Previous Thread
Next Thread
Print Thread
Rate This Thread
Hop To
Page 1 of 4 1 2 3 4
#3080944 - 08/26/10 09:49 PM The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) *****  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Captain Victor Timm RFC,
2 RFC,
Calonne sur la Lys
Nord

2nd June 1915

Dear Marcus,

Thank you for the parcel which arrived the same day that I got back from leave in Derbyshire. I will be sure to make the best possible use of all the items sent over, and by way of return enclose a bottle of brandy purchased in Bruay-la-Buissiere, which I heartily recommend.

As I mentioned a little while ago to you, flying is becoming less safe recently, since the Huns started equipping their aircraft with machine guns. They have one particular device, the Fokker Monoplane, which has been giving people palpitations for a while now. Fortunately, our own dear BE's are armed in a similar way, with a forward firing machine gun, however things are not ideal, and Captain Wilshaw, my usual observer, frets constantly about the lack of rearward firing machine gun. I had to point out to him yesterday that when we arrived here last year, we didn't actually have any armament whatsoever, and nor did we need it, and that the BE wasn't exactly designed to be festooned with machine guns. I think the point was made, although he still grumbles.

We were up yesterday on a job down to an area between Bapaume and Albert, somewhat to our South. Not having seen one of these mythical Hun machines, and having heard that they're active in the area, I was a little nervous about leading the flight out. We settled in at about 9000 feet until I saw Colin gesticulating wildly off to port, pointing out some aircraft approaching from the East. Well, I thought, at long last, the Huns are skulking over! And so it turned out. There were a few of these monoplanes, probably Fokkers, but I believe that Pfalz make such a machine, so I signalled the flight to gain height and altered course slightly to ensure that we began our observations at the Albert end of the path, rather than the Bapaume one.

This rather shook off the Huns, and we circled over Albert and headed North East, only to find that they'd followed us and were trying to get in close to get at us. I wasn't very happy about this, and Wilshaw kept turning to look at me as though to say “are we staying or going?”. Anyhow, he busied himself with his plates and I kept an eye on the Huns. Fortunately, we weren't the only British planes in the area – I could very distantly see No. 1 Squadron to the North – and this clearly left them wondering quite what to do.

We flew up to Bapaume with these wretched Huns in tow, of sorts, only to find that there were, as we approached the town, two more flights of them, fortunately lower than us, but with an obvious intent to stop us snooping on them. Well, I thought, this might turn out to be a little tricky. I signalled a further rise in altitude, and heeled our 'plane over and headed back towards Albert, after which we would be done. I was now getting a little worried, I can tell you. The Hun aircraft are perfectly rotten devices, but given enough of them, I was sure that they'd be able to screw up their courage and make a rush at us.

I signalled everyone to close up tightly, which they managed without problems and as we reached Albert, I signalled a further increase in height, to around 12000 feet, which is more or less where the poor old BE has its limits. We did this and headed for home, however the Huns were having none of that and turned with us. I noticed that not all of my flight had been able to gain height, and were being seriously impeded by the Huns. Colin was shaking his head vigorously and pointing downwards, but I didn't want to run off to Bertangles, and I certainly didn't want my chaps threatened by these damn Huns, so I signalled to everyone that they should follow me, and, taking a very deep breath, lifted the safety latch on the Hotchkiss and headed towards the Huns.

It was clear that they had quite cleverly tried to bracket us between several of their flights, but they weren't expecting a mad charge by three BE's, it would seem! My two flight members who'd been subject to their approaches dropped out like stones, and we fired off random bursts at the Fokkers, which is what they turned out to be. Obviously, the Huns weren't very happy at our “rescue attempt” and followed us down in the direction of Doullens, so I signalled Lt Ashford to head North with everyone else, and I swung the BE round to have a word with our pursuers.

I can only assume that they were not prepared for such an eventuality, and one of their number, presumably dumbfounded, was silly enough to allow me to fire off half a drum from the Hotchkiss up and down his aeroplane. Inevitably, this had a rather deleterious effect on his machine, and he swung down trailing thick smoke near Lealvillers. I was delighted that this unexpected turn of events then apparently caused the other Huns to rush about as though they'd been attacked by a dozen Bristol scouts, rather than a solitary BE! Colin was pointing quite emphatically downwards now, goggles up, and my lip reading is now good enough to be able to tell you that not only did he wish me to land our 'plane, but also that he now harbours considerable doubts regarding my parentage. It was, though, too good a chance to miss, and I managed to pop off a few more rounds at one or two of our erstwhile attackers before I decided that Colin was right, and that I didn't wish to be the cause of him suffering a coronary failure, and so zoomed down to around 1000 feet, after which we saw the Germans no more.

So there you are, Marcus. Not quite the return to the Squadron that I'd expected, and the first time I've encountered airborne Huns in – what is it? A year or more?- since I first arrived in France. We eventually arrived back at Merville-Calonne around half an hour later, and Colin told me in no uncertain terms that he was less than entertained by my antics, but then burst into laughter and told me that the Fokker we'd downed was half his. He then proceeded to tell me that he needed a Hotchkiss or Lewis of his own. We reported in and, several hours later, received a call from a battery not far from Lealvillers that they'd recovered the wreckage of a Fokker monoplane, having seen it fall out. I'm pleased to say that the Hun pilot was still alive, although a little shaken, and was sent to us under guard. He turned out to be a good sort of chap by the name of Hoffman who spoke reasonably good English on account of his prewar studies. He was as surprised that I had attacked him as I was that I'd actually downed him, and I couldn't help feeling that the Huns are probably pretty confident that these new Fokkers and Pfalzs are their means to causing us and the RNAS considerable trouble in the future.

Anyway, there I must end. I've bagged an entirely unexpected Hun, which you may tell the parents about, and have managed to risk my life like a silly ass, which you must not mention to them! I know that you are still pondering between Manchester to continue studying and joining up, and I would urge you, given what I've been told about life in the trenches, to take up the degree course at Manchester, particularly given their reputation with sciences.

I will write soon, and, I hope, enclose some photographs of the downed Hun aeroplane.

Your most affectionate brother,

Vic

Inline advert (2nd and 3rd post)

#3082320 - 08/28/10 06:58 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: May 2006
Posts: 3,743
HeinKill Offline
Senior Member
HeinKill  Offline
Senior Member

Joined: May 2006
Posts: 3,743
Cloud based
Good stuff, very atmospheric!
H


[Linked Image]
#3082933 - 08/29/10 07:44 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: HeinKill]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Captain Victor Timm RFC,
2 RFC,
Calonne sur la Lys
Nord

6th June 1915

Dear Marcus,

We were up again this morning. I took B flight up, with, as usual, Wilshaw as observer, the general idea being that we'd make our way down to Lens and observe what was going on at the front lines. However, the fates intervened and the day didn't quite turn out like that.

I have a couple of new pilots in my flight – two second lieutenants who've joined us directly from Hendon, and whom I decided should come up on this job, since it's only a short hop to Lens from Merville where the squadron currently resides. In view of the recent appearance of Hun scouts in the area – as you'll recall from my last letter – I'd sat down with Colin to establish just what the best method is of evading the Huns might be, and how we can turn their tactics to our advantage. Over drinks, Colin had opined that two things had stood out when we last met up with the Hun single seaters: the first being that they're only really dangerous to us because their chaps have an unfettered view of us from their cockpits – I have Colin's head stuck in front of me all the time – and the second being that as long as we can evade their initial attacks and force them down to our height, then we have every chance of besting them.

Thus it was that we resolved that if we met any more Huns, Colin would signal to me where the Hun was should we be lucky enough to get one in front of us, thereby letting me know when best to fire, and thereby saving ammunition. The second thing we resolved on, particularly with new crews, was to keep together and to try to maintain as much height as possible in order to force the Fokkers to fight us on equal terms.

We briefed the new chaps and their obs, as well as Captain Phillips and Lieutenant Ashford who already know the ropes somewhat, concerning this new plan, to much sage nodding and general agreement that it might be a good and workable plan.

So we went off and I led everyone up until we were around 5000 feet up and heading towards Armentieres, prior to heading South towards our destination. We could see some of our own Bristol scouts – No.1 Squadron, I think Colin said later – which was something of a comfort. No sooner had we seen them sunning themselves and generally having a gay old time zooming round in their machines, when Colin was suddenly gesticulating like mad and pointing up towards the Sun. He has exceptional eyesight, and had noticed three monoplanes a couple of miles away, thankfully.

I tried to attract the attention of the Bristols by wing movements, however they seemed to be having far too good a time to actually be paying very much attention to their surroundings, and so drifted away, as the monoplanes came closer to us. I rather had wind up at this point, since they were higher up than us – the only solution was to climb up and keep them in sight which Wilshaw did through field glasses, gesticulating wildly and indicating that the Fokkers were coming down towards us.

I signalled the flight to close up and perform a rising climb to starboard, which put the Huns at our three o'clock – ie, dead on our right – since I guessed that they wouldn't be happy to see us climbing and turning at the same time. And thus it was. One Fokker came screaming over our heads, not 100 feet from us, whilst the other two also overshot. I heeled our 'plane over hard to port and corkscrewed downwards towards the Huns, with Colin pointing at one who seemed to be in the best position to receive our ministrations. I suppose we must have dropped about 4000 feet, and then came up behind he Hun scout at around 500 feet or so. Wilshaw kept pointing him out then hunched down and to one side as I popped off rounds from the Hotchkiss. I could see bits and pieces detach themselves from the Fokker and having blazed away like a madman for a minute or so, the Hun started trailing smoke and losing height. I was sure I could hear Colin cheering, and when he turned round he did rather have a large smile on his face.

I looked round to find that both the other Huns had been sundered from each other's company and were being harried by the rest of the flight, and were clearly concerned only for their own survival, and thus didn't try to do anything other than run for it. I suspect that they might have been a little startled to have begun the fight with all the aces, only to find that they then had none up their sleeves, since, truth be told, even the BE can outmanouvre those things, and the BE is frightful in that respect.

We followed our Hun down, still smoking, and popped the rest of the ammo off at him, but that apparently made little difference to his descent. A minute or two later, the Fokker went into a tree and the wing tore off, turning the machine round and pitching it onto the deck.

By now, we were out of ammunition so it seemed foolhardy to continue, particularly given that the Huns would probably be looking for us with more scouts – not an entirely appealing prospect – so I signalled to B flight to make our way back to Merville where we landed some twenty minutes later.

When we alighted back at Merville and I'd taxied in, Colin was out of the 'plane in a flash and clapped me on the back, expressing delight at the outcome of our encounter and the success of our ruse. I think you could say that there was unrestrained pleasure in the flight at having bested a flight of Hun scouts without loss to ourselves and Major Douglas congratulated us on the exploit, adding that he'd have a chat with Major Grenfell over at No. 1 Squadron to ascertain why his chaps had not helped us. I retorted that we hadn't really needed help, but Douglas does have a point, so I wouldn't want to be one of the Bristol boys when words have been had with them.

As it turned out, A flight completed the job themselves and DHQ should receive the plates in the morning, so all in all, a rather successful day. Around lunchtime, Colin and I bagged a motorcycle and made our way over to the point where the Fokker had crashed. It seems that the poor chap flying it had died either in the final crash, or perhaps through prior wounds, and all that remained were one wing, some of the rear of the fuselage and the burnt out remains of the rest of the machine. A rather melancholy sight, that did make me shudder somewhat, since it might have been myself and Colin in our BE2c performing that particular role, had circumstances been only a little different.

We identified the aeroplane as coming from FA62, which I suppose is the equivalent of one of our scout squadrons. We did, however, manage to cut some identifying marks from the 'plane's rear fuselage which accompanied us back to Merville in the sidecar.

So there you have it – another Hun downed, much to my satisfaction, although I dearly wish we could have brought him down alive, as we did with Herr Hoffman last time. Tonight, we're going into Saint-Floris to get steaming drunk to celebrate the day's work, so I imagine I will be rather delicate in the morning, but we have nothing on tomorrow except to perform some of the less exciting but equally necessary work at the Squadron.

Pass on my love to Mother and Father, and give them my reassurances that I am both well and quite happy with life at the moment.

Your loving brother,

Victor

#3088628 - 09/07/10 10:12 AM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Captain Victor Timm RFC,
2 RFC,
Calonne sur la Lys
Nord

3rd July 1915

Dear Marcus,

I thought that you might like to know what has been happening out here in sunny France since last we communicated. I received your latest parcel nearly two weeks ago but wasn't aware of it as I was rendered hors de combat when our undercarriage struck an Eindecker near Bruay which put me into hospital for a while. Wilshaw was fine, and it was he that pulled me from our BE after I'd wrestled it down onto the deck, I'm pleased to say.

Needless to say, after that he came to the hospital and we spoke at length about the problem we now have with Hun scouts. We've lost a few pilots and rather more machines to the Huns because, it seems to me, that they are adapting to the new style of warfare better than we are. The net result is that we receive new pilots, they fly several times, and then they are no more. I tried to fathom this with Colin who pointed out that we don't attack the Huns when they come over, preferring to continue on our jobs and therefore disregarding the position into which we thereby put ourselves. I felt that he spoke good sense in this matter and upon my discharge back to the squadron - by the way, you mention my hospitalisation to the parents at risk to your life - I sought out Sholto to discuss the matter. He's a level headed sort of chap, and has agreed that once I have 30 hours flying up in combat that he will be happy for me to go back to England as an instructor, and then afterwards to train up on scouts to put some of my ideas into train. I spoke to Colin about this, and he was most unhappy with this prospect. He's certainly the best obs in No. 2, but he doesn't want to fly with another pilot, and certainly not some of the greenhorns that we've received of late. I can't really blame him and we spoke further about what this might portend for him. At length, he finally conceded that his obsession with having something to pop off at Huns with was a manifestation of his wish to fly, and thus we saw Major Douglas about it. He wasn't happy at the prospect of losing a flight commander and his best obs, but saw the thrust of the argument, and thus once I have 30 hours up, Colin will also return to England in order to learn how to fly and thereby gain his wings.

That is how things now stand. I was fortunate enough to down another Hun yesterday, who went down in the middle of a village - I believe that no-one in the village was harmed - but it simply brought home to me the fact that my temperament might be more suited to flying scouts, particularly given that I've spent so much time in two seaters, and I suspect that once I've trained up on scouts I will be the happier for it. Wilshaw is rather torn, given that his skills will be missed, but, I think, rather like me, he is becoming somewhat frustrated by matters as they stand, and that we must act as we see fit. Thank God that Sholto is in accordance with our thinking.

Given our present hours and probable activity, it's likely that I will be back in England within a month or so, so I shall be able to take some leave and come to visit for a while. I'm delighted that you have been taken up at Manchester, and I hope very much that the engineering course will, in due course, be the perfect release for your talents.

Please let mother and father know that I should be back before too long, if all goes well, and in any case, take care of them and yourself. I'll write to you presently once things have settled down over here. I must end now as I have to take up some of our newest arrivals to give them the guided tour of the area and to introduce them thereafter to the Mess. Wish me luck!

Affectionately yours,

Victor.

#3104688 - 09/30/10 07:55 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Captain Victor Timm,
2 RFC,
Calonne sur la Lys,
Nord

7th July 1915

Dear Marcus,

I hope that this letter finds you well. I'm still in one piece, although it seems that the gods are conspiring against me getting home safe and well. We were up again today on a recon job up at Lille, more or less over the front, and I had strict instructions from Sholto that there were to be no heroics, and that the new chap, Lt Russell, was to be treated with kid gloves. He's the replacement for 2nd Lt Hawes, who was with us for all of one job before he got picked off by a Fokker a few days ago. Such is our life out here.

We took off past eight and headed North at around 6000 feet. The fields are currently full of red poppies – you never saw such a sight I can tell you - and we headed up towards Armentieres with Colin keeping a sharp look out. Good thing too, as he was soon waving and pointing to the East from which we could see a number of aeroplanes converging on our flight. It very soon became apparent that there was a scrap going on with Bristol Scouts and Hun monoplanes zooming around and giving each other what for. My initial reaction was that we should continue to follow our heading but it quickly became apparent that there were more 'planes from both sides ahead – I counted at least a dozen or more – and that we were in the most frightful situation. I fairly had wind up, and if it hadn't been for Wilshaw relaying the information back in our little pilot/observer code, I think I would have declared the job dud and sought the solace of Terra Firma.

However, Colin found us a way through the scrap – we were too low to intervene – and we continued Northwards, which did us no good as yet another formation of Huns suddenly hove into sight, and I realised that we would not be having a good day. They were entangled with our chums from No. 1, and I recognised them as Fokkers from FA62. We climbed like mad, and found ourselves in the middle of the most awful melee, with BEs, Bristols and Huns all wheeling and zooming round, trying to find an opening. My flight kept with me as though glued on, and we turned to face the crowded sky. What a sight! I shan't forget it any time soon. Presently, Colin pointed out a Hun somewhat below us, and I sideslipped in behind him and fired off a long burst or two. His kite began to lose height and emit smoke, but no sooner than this happened, a pair of Bristol Scouts cut in in front of me and started popping off at the Hun. Well, I tell you! My dander was up and I leapfrogged the first Bristol and started blazing away over the head of the second. Quite sensibly, he pulled hard to port and I gave the Fokker a long burst.

Pulling away, I lost sight of the Hun, but Wilshaw waved at me and gestured downwards: below the Hun scout, now engulfed with flames, was spiralling down to his doom. A terrible sight that will remain with me until I die, I suspect. There was, however, no time to dwell on this and I wrenched the BE upwards and starboard and signalled to B flight to close up on me. The Bristols appeared to have the matter in hand, and I was conscious of our work in hand.

We continued Northwards, but on an Easterly bearing for but a mile or two, when to my horror I picked out four more monoplanes to the East. I immediately knew that they couldn't be Bristol monoplanes or French models, which meant more trouble. I counted four, flying higher than us, but clearly they'd seen us and were descending to attack. I gunned the motor for all it was worth whilst Colin beat the side of our BE and gesticulated downwards. I knew that he was in the right, but I couldn't see much future in trying to outrun these chaps; their advantages would ensure that all of us would fall.

Right on the edge of stalling, I pulled our 'plane round as hard as I could, with the Fokkers looming large to port. I braced myself and sure enough felt the thwack! of bullets clattering our port wing and fuselage. The controls became softer, soggier and I suddenly realised that this might be it: after all those hours and all the pontificating and scheming, this might be our end, more or less over the front, too low to run and too slow, to boot. God only knows how we got away with it, but we found ourselves above the melee with Colin stabbing at the air to point out a Hun, so I kicked the rudder hard to starboard and found ourselves behind a Hun scout. I squeezed about 30 rounds off and the Fokker in front of us immediately gushed smoke and headed down.

I had had enough. I looked around and found that the flight was still intact and that some Bristols were coming to our aid. Satisfied by this, I scrubbed the mission and set course back to Merville. We landed around thirty minutes later, but I was too shaken to celebrate our success, such as it was.

I've filled in the usual bumf forms and claimed a brace which would, if confirmed, make me technically an 'ace', however I have seen and done quite enough for one day. I'm beginning to think that I should stay and fight on, given the number of novices in the squadron, and yet I know deep down that unless we can bring our scouts to bear more effectively, then I will undoubtedly be shot down in due course. I counted at least half a dozen wrecked aeroplanes on the ground as we fled, and I have no desire to be counted as one of them.

You must not mention a word of this to the parents. Tell them that all is well and that my return to England is imminent. I'm too tired to write much more, so I will wish you goodnight and hope that I am recovered and in better hue in due course.

Yours,

Victor

#3106462 - 10/03/10 05:10 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Captain Victor Timm RFC,
1 RFC,
Bailleul,
Nord

27th July 1915

Dear Marcus,

Thank you for your congratulations expressed in your letter recently. I was most touched, and added to the pleasure of having seen you all of late up in Matlock, it was an added fillip. I'm most touched that you and your friend Adele were able to come up to the parental nest, and I hope that I didn't bore your senseless with my nonsense about training.

I will admit that my recent break from flying in France has been a wonderful break for me, as it has given me the chance to do two things in the main: the first, to pass on my experiences and flying skills – however meagre they are – to the various trainee pilots that I've encountered. God love them: they mostly look like schoolboys, but I'm sure they will be capital fellows, assuming that a passing Hun doesn't shoot them down their first day out. I hope that my knowledge will help them to survive over here, since I wouldn't be that keen were I in their shoes. The second, as you might have guessed from my new address, is that I have now become a scout pilot. I have rather mixed feelings about this: my last few days at No.2 Squadron saw a few sorties where we were having to scrap our way through Huns to do a job.

You may remember me telling you that my last 'official' run over the lines led into a scrap with the Huns – it was one of those reconnaissance jobs that had to be done – and I was lucky enough to down a Hun scout near Lens, however I did do a couple of jobs thereafter where I was acting as Nurse to the flight. One, in particular, which I couldn't tell you about, as it would have taken too long, was a job to Arras where I eventually had to turn into a flight of Fokker monoplanes to persuade them to leave us be. I managed to set three of them smoking, thanks more to Colin's expertise than mine, but it really did underline the need for scout pilots who've been up a while in spotters.

So, after the period passing on my “wisdom”, I was over in Hendon for training on Bristols – however they didn't have any! They're all needed, of course, out here, so I had to practice in a variety of aeroplanes such as the Avro 504 or Morane which I'm unlikely to fly out here. I even got to fly a Longhorn, but I suspect I won't ever again.

Since I saw you last, I've heard from Colin Wilshaw. He's not been back to England yet, and is still with No. 2 RFC, although he's less than happy with the arrangement, and thinks me a lucky dog to have transferred over. I'm hoping to meet up with him and some of the other chaps from No. 2 in Hazebrouck next week. Hopefully his scout training – well, pilot training in his case – will come through soon.

I did my first job over the lines this morning, as we'd been asked to take down a Hun balloon north of Ypres. I took my chaps up – they're splendid fellows, by the way – and nudged our way into the area. I was surprised there wasn't more Archie, and wasted a chance to take down the Hun sausage at the first pass. I'd noticed some Hun patrols on high, and was concerned about this, but, apparently, the Huns aren't inclined to take on aircraft, even on their own side, so I signalled my no. 2 to keep an eye out whilst I returned to the observation balloon. Unbelievably, they hadn't had the wit to haul their chaps in, so I had an open door. Even Archie was fast asleep, and it only took about 100 rounds of ammunition to send the balloon down, with Hun ballooneers leaping out all over the place in order to survive. Most satisfying.

I signalled like mad to get everyone else back in place and over the lines, but they all came dribbling back at their pace and in their own sweet time. I'll be dealing with this in due course. If I can tackle taking on the command of a scout flight in a squadron I barely know, flying an aircraft that is so very different to the good old BE, then making sure that these chaps understand their job should be simple enough. However, I seem to remember people telling me last year that this would be a quick and easy war. We shall see!

Affectionate regards,

Victor

#3106480 - 10/03/10 05:46 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Victor Timm RFC,
1 RFC,
Bailleul,
Nord

29th July 1915

Dear Marcus,

Today has been something of an eye opener for me, and I'm writing this not six hours since I was picked up and brought back here to Bailleul Asylum by some very obliging chaps from the local RA nine two battery. I should explain.

We were detail this morning to escort some BEs over to a Hun aerodrome at Roucourt so that they could spoil someone's breakfast, muck up the turf and so forth; basically the sort of thing that they're unsuited for, but are asked to do. Thus, we set off on a lovely sunny morning to provide cover for these chaps from No. 7 Squadron. My flight – B flight – are under no illusions as to what I expected from them, which was, to help out if Hun scouts made an appearance. All well and good, however as we went over the lines near Houplines, I had the damnedest feeling about the job.

We continued on in glorious sunshine, confident that we'd be fine, and then spotted Hun monoplanes to the East, about a mile or two below us. This was, in and of itself, not a worry, since the Hun 'planes simply don't have the puff to climb up to where we patrol, and thus we were in no danger. However, that is not to say that the BE2's we were escorting weren't in danger. I became alarmed when, a few minutes later, I spotted two more formations of Huns off to starboard, again much further down, but nearing the BE's which were approaching Roucourt – their target.

I signalled a dive from 12000 feet, where we'd been safe enough, down to around 6000 feet, where the BE's were beginning to have a hot old time of it as about a dozen Fokker scouts dived and wheeled around them – something I'd been through myself, of course, but had never seen from the outside. I was both horrified and fascinated. I led B flight right down and squeezed off around 30 rounds at a Hun attempting to bring down one of the BE's; not an easy task, I have to say, when the damn machine gun is offset at an angle to the left of the propeller, however it had the desired effect.

What was rather less desired was that it brought me into the path of several other Hun scouts, and they were happy to point out the folly of my ways by shooting my 'plane up and damaging the various surfaces and controls. Thankfully, and incredibly, not a bullet landed near me, although I could hear them ripping the air around me. The Bristol began to lurch and sag, and the Le Rhone lost much of its revs and began to make the most awful grinding noises. Looking round, I could see two or three Huns behind me, but no-one of B flight, despite what they had been trained to do, ie, fight as a formation.

Clearly, there was no chance of my remaining aloft and attempting to down my attackers, so I winged over and headed Westwards, zigzagging like mad as I went, which shook off my pursuers for a very short time, but sure enough, as I flew over Vitry-en-Artois at around 500 feet, they were there, lining up to take potshots at me as I struggled West.

I cannot describe my feelings of rage and helplessness in that situation, the engine misfiring, the wings peppered and the controls so sloppy that I had to wrench the stick two handed to effect course changes. I continued to bob and weave as best I could as the Fokkers came in. Incredibly, I could hear, see and feel the bullets hitting the 'plane, but at no point did they hit me. I lost the altimeter and fuel gauge, shattered by Hun rounds, and yet nothing touched me.

I looked round and counted four of those damn vultures lining up and so, spotting a forest with a slim road through it, flew right down to ground level and followed the road – there, let them follow that! This shook the Huns off for a while, unwilling as they clearly were to follow at such a ludicrously low level, and thus gave me time to take stock as I dodged trees. More or less everything that defined the Bristol as an aeroplane had been shot up, the Vickers was jammed beyond redemption and the engine was grinding itself to death, so I sent up an unspoken prayer to whoever might be listening; I may be agnostic, but there are clearly times when it is ill-advised to make more enemies.

My dancing partners above seemed to be making rather hard work of sending me to the ground, perhaps due to their not being able to organise themselves to do the necessary work, and so I continued to weave for my life, as ill-aimed salvoes of Hun bullets bounced around the already poorly Bristol.

Presently, I identified the woods South of Vimy and threw the 'plane almost onto the deck – this was more or less the front lines, and I didn't wish to have Archie pick me off at low altitude, knowing also that the Huns would be less inclined to fly that low, particularly given that ground troops tend to just blaze away like mad things when anything with wings comes over – it's one of their few pleasures and revenges. Still, one particularly bold Hun did keep with me, and I felt the bullets thud in, and could even hear quite acutely the firing from his aeroplane. By now, I was well beyond having wind up – this was life and death – and I approached our lines, only to be met by a hail of small arms fire from the troops below. I had to grit my teeth and fly through, however the Hun did the sensible thing and made himself scarce at that juncture, no doubt fearing a random shot which would bring him to rest on our side to the lines.

By now, the Bristol was barely flying at all, and my speed hovered between forty to sixty miles per hour; ridiculous and untenable, in short order. Now finally over the lines and nearing the Roclincourt road, I looked for somewhere to set down, and having espied a long low hill towards Arras, turned the fuel off and killed the engine. The Bristol scudded alarmingly to port, and it was clear that I wouldn't be making anything like a text book landing. I fought with the stick and rudder as the ground rushed up, and then I was down, the port wings snapping off and detaching themselves, along with the undercarriage, the propeller, half the tail and God knows what else, as I ploughed the field's owner a new furrow.

Finally, we came to a halt, and I climbed out somewhat shaken. Some of our chaps from the Warwickshires had witnessed the crash, and were there to welcome me back to Terra Firma, and they got in contact with the squadron on my behalf as I accepted a few stiff whiskeys from them. Presently some RA chaps came over and offered me a lift North in one of their tenders, but couldn't do anything about the Bristol. I told them not to worry about it: I sincerely doubt that it will be of any more use to anyone; it certainly will never fly again.

So there you are; I arrived back around an hour ago and had to explain the flight to our people, and found out that despite my departure from the fight, only one other Bristol went down and that was near Bailleul on approach. The BE's, I'm pleased to say, came back intact, if not unscathed.

I have now experienced the full fury of these Hun kites, and yet seen their reticence to finish off the job properly. They should have downed me, but didn't apparently have the fibre to do the job, which is the only reason I can see for my survival. God help us if they start putting their flights into full squadrons, as we do.

I must now sign off, since I have dinner to attend to, and I suspect that I will be chatting to my flight for some time this evening.
My fondest regards,

Victor

#3112282 - 10/10/10 09:44 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
2 RFC,
Hesdigneul,
Nord

29th January 1916

Dear Marcus,

There is so much to tell you, and so little time to do so. When I last wrote to you – thank you for all your letters, you will understand the lack of replies anon – I was newly anointed as a flight commander at RFC No. 1 Squadron. What I hadn't accounted for was the impudence of fate. No sooner was I settled in with No. 1, when I had a call from Our Betters telling me that Major Douglas – my erstwhile commander back in No. 2 – had been taken from command back to England for reasons that weren't made clear, and I would be forthwith transferred back to No. 2 to fill in as squadron commander until such times as they put in place a permanent replacement.

Well, as you can imagine, I was rather less than impressed with such shenanigans, given what I'd gone through to become a scout pilot. Of course, there's no sense in protesting; they needed an experienced body and I was the poor sod selected, regardless. Fortunes of war you might say. I suppose that it was something of a promotion and a pat on the back, but given the temporary nature of the posting, I'm not so sure.

Anyhow, regardless of the whys and wherefores of it all, I ended up on a truck back to Hesdigneul, having waved off my erstwhile – and rather fitful – comrades over at No. 1. My new home is here at Hesdigneul-les-Bethune, to give it its full name, a few miles South West of Bethune proper.

I'd hardly returned back to the squadron – much to Colin Wilshaw's gleeful baying – when we had our first job up over the lines. That, I'm pleased to say went well, and I was able to judge the quality of some of the new pilots who've come in in the interim. Regrettably people like Ashford et al, who were regulars have gone West, so we're having to make do with some painfully ill-equipped chaps coming through. I did one or two more jobs, which were pretty uneventful; I saw more Huns out and about, but this seems to be par for the course at the moment, so it was simply a case of keeping everyone out of harms way and getting the job done.

The actual responsibility of the day to day running of the squadron was reasonably onerous, but it's amazing just how much of the non-essential nonsense can be palmed off onto the orderly dogs and other ground staff. At least it liberated a little more time to fly, which is entirely desirable given that our headcount is down to six pilots and only a few more obs.

The top hat to all this was in mid November when FA62 paid us an unwanted and unwelcome visit in their little buzzy 'planes and I ordered up everyone to give them a fright. I calculated that I'd never get a better chance to give them a good beating, aided by our ground MGs and that was precisely the outcome: I managed to shoot down a Hun scout, thanks to Colin's exceptional signing, and another one was accounted for by the squadron. We lost no 'planes, which made it all the better.

That would have been a marvellous result, however it meant that when we finally got aloft again a few days later, after some utterly dismal rainy weather, we ended up facing some rather vengeful Huns out way South East of Albert when on a spotting job. It was one of those flights where everything that could go wrong did. The flight became fragmented, regardless of how much I signalled, the wind blew horribly from the West, we were assailed by rain and sleet and, to cap it all, both Archie and the Huns were in a troublesome mood.

The long and short of it was that we found ourselves, behind Hun lines being picked on by eindeckers. Normally, that wouldn't put the wind up, but these chaps were terribly well organised and tore into us. I did my level best to stop them but several of the flight were forced down due to damage. One BE went down in a huge sheet of flame, which was a dreadful and upsetting sight to witness, though I hardly knew them being such a new crew.

The end was inevitable, and despite chasing the Huns as far as possible to lessen the strain on the other chaps, we were inevitably caught up by some Hun scouts who dealt our 'plane enough blows to force us down inside their lines, but thankfully away from the front line. On crash landing, I obviously put a flare into our BE to prevent the Huns from getting their hands on it, and Colin and I started limping Westwards after what I can only call a rather lucky landing; lucky, that is, as in we both survived unharmed.

Hun infantry picked us up soon thereafter, and we were passed on to various groups of the German army, all sporting increasing amounts of egg on their shoulders, until we were carted off to an airfield somewhere near Albert, as best as I could make out. This turned out to be the home of FA62, the people who'd sent us down and whose membership we've helped to thin out whenever possible. We spent a less than jolly evening with them: they wanted to welcome us as fellow aviators, but I'm afraid I've seen rather too many of our chaps go down at their hands to have much truck with them, regardless of how civil they are. I will be fair and admit that they weren't beastly to us or try to lord it over us, and they did seem queerly similar to us in many ways, however they were still Huns which made it rather difficult to warm to them. Perhaps in another place and another time. But I digress.

Because both Wilshaw and I were officers, we were shipped off the following morning to a processing station further East, from where we were taken to what we were told was a holding camp prior to embarkation to Germany. Well, as you might imagine, neither I nor Colin was keen on this idea, and thus we deliberated upon the best way of avoiding this fate. We concluded that the best course would be to try and escape in transit, given the opportunity, as this would give us the best chance of avoiding set procedures involving sweeps for escapees and so forth.

The opportunity, however, didn't come and we found ourselves in a camp near Waterloo – now there's name with resonance – which was both unpleasant to be in and depressing to consider leaving at the same time. As it turned out, German bureaucracy behind the lines is as wonderfully advanced as our own, and we were not taken any further. It took a full eight weeks before we had a chance to escape, including the most miserable Christmas imaginable, but escape we did. We decamped under the wire of the camp and threw ourselves upon the mercy of the local Belgians, who, I'm glad to say were the salt of the Earth. They kept us both hidden for a fortnight and then guided us back to the lines, wishing us a bon voyage.

We finally made it through the lines – although God knows how – two days ago, around 60 days after we were forced down by Hun scouts. So, here I am to let you know that we Timms don't sell ourselves lightly, and that I'm still here. The squadron's been run by captains on brevet since I've been gone, however now I'm back I suspect that the Corps will want me back in charge immediately. It really is that pressing.

I must dash – there is so much to do and insufficient numbers to do so. I will write again once all this whirl has settled down.

Love to mother and father and please let them know that it was highly likely that the letter that they received concerning my going missing was simply another piece of bumf without anything to back it up.

Affectionately,

Vic

#3112286 - 10/10/10 09:55 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
St. Omer,
Nord

25th February 1916

Dear Marcus,

I thought it best that I write to you today for various reasons, not least the which is that I'm still alive, which, as the nonsense written in the papers would attest is nigh upon a miracle. I've had a chance over the last day or so outside of jobs to see some of the papers from England – admittedly they're nearly a month old – and I have to say that I'm not impressed with the line they tend to take. Be a good chap and write to them, telling them that the skies aren't black with eindeckers, despite what it profits them to tell their gullible readers.

In fact, there's more chance of piling up one's 'plane, catching influenza, breaking a bone through rough and tumble in the mess or being knocked down by traffic on the Bethune to Bruay road, with similar results, I dare say. Whilst I would dearly love to have faster, better armed and more manouvreable 'planes for the squadron, I appreciate that this will take time. As part of my return to No. 2, Boom dropped in, which was much appreciated. Trenchard is an impressive chap, and he took the time to hear about what had been happening over the last quarter or so – much of which I've been absent from as it happens – and I think that he took to heart my request for closer coverage by scouts when Huns scouts are likely to be around (which is more or less all the time nowadays). Trenchard congratulated me on my bag of Huns and my recent escape, but I had no answers from him regarding better cover or quicker 'planes except to say that better aeroplanes were in the offing and that we had to do what we can with what we have, as it puts the Huns on the back foot. I'm quite happy to hear this, however it sounds like “jam tomorrow” and in the meantime, the Huns appear to be organising themselves into groupings or squadrons that ensure that they can more than match double our numbers when we appear over their lines.

I advise you not to mention this to the aged parents; they don't need to know.

Thus, after Boom took off with his scribe Henderson, a few hours later we had exactly the sort of scenario that Trenchard's thinking is meant to avoid – a scramble because of incoming Hun aeroplanes. Colin and I – and the rest of No. 2, actually – sat in our 'planes by the hangars, the rain crashing down around us as unwanted guests came over at a few hundred feet, loosing off the odd round. I had no doubt that they wouldn't attack us directly, as we're quite well protected by our own Archie and machine gun emplacements around the field, something that they will probably have remembered from their last and rather expensive visit to us. But, my God, there were a lot of them! I counted around eight and Wilshaw told me that he counted at least eleven unique aircraft. I signalled to everyone that the mission was dud, and we all sloped off to the mess, or in the case of those of us who were compelled to, off to the Sergeant Major in charge of the defences and then to have a quick word with the RA people on the perimeter. Not a tremendous day, made worse as the rain turned to sleet, and then, around five, to snow.

Curiously, the next day, I received a 'phone call from Wing informing me that my time with No. 2 was coming to a close, and that I should be prepared, first, to move to No. 12 Squadron who are based at St. Omer, and second, to prepare the Squadron for my departure and the arrival of Major Waldron as my successor. This latter was hardly a surprise as Ferdy has done various tours with No. 2 in the last year and is a fine chap. The former, however, was a huge surprise to me, since it meant not only leaving No. 2, which I of course had to accept, but also forgoing the idea of flying scouts, as my new squadron are in FE2b aeroplanes. These are yet more Farnborough devices, but differ from the BE by being pushers – in other words, with the engine at one's back, and, moreover, with one's observer sat in front.

I have rarely seen such a delighted grin on the face of another human being as when I informed Colin that I would be going to No. 12, and told him that he might as well get his long cherished wish and come with me. He announced himself chuffed with such a move; not surprising given that we're up to full establishment again, and thus he can be spared, but also given that we've spoken many times regarding our increased enfeeblement in BE's. It is also true, I suppose, that we both felt a sense of escape; more so for Colin, since he stayed at the Squadron when I sent back to England, and then briefly posted to No. 1 RFC.

There was, inevitably, a rather large do, both joyous and mournful, as I left No.2 for the second time: both Colin and I were subject to various toasts, as well as not a few rather faux-grand and witty panegyrics about our heroic attainments with the Squadron, all containing a tiny seed of truth, and rather more wine and spirit than one would care to admit! As CO to the Squadron, I tried very hard to remain upright, but the blighters managed something that the Huns haven't yet done, and I achieved a very tricky crash landing a mere few yards from my base. Discreet fellow airmen, I'm told, saw me to my bed.

We moved over to St. Omer at the start of February, and acquainted ourselves with the new squadron and the area. Briefly, St. Omer is further away and to the North West of our old home at Hesdigneul, but is, in my opinion, and given its proximity to Arques, a better place to be, astride the River Aa. We're to the South East of St. Omer, just South of the ville of Longuenesse, a place that in other times I would be happy to stay.

Now ensconced at No. 12, I had the chance to take up the FE on various occasions earlier this month and to get a sense of how she feels as a bus for operations. Of course, Colin was with me, and we shared many an evening concerning how we should operate. He's obviously tickled pink with the idea of having two – that's right, not just one, but two – machine guns which he can operate, without any sort of recourse to myself and without regard to my wishes. I'm beginning to understand just how he felt after I had that forward mounted Hotchkiss mounted to our old BE last year! Of course, this also led to several late night philosophical discussions over some beers regarding the concept of just who was entitled to claim a victory in the event of shooting a Hun down. Colin quite correctly pointed out that in the past, I've been feted for victories that, without his help, simply wouldn't have occurred, to which I, equally correctly, I felt, pointed out that if he were to shoot down a Hun in the new bus, then he'd jolly well have to recognise the role of the bus driver in such a notional contest.

Onto the new bus. It's a queer old thing, with the engine aft, giving it quite strange handling characteristics. My first flight – alone, I might add – found that it was more manouvreable than the dear old BE, but hardly a vast improvement. It's somewhat less predictable, and, I'm told, can stall more easily than the BE. What is quite disconcerting is the rush of wind upon one's face and the lack of any vestigial warmth that the BE might afford. I took Colin up on several occasions during our first week, to enable him to get used to his new perch. He announced himself very pleased with the Lewises – unsurprising – but somewhat less than enamoured with the exposed position, particularly given that he has been used to engine warmth and a windshield. I reminded him gravely that this, indeed, is the price he has to pay to get his hands on a machine gun.

Thus it was that by Wednesday 23rd, we were fully part of the squadron, having performed our own induction into the ways of the FE, so to speak. More generally, we were, by then, better acquainted with our new squadron, and a fine set of men they are. They have all been here for a little while and one or two of them have been quite successful downing Huns despite the main job being reconnaissance and the odd bombing raid.

Next morning, after a convivial evening spent with our new comrades, we were rudely awoken with the news that Hun 'planes were heading in towards us. I jumped out of bed and grabbing only my sheepskin, helmet and goggles, shouted to the DO to get everyone out immediately and into their 'planes – as you'll imagine my last experience of a Hun raid has persuaded me that we should take them on whenever we can. Colin threw himself into the front bay and we managed to get off as the Huns began to loom on the horizon; thank goodness that Fokkers are as slow as the old BE is!

I'm afraid that I didn't treat our FE very kindly and we lurched into the sky with me racing the cold motor, just in time to avoid the Huns as they came in. Aware that other pilots were taking off, I dragged our bus starboard and staggered back towards the Hun scouts, who were busily popping off rounds and trying to avoid our chaps on the ground in the gun posts. The Huns bobbed around in their own odd way, and I closed on one when Colin started gesticulating like some sort of deranged mime artist: a Fokker scout had pulled off to port in a climb, and it was too good a chance to miss. I pushed the FE after it and Wilshaw, hunched behind his Lewis set to blasting away at the Hun. At such close quarters, he struck the Hun with a weight of rounds, and suddenly the Hun was trailing smoke heavily and headed downwards. Well, that was the end of that. The Hun hit the ground just North of Wizernes, a little way from us.

We circled back up, only to find that the enemy aircraft had made themselves very scarce indeed; apparently, it had been a “tip and run” raid. We landed back at St. Omer, with my having to look at Wilshaw's grin all the way back, and becoming acutely conscious that my pyjama bottoms were no protection against the elements. We finally landed and climbed out, to the odd pat on the back from other flyers who'd made it back in. No-one from No. 12 had been downed, and apparently only that one Hun had gone in, whilst his chums had effected no damage on the airfield that anyone could notice. All very odd.

That was the only job that day as the weather closed in, so we had the pleasure of a long lunch in St. Omer, where I had to endure Wilshaw's slightly inebriated rendition of the fight and his conclusion that he would soon be an 'ace' in his own right. For once, I think he might be right; his shooting was tremendous; far more economical than anything I ever managed. Still, no reason to let him know that, and I mocked him mercilessly for his maladroitness.

It's now around eleven on the 25th. I'm sat at my bureau with a coffee and anticipating a job later this afternoon. I will sign off, as this letter has been far too long for sensible reading. Please pass on my love to the parents, and tell them that I am quite well and, with William Tell sat in front of me, rather likely to be mentioned in despatches within the week!

Yours, affectionately,

Victor

Last edited by SimonC; 10/10/10 10:03 PM.
#3112984 - 10/11/10 08:00 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Is this stuff OK, by the way? There's more to post if people wish to continue reading it.

#3115599 - 10/14/10 08:41 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

6th April 1916

Dear Marcus,

Many apologies for my not having written sooner, but, as per usual, we've been in the thick of things and have been rather busy. I'm only recently discharged from hospital from our last scrap – poor Colin is likely to be in a little longer, given his broken nose and ankle – so it's all change.

Not least, it would seem in terms of aeroplanes. Having got used to the FE, we were almost immediately told to hand them over to a new squadron forming back in England. Not that we actually got to fly them back to England; oh no, that would have been too much to hope. Instead, we flew our FEs back to St Omer from Avesnes – our new home, in case you hadn't noticed – and then came back in the latest version of the dear old BE2, with which we were being re-equipped.

I hadn't known about this impending change when I joined No. 12, but it made sense as to why I was transferred in here. I do rather wish, though, that they'd told me at the time that the squadron was about to become users of the BE2. At least I could have chucked myself into the English Channel and had done with it. As it was, I was faced with bewildered pilots and observers wondering why they were trading in perfectly serviceable FEs for the latest variant of what the papers at home call “Fokker fodder”, I'm told. A perfectly reasonable question, to my mind, and one that I couldn't answer. The crews were quite upset, but, in the best traditions of the RFC, they will adapt to the BE. No wonder I was told to transfer in here; what a mug I was!

As it turns out, the new version of the BE is about as ghastly as the BE2c. This one is the 'd' version, and I'm damned if I can find any of the alleged improvements. Given that Hun scouts are now the rule rather than the exception when aloft, this does not bode well. The only consolation is the fact that we are beginning to see De Havilland pusher scouts and the odd French made Nieuport scout when doing jobs, but they've been far and few between thus far.

And, of course, poor old Wilshaw has had his dreams of becoming an “ace” crumble like dust before his eyes, as he has had to return to being obs only, sans Lewis. I've been tempted to laugh a couple of times at his crestfallen expression, however propriety and a sense of unease have reined me in sharpish. After all: he's right. He should be able to defend himself with a weapon, rather than being my lookout. He could do this in the FE, but he's now a passenger again. What we actually need is a machine that is about 30mph faster, can manouvre more easily, climb faster, and has one or more machine guns for both the pilot and observer. If Farnborough can make something like that, then I can guarantee that the Huns won't stand a chance.

I suppose I should relate why Colin's in recuperation and I'm writing this – a couple of weeks ago, I was up on a job with three other crews, and we ended up, as seems to be all too common these days, bracketted between two different lots of Hun scouts – Fokkers, as usual.

Our flight path took us straight under the Huns, and I was entirely unsurprised when they dived down to engage us. As you'll know from what I've written previously, and my late night penny lectures on leave in the lounge over a whiskey, the only answer to this is to attack the Huns as they come down, and this is exactly what we did. Unfortunately, when I looked over, the other three 'planes in the flight were simply winging their way in a nice little vic on their way to becoming notches on some Hun's score. This wouldn't do, and we dived down to sort out a few of the Fokkers. I managed to get one smoking from his engine, thanks, as usual, to Colin's exemplary signalling, and around a minute or two later pounced on an EIII as he attempted to slide in behind Lt. Phillips in his BE, but in the end it was pointless. My flight went to the deck and landed variously, whilst Colin and I stayed up and managed to set yet another Fokker grumbling back to the lines wreathed in engine smoke. All well and good but the fourth Fokker bobbed in by us and holed our petrol tank.

Horribly aware of what a flamer entailed – having seen one or two – I immediately cut the engine and turned off the petrol supply, looking round to see if Herr Hun was still interested. It turned out that he was apparently treating it as a done deal, and flew off Eastwards, followed by white puffs from our Archie. By now, we were at about 1000 feet and sans motor, not entirely in a position to be choosy about where we would come down, which turned out to be in a rather badly torn field just South of Poelkapelle. The BE lost height and I had great problems handling it in the crosswinds, so when we came down, I wasn't quick enough to make adjustments, and thus wrecked the BE from stem to stern, as it first of all stood on its nose, and then turned over.

As I've indicated, Colin ended up injured, and I will admit to unbuckling, upside down, and dropping to Earth with a thud and a wish never to fly a Quirk again. Some Australians came to have a look at us and very quite forthright in pointing out that we were lucky to be alive, given that they'd seen us coming in after being beaten up by the last Hun scout. They were right. We pulled Wilshaw out and one of their orderlies quickly sorted out a sidecar and stretcher for him, and he was whisked away in some pain, and complaining loudly that if he'd had his own Lewis, etc. then this simply wouldn't have happened.

I went with this crew – artillery chaps from a local nine two battery – and was treated for a variety of cuts and grazes, none of which, worse luck, are able to take me off duty. I ended up phoning from their quarters – amongst the worst amount of noise as they plied their trade – back to Division who assured me that the message would get to back to No. 12. It took nearly eight hours before I heard back that no-one was available. Marvellous. In the end, I managed to hitch a ride to Poperinge via Ypres and then back to Bethune where I met up with Sergeant Howard who I'd arranged to meet up during his duties there. Another eight hours!

So, here I am. I will confess that this last job has shaken me up more than I would have imagined, but that is down to Captain Wilshaw now being hors de combat until his ankle is healed. The last I heard, it's a Blighty, which I'm sure will please him no end. I'm now left with the prospect of flying with a complete greenhorn in the front seat. I met the chap earlier this evening – a very nice chap from Taunton by the name of Cox. He's newly out here and will need a little time to settle in, however I'm afraid we don't have that time available, so he'll be with me first thing tomorrow morning, weather permitting. Good luck to us both.

I must sign off, as it's approaching midnight, and we're supposed to be out bright and early. Love to the aged parents, et al, and I hope that life at the University is fine enough.

Yours affectionately,

Victor

#3115605 - 10/14/10 08:49 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

16th April 1916

Dear Marcus,

Well, the baptism of fire for my new obs Cox, was somewhat delayed, given that it was imminent, I think, when I last wrote to you. The weather here has been perfectly filthy, with endless days of pouring rain, which have effectively made our work impossible to do. Days have been spent tuning aeroplanes, servicing engines, ensuring controls are tip top, lubricating machine guns, reloading drums, and all for nothing, it seems.

When the time spent on these tasks was done, we all – me included, I hasten to add – took ourselves off to do whatever we wished. Without Colin around, I tend to towards staff work for the Squadron, which you know I cordially dislike, but it somehow seems rather better than toddling off to Doullens or Rebrueviette in search of diversions. I'd normally put such jobs onto whoever'd drawn orderly dog, but I couldn't be bothered really.

So it carried on until this morning when – as if by a conjurer's wand – all the clouds and rain were magicked away and the dawn sun (a nice half past six start, of course) rose on the field, whilst the ground itself gave off a chilly mist, stubbornly resisting any possibility of warming up apparently.

We knew our brief for the day by this time, and I will admit that I wasn't exactly enthralled at the prospect: we were meant to simply saunter over into Hunland, about 30 miles in, find the railway junction at Fresnoy-le-Grand and drop some eggs on the place. Having done that, all we had to do was to fly back those same miles and Bob's your uncle.

By the end of the briefing to B flight, the only person not looking rather sick was young Cox. Given that this was his first job, not surprising, perhaps, but the rest of us, from a quick look round the room, didn't look to happy. I was one such. Anyway, flapping about like walrus hunters in our overgarments, we wandered out to the field where the ground grew had warmed up our engines and settled into the BE – loaded with bombs, oh! Deep joy! - and I managed to take off with about 100lbs too much weight on board, an obs I'd never flown up with before and the airfield looking more like Arras than a place to safely take off and land. It was a miracle that we all made it up.

I'm afraid that the rest of the narrative on all this is rather boring for chaps like yourself, keen to hear what we've been up to, to beat the Huns. In essence, we dodged our way – nota bene, dodged, rather than fought – between several groups of Huns who either saw us and couldn't follow, or else who were well placed and either didn't notice or made a hash of it. The Huns are now deploying two seater scouts apparently, with a machine gun fore and one aft for the obs. This is what we should be doing, but aren't. Thus, we had to dodge not only these quick machines, but also our old foes the Fokker scouts who also turned up in numbers, but without ever spotting us.

I will admit that, having made it to Fresnoy and then made a considerable mess of the train lines and various locomotives therein, I got the wind up terribly when, on the return flight, around 4-5 miles away from the front over the Arras to Cambrai road half a dozen Fokkers winged their way over towards us around four miles out. By then, the weather was ideal – Spring clear – and somebody must have told them by then that we'd paid a visit to their chums and had some sport. I immediately dived to port from around 6000 feet right down to about 1500 feet, which was damned silly as it simply made the task of the Hun AA machine guns and Archie easier. Don't forget that I've seen a few BE's shot down, and I'm not contemplating emulating that. As it was, it took our bus – me and Cox, with him looking around a little lost – due West, but it was one of those occasions when one actually starts to believe in deities, as we ended up right back over our lines, untouched, and with everyone intact.

After we landed, I had to congratulate young Cox on his bombing; apparently his two bombs wrecked a locomotive and a nearby shed, so there's plenty there to celebrate, particularly since the other three 'planes managed to mete out similar damage all over the target at Fresnoy. I'm simply surprised that the Huns weren't aloft to extract some measure of revenge, given that we went out and returned without an escort of scout aeroplanes. What was distinctly queer was being able to pick our way through so many Huns without having a glove lain upon us. Certainly, after we landed, Lt. Cox took himself off rather sharply and it was only over drinks later in the evening that I found out from him that he'd taken himself off to his quarters and come over all frit; hardly a great surprise: it was a terribly severe entree for anyone, still less an obs charged with leading the flight and ensuring that we hit the Hun railyard.

So there we are. It's been a frightful day for one's nerves, and I'm glad it's done. Thankfully, there's no early job, which probably explains the racket coming from our mess; I will confess that I dived out rather early to write this, and also to allow the others to have a drink and, however briefly, forget our current plight.

Give my regards, as always, to the parents, and let me assure you that I will be pressing for a change of scenery fairly soon.

Yours affectionately,

Victor

#3124406 - 10/26/10 10:13 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

17th May 1916

Dear Marcus,

Thank you for your gift of cigars which recently arrived with the parcel from mother and father. I've already written to them – something perhaps that I do not do enough, given their worries – to thank them for the wondrous gifts contained. I will one day explain to them that sending chocolate and brandy to someone serving in a place where both are exemplary and abundant is rather a waste, however at present that seems churlish. The boots, though, were marvellous, and much appreciated. Of course, in my letter to them I've thanked them profusely, etc.

Since I last wrote, I've had a letter from Colin who is recovering near Brighton, the lucky dog, and who is expressing an interest in learning to fly, with the possible thought of becoming a scout pilot. I've written back to him telling him he will do no such thing, and that we need him back tout de suite so I'm expecting him back on Wednesday. If he does go for his wings, though, I shall be both happy and sad. Happy that he will get the opportunity to have some damn silly obs sat in front of him, waving his arms like a banshee and generally obscuring his view, and sad that he won't be available to perform this theatrical device in front of me. Good luck either way, and I hope to see him again presently.

As it is, young Cox is proving to be an adequate replacement for Wilshaw, although he's taking his time to learn the finer points of what it is to be a good obs. His navigation and spotting are faultless, I have to say, his handling of plates is improving with every flight, and it's only the signing for my gunnery that doesn't appear to come that easily. Not surprising, perhaps, given that the system that Wilshaw and I sorted out seems to be some sort of dark secret, even amongst other BE crews, regardless of my advocacy in the mess.

Since I last wrote to you, the weather over here has been quite disappointing, given that we're slap in the middle of Spring, and we've had to fly in all sorts of murk, making what is a less than pleasant job even less so, which depresses the spirit somewhat. The squadron, overall, continues to prosper, even in these times of Hun belligerence; we are relatively lucky insofar as, although the Huns opposing us have their Fokkers and their quick two seaters – Rolands – we now have De Havillands, Nieuports and Fee's showing up on jobs, which means that, far from the nonsense I saw in a recently retrieved copy of the Mail, there is no wholesale culling of the Corps going on, and I advise you to tell people that who repeat this silliness. Having said that, it's now pretty clear that the Quirks that we fly are simply dud and not fit for purpose, and I look forward to receiving new aircraft in due course. Trenchard graced us with his presence two weeks ago, and, given the fright and slight wound I'd picked up near the end of April, I took him to task about the BE and its much needed replacement. He told me that the RAF have a new two seater design on the boards, and that it should be with us before 1917. Roll on that day, I said, and passed on a few design points that I thought might help them, such as the obs position behind the pilot, two synchronised machine guns for me, and two for the obs. Well, we'll see what Farnborough come up with; I'm not entirely hopeful.

I suppose you'll have heard that my MC now has a bar to it, since that horrible scrap over Arras – I had to explain it to the parents, given that they'd had notification that I was dead, and got rather upset, unsurprisingly. Well, obviously I wasn't, and I still haven't got to the bottom of how such a telegram went out so quickly, given the general inefficiency of everything out here. But I digress; so yes, you must now salute me and genuflect when you see me, since I am clearly a warrior amongst mortals, etc. It's all rather silly; Cox managed to duck his head long enough for me to pot a particularly unaware Hun in a Roland, and that, plus the fact that I've not fetched up dead, seem to have been enough to set off celebrations at DHQ, and hence the gong. It's also something of a distraction, since it is quite dangerous out here – newspaper nonsense aside – and scout escorts are becoming more common.

There was a grand exception yesterday, when we were given a job reconnoitering near Clery Sur Somme, down to the South near a large bend in the Somme river; clearly, something is going on in the Somme valley, and my instinct, having seen the troop movements down there and given the number of jobs we're now doing in that direction is that an offensive is in the offing, and something quite major at that. But I digress. Cox and I set off around eightish, with three other aeroplanes to have another squint at the area, and, as usual, we had to dodge various divisions of Huns looking out for us. There seems to have been a change recently with more of these Rolands turning up as replacements to the Fokker monoplanes – I hardly blame the Huns; if I had to fly a Fokker scout, I'd probably want to transfer to two seaters! - anyhow, these Roland devices are quite unpleasant, as they're rather well armed, quick and rather good at stunting, which puts us in our Quirks at a disadvantage. But, I'm digressing again. Forgive me; a couple of Armagnacs, and I tend to ramble nowadays.

Anyway, we pushed on South, avoiding the Huns like the plague until I saw a vast group of spots to the South, and another vast group to the West. Cox had seen them too, and in a very Colin-like gesture, indicated that we should scrub the job, and I was tempted to agree, but thought, no, hold your nerve, you're a Timm. Presently, the Western group identified themselves as Bebe's and Fee's, which was reassuring, however the Southern grouping were clearly Fokker scouts, which wasn't, and it was in their direction and slightly lower than them, that we were heading.

Nothing for it but to signal everyone to close up, climb towards them, and await the inevitable assault. Twelve Fokkers versus four Quirks didn't exactly look like appealing odds, to be frank.

And then, suddenly, the Fokkers had gone – flown over us by some way, clearly intent on attacking the Corps formation off to the West. I will admit I breathed a sigh of relief. We neared Clery and began our run between there and Peronne, with Cox faithfully snapping away, but it wasn't long before I noticed familiar shapes to the East and North. Worse, I was losing contact with Phillips, Boyd and Kincaid in the other 'planes, and it suddenly became apparent that the shapes were Fokkers intent on pouncing on these three. Cox had just turned round to signal that he'd done with the plates, and I threw the BE round and waggled my wings to the rest of the flight, indicating to them the imminent danger.

The Fokkers, inevitably, came down on us at this point and I was suddenly busy trying to keep the Huns away from my flight. I loosed off rounds at various monoplanes as they tried to take advantage of the situation, and I managed to set one of the Huns alight near Mesnil-le-Petit, more or less on the frontline. It was, however, a one-sided scrap as my chaps stuck together in tight formation and simply pressed on. I caught a second Hun with a few hits, and he veered off smoking, although I don't suppose for a moment that it put him down.

Inevitably, one of the Huns managed to get behind us and I felt the bullets thud into the kite and it lurched off and the engine started missing. I looked at a stream of petrol and vapour escaping from the tank and quickly turned off the feed, which of course killed the motor in seconds. We drifted down pursued by the Hun, who, thankfully declined to put any more rounds into us and ended up making a rather rough landing in a field near Foucaucourt-en-Santerre, close in behind the lines.

Cox and I staggered out of the BE just as the EIII flew down towards us. Was he going to machine gun us? I've heard of it occurring before now. However, he simply winged over us and headed back to Hunland, no doubt to claim a victory and an iron cross. I could have kicked myself in frustration, but simply told Cox to recover the plates and we both then stomped off to the village where the locals had seen us come down and were already emerging to congratulate us on our escape. Some escape.

It took some hours to make contact with the squadron again, and a few more before they turned up with a wagon for Cox and I, with mechanics and fitters intent on making the 'plane flyable if possible. Of course, that was a waste of time and the BE will probably come back in pieces for refit.

So there you are. That's what the Mail and its deluded chums should be on about – these aircraft aren't good enough. I'm now sat at my desk, nursing a brandy and feeling a little low at having burdened you with all of this. However, I'm told that I'm in line for leave 'at some point soon' so I suppose it will have to wait until I'm back in Blighty before I bore you to death with more of my opinions on all of this. I trust that your course is going well and that you've struck up with some good sorts – if this war ever ends I might just take a degree, if only to relieve myself of these awful thoughts and memories.

My fondest regards,

Victor

#3124414 - 10/26/10 10:21 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

21st September 1916

Dear Marcus,

I'm so sorry that I haven't been in touch for a while, but things out here have been so busy that I've hardly had any time to myself. I received your letter in July and, just as I was writing a reply, went up on a job far into Hunland. Well, you will know what happened with that one. I will maintain until the day I die that sending out Quirks that far behind enemy lines – regardless of the weather – is tantamount to writing them off. As it happens, that day we went up; Morgan, Lease, Kincaid and myself, and the task was to scuttle behind Hun lines and drop some eggs on Monte St Martin airfield, which just happened to be a busy target. No matter, we'd already plastered Douai, Nurlu and Betry so it was routine, escort or not.

As it was, we had no escort, something with which I take great exception, given that we're now facing not only Fokker monoplanes and Roland two seat scouts but also a new Hun biplane made by the Halberstadt company.

My head is racing; I apologise. Back to where we were. After my last letter, things got rather more active as this business in the Somme Valley kicked off. Of course, we were part of it, and I spent more hours than I'd care to recall patiently flying Cox up and down the lines snapping away. Even after the start of the offensive, we found ourselves repeating this day in and day out, more often than not unprotected. I personally don't care for that, as I feel that I might well outdive a determined Hun, or, as has happened on occasion, turned up to meet them and faced them down as they loose the great advantage of height. Until recently, we've had the odd patrol helping us – more from the French Escadrilles, I note, with a slight sense of nationalistic regret – however except for one particular occasion, when some of the new Sopwith “Strutters” turned up to save our eggs and bacon – that we remain anonymous to the great British public.

Still, there we are. Back to what I was talking about, I think. We did the Monte St Martin job, deep behind Hun lines, only to find ourselves under assault from Fokker scouts as we approached the lines. I signalled everyone to tighten up and ready to make course changes, but we were caught by a group of Hun aeroplanes, and, more significantly for me, I had one place a few well-aimed shots into our engine which made a few brief coughs, and then promptly died. No other warning, that was that, and we had to glide. I looked down and recognised Cambrai to the North, and realised that we were not likely to get over our lines. I signalled to Cox to make good for an impromptu landing, and dropped down. As it was, we dropped into a meadow near Rumilly-en-Cambresis for a deadstick landing. I told Cox to get going – he wished me luck and headed off westwards without demur – whilst I set about retrieving the flare gun and putting a few rounds into the old Quirk. After two, it was alight. I hoped that the theatrical sacrifice of our BE had distracted the Hun infantry; Lord knows they showed up in numbers as soon as I had a little bonfire going, although I'm sure they'd seen us go down.

I was taken prisoner and led to what I assume was a local obs or control station, where I was asked a lot of damn fool questions and then left alone. Presently, I was introduced to a toweringly tall fellow with bright blond hair in a Uhlan uniform, and was told that this was Leutnant Hahn who had claimed us as his victory. I shook hands with Herr Hahn, however between us we had insufficient English or German to converse further, and he seemed content to have salvaged a little of the Quirk that I'd just burned, and left me to my fate. So much for the cameraderie of flyers!

I was shunted off under guard to behind Hun lines, and eventually – again – ended up in Belgium at a processing centre. After nearly a month there, I managed to hop over the wire and, again, thanks to the generosity and care of the local Belgians, found myself in hiding with a family for a day or so. Thanks to the Wuyts family, say I, for my escape to the West, given that they supplied me with enough food to sink a battleship and a pickelhaube to protect my head. I eventually scrambled past the front line and through our own, but I still don't know how I managed that.

Cox, I regret to say, is still unaccounted for. He may have ended up as a Hun prisoner, but the last I saw of him, he was waving to me and assuring me not to worry, and that he'd be back over the lines long before me. That was nearly two months ago, and I've heard nothing since, which is terribly distressing, given that he was a very fine aviator and comrade. I will have to write to his family in due course, since it is more than likely that the poor chap is dead, rather than captured.

On the bright side, if there is one, I heard from Wilshaw the other day; it seems that he has had his pilot training introduction and found it all rather boring after life as an obs. I was speechless, and replied to him telling him that he should damn well stick it unless he wanted to be a passenger for the rest of his miserable existence. I'm sure of it: he is mad.

And so I am back. The squadron's survived without me – quelle surprise - however our dear MO is recommending that I have some time off since the last scrape. I've done a few jobs since I got back, and I have to say that I've found them very easy, however I've also found myself not really caring about the outcome from them, so long as I get home, which I know is a beastly attitude; very selfish.

I am out of sorts, and so I will close. I will post a letter to the parents tomorrow, which, in precis, will effectively read “all's well, nothing to worry about”, however I owe a little more to you, given that you might be damn fool enough to actually come out here and serve if this damned war goes on forever, as I suspect it might.

I see no good coming in the future, and Trenchard, who I saw two days ago, is terribly imprecise about the arrival of better obs planes.

I am tired. I can't add anything else; I wish you a good night.

Yours,

Vic

#3127686 - 10/31/10 07:45 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

4th October 1916

Dear Marcus,

Just a very brief note to let you know that I am still alive despite the telegram that I know went off on the 25th Sept. I despair of the RFC at times. Myself and my new obs, Sergeant Deane, went up that afternoon with the rest of B flight, but were caught over the lines by a large assortment of Rolands, Halberstadt scouts and the most recent Hun arrivals made by Albatros. Unfortunately, fate saw fit to drop one or two of these latter devices upon our flight – very aggressive fellows they were too – and I ended up having to ditch our Quirk into a field near Albert after an Albatros had peppered us with gunfire. We were both alright, however the 'plane was a write off. It appears that these Huns are armed with twin machine guns, which we should be too, and they make short work of aircraft. All of our flight survived, miraculously, but all were brought down that day.

I returned on a tender with Deane, who had wind up, given that he's not seen this sort of thing before, and typed out a long letter to Boom Trenchard, in which I put it to him that unless we get better 'planes and better protection very soon, then he can forget any prospect of Corps machines appearing over the lines to perform bombing, spot for the guns or take slides. I really was that cross.

Of course, Trenchard is a canny old sod and when I received a reply a few days later via Henderson, his right hand, he was full of emollience, but was insisting that we keep flying, with or without escort, until such time as (all together now!) better aeroplanes become available. The temptation to report immediately to the MO and get that time away from here was almost irresistible, however I'm not just responsible for myself and Deane, but also for the rest of No. 12. I did go and see the quack who advised that I spend a little more time on desk duties, and that is what I did, spending much time requesting new parts, new pilots, new observers and most of all, new 'planes.

Anyway, here we are – October is now upon us and I'm hoping that we will receive news about our new machines soon. God only knows that flying in Quirks is hardly a prescription for continued well being here. I'm very much hoping that I will be able to get back to England soon, either to assess the new aeroplanes or else to have a brief break from the front. I don't mind telling you that I've been keeping patrols as far over as I can, and have issued general orders that unless there is an immediate prospect of large Hun scout formations then prudence should be the watchword regarding all flights, and we should keep well away from the new scouts.

Since late September, we've lost three pilots and four observers, some dead, some wounded, some missing, as well as rather more Quirks – which nobody minds. At this rate, I have calculated that the entire current roster of the squadron will be dead by mid December.

On a happier note, I'm delighted to note that you are back in Manchester after your successfully passing the first year exams. Bravo! I look forward to your graduation mid 1918.

Of course, all of the above is not for public broadcast, and definitely not for Mum and Dad's ears. We will find a way through, even though it's looking less than pleasant at the moment. As Autumn settles in, and going into Winter, our work should become more occasional, and safer, so do not worry about us. Spring, however, may be a different matter, depending upon what Trenchard and the people at RAF can come up with. The trick is to remain alive.

My fondest regards,

Vic

#3127689 - 10/31/10 07:47 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

2nd November 1916

Dear Marcus,

Thank you for your thoughtful reply to my last letter – I will confess that I was less than happy when I wrote it, and was feeling most sanguine.

Since that letter, I'm afraid to say that we've had very much more of the same in terms of our flying, culminating a week ago in a bombing raid on a railway marshalling yard South East of St. Quentin, which is to say approximately 30 or more miles inside Hun territory. I took a flight up from the squadron, consisting of five other 'planes, but, inexplicably, with no escort from scouts. If the weather hadn't been so awful – rain, wind, mist, etc – I would have been inclined to scrub the mission as dud, however it was those very things that made it tenable at all. I am long past the point of worrying whether my Quirk will get off the ground with a hundredweight of high explosive strapped underneath, even though the ground is sodden and BE horribly underpowered. It's simply something one does.

We ended up dodging flights of Huns on our way to St. Quentin – I noted that the Fokkers that we've been facing for so long are more or less absent now, and have been replaced by Halberstadt or Roland scouts. The weather was so awful, and visibility so poor that we could avoid the Huns simply by sticking to the cloud base, whilst they were swanning around a few thousand feet higher, in an attempt to find decent weather and visibility. Thus, we passed right over Bapaume aerodrome without a hint of activity from the Huns below; clearly they hadn't the slightest idea, and it was only a little later that archie decided to send up his nasty black bursts to send us on our way.

Again, more Halberstadts appeared – Deane spotted these – so I signalled to the flight to drop down further, in order to hide from them. Madness, really; you're 20 or more miles inside Hunland, flying at under 3000 feet in pouring rain, and yet it seems like the best thought out idea in the world to drop down to 2000 feet! Well, we did this, and continued on. I have to say, Deane appears to be utterly fearless, and I'm beginning to wonder if there's something slightly amiss about him, given that he transferred into the Corps after a terrible time at Loos last year; he shows no fear, but he's not exactly outgoing, if you know quite what I mean.

Anyway, we made it over to Ribemont and slung our eggs down into the yards there, and I was happy to see one or two very obvious explosions, including a locomotive literally being lifted off the tracks and being deposited on its side. I can only assume that some ammunition stored locally had been hit; certainly the bombs we carry couldn't be responsible for that sort of thing. So it was that we turned back, and by now the Huns had woken up, and were peppering us with everything they could. One of the flight fell out, but I didn't see any hits from archie, and therefore this is something of a mystery. One can only surmise that the pilot – Lt. Howell – was incapacitated in some way; he and his obs and their 'plane didn't make it much further than St. Quentin, where, Deane told me, he saw the Quirk break up in a field.

We weaved, dove and zoomed our way back towards the lines, and I began to think that we'd made it away scot free when, approaching Pιronne from the South East, I felt our Quirk shudder as a piece of shrapnel from local archie tore through the 'plane. The 'plane bobbed alarmingly for a second or two, but I found that applying both hands to the stick and kicking the rudder bar stabilised us quite quickly. Looking up, I could see that the shrapnel had torn a large hole in the port upper wing, but, of more concern, had appeared to have caused a leak below from the petrol tank.

You know my dislike of the prospect of a fire on board, and so I was left with a dilemma: turn the fuel off and certainly end up landing in Hunland, to become a prisoner – assuming one survives the setting down – or, keep the fuel open, risk aerial cremation, but have the chance of making our side of the lines. Which should one take? For once, and given my recent internment in a Hun camp, I chose the latter. I could see the needle of the fuel gauge dropping visibly as the 'plane slewed over Clιry-sur-Somme, and our height dropped precipitously.

Very soon afterwards, the final fuel drained into the air and the engine conked completely, just as we come upon a meadow near Maricourt, where I put the BE down. Once again, I made a complete botch of it, and poor old Deane ended up with what turned out to be a broken nose. I made it out with a black eye and bruising. The Quirk, I'm happy to say, was a write off, and I'm hoping that they might send me a Strutter as replacement, although I should point out that that is meant to be humorous. I had an interesting chat with the Major from the local regiment, who are Durham Lights, and he was kind enough to have Deane taken back for treatment, as well as giving me some lunch and a brief tour of their third line, which was fascinating, if a little depressing. If I am to die out here, I would far rather do so at the hands of a direct archie hit, or at the hands of a Hun scout, rather than grubbing about in the dirt as these chaps do. He told me how many fellows they'd lost on the first day of the Somme offensive, and it was really rather shocking. It's now winding down, but the cost has been very heavy, although it is fair to say that the Huns have had an equally bad time, and it may well have broken the back of their army. Well; we shall see.

Major Agnew – the Durham's chap – saw me back to their depot line and whistled up a lift for me, but before which he was kind enough to give us some praise for our efforts spotting for the guns. It's very nice to get a little praise for that sort of work, as we know that it makes a difference. If it didn't, why would the Huns spend so much time and trouble trying to knock our 'planes down? I thanked him and told him that I'd pass on his thanks to the rest of No. 12, and then I left.

Thus it was that I was ferried back to Avesnes-le-Comte.

Since then, I've been confined to ground duties as the weather's closed in and the urgent and pressing needs of the squadron have demanded my attention. I'm up again this lunchtime for the first time since that flight, with a new obs, seeing as Deane is unfit to fly, so this will, no doubt be interesting. I hope that the job is scrubbed as dud, but unfortunately it looks as though it's decent weather, worse luck.

I will write later, assuming that all goes well.

Fondest regards,

Vic

#3127930 - 11/01/10 08:06 AM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Apr 2001
Posts: 7,365
Stratos Offline
Hotshot
Stratos  Offline
Hotshot

Joined: Apr 2001
Posts: 7,365
Amposta, Spain
Really nice read, maybe some pics can spice it. smile


-Sir in case of retreat, were we have to retreat??
-To the Graveyard!!

sandbagger.uk.com/stratos.html
#3128341 - 11/01/10 09:15 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Hi Stratos,

I'll try to put some pictures soon - screenies from OFF of course - but my rig is essentially not that good so I'll have to trust you imaginations!

Let's give it a go...





#3128364 - 11/01/10 09:40 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
SimonC Offline
Member
SimonC  Offline
Member

Joined: Jun 2009
Posts: 259
North of England
Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

22nd December 1916

Dear Marcus,

For once, I write to you fairly safe in the assumption that I myself am physically safe until the New Year; I will confess that I'm very much hoping that 1917 will be an improvement on this year, but we shall see.

First off, I have heard from Colin, and it seems that he is to return imminently, although not to No. 12 Squadron, alas. He's off to No. 6 Squadron, off near Ypres, and I'm absolutely delighted to say that they fly FE2b's, so, as a pilot, there's absolutely no chance whatsoever of him getting the machine gun that he pined for, had briefly in our stint in FE's, and then had to surrender when we were condemned to Quirks. Serves him right! Obviously, I hope that he'll be alright, and I've sent a message to No. 6's commanding officer asking that he pass on my compliments and such like to Captain Wilshaw. If this whole business wasn't so damn serious, I'd probably be laughing more; but it is actually quite funny.

Speaking of funny: you're probably not even aware that I was back in England in late November for two weeks. I probably shouldn't even be talking about it, but see as I get to censor my own letters, rather than some young imp with one pip and a madly keen but one-eyed view of what's allowable, I'll tell you anyway.

I was back to help assess the replacement for our current aeroplanes, to wit, the RAF RE8. I was lodged near to Farnborough for nearly a fortnight, and was encouraged to take up the new 'plane as much as was possible, both solo and with an obs – and even as an obs or gunner myself.

I have to say, I've had very mixed feelings about the new 'plane. It's certainly faster and climbs better than a Quirk, although, being fair, most seabirds are probably better than a BE in that respect. It's obviously a bigger engine, although they've done a wonderful job in obscuring one's forward view as much as possible, given that there's no obs in front – thankfully, and at last, the Colins on this world sit behind the pilot, equipped with a Lewis gun. Poor Colin. This has all come a little too late in that respect.

Anyway, I got in more than a few hours on the RE, and I'm still not too sure about it. It's more manouvreable than a Quirk, however where I could loop a Quirk, I wouldn't dare to in an RE. The one time I tried, I could barely stop the headlong rush to Earth, let alone pull into a loop. Thank goodness I was solo at the time; I won't be trying that again in a hurry. Apart from that, it does do a little better than the BE series, however it's awfully fussy about keeping one's nose up and is a swine for stalling – something that the dear old Quirk could never be accused of.

I came away from Farnborough with mixed feelings. Surely we can produce an observation aeroplane that is a little better than that? They're not even up here at the front yet, which is worrying. Oh well, it's out of my hands.

On a brighter note, I'm delighted to say that I've been decorated with a bar to my MC for bringing down an Albatros scout near Hesdigneul late last month. It was most bizarre, since the previous encounter we'd had with an Albatros scout had led to a rapid retreat and worse. This time, we'd been sent to attack a railway junction and a couple of these devices came our way – they are horribly deadly insofar as they are armed with twin machine guns. I can only assume that the Huns were dreadfully inexperienced as they dropped lower and started to shepherd the rest of the flight – I was up with five other crews – with a view to I don't know what. Anyway, they weren't keeping an eye out – one of the things you learn to do to stay alive – and I was able to creep up on on of these 'planes.

I have to say, they are aesthetically very pleasing 'planes to look at, all swoops and gull wings, as opposed to our ugly contraptions, however that wasn't going to stop me, so I dropped behind the Hun, who still hadn't registered me, and blazed away like mad at him. Luck was with me and he dropped away wreathed in smoke, at which point the other Hun took fright and beetled off. So much for that! I came away feeling very much more confident I can tell you.

I'm actually feeling very buoyed as I write, since we had another very successful job yesterday morning, having been told to go and mess up the turf at Proville, one of the Hun's aerodromes North East of Cambrai, which is to say about twenty miles behind his lines.

It looked very dubious until we were told that DH2's from 24 Squadron would be providing us with an escort to and from, and I'm jolly glad they did, as it didn't take long for some Huns to pop up in their Albatri when we weren't far from the target. Because visibility was so marvellous, the pushers picked out the Huns several miles off, and, rather than waiting to be jumped upon, tore off and had an almighty scrap with the Huns. I spoke to 'Jock' Hamilton, who was the escort commander, afterwards and he told me that they downed two of the Albatri without loss. Certainly we saw no more Huns in the air thereafter, which was, perhaps, a little odd given that we almost immediately thereafter launched ourselves at Proville airfield and liberally laced the place with bombs and bullets. I certainly broke a few hangars, according to Deane, and also had the great pleasure of strafing (as they call it) some Albatros scouts on the ground as their pilots, no doubt, tried to bury themselves deep.

Given the unlikely nature of the assault, and that you would have to be mad to do this all in a BE, I felt a bizarre sense of impregnability overcome me, and went back to attack the ground targets further. Fortunately for us both, once I felt Hun bullets from local defences thudding through, I gave up that silliness and signalled everyone home. To put the icing on the – Christmas – cake, everyone made it back safely, even though I discovered we'd been liberally peppered with machine gun fire. Odd I didn't register it more at the time. Still, no matter.

The overall feeling was that we did very well, with two Huns downed by 24 Squadron, Proville disrupted and some more Hun scouts hit and not a casualty in return. Before you ask – yes, there was something of a celebration in the mess yesterday eve. I think, this one time, it was very nice to have something approaching unalloyed good news to celebrate.

I must go. Tomorrow is another day, even if the weather forecast is set for heavy rain – which suits us fine. The closer that Christmas comes, the more fervently I wish that this nonsense would be over and that I could be back in Matlock, perhaps, like you, to go up to university to take a degree, but most of all to be home amongst family. It's curious; I almost see here as home in a way, and yet it is the lure of a homecoming to Derbyshire that is the Holy Grail. In some ways, it's like I've lived here for years on end, although, empirically, that can't be true.

Anyway. Enough.

My fond regards,

Vic

#3128975 - 11/02/10 07:05 PM Re: The war diary of Victor Timm, RFC (OFF) [Re: SimonC]  
Joined: Apr 2001
Posts: 7,365
Stratos Offline
Hotshot
Stratos  Offline
Hotshot

Joined: Apr 2001
Posts: 7,365
Amposta, Spain
Pretty cool pics, following the rest of the diaries! Thanks


-Sir in case of retreat, were we have to retreat??
-To the Graveyard!!

sandbagger.uk.com/stratos.html
Page 1 of 4 1 2 3 4

Moderated by  RacerGT 

Quick Search
Recent Articles
Support SimHQ

If you shop on Amazon use this Amazon link to support SimHQ
.
Social


Recent Topics
CD WOFF
by Britisheh. 03/28/24 08:05 PM
Carnival Cruise Ship Fire....... Again
by F4UDash4. 03/26/24 05:58 PM
Baltimore Bridge Collapse
by F4UDash4. 03/26/24 05:51 PM
The Oldest WWII Veterans
by F4UDash4. 03/24/24 09:21 PM
They got fired after this.
by Wigean. 03/20/24 08:19 PM
Grown ups joke time
by NoFlyBoy. 03/18/24 10:34 PM
Anyone Heard from Nimits?
by F4UDash4. 03/18/24 10:01 PM
RIP Gemini/Apollo astronaut Tom Stafford
by semmern. 03/18/24 02:14 PM
Copyright 1997-2016, SimHQ Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Powered by UBB.threads™ PHP Forum Software 7.6.0