belts from the caches of those that hadn't returned from their missions), and we offered a seat at the table and some instruction, starting with inspection of the cotton belt itself.

"Questions?" I asked after my lesson.
"Aren't you an Ace five times over?" he asked.
"I think so," I lied, "I don't really count." This brought the first hint of a smile to Lafayette's face of the day.
"And you still load your own belts?"
"Well, I'd like to make the count twenty-six and make it back to tell about it."
"He even flushes out the radiator on his aeroplane," Lafayette added, then grinned again, "or would, if he could bring it back to the aerodrome in one piece."
Humph. Rene was clearly having a bad influence on my young friend. As if summoned like the Devil, my mechanic approached.
"Number 17 is grounded," he said, looking displeased.
"Why?"
"Newspaper men are going to make pictures of it tomorrow. You'll be flying number four."

Madness. The real heroes were the guys in the trenches, yet the press wanted to take photographs of an aeroplane. I guess it is one of the few things in the war not covered in mud (or blood), and so was suitable for the public.

We worked until lunch, quite pleased to each have five belts each loaded (though we did have to get more rounds - one crate was positively full of mangled bullets!). Guillame made tags for his own, which we placed in the footlocker. He was taken back that only Rene and myself had a key, wanting a copy for himself, but it was something I would not budge on.

After lunch we were joined by Boucher, who was nearly as interested as Guillame as Rene took him through the mechanics of the SPAD, pulling engine access panels and even cutting away a section of linen on the "old" Number 17, which lay still broken in a side shed to show how the control lines ran through the fuselage.

We took the briefing for the next morning's sortie after dinner.



I couldn't help frowning at the mention of taking on such a target, and brushed off the usual questions. We'd done this before, after all. Or had we?

The last time we had taken on such defenses it had been a disaster. Three dead, Rendell forced to land due to damage, and only myself to make it back - without any appreciable results to speak of. True, it had been in the Nieuport 17, which lacked any ability for bombardment and only a single machinegun, but that didn't stop my worries. Even my own solo attempt at guns as revenge had come to nothing but a concussion for my troubles.

Of those who had gone on the last sortie of this nature within the Escadrilles I had served with, only I remained alive.

A profound sense of helplessness overcame me, with the increasingly darkening skies, blank and ominous with thick clouds only serving to worsen my demeanor.

In the morning the cloud cover was low over us, with a light shower of rain.



The air was somewhat agreeable, however, much more smooth than I had anticipated, and we were soon over the mud.



The best course was to follow the river that cut across it diagonally. I agreed with the tactic, but didn't like it one bit. Air bursts flowered far too close to us in the sky!



Soon enough it crossed into the green of the German lines, and as we dove towards the bridge that the guns were protecting I saw two scouts in the distance. A fleeting glance through goggles spotted with rain, I couldn't tell if they were friendly or enemy.



No time to investigate - I wanted to get this over with.



Grasping the bomb release, diving towards the target, I was resolute in ensuring they would hit home, heedless of the shells they were firing at me.



Diving on them, throttle back, I waited until I was nearly on them before freeing the explosives from their well under my machine. I looked back to see a rather satisfying spray of dirt and smoke rise into the air.



It looked as though I had gotten the pair of them in one pass!



Glancing forward, angry fire surrounded two of our flight.



No, one of our flight. Those were German crosses on the other!



Throttle back to full, I slipped right, catching him in the turn. I fired ahead of him, hoping he would fly into my bullets.



It mattered little if I had hit him or not; it had shaken him enough to be fired on by an unseen scout that he did exactly the wrong thing, turning away from me. I was on him in a flash.



He was probably a new, inexperienced pilot, as he made weak defensive manuevers.



I'd seen our own rookies do the same thing, and showed the same compassion as the Germans had for them. He was in reasonable distance for firing, and I lined up the sights.



The tracers ran true for a kill or at least wounding the pilot!



His plane jerked and he threw his hand up. Whether a reflex from pain or a useless jesture of surrender, I wasn't sure.



Jerking his plane hard to the right, he dove away suddenly. Was he learning much too late, or was it due to injury?



I quickly resumed my strike on his machine.



A short burst of my guns, left to right as I slipped over him, and he crashed into occupied France.



Ahead flew another scout, but this one decidedly friendly! It looked as though he was making a run on the remaining guns, and I went to his left to fire at them as well.



Too late I realized my bullets were in vain; nothing but burned hulks remained of the threat.



Climbing high I was chagrined to see that once again I had lost my flight!



Making my way north, hoping to intercept them as they crossed the front, I spotted them above me. Only three...that meant that there would be a memorial service tonight, with probably Guillame or Lafayette earning a ginned up biography.

As I moved to join the formation I wiped the mist and water from my goggles.



Surely by now I must learn to identify observation planes! Tracers fired from too long a distance at me from the observers in the rear seat.



I climbed high and to their left, setting up for a slashing attack against them.



A complete failure, I didn't even fire my guns as I misjudged my approach. I found myself high and on the other side of their group.



I aimed for the lead, hoping to cause them to disperse.



Once again I lacked the proper skills to calculate the angles, slipping hard into a dive as I fired my guns in his direction.



I hoped that I had gotten their engine or wounded the crew as I brushed past their tail, too quick for any sort of defensive aim.



They mocked me, quickly resuming positions of mutual assistance.



Frustrated at my attempts to play the falcon, I decided to be the bull and simply charge at one of the observation planes and shoot it down.



Much more satisfying results! I began firing at long range.



Even as I approached, flame blossomed from the Hun's engine. The observer fired a burst at me as I crossed over him, but I was unsure if he had struck home or not.



I flew on past the remaining two.



Coming back around quickly, I made for the machine on the right, watching as the observer turned his gun towards me.



Feigning a left turn, I pushed the rudder right, flying diagonally through, the air, and fired.



Even through the mist and rain I saw his engine was destroyed.



Flying higher, I took up a safe distance and checked my guns. Pulling on the lever to charge them, no brass fell from them. Empty!

I could do nothing more than shake my fist at the remaining Jerry. The observer waved back, safed his gun in the stowing postion, and acted as if he were ignoring me.



The Hun with the stalled motor landed just behind their lines.



The other dove lower, as if to escape should another of my flight find us. Or perhaps his own engine was damaged?



Flying back towards our lines, my own machine began to sputter, losing power. The tachometer bounced as it struggled to stay alive.

The water temperature gauge was a little hot, but I didn't think I had cooked it. I had probably caught one of the German's bullets at some point.



Ahead was the familiar sight of the bridge we had defended two days before.



I studiously ignored the artillery shells bursting nearby - the engine had seized and so it was one thing at a time!



The ground was ill suited for a landing, particularly in the drop-like-a-stone SPAD.

I made for the one flat spot, colored brown from traffic and fire.



It did not go well. I overshot it, my wheels bouncing onto the small incline and causing Number Four to leap into the air, as if rejected from the earth. I pushed the stick forward against the climb, and then immediately pulled back as the nose went down. The anti-aircraft crew said that the next bounce made it look as if I had stood it on its tail. Nearly hanging in the air as if by a string, the SPAD pitched forward, striking the ground with its nose just before the gear, flipping over onto its back.



Everything hurt. The restraining straps worked like hammers on an anvil to my body, and I had slammed back against the rear of the seat in reaction to being thrown forward. The gun crews pulled me out, amazed that I was alive and able to walk (though on shaking knees) away from it.

A car was sent for me, and I accepted the offered cigarettes and tea offered by the crews. They were in good humor, and conspired to lift my spirits after such a close call by suggesting that I find the pilot of Le Petit Chaton for flying advice, as he was from a nearby Escadrille. Indeed, he had defended their position just recently from German attacks! I plead ignorance, naturally.

They then recanted such advice, as he probably would be too important to give lessons, and one shouldn't bother him. To illustrate this, they recounted various aerial exploits of this daring Frenchman for me, none of which were true, or at least wildly exaggerated. Indeed, a few of the actions credited were from other pilots; I recognized the "deliver them by hand" quote in regards to shooting as Rene Fonck's, for example.

Still, it was a fine way to make the wait shorter, and they wrote up statements confirming the downing of two of the observation planes, having watched using large Battery Commander glasses. The distance and fog was too great for them to see anything but the smoke of the burning plane as it curved to the ground, but they did see me striking and disabling the second, and its landing just on the other side of the front.

I returned to the aerodrome without fanfare, and was greatly relieved to see Lafayette and Guillame sitting in the hangar lounge (as we began to call the tables and folding chairs next to my make-shift quarters) smoking cigarettes and drinking wine.

Rene was once again oddly accepting of yet another flying machine destroyed at my hands. It could have been that they had insisted on taking his (mine?) picture next to Number 17 for the magazines and newspapers that would be seen all through France.

Another great story!!!

Oh my, these are good.

Wheels

Never get bored reading these!

Dart, I'm so glad you write these!

Rain over Reims
8 September 1917
1400 hours
Escadrille Mess

The rain had worsened, so we were grounded for the day. Guillame and Lafayette seemed disappointed, as the regular duties of Junior Officers were placed on them. Lafayette had spent the morning in the supply sheds overseeing the inventory of everything within - linens, blankets, shovels, picks, and even camouflage netting.

Guillame was tasked with assisting the Executive Officer in organizing and filing the Escadrille's records.

Being enlisted, I wasn't qualified for such things, and fully appreciated my place in the military pecking order.

Boucher had joined me at mealtime with a large map case, and now we spread it out over the long table to discuss our position and options for the next missions. Reims had been suprisingly unmolested, with only superficial damage, and he was betting that the Hun would be trying to bomb it soon. It was interesting, but ultimately useless as an endeavor; our missions were decided from much higher up than even the Escadrille Commander many times.

Personally, I wanted to try for a balloon; however, we had established more numbers in the air here, and so the Germans had kept their stationary observation platforms deflated.

As in on cue, the Escadrille Commander walked in and over to us, leaning over the map.

"I heard you wanted to revisit Reims," he said to me casually. So much for secret plans.
"Well, it was just an idea, sir; I didn't actually do it."
"Tomorrow if the wind dies down, you may have a chance."
"Sir?"
He jabbed a finger at Reims, then continued, "Every day for the last two days - and on every day when they can hide in clouds - an observer flight has gone over the city. They appear to come in from the north and exit to the east. Despite the local Escadrille's efforts, they haven't been intercepted.

"I think they're coming southwest of Reims for their escape, and I want us to shoot them down. The 61st is based there, and I grow tired of their commander's slights against us; it might serve to shut him up."

"Isn't that out of our sector?" Boucher asked, noting the boundaries he had drawn on the map.

"It is," the Commander admitted, "but we're going to do it anyway. I had the rumor of Martin's desire to fly over Reims slip out during a meeting at Division. It came back around to me this morning, where I assured the Chief of Staff that I had strictly forbidden such a stunt." He gave me a serious look.

I liked the idea. My reputation was less than zero in aviation circles, and I was tolerated only because I had survived for so long, which translated to a high score against the Germans. They wouldn't dare court martial me - if the press found out they'd squeal to high heaven!

"Where, exactly, do you think they'll be, and how will you know they've made a flight at all?" I asked. He just smiled at me and pointed at the map.

We gathered the flight together and went over the plan:



We would take off and fly to Lhery as soon as ordered - meaning a stand-by from dawn should the overcast remain, ready to fly at once. If we failed to see them or any other aeroplanes within half an hour, we would return.

If we met Germans, we would shoot them down. Once clear, I would fly on to Reims and perform an overflight while the rest of flight retires. Should we meet a friendly flight, we would return as a group, claiming navigational error.

9 September 1917
0800 hours
Main Hangar

The weather remained overcast, but with only light rain and moderate winds. We lounged about in our flight suits, less jacket and gloves, our helmets and goggles at hand. The machines had been placed in line at dawn, covered with huge tarps to keep them dry, held secure by ropes attached to stakes on the corners.

A Private on a bicycle pedaled our way as fast as he could from the headquarters building, and we rose from our seats to put on our gear even before he reached us with the news to hurry into the air.

Rene lead the mechanics in a rush to the machines, where they cut the ropes with knives and exposed our mounts to the air as if by well practiced maneuver; knowing my mechanic, though, it probably was!

In our aeroplanes and starting up, we retarded the throttles to just 800 RPM's to warm the engines with the radiators closed. The needle advanced within five minutes to within the red lines, and with a final check of my guns we were ready.



Flying as fast as we could and still hold formation, we reached the town of Lhery in short order. The SPAD is a very fast machine!



We began our circuit, scanning the skies. I was happy to see Lafayette had learned to look about!



I spotted a faint smudge in the sky. Was it just the rain on my goggles, or the enemy flight?



I strained to look through the mist. Faint dark spots higher than us, to the left of the flight....



It was a pair of aeroplanes! Hoping to catch Boucher's eye, I let loose a signal flare.



Not only did they ignore it,



They flew farther away.



Guillame would later say that he had looked back and spotted it, but didn't know how to gain the flight's attention to it.



I couldn't turn back to them, however. The Germans might slip away, and I was catching up to them quickly.



They turned in unison, diving slightly to gain speed and expose me to their defensive guns.



I went fot the lower of the pair, the lead, and started firing to the right of him.



I let Number 17 drift left, carrying tracers across his wings and fuselage.



Zooming over him, the observer had little chance to shoot me.



Climbing high and out of range of them, I decided to strike the higher of the two, which was in trail of the first.



Driving down on him, much too fast for him to hinder me, I fired just ahead of him from his right. My bullets struck true, ripping his engine and through the crew and into bomb and fuel tanks.

The plane disintegrated, the blast throwing the top wing off of the twin seater into two large sections which flew straight in the air. My eyes bugged as I realized that they were leaping into my path, and there was scant little I could do to avoid them.

By fortunes of wind and luck a section came level to the ground, as a leaf falling from a tree, only slightly brushing my top wing.



My speed was so great that it was instantly behind me.



Below was the remaining Jerries.



It was a simple matter to swoop down on them.



After making my pass - hits on the upper wing, but the crew unscathed - I went high and let loose another flare, hoping the flight would find me!



Boucher had seen the tracers, though, and had already started to make his way towards me.



I made yet another pass. The spars on high right side gave way as I wrecked the top wing further, raking over to kill the obsever.



A tear in the upper wing began to form, peeling it back against the wind.



I checked my guns, staying close, fascinated as it was unbuttoned ever so slowly.



Of course it was only for a second, and it flew away from the Hun, causing him to crash into the forest.



I rejoined the flight.



The first part of the mission complete, I motioned to Boucher that I was ready to complete the second.



It wasn't far, and I played it safe by first flying north to the river and then following it east to the city. I was beginning to wonder if I had miscalculated distances when the outskirts creeped into view.



Naturally I made for the grand cathedral that dominated the city.



What a grand sight!





Looking left I saw the "hotel" we had stayed at during our visit, and turned to show them my "kitty;" it was just returning the favor, after all!



The train station looked empty!



Another church poked up from the skyline, so I visited it as well.





I was afraid that on the way back I might get lost, so cut my visit short, coming in low over the river as I flew west.



A nice cottage with ivy creeping up its walls was the last I saw of Reims that day.



Of course I did get slightly confused on the way back, circling for some fifteen minutes along a road that was ten miles south of our field before I got my bearings. All told, though, I was very proud of my navigation skills. The aerodrome looked very good to me when it came into view and I made to land.



I was pleased to made a good landing; Rene and I would have no repairs to make on Number 17 today; only maintenance would be required!



Lafayette was waiting on me, seated at our card table in the rear of the hangar, looking very casual about the whole affair. Rene, on the other hand, was demonstrably pleased at the news that I had found Reims and returned with "his" aeroplane undamaged.

I was mentioned in the dispatches and received yet another cluster for my war cross, as well as a reprimand that I should not abandon training flights to perform personal stunts. The commander awarded me a bottle of cognac and warned that I would be most unwelcome at the 61st Escadrille's aerodrome.

We spent the balance of the day looking after my machine, and the night in the hangar, passing the bottle around the group of mechanics and pilots that bothered to come and visit. Rene even tolerated the German phonograph records.

Another excellent story, liked the video too.

Great read Dart.


Wheels

I'm going to start modifying the career missions slightly from here on in.

Once the mission generates, I'm going to put in a windsock (experimented with this on previous missions, and wow were my landings seriously downwind or crosswind!), increase the enemy at the objective, and give those poor observation planes an escort.

The downside is that they're not true "career missions." The upside is that I'll make them available for download!

Sounds good.
Just make sure Martin survives your tinkering.
OG might have a brain aneurysm if you don't.


Wheels

You leave my brain out of this.

Time is wasting. Let's have some more.

I'm going on a little trip. When I get back there had better be another Martin story.

It'll be a big update with a few suprises.

I got a surprise already.
Your posting in the thread fooled me.
I was expecting another Martin featurette.

Waiting with a rapid click mouse trigger for the next update.


Wheels

Oops, smaller update before the big one. I had forgotten this mission preceeded the "big" one. It marks the last of the non-tinkered missions.

Making the Rounds With Rot
1900 hours
Main Hangar

The weather was steadily improving, and with it Lafayette's spirits. He and Guillome had become fast friends, something that was beginning to annoy me. When I complained that they were like teenagers, Boucher reminded me that in fact they were, and that I had become a grumpy old man well before my years.

I left the hangar. Nothing is as rude as the truth.

Walking aimlessly around the aerodrome, I spotted a largish tent that had its door sewn shut and rigorously staked to the ground, with a peg placed every six inches along each wall and including the door. Guide ropes had been wired to the stakes that held them in as well, as to ensure they would not slip in even the worst of storms.

The whole thing had been placed behind the usual supply tents, but without any markings as to what was inside.

My curiosity was peaked, and I walked towards it, trying to find some opening to look through to see its contents. A mechanic ran up to me as I completed my first circuit.

"No one is allowed to look in that tent!" he exclaimed.
"On who's orders?" I asked.
"Rene's," he said at once, then corrected himself, "the Commander's!"
"Which is it?"
"Go get him."
"Who?"
"Either Rene or the Commander. Your choice." The man looked distraught, so I added "Or I'll just cut the seams and look in, regardless of who said not to."

It took just over a minute for Rene to arrive. Short, thick, and continuously in a mood of some sort (I had never seen him simply content - either he was up or down, and cursing no matter his mental state), he was stomping and looking very determined.

"Martin," he started, "leave that alone."
"What is it?"
"Trouble," he replied, and after a string of invectives, continued, "some even you don't need to bother with."
I absolutely had to know what was in the tent now.

After several minutes of colorful banter, Rene was carefully unwinding the thick twine through a side of the large flap door, as he meant to re-stitch it close after I had taken my peek.

It was a Nieuport 17.

"Why are you hiding it?" I asked.
"Because it belongs to the 81st."
"So why don't you just tell them to come get it?"
"Their new commander has put out a message that he will court martial whomever stole it from them, regardless of rank. He had picked it out for himself just before it was taken."
I sighed.
"This is the one Lafayette flew in with, isn't it?"
"Of course it is," he admonished as he pushed me back from the doorway and began to weave the twine back through the gommets he had put in the canvas, sealing it back up, "and I don't know how to get rid of it. I won't destroy it, but I can't explain it away, either."

An idea came to me and I smiled.

"Rene, I know how to get rid of this plane and have it see good use, too," I began, and told the story of a man with a peg leg and without an Escadrille to look too closely at what he flew. Unsuprisingly, Rene knew the man and assured me that he would make the necessary arrangements.

That settled, my own irritations were mollified and so I felt quite up to returning to the Hangar Lounge. This was compounded by the fact that the boys had been heaped with three thousand rounds and a basket of empty belts for them by a scowling Executive Officer during my absence - they looked positively chastened.

The next day's mission was straight forward:



It wasn't really a patrol intercept - we had no idea where or when the Huns would be flying - but we had spent so little time across the lines that landmarks and terrain were a mystery on the other side of the mud. So it was as much a navigation exercise as anything else.

More broadly, we were putting quite a number of machines up in the area, trying to throw up a net to keep German observation planes from coming across the lines. They needn't mention that an offensive was under foot; the only reason to deny the enemy the air was to hide a build up. The British were also conducting flights in the area, and we had been told to be on the lookout for SE5a's and Dolphins, and to know what they were to avoid any mishaps!

The next morning I found that Number 17 smelled musty as I climbed in; ignoring it, we took off and in good order soon found ourselves nearing the front, crossing over what I now marked as "my" bridge in the mental map I kept.



No man's land seemed insurmountable for anyone on the ground; I felt nothing but pity for any poor soul that would have to try and cross it. Every inch muck, mud, unexploded ordinance, wire, and crater plotted and planned for artillery and machinegun fire.



Within a couple of minutes we were over, though, the forest thick on the other side.



Skirting around the edges to remember shape and landmarks, we somehow kept station with each other.



Our task done, we began to head home.



Ahead of us, though, were three scouts wheeling and diving towards us.



Germans! Unbelievable! We met them head on.



I held my fire until Guillame was clear.



The Hun turned sharply, avoiding my fire, but I had seen his wing flaps move for it and rolled sharply to the right even as he avoided my guns.



A quick roll back to the left and I would have his tail!



I quickly changed my mind, however, as a second crossed my nose to the right, turning hard towards me.



We circled once, showing me quite a battle lower down.



He would win this contest if I allowed it to go on, and I saw his nose already begin to point at me.



I rolled the SPAD a little more to the right and asked Number 17 to do what she did best - dive!

My good fortune showed that I was pointed straight at one of his comrades.



Rolling in a large S shape through the air, I swooped behind him and gave him a taste of my guns.



Pitching hard to the left, Jerry dove as hard as he could to avoid me.



It was a very small matter to immediately close the distance. He went from very small...



...to very large in seconds.



In fact I overshot him, winding up below my prey. It was probably a very good thing, as it seems that I had been followed and only my great speed had kept the enemy from shooting me!



I pulled into a loop, unsure if I would roll level on the top or continue it to regain Jerry in my windscreen.



I did so and then struggled to figure out where he went. Damn the SPAD's poor visibility!



Amazingly, one of them flashed in front of me, clearly being pursued.



A slight push on the controls and I fired as he crossed me!



At the last moment I pushed the stick hard forward to avoid striking him with my aeroplane. He tail looked very close as I went past him!



Rolling back the other way, I approached quickly from his blind spot.



It was clear he was trying to climb away from the melee.



I didn't let him, firing as soon as I thought I might hit him.



All manner of debris flew like confetti from his mount.



As he turned weakly to the left, the improbable, impossible became clear - he had lost his propellor!



Perhaps it had been damaged previously or poorly installed; either way it had flown from his engine, and I left him to his fate as I looked about for other enemies.

I spotted a fellow SPAD and followed him.



Over the trees I saw the grey of the Hun, but only for a moment. The forest rose up to greet him.



The skies clear, I spotted the flight and rejoined them.







We crossed the mud once more, eager to leave it behind.



Boucher made the signal to land as the aerodrome came into sight.



I decided to have some fun and tucked in close to our flight leader.



As soon as he saw me, though, he immediately cut short his circuit and landed as quickly as he could, bouncing twice due to his high speed.



Finding it odd, I made a broader turn, lining up properly, and landed, coming in low over the hangars.



I was pleased with myself as I drove Number 17 to the hangars.



In the hangar, though, it was a different story. Boucher was livid, rushing up red faced and punching me straight in the face without warning, and calling me every evil name he could summon out of his vocabulary.

Rubbing my forehead and shaking my head to clear the stars in my eyes, I backed off as Rene grabbed him, pulling him away from me.

"Don't ever do that again!" he yelled.
"What?" I asked, confused.
"I thought my plane was wrecked!"

A sense of horror filled me. He had been the number two plane, and flow close to the number one to inspect the damage once. He had played escort to a stricken plane as it made to land. He had seen the slow circle over the hangars.

He had watched Rendell die.

I was unable to speak, and slumped back to the dirt of the hangar, the blood within me turning thin and weak.

He sat beside me and we wept, unashamed for our tears, without apology or explanation to anyone.

Golly. That's good. Seriously.

Black Magic
1 April 1917
1000 hours
Near Reims

I had been in the air for an hour, though the fatigue of the previous night made it seem like three times as long.

What damned foolishness of a mission! The Commander had roused Lafayette and myself from my bed all aflutter with a tale of a mysterious machine that had been killing men by the hundreds and laying waste to tanks even before it could be seen.

Of course I would be sent to look for it - there was no end to the tortures I had allowed them to place on me.

Still, the day was pleasant enough and if the stress of command had finally made the old man go around the bend, at least I wouldn't be crossing the front and tangling with Germans!

It was quite a shock to see a very odd aeroplane in the distance, seemingly standing still in the air, black as coal before me.



I rushed past it, confused by the nature of the machine. It had no wings! Rather two large propellors seemed to have been placed on the top of it, holding it in the air.



Turning as I zoomed past him, a glance back showed that I had gained his attentions - and somehow they did not look friendly!



Diving away, giving Number 17 her full head of steam, I should have put great distance between us, but it was as though this device of the devil had little problem latching onto my tail.



Such acceleration was impossible, yet not only had he made for me, but was instantly within firing range!



A huge gout of flame erupted from beneath the right side of the front of his contraption, a river of lead and fire ripping towards me.



His velocity was his undoing, however, and thankfully most of the bullets had missed me as he flashed over me and five hundred yards ahead. Still, I had huge rips in the left wing and the inner struts had been smashed.



He took a long, broad turn, coming once again behind me, and unleashed what could only be described as rockets. Unlike the weak unruly ones tested early in the war, these roared pass me, narrowly missing.



There was scant I could do but continue my shallow dive, gaining speed. The Little Kitten was hammering away at over 160 miles per hour, at the edge of what she could stand even when undamaged, and yet this evil creation somehow caught up as if I were at a stall.

The burst wasn't even a second, and yet my aeroplane shredded around me.



Main spars broken through the wings, still I was uninjured and somehow she was still holding together.



On its own accord, wings bent and straining to stay with me, Number 17 pitched nose high. The demon machine climbed up as well, no doubt piloted by a laughing Satan himself.



It was not to last, though. As the nose came back down my trusty SPAD came undone, shedding wing and root as if they had never been limbs to her great body.

As the ground raced towards me I was unable to close my eyes.



Until I was unable to open them ever again.