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.