Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Avesnes le Comte
Nord

21st January 1917

Dear Marcus,

I do hope you are well and enjoyed Christmas and New Year. The aged parents sent me a letter very recently hoping that I was well and telling me that – finally – we'd had some sort of reunion of both the Timms and the Simmonds families; I do very much wish I'd been there to participate. I only vaguely remember Uncle Max and Aunt Amilie from when we were down in Sussex in the 90's so I'm sure that it was a fascinating time. Please tell me everything you can about what happened – the parents were full of high spirits but terribly short on detail, which was what was required. For example: what is Edward doing now? He must be my age, and, surely, serving? What of Rebecca and Elisabeth? They must be grown now and perhaps with their own families. Damn it all – I wish I could have been there; it would be so much better than rotting away in the rain, sleet, snow and misery here.

Our Christmas, you'll be unsurprised to learn, was a fairly quiet affair, with the slight fillip that we didn't actually fly at all after the 21st December until the 2nd January. Hence, whilst you might not have discerned any particular goodwill to all men at No. 12, there was a certain heartfelt thanks emanating like an imponderable little wisp from all of us, thankful that the weather closed in. The Huns, I'm happy to say, were about as impressed by the weather as we were, and, given a decided absence of jobs from the brass, I felt able to allow A and C flights some days leave on the proviso that they would be back within 96 hours.

B flight grumbled – not unnaturally – but we did have a rather pleasant Christmas dinner which consisted of shoulder of lamb in a very rich sauce, and, tragically, a selection of vegetables which, I'm sad to relate, included potato croquettes. This, I should have realised, was a disaster in the making, however it took the first few salvoes of airborne – but rapidly disintegrating – croquettes to remember, with a slight shock, that B flight (and those members of A and C flights who'd returned early) were still at heart schoolboys for whom a food fight represents, to some degree, the very apogee of the British Empire. Inevitably, I was forced to defend myself having been pelted with airborne vegetation, and thus I cannot, with hand on heart, pretend that I am any better than the rest of them, to my eternal shame.

On a brighter note, my tunic didn't carry a stain, and it rather broke the ice, leading to an enjoyable evening of carols and rather less savoury airmen's songs round our dilapidated piano forte, with Lt. Ross providing tremendous accompaniment on his viola.

New Year came and went quietly; I relieved all staff where possible, allowing them to wander to whatever pleasures they might find. For those chaps left rota'd for the evening, I made a point of gathering them together in the fitters' store with several bottles of whiskey, and drank a toast to them, noting that we – the pilots – owed our lives to their work. Even the crews in the gun pits got whiskey; clearly, the Huns weren't likely to attack at New Year, and it had troubled me somewhat in the last year that we hadn't shown out appreciation to all the people in No. 12.

We are a squadron of BE2d's. We are pilots and observers. However, there is a vast edifice that supports and maintains our work, otherwise we would never get off the ground. Oh yes, they've handed me a medal and a few bars for spotting, bombing and knocking down the odd Hun, but the truth is that we'd not be able to do all of that without all the men behind us on the ground.

Hence, for once, I issued no orders for the 1st of January, contenting myself to wander round at around nine o'clock, checking for signs of life. Pleasingly, in a way, nothing much stirred until very late morning. I wasn't unhappy about that. The rest of A and C flights drifted back in that day – no doubt the pox doctors will be receiving custom from them – and things settled down a little. The next few days saw only fitful work near our lines, so it was only yesterday and today that things began to become more active as the weather lifted – it has been truly awful, and no doubt similar in England – to the point where we could actually fly.

I went up yesterday spotting NE of Ypres near Passchendaele, but was forced back with a hole in the petrol tank. Well, you know my feelings about that! When I saw the pressure dropping, I immediately winged over and dodged back to our lines, ending up in a field near Ypres. Today has been rather more entertaining, insofar as we had a rendezvous with a Hun airfield some way East of Ypres, which we were meant to lace with bombs. I'm not very keen on these jobs, however, I'm pleased to say that that the French provided a trio of Nieuport 17 scouts to accompany us – much to the relief of all concerned. On this occasion, we didn't meet a single Hun on the way there or on the way back, and I was very happy to tip a load of bombs onto their hangars which were seen to be well alight prior to our departure. A good job well done I felt, and I was happy to stand B flight a round upon our return, as we have apparently inflicted considerable damage on the Huns.

However.

All of this is largely meaningless unless we see the army below sweeping its way across the lines and into the German army. That's the difficult part. The latest story to emanate on the grapevine – which you must not repeat, of course – is that there will be a major 'push' up here, probably around Arras, so we shall see what the next few weeks and months bring. I wrote Trenchard a letter the other day asking for the new RE8s, and pointing out how much better we could do our jobs in aeroplanes that aren't liabilities. No reply yet.

I must away. Tomorrow is an early start out spotting for local batteries, so I must turn in. My best regards to you and Elsbeth, and, in closing, my congratulations to you on your excellent results in your class tests for this year. You are undoubtedly the brightest in the family, and I will be delighted when you attain your degree!

Fond regards,

Vic

"Pretty cool pics, following the rest of the diaries! Thanks"

Hi Stratos,

I'll post some more soon, but it's getting pretty difficult to be a BE2d pilot in 1917, as I'm pretty occupied! Thanks for the compliments.

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Etrun,
Nord

1st June 1917

Dear Marcus,

Thank you for your recent letter and the parcel containing various items. They will all come in handy.

I'm pleased to say that I'm well and truly recovered from the peritonitis that struck in January. To be fair, I'd had sufficient warnings in the preceding weeks, but foolishly I'd simply put it down to a grumbly stomach or the reaction to our work. God knows we probably all drink too much and that's down to the nature of our lives, such as they are. Anyway, as you now know, I was carted off in agony to hospital in Amiens, they whipped out the offending article and there I stayed until the doctors pronounced me fit to return to duty, although after a most pleasant week's leave in Etaples breathing in the sea air and looking forlornly towards England.

As a result, I missed all of the squadron's activities until late May, which includes “Bloody April” as I believe the press have called it. I won't pull any punches on this: the RFC and RNAS were asked to perform tasks that they weren't – and still aren't – equipped for at the start of the current Arras push, and were punished accordingly by the Hun. I can't put it any more simply than that, and I'm glad I wasn't there, although, of course, as the squadron commander I am cognisant of the losses we incurred. Thankfully, we only lost a couple of aircraft and crew, however I'm fully aware of just how badly the Corps did that month.

My return to No. 12 was received with equanimity and we've been straight back into action ever since. Looking at my flight log, I notice that on the 28th May we were up from Etrun – I should have mentioned, our new home north of Arras; you're never without the sound of gunfire day or night – to attack a marshalling yard near to Velenciennes and although we bombed the target (largely pointless, it seemed to me) we were harried on the way home by Albatros scouts and lost Jenkins and Fazakerley in their BE.

The day before yesterday, we were on a job to bomb Busigny aerodrome escorted by some FE2b's from 22 squadron. This time, we lost the escort as they got stuck in to some Huns just short of Busigny which allowed us to do our job, but we received a hit into the 'plane which left us limping back over the lines with the engine misfiring and me doubting that we'd make landfall in friendly territory. We crept back to Lieremont – miles away from Etrun – and made our way back to Etrun in a staff car that was whistled up for the event. For once, perhaps, being a squadron commander worked in my favour.

And so, onto today. Again, looking at my flight log prior to going out, I became aware that today's job was my 100th operation, which represents a similar number of hours in the air, but, by any measure, it is something of a milestone and so I was relieved when it was announced by GHQ that we'd be up over Eterpigny spotting for the nine twos of the local RA batteries.

Well; that was the plan.

It came to grief almost from the start. We met up with Niueport 23 scouts from no. 40 squadron as planned over Etrun, but they were almost instantly taken off to deal with Hun scouts encroaching on our airfield – an act of almost superhuman boldness for Huns – and thus we had to head off alone. Deane had wind up about this, and, frankly, so did I. The skies over Arras are not a healthy place to be at present, and, sure enough, having formed up the flight again, it didn't take long before I could see Huns in their buzzy little Albatri looming in our flight path. Looking round as we passed over Arras, and surveying the horrors to the east, I wondered idly if this was God's way of punishing me for existing. I signalled everyone to tighten up – we'd already lost one BE to a dud engine – and headed towards our Jasta chums. They buzzed around for a while as we flew over Tilloy, but didn't attack, which I found perplexing. This state of affairs though didn't last as a few of them left to go after some RNAS Strutters I'd seen to the north and what was left of our escort turned up – unexpectedly, to my mind – and took on these other chaps. I could see much whirling and stunting, but precious little in the way of bringing any Huns down. No matter. We continued south east towards Eterpigny, and found – of course – yet more Hun scouts in our path. I identified these newcomers as members of Jasta 4, and they seem to be equipped with Albatros DIII aeroplanes, which means two machine guns, plenty of performance and little chance of a BE2 getting past them.

I have to say, I have never been quite so scared whilst piloting an aeroplane. The plan to spot between Eterpigny and Vis-en-Artois went completely by the board. I signalled to the rest of the flight that they should tighten up, but this became a nonsense as we headed into a hail of enemy ground fire with the Albatri honing in on us. I saw poor old Fisher go in, his engine exuding thick, oily smoke, and soon after he was joined by Lt Morgan who, I'm told managed to crash his BE into a front line trench – I'm sure he was absolutely delighted; he's not yet made it back, so his version of events will have to wait.

Anyhow, now down to three aeroplanes, shot at from below and with Albatros scouts in attendance, I began to do the job with which we'd been charged. No such luck. We'd turned on an axis between Eterpigny and Cagnicourt and, sure enough, down came Jasta 4 in their multicoloured scouts. By now, I had wind up and realising that it was impossible to spot under these conditions – where was our escort? - signalled to everyone to go home as safely as they could.

Then I turned to face Jasta 4.

Huns are queer chaps: they appear to be very brave fellows until faced with their potential demise – although, I suppose, we're all brave until faced with death – and what had been a marauding group of Albatros scouts began to scatter as I fronted them with Deane pointing out possible targets. Unsurprisingly, these chaps followed down to the rest of B flight as they scattered for home, and they looked very businesslike in their efforts to bring down the rest of the flight, however they appeared to have overlooked us, and as one black-bodied Hun slipped in behind Lt Astley, I was able to pop in behind him and set his engine smoking. Astley went in, in a sheet of flames, behind our lines, and died along with his obs, I'm sad to relate, but at least his attacker did not get away scot free. I followed him, putting bursts into him from our Lewis until it became clear that he was going to run for it, and so he did.

I looked around to find that the sky empty of Huns, and signalled what was left of the flight to rejoin. Thus, we made our way back to Etrun, narrowly avoiding yet another flight of Huns as we came back to Earth.

I'm told by those in the know that the RFC and RNAS have achieved superiority in the air. I would beg to differ. Were it not for the indifferent attitude of the Huns this afternoon, I'm fairly sure that Deane and I would have been brought down this afternoon.

I am sat with a large whiskey, listening to the night time cadence of howitzers and heavies, wondering where some of my crews are, and basically considering whether this is all worth a candle. I have survived 100 flights, something like 80 hours over Hun lines, and yet I feel less safe than two years ago – and our aeroplanes are the same ones as those with which we came to France all that time ago and which were barely adequate then.Today I managed to turn back, but with three of the flight downed or missing. Tomorrow I do not know what might happen. I've made the decision that I'm going to have a few drinks this evening: I'm going to search my memory and go back over the events of the last few years and I will probably raise a glass or two to people like Boscowen, Ashford and Kennicot, and all of the other men who've lived and died whilst I have survived. I do not assume that I have a guardian angel, and I suspect that I will not not survive this way, and given the number of comrades whose faces have come and gone over the last two years, I can only conclude that this is a mathematical certainty.

Still: lest I depress you, I should also note that I have in that time been shot down numerous times, incarcerated twice, hospitalised more than once and been scared to death most of the time. Therefore, my predictions for the future may well be awry. I certainly hope so.

I shall conclude this missive now, and retire to the mess. I have an urge upon me to think over the last few years, and the adventures I've been through, and think it best to do so with some company, lest I become melancholy. I know that you're at the end of the academic year, so I hope that this letter coincides with your summer break. What you have told me about life at Manchester has whetted my appetite to learn for my own sake, and I have become more than a little interested in your thoughts on socialism and other such political theories. I fervently look forward to the day when I may have the chance to explore such subjects for myself.

My love to you and the parents, and I hope I may bag some leave before long.

Yours affectionately,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Ablainzeville,
Nord

16th July 1917

Dear Marcus,

Greetings to you from our new home at Ablainzeville, in what I imagine was previously a cow field. It's a little quieter than Etrun, but, sadly, hardly what one would call satisfactory. We are, again, in tents, and given that recent weather has been terribly thundery, it's led to some grumbles in No.12. I told everyone to shut up and hope for better weather, although I did, as a precaution, ensure that the bar in the mess was well stocked up prior to admonishing them for complaining thus. It is, after all, only precipitation, and they should be jolly glad that the weather is as awful as it is – it's led to cancelled jobs, or severely curtailed ones, and where the jobs do go ahead, quite frequently the cloud and rain have hidden us from the lurking Hun scouts. We know they're there: we just hope they can't see us most of the time.

I had the great pleasure of running into Colin Wilshaw earlier in the week, having seen neither hide nor hair of him since his transfer into No.6 Squadron, up near Ypres some months ago. For whatever reasons, he'd wangled a trip to Bethune and got word to me, so I met up with him at the La Suite restaurant off the Rue Alexandre Ponnelle. He is as irritating as ever, but it was deeply enjoyable to spend a few hours in his company. We spoke about our respective experiences in our squadrons, and I was mortified to learn that No.6 have given up on their Fees – apparently, they're becoming night bomber 'planes and thus returned to England for new squadrons – and they've adopted RE8s, which, if you recall, I was asked to test fly towards the end of last year. Colin now, finally, has a machine gun of his very own, and apparently he's managed to wing a few unwary Huns, whilst his obs passenger has his own Lewis and has managed to bring down an Albatros. Whatever next.

I asked Colin about the RE and his opinion of it, and he told me that it was better than their Fees had been, but was not really terribly good in the overall scheme of things, and certainly not a match for an Albatros scout, their success notwithstanding. He also told me about another squadron locally who had Bristol F2bs - “Bristol Fighters” - which, he opined, are rather better, being very fast, very well armed and most manouvreable. I suppose the chances of us ever seeing these are minimal, but one can hope.

I was curious about his opinion because, surprise, surprise, we are currently re-equipping with these very same RE8s. I had a note from Boom back in early July that said:

“My dear Victor,

Yr request for new aircraft now fulfilled. Expect max. effort as usual, good hunting and will drop by before end of month”

or suchlike. The next day came the official notification, but I expect that Trenchard was simply engaging in noblesse oblige on this one. We've been anticipating coming off BE's for a few months, but it's all been so maddeningly slow. But, there we are. We're still flying BE's on a daily basis, but we have three RE8s in circulation within No.12 with which the pilots are acclimatising themselves so in all likelihood we should be flying them operationally come August. I've had a few flights in them and they're much the same as the one that I flew in Farnborough, which is to say, twitchy and dangerous. How scout pilots get used to this nonsense, I will never understand.

Thus, it was useful to hear Colin's opinion, which mostly conformed to my own. Of immediate interest to me was the information he relayed about troop movements up near Ypres. Apparently, the Arras do was simply meant to be the introductory overture to an attack near Ypres, and this has been hastened on by the weakness of the French Army whose losses in the Nivelle offensives have somewhat broken the back of the French to initiate offensive action. I've heard this all from several sources, but Colin's up there and sees the divisions moving up past Ghent each day, so it looks like Haig is under orders to take up the slack, despite the Arras losses, and keep the Huns occupied lest they smell a rat and attack the French, who, it is said, are in no fit state to fight just at the moment.

I'd care to differ on that in terms of their air arm, as the SPADs from Escadrille 15 that accompanied us on a trip to Roselare yesterday seemed pretty hardy and enthusiastic, although I suppose that if one has spent months or years skulking about in mud in Champagne or thereabouts, one is unlikely to be terribly keen to do very much, particularly when one has lost so many comrades. I'm told that the French are losing around 250,000 men a year at the moment. Hardly encouraging.

So, it looks like there will be a late push up in Belgium, and I've no doubt that we, and our new, shiny aeroplanes will be in some demand for spotting and reconnaissance work, as usual. At least it means fewer bombing jobs, I hope.

Thus it is that both Colin and his squadron, and I and mine are involved in this madness for a little longer, if only to save the French Army's bacon whilst they reorganise. I can't imagine such a thing happening in our own army, however given that Haig has been busy slaughtering his troops at Arras for little gain, perhaps one day our own Tommies will tell him that enough is enough. Certainly, it's apparent that British troops are being supplanted with Canadians, Australians, etc, but that is surely down to our own depots not being quick enough to send out new battalions, although lack of manpower must be an issue.

Forgive me; I didn't wish to turn this letter into an academic tome: I'm sure that you get quite enough of that in Manchester.

Well, you're home now, so I hope that you're enjoying yourself, and I certainly hope that the weather is better than here, where it is rotten. I received a missive from the aged parents a week ago telling me that you are minded to take up work with the Manchester Ship Canal Company, and, I should add, also mischievously claiming that you will make Elsbeth an honest woman upon your graduation! Don't blame me, Marcus, I am but the recounter of things heard elsewhere, as well as being a terrible gossip. But think upon both things: Elsbeth is a lovely girl, and the Canal Company is a good place for an engineering graduate. Certainly far better than sitting in France or Belgium, for example, drinking port and waiting for the rain to stop – if it ever will.

I've hardly mentioned our work since, of late, we've not had very much, plus, of course, people are learning to fly the new 'planes. The only really exciting incident was a job out to Hamel – one of those places where the ground fighting has been most intense – with 'B' flight, where we had an escort from No.56 Squadron, who are flying SE5a scout aeroplanes. These chaps took great care of us en route and as soon as some Hun scouts turned up to harry us, they were off like rockets, so whilst the rest of the flight took plates over and around Hamel, I will confess that I strayed over towards Arleux, and watched a most exciting scrap between our escort and some Albatros scouts from Jasta 5, I think. The chaps from 56 tore them to pieces, and I saw at least four Huns go down, and not one of our chaps hurt.

For once, I really felt as though I was in very good hands, and I was waving like mad and grinning at the SE's as they accompanied us back home. They probably thought that I was suffering from shell shock, but I didn't care – I felt safe. Once back at Ablainzeville, I sent a message to No.56 thanking them for their help and assuring them that should they ever need a flight of BE2s to come to their aid, I will be happy to oblige.

Well, it's now a quarter past eleven and I am up again in the morning, up to Ypres as it happens, so perhaps Colin is right. Certainly, when I took my leave of him I felt a shiver. I hope he will be fine at No.6. I'm sure that he will, and when he left me, he was telling me of his ambition to put down a few Huns in his splendid RE8. I cautioned against it, but, as I've mentioned before, he is mad. I've no doubt he will be fine, but I wouldn't be his obs for all the tea in China.

I will turn in now. I can hear Sergeant Woodley and his crew firing up an engine out in the shed – what are they doing? - but some cotton wool and another Armagnac and I won't hear it. I'm hoping for a quiet day tomorrow.

Most affectionately,

Vic

Great as always. Again some pics could do no harm.
Waiting for the next post!

Thanks Stratos,

I'll try to add some new shots soon - the main problem is things tend to get hectic when German aircraft turn up or when you're doing bombing runs. If only I had an observer to take the photographs for me!

I know that but what about some pics of taking off or flying to the objective? A couple of pics for each AAR will help people to inmerse in the history a bit more.

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Courcelles-le-Comte,
Nord

6th August 1917

Dear Marcus,

Well, yet again we've moved house. Thankfully we've left the cow field that was Ablainzeville, but, with the luck that typifies No.12 Squadron, they've managed to find us another cow field, again churned up and quite unfit from which to fly aeroplanes. This one is called Courcelles-le-Comte, and we arrived here more or less at the same time as we fully re-equipped with RE8s. Lucky old us.

Logistically, it was something of a nightmare, since not only did it mean moving everyone to the new place, but there was also the not insignificant matter of divesting ourselves of the BE2s and all associated spares, plus also that of shipping in the new aeroplanes and spares to keep them in the air.

I won't dwell on what we went through; suffice to say, perhaps, that we have the best ground crews in the entire Corps, and that we were glad to see the back of our old BE2d's, which, I'm reliably informed, will go off to equip a Home Defence squadron back in England. Lucky old them.

Thus, we fetched up at Courcelles, a rather miserable place, although the remaining locals seem quite pleasant, particularly given what they've been through in recent years, but I hear that they were all back quick as a flash once the ground had been secured. That's the French peasant spirit for you, and what equips their Poilus for the most part, when they aren't rebelling against their rather dim generals, that is.

And so to today. It's now around half past six in the evening, and we've officially joined Haig's latest push, but as an auxiliary to his activities to the North – I should have mentioned: we're now about halfway between Bapaume and Arras, and therefore some way South of Ypres. However, it's clearly all been going full steam ahead to the North, and we were asked to do a job between Bully-les-Mines and Grenay, just West of Lens, and therefore pretty much on the frontline. This reminded me of our last job over Hunland in BE's. That was a quick recon job, although it cost Arthur Simpson and his observer rather more than the plates were worth, as they went down on the wrong side of the lines. Never mind.

We pushed off this morning at around seven, having been granted an escort of half a dozen SPADs – I'm beginning to wonder if Boom actually does take advice – from the French, and, I have to say, they were quite assiduous at keeping us out of harm's way, but, more impressive to my mind was the sheer number of our aeroplanes up and about. Apart from our escort – who mostly beetled off to beat up some Albatri – I counted around half a dozen other SPADs and more than a few Camels buzzing around.

I suppose I should elucidate a little on this. SPADs are the scouts used by the French. I spoke to one of our Corps pilots who uses one, and he swears by it, proclaiming it robust, quick and a vast improvement on the DH2. However, that is more or less eclipsed by the conversations I've had with Corps pilots flying Sopwith Camels. They seem to be unanimous in proclaiming it a work of art as well as the best possible scout in which to take on the Huns. I take this with a pinch of salt, of course, but it does seem to be a firmly held view amongst scout squadrons that they're top notch – like the SE5s I mentioned a while ago. The Huns have long had an advantage in terms of technical superiority over us, so it's pleasant to be able to report that we now have better scouts than them, if not, regrettably, better two seater aeroplanes. Apparently, we're not short of decent reconnaissance aeroplanes: I was speaking to a Captain from No.35 RFC the other week, and he was waxing lyrical about their Armstrong-Whitworth 'planes, professing them to be very sturdy craft and much better than BE's, although that's hardly difficult. I told him we were converting to RE8's and he visibly winced.

Anyway. The general point, if there is one, is that we're finally getting better aeroplanes up to the front in our squadrons, and this, plus the fact that we're getting escorts on jobs more often than not, added to the sheer number – as I alluded to before – means that the prospect of going up into Hunland isn't quite the death sentence it used to be only a few months ago. Certainly, our first trip over the lines felt safe enough and although I could see Hun scouts some way into the distance, there wasn't a sniff of trouble, which was most welcome to the flight.

I have to say, everyone seems quite eager to go up now that we have a better 'plane than the BE2 and better support from our scout squadrons, and it's a relief to me after all the trouble we went through from the middle of last year onwards. I'm going to finish this letter to you and then I'm going to pop over to the mess, where, I can guarantee, for once, I will find pilots having drinks not because they feel a little morbid (although I'm sure we all do to a degree) but because they finally have something to celebrate.

I'm going to stop there because nothing puts the kibosh on such fortune as mentioning it publicly, and given that aviators are most superstitious people on Earth, crawling out to aeroplanes weighted down by rabbits' feet, St. Christopher medals, lucky heather, charms and sweethearts' photos, that is perhaps just as well.

In closing, I will note that the weather here is currently frightfully hot, but it's becoming more sultry, so I imagine it will break soon. I just hope that Haig's made the right choice this time, and that the PBI give the Hun the beating that they need.

My love to Elsbeth, and of course the parents – I'll send them a Bowdlerised version of this anon.

Fondest regards,

Vic

(more screenies on the way - promise!)

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Courcelles-le-Comte,
Nord

27th August 1917

Dear Marcus,

Thank you – as ever – for the kind gift of a walking stick which I received yesterday morning. I shall throw away the Corps one that was given to me upon my discharge from the infirmary in preference for the one from home. It is rather nicer, and, besides, is much sturdier. I'm hoping, frankly, that I won't need it fairly soon, however the injuries to my left leg have meant that I've been unable to walk without one, and this will continue for some weeks according to the quacks. What they don't appreciate is that, from a seated position, I am more than capable of flying a squadron, as evidenced by the lack of paperwork on my desk this morning. I don't suppose they've even considered my being able to fly, however that's proven possible too. Deane helped me into the pilot's seat yesterday with a few other willing hands, and I found that I was able to manipulate all the controls necessary in order to take our Harry Tate up for a spin round. Thus, I will be on duty tomorrow morning.

It seems that the French have had some success down near Verdun, which has surprised me given the state of most of their army. Apparently they've taken quite a chunk of land from the Huns. I heard this from Colin when he dropped in to see me in hospital. We spent much time discussing the flight out to Brebiéres. We'd set out for our first bombing raid since acquiring RE's, so we were kindly escorted by some Nieuport 24 scouts from Escadrille 79, who were quickly called upon to deal with Albatros scouts, so we didn't see them again. We dropped our bombs on the railyards, accompanied by a devil of a lot of ground fire, and just as we pulled out, I felt something go thud under my feet. I looked at the fuel gauge, then over my shoulder, and realised that the tank had been holed. Thank goodness I'd taken the unusual precaution of asking the crew to put in more petrol than was necessary for the mission.

We staggered back towards Arras, leeching petrol at every moment, with me praying that the Huns wouldn't turn up, and I indicated to Deane that he should pitch his Lewis and ammo over the side, whilst I chucked away anything that I felt extraneous to our needs. I'm never going into a German POW camp again, I swear. We finally made it over just North of Arras, when the needle rested its weary head and the engine conked out due to the lack of petrol. As I pointed out to Colin, I'm still not quite as used to the RE8 as I was the BE, so it's hardly surprising that when we made landfall just short of Roclincourt, I wasn't able to bring down the aeroplane safely. The left wing dropped alarmingly and being too low to compensate, it went in first and turned us round before ripping off at the root, as we bounced upwards and generally had an uncomfortable time of it.

End result: Deane, broken left arm and collar bone and happy to go home; yours truly, cracked shinbone and off work for a couple of weeks. As it turns out, Colin mentioned that the RE is a swine if you're coming down in a hurry, as it happened to him recently up near Zuidschote (near Ypres), and he barely got out alive with his obs. Still. A lesson learned.

Thus it is that I'm sat here writing this letter.

I waved off Colin from the hospital and was helped back in by the nurse, but, really, I'm getting too old for this sort of nonsense, and were it not for the number of new pilots in the squadron, I would proclaim my flying days over and perform my duties purely from the safety of my desk. That, however, won't be happening for a little while as we continue to have a stream of work coming through, and therefore it needs to be both organised and expedited as necessary. Hence, I will ignore all medical opinion and pop up later with my temporary observer, Lieutenant Simpson, who should be piloting, but for whom we lack a 'plane. At least this way he'll get to see the area with somebody who's seen it for some time. Good God – how long have I been flying over this misbegotten land?

I shall close as the briefing is due soon, although I don't like the look of the clouds gathering from the North.





30th August

As you can tell from the preceding, Marcus, we didn't fly that day, nor the day after, nor the one after that. It's been throwing it down unceasingly since that time – not unusual in hot and thundery weather, but this has been quite unexpected. I was speaking yesterday to a communications officer from a local RA howitzer battery, and he tells me that this has reduced the advance across the line to a crawl, since it makes registration a nightmare, and, even if the Corps can get up, the landscape has changed to a degree, making spotting of established landmarks less easy and new ones extremely difficult. Whether this is all excuses by different parties, I don't know, but certainly we're having difficulties pushing on.

We went up again this morning, bright and early, in order to pay a visit to a Hun airfield East of Lens, which is on the front line. We've bombed La Petrie before, but in the past we didn't carry the weight of bombs that we can now, so I wondered how the RE would react to getting off the ground with around two hundredweight of bombs slung underneath, and, to my surprise, it coped rather better than I had expected. We set off and were caught up by a flight of SPADs from 23 Squadron, who clucked and fussed round us and generally did what they're meant to. I'm glad they were there, because I could see that the Corps was up in strength, as were the Naval chaps, and so, naturally, were the Huns. There appeared to be fights breaking out all over the place with RNAS Triplanes and Pups and Corps SE5s, Camels and Nieuports all skidding around and taking on the inevitable Albatri. Simpson told me later that he more or less lost count of the number of 'planes that fell out of the fight, still less the number of aeroplanes involved as we pressed on to La Petrie.

Of course, when we got there, nobody was home, so I signalled to the flight to flatten the hangars and, indeed, anything else they could hit. We screamed down well in excess of a hundred knots and let our eggs go. I pulled back and started to weave to avoid the hail of gunfire being sent our way, but nearly had my shoulder dislocated by Simpson as he clapped me heavily upon it, shouted and pointed backwards. Heeling over, I saw that we'd scored direct hits on some hangars, so I suppose what our scouts have left of their aeroplanes are going to spend a very wet night tonight unless they decide to decamp Eastwards, which will suit us very nicely.




One of our escort, unfortunately, became rather too animated by all the bombing and excitement and I saw him brought down by Hun machine guns, but by the looks of it he probably went into the bag rather than a coffin. Most unnecessary, and I will raise the subject with 23's CO when I'm over that way. He would do well to stop his chaps losing their heads and getting involved in our fights, although I understand how eager some of them must be.

Our return flight was more or less uneventful, I'm pleased to say, and Simpson and I took turns at pointing out the various scraps occurring elsewhere. Interestingly, I saw what I later confirmed to be Bristol Fighters taking on and seemingly besting some Hun scouts a couple of mile North of us as we approached the lines, and it filled me with hope since I've heard increasingly good reports of these devices, and I'm dying to get my hands on one to assess it. I think some of this evening will be spent dropping Boom a note thanking him for the RE8's and asking when we get Brisfits.

We waved off the SPADs of 23 Squadron, just as the heavens opened near Courcelles, making landing an even more unpleasant job than usual, thanks to the combination of driving rain and the RE's snout which obliterates any sensible forward vision. The people who design these 'planes really should be made to fly the damn things.

We did, however, put down safely and I thanked Simpson for his company. No more jobs came up, due to the weather, so I spent a pleasant lunch and afternoon with Simpson and Cleaver who apparently know each other from Oxford, but who made a point of including me in the conversation most gallantly. It seems that both their fathers are MP's, which surprised me, and that they both abandoned their studies to “do their bit”: I only hope they don't regret it. I joined up, as you know, because the Army looked like it would need more engineers: I couldn't have guessed that three years on I would be doing this, rather than puzzling over the logistics of bridges and batteries, but there you are. Given that no more flying was on the cards, I allowed both of them to amuse me with their aspirations and tales of great daring in the face of the Hun. Cleaver, I can take this from, seeing as he's been with us for some months: Simpson I had to chuckle at, quietly. He's done around half a dozen jobs and is now clearly established as a fount of knowledge regarding life out here. I finally left him and Cleaver arguing over whether the Albatros DIII is a more ferocious foe than the DV and went for forty winks.

Tomorrow's the end of the month, and, I suppose, heralds the slide into Autumn. I sincerely hope that the pain in my leg is down to the recent wound, as I don't fancy it being the start of arthritis in my lower leg. Still, given that I've managed to acquire a variety of injuries and wounds over the last few years, I wouldn't be that surprised if it was. But I do look forward to putting that lovely stick away for good.

My love, as ever, to Elsbeth and the aged parents, and I hope to take some leave back in England towards the end of the year. Only thirteen weeks until 1918 eh? I seem to remember, some time ago, someone telling me this would all be over by Christmas; what a pity they didn't specify which one.

My best regards,

Vic

You have a nice way to write! Thanks for the pics too, very well done.

Thank you, you are most kind.

I'll post more as and when the chance arises, as I'm extremely busy job hunting at the moment, and that's not quite so good over here in the UK.

Cheers,
Si

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Courcelles-le-Comte,
Nord

8th October 1917

Dear Marcus,

I'm writing this to you sat in a rather comfy chair in our 'mess' as we call it, in other words the officers' social quarters, signifying the bar.

I know that the aged parents had yet another gruesome telegraph through regarding my demise on the 23rd of last month, and I'm still busy searching for someone to put to the sword for that. How cruel and unnecessary, particularly given that after that flight it was known that I was simply winged rather than dead. I've sent off a letter to Trenchard with regard to this, as I feel that the Corps is simply falling down in its duty in this respect. I can only imagine the agonies that these messages must induce in the recipients.

Fortunately, in my case, it was a “false alarm”, and thus could be ignored, but that is of scant relief to mother and father I'm sure.

How is Elsbeth? A little birdy has told me that things are moving along very nicely in that respect. If there's anything you'd like to talk about, then please feel free. I am the squadron's censor, and thus my own letters aren't censored at all. I can attest that I have, at least, led a more adventurous life with regard to the fairer sex than I could ever have back in Derbyshire, had I not enlisted. Please treat this as you will.

I suppose I should tell you a little about what we've been about since my last letter and your reply to me. In essence, we've been up on jobs with the aim of taking photographs of the Hun lines, as far as we can. Looking back on my flight log, I see that we've popped over to Bourlon Wood, Ribemont, Cambrai and Le Cateau Cambresis on several occasions, although it's now accepted that the main fight is to the North of us. Unless we do our work, however, then our gunners can't keep the Huns' heads down, so that's the aim.

One thing I should mention is a trip I made to Bellevue aerodrome the other week, having met up with Major McKeever from 11 Squadron. I ran into him at a DHQ briefing and ended up having a coffee with him as he waxed lyrical about his Bristol Fighters which are now their steeds. I suggested, tentatively, that I might pop over to Bellevue to have look and, perhaps, put in a little time in one of their “Brisfits”, and he was most enthusiastic.

Thus, the day before I got shot down, I went over and had a close look at the Bristols. I had a thorough inspection tour from Major McKeever and his head of ground staff, Naylor, as well as a tutorial in how to fly one. Well. There was only one thing to do – fly the damn thing.

I took off and I have to say that this is the aeroplane that we should have had two years ago. It has a forward firing machine gun, however the obs has a one or two machine gun setup depending upon their personal preferences, mounted upon a Scarfe ring. The silly thing is, I don't suppose that Brisfit pilots need an obs as gunner, since it's a wonderfully well balanced and fast aeroplane. I registered at least 110 knots as I flew, and that was with a passenger in the rear seat.

I threw the Brisfit all over the sky – much to the disapproval of some of McKeever's ground crew, apparently – and finally landed persuaded that No. 12 needs these aeroplanes, rather than the anaemic RE8s with which we toil. My letter to Trenchard, I'm told, has been received rather better than I thought it might be. Well, we shall see.

I'm currently hors de combat – again! - due to a slight wound sustained in a job over Cambrai, about two weeks ago, but I'd advise you to tell the parents that I've had a spot of leave instead. I don't think that they need to know the ins and outs of our lives out here. It has to be said, we met up with multiple Jastas, which simply indicates how important this offensive is. We were shot up by Hun archie, although there were a fearsome number of Hun Jastas abroad that day, limping back to Courcelles as my left leg went numb. That was a very entertaining landfall, as it happened, so both of us have few days to recover before we pitch up again on a job.

So there we are. The weather here has turned quite dreadful, so it's not a bad time to be excused flying duties, although it weighs upon my heart each time I send out any of our fellows on a job, given the odds. It's only when the Corps or the French provide escorts do I consider it a sensible move, but there we are. This won't be changing in a hurry and I suppose that we should be happy that we do actually get escorts from time to time, as opposed to last year when we were very much on our own. Bloody April changed all that: I'm not surprised that statements were made in the Commons after that particular period. Let's hope that the coming season doesn't lead to any more trouble on that scale.

I will sign off now, if for no better reason than the fact that our scratch football team is about to take on one from the Durham Light Infantry, more or less next door in what looks to me to be a flooded meadow. I shall fortify myself with rum and proceed to the game wherein I will cheer our team – mostly fitters, but with Capt. Westall as goalkeeper – to the rafters. What a very, very strange existence this is.

Affectionately yours,

Vic

Hello,
nice stories, thanks !
I seldomly last this long ..

Greetings,
Catfish

Hi Cats,

Thank you for the compliment. Don't worry, this is quite exceptional for me too! Now he's on the Harry Tate, it's anyone's guess how quickly he'll snuff it...

Cheers,
Si

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Courcelles-le-Comte,
Nord

10th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

My apologies for not having written sooner. We've been very busy since my last letter to you, and I note from my flight log that my time in the air has been split between ferrying Sgt Ward (my new observer, as Jennings has been sent home in an awful funk after being brought down near Passchendaele) as he took plates of the lines – although, to be honest, given the glacial movement of out ground troops, we might as well not bother – and the rest of the time trying to drop bombs on the various railheads and junctions that would otherwise permit the Huns to bring fresh troops in.

Through all of this, as you may well have heard, the weather has been atrocious; cold, lashing rain and strong winds. Hardly conducive to flying, still less to actually making any headway, either in the air, or, thinking about the poor sods fighting to the north, in the mud.

Thankfully, the heavy fighting is now over, and the emphasis has been more southerly since the rather daring surprise attack at Cambrai. I'm pleased to report that we had little to do with that, apart from one bombing raid on a railyard at Denaim, just north-east of Cambrai. We went out with an escort of half a dozen Camels from our chums in No. 45 squadron, and, as per usual when the Corps send us out with escorting scouts, the Huns refused to come out and play, with the result that we managed to wreck that target quite comprehensively, given that there was little dust kicked up by explosions enabling us to see the place quite clearly.

The entire squadron was pulled out of duties for a few weeks thereafter, and I was able to issue leave orders for all flights, as RAF technical chaps came in to assess how our Harry Tates are bearing up under the recent conditions, and to make some modifications to the aeroplanes based upon reports they've received. In short, I was the only pilot at Courcelles for a week or so, and ended up flying quite a few of the squadron's RE8s to check that work done had been done correctly. In all cases it had, but I was rather shocked at how some of my pilots had asked their riggers and fitters to set up their machines for them. Tail heavy, nose heavy, twitchy, unresponsive; the list seemed endless. I spoke at length to the ground crews and thanked them for their efforts, then the RAF people to find out if there's any likelihood of faster aeroplanes that manouvre better and are more heavily armed, knowing the answer in advance. One wag mentioned that they've just managed to produce a BE2z, which will do 140 knots, out turn a Camel and is armed with four Vickers. Very amusing, from their point of view, if not mine.

As I say, we were out the line until around a week ago when we came back on operations. I'm pleased to say – and you can tell the aged parents – that we're mostly escorted nowadays, and I can relate that our last few raids or reconnaissances have been accompanied by Pups, SPADs, Bristol Fighters and SE5s. In fact, the only occasion when we didn't have an escort, as we went off to pay a visit to the railyard at Brebiéres, led to a prolonged fight with a flight of Hun scouts. I'd not seen any Pfalz DIIIs before, and, in fact, no Pfalz of any kind since ages ago, when their monoplanes used to pop up occasionally. Anyway, it wasn't a pleasant experience, and Ward and I ended up putting down just behind our lines having been shot up by one of these devices. I'm told by Corps scout pilots that in fact they're rather miserable aeroplanes, however it didn't feel like that to us as they're heavily armed and our Harry's are no match.

All of which brings me up to date, I suppose. The weather's still awful, our aeroplanes are still largely defenceless in the face of Hun scouts and Christmas is looming. My hope is that the Huns will decide that it's the right time to go back home en masse and not bother coming back after New Year. We should be so lucky.

I enclose a few gifts for you and Elsbeth – no peeking until Christmas Day! - plus some knick knacks that I know mother and father will enjoy. Don't worry about me, as I'm quite safe at the moment, and as Christmas approaches unlikely to end up in the middle of some major show. Corporal Hewson has just popped in to inform me that I'm meant to be up with 'B' flight in about an hour, so I will sign off.

Regards, as ever,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Courcelles-le-Comte,
Nord

14th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

Thanks for your missive of the 8th inst. I don't suppose you'll have received my last letter yet, so this will probably arrive hot on its heels.

As you can tell, I'm in rude health, mostly because the weather has restricted our flying, but also, importantly, because it's contained the Huns' activities as well. It's been a shockingly bad combination of rain, high winds and cloud, which has been a blessing for us as a squadron as it's meant that we become less visible to the Hun staffeln. Combine that with rather more generous escorts and in essence we've been protected from the worst of things.

Courcelles remains a dreadfully dull place to be – I can only imagine how frustrated some of the younger pilots must be – although if one is willing to seek out transport, then Doullens, apparently, is the place to go to for an enjoyable evening. Much against my better judgement, I joined Captain Warner, Captain Beauchamp-Hart and a few of their flights in an evening there yesterday evening when it was apparent that the weather would be unsuitable today – as it was.

I was most surprised to find that several cafes were full to the rafters with our chaps and French poilus alike. Apparently, people can't spend money quick enough on wine and the obliging local mademoiselles. I was somewhat wary, and, in any case, have to set something of an example to my fellows, even though some of the women who sashayed past us were breathtakingly beautiful. Or, perhaps, I've been stuck in this damn cow field too long! After a very pleasant evening, awash with wine, and bolstered by an excellent meal of coq au vin with all the trimmings, I ordered all and sundry back to Courcelles – amongst much rancorous muttering – and thus I find myself sat here at my bureau.

Please reassure the aged parents that things are well over here; we're quite well protected by our local Corps scouts when aloft, in particular RFC 29 squadron with their Nieuports, and the only Huns we've seen of late have been those being chased away by them and the SE5s that also gallantly protect us.

That's all that I can recount for the moment. The rain has been falling this evening, and still persists, so it is likely that tomorrow will be maintenance, gun drill and beating the basics of surviving into our latest pilot – one Lieutenant Frith – however, that is another day. I've just finished the Armagnac in front of me, and the light is guttering, so I bid you good night, and trust that Elsbeth is well and thriving, and that you'll be back home in Derbyshire from university sometime this week.

Yours, etc,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Boiry St Martin,
Nord

16th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

Just a quick note to let you know that we've finally moved house – all of about 4 miles to Boiry, a little further north than Courcelles le Comte, and a little closer to Arras. We're just off the main Arras road, and obviously, still miles away from the fleshpots of Doullens.

Yesterday was the day of the transfer from our old home at Courcelles – I shan't miss it. At least Boiry has rather better slung together hangars, and, on the most cursory inspection, a solidly built chateau like structure as home to some of the pilots and, importantly, the mess and dining room. I've assigned A flight to the rooms in the chateau (I imagine it was, I've little local knowledge concerning Boiry), but have bagged a capacious and rather nice tent for myself within strolling distance of the place, and yet beyond earshot of the bar. Like all messes, there's a piano, so I asked 2nd Lt. Skidmore to bash out the noisiest ditty he could think of, and I strained to hear it from my new home, so that will do extremely well!

The changeover has gone remarkably smoothly – the planning was meticulous, and, of course, our crews are marvellous, so whilst we made the short hop in our Harry Tates, they followed along with the Crossleys and all of our kit and paraphenalia. So here we are, and I'm anticipating going up in a short while with the flight to do some artillery spotting south east of St Quentin.

At least this will be in broad daylight (it's just before a quarter to twelve here), which is more than I can say for the last flight from Courcelles, where we received orders late on the 14th to perform a reconnaissance of the trenches at Feuchy, just north east of Arras. A more insane assignment would be hard to concoct: it was showery; it was gusting; the cloud base was ridiculously low; but, most of all, it was nearly 3.45pm as we taxied off. Sgt Ward, my still temporary but perhaps to be permanent observer, had raised objections to this farcical use of our resources, and I was sympathetic to the issues he raised, not the least of which would be that we wouldn't be able to actually see anything, as the sun was dipping in the sky and by the time we had climbed to several thousand feet was setting rapidly. On the plus side, half a dozen Camels from No. 43 were in attendance, which meant that we were unlikely to be unduly concerned about Huns – Richtofen's circus was in the area until recently, and the Huns still prowl around looking for tempting targets like RE's a fair amount of the time.

Thankfully, the escort turned up as ordered and we beetled off to Arras, with our escort scurrying off every so often as they spotted Albatros V strutters (probably DV's) trying to encroach on us. I'm very glad I'm not an Albatros pilot, as the Camels drove them off with some ease, and, if the large flare of burning aeroplane I saw near Arras was testament, then they were certainly bested. The sun dipped almost onto the horizon as we flew up and down with Ward trying to discern anything in the encroaching darkness. It was hopeless and pointless. As I wheeled over Hamblain one last time, I saw the last rays of the sun disappear, and fired the Very flare to the flight signalling that the job was washed out and dud.




We set off for home, and, thank God, there was sufficient light from the Moon to help us on our way. Fortunately, we know the area very well, and Arras is easy to pick out. From there, it was a case of following the main road southwards until we found Courcelles, which we did some quarter of an hour later, bathed in a wan moonlight. Our chums in the Camels took their leave of us at this point and we landed gingerly. I went first, and the rest of the flight followed me in. No mishaps, everyone down, and a monumental waste of time. With no plates to pass on, I sent a courier with the assembled drawings by Ward and the other obs to DHQ, where, I've no doubt, they found them of no use whatsoever. I'm simply glad no-one got killed on such a stupid job.

Still, anyway. I must depart. The time is nearly 1pm, the allotted time for the flight, and I can hear RE engines being started and run up. I'll post this later.

Affectionate regards,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Boiry St Martin,
Nord

17th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

Is the weather over in Derbyshire as awful as it has been over here of late? It seems to be an endless spell of rain, low clouds, and with it freezing temperatures. We all tend to wander out to our 'planes looking like Arctic explorers at the best of times, but when it turns cold – and it's certainly turned cold here – then flying through freezing rain and sleet becomes not only unpleasant, but also quite dangerous. I've seen people pass out through freezing and being unable to breathe at higher altitudes, and occasionally had to fight it off myself. But I digress.

We finally had a run out yesterday lunchtime to do some spotting around Ribemont – just south east of St Quentin, if you know your geography – with myself leading four other B flight crews. Having rendezvoused with a flight of Camels from No. 10 RNAS, we ploughed on towards Ribemont. My word! Busy is not the word to describe how we found things. Despite it being fairly gloomy and overcast, with the inevitable rain and cold, both our people and the Huns were up in considerable numbers. As we overflew Arras, our escort was called upon to tackle some Albatri heading in on a northerly bearing, so we lost sight of them for a while.

This wasn't too much of a problem until a short while later when Ward started beating me about the head and shoulders and pointing downwards and to port. He'd seen some more Huns – apparently Pfalzs' – and even though we had height and cloud on our side, I began to worry that they were going to come and have a sniff. We flew on, with me signalling to the rest of the flight to tighten up, until we could see what the Huns were up to: they obviously had orders to have a go at some of our observation balloons, and, just as they were racing in to have a crack at them, some SE5s appeared and, I'm told by Ward – I wasn't watching – it turned into a right tussle, with one of the balloons going down (and the ballooneers leaping out to safety), whilst a Pfalz folded up and then crashed.

All very exciting, and exactly the sort of thing I try to avoid nowadays.

Eventually, we made it over to Ribemont and signalled back corrections to our chums in the RA who were putting up a terrific show with their nine-twos, and I could swear that I saw some of the shells whizzing past us on their way to Hunland...The flight back, I'm pleased to say was uneventful, as No. 10 had found us again by that point and clucked and fussed around us until we were back at Boiry.

Today was a rather different matter, as we were on a job to Iwuy to send the Corps' best regards in the form of 110lb bombs. As the weather hadn't improved one jot from the previous day, I eyed the field warily – it's always trouble getting a fully laden RE8 off the ground with a bomb load, and given the soaking that the ground's had of late, I was most surprised when I found that the rest of my flight of four had made it up without mishap. Given that there's only one chap in B flight who's new – Lt. Buckminster – I suppose it simply speaks well of he rest of the flight and how well they've adapted to the new aircraft.

Once airborne, my more pressing concern was the lack of an escort. Iwuy is north east of Cambrai, which is to say about 30 miles away. Once I'd been informed by DHQ of the target, I'm afraid I rather waxed wroth at the poor fellow on the other end of the phone and invited him along for the ride today if he thought that sending a flight of Harry Tates that far into Hunland unescorted was such a marvellous idea. He became quite indignant, pointing out that he was only the messenger, which was, I suppose, true. Anyway, I'm sure that Henderson or Boom will be dropping by soon, and I'm sure it won't be to wish me a Merry Christmas...

Anyhow, dodging in and out of the freezing squalls of rain, we crept over the lines near Oisy-le-Verger, with me anxiously scanning the skies and, I've no doubt, everyone else doing the same. There! That group of dots! What are they? They turned out to be Brisfits from No. 11, buzzing through on their way back from somewhere, apparently. Gingerly we kept on, 10, then 20 miles gone. More distant 'planes – this time it was unmistakable: Albatros V strutters. I signalled a dive into the cloud and murk a few hundred feet below, and although slashed by rain, we were again relatively safe. Eventually Ward pounded my shoulder and pointed downwards – we were approaching the target area.

As we dropped down from 8,000 to around 2,000 feet, the clouds parted and the rain ceased. Oh bliss! I felt a happy brief glow of contentment – until I saw and heard the first 'wup' of the Hun Archie as they registered our presence. Still, a little too late for them to give us a proper pasting, so weaving as we dropped, I dived down at about 110 knots until the track and yards at Iwuy filled my vision, then dropped the eggs, pulling up violently and resuming weaving as the Hun machine guns woke up with a start. Looking back over the port side, I had the pleasure of seeing our bombs tear up track, buffers, the odd boxcar and blow out the insides of what appeared to be a signalling hut. A most fulfilling moment.




With everyone back and climbing westwards we set off homewards. It was at this point that the skies began to fill up. Another RE8 squadron hove into view – escorted, I might add, by SE5s – whilst nearby to them to the north some Brisfits were having a lively tussle with some Albatri. I signalled again to tighten formation climb as best possible, without attracting attention. Well, unfortunately, some days you simply do exactly that. I spotted a flight of V Strutters heading towards us, but a little lower, and sent up a general supplication. This, it seems, was promptly answered when two flights of DH5's, a flight of Brisfits and some Nieuport scouts all suddenly appeared from different directions! Naturally, the Huns took themselves off with some alacrity at this juncture, and I'm afraid that I did gloat when I saw one of them go down smoking near Recourt, closed followed one of the odd looking DH5's.

As quickly as the Huns and our saviours had turned up, the sky was again empty, save for the relentless beating of rain again as we headed west. As we crossed the lines, even that ceased – thereby proving to my mind that it was Hun rain – and we landed back at Boiry St Martin around twelve. Everyone home unharmed; everyone reporting direct hits with bombs; no apparent damage to any of the 'planes, despite the Archie and other ground fire. A very lacklustre showing by the Hun, but one that we'll celebrate later, as the forecast for the weather has turned even grimmer than it has been of late.

Which, I suppose, is more or less where I started this letter. I'm a little tired, to be truthful, and I'm not sure I'm up for any horseplay with the squadron this evening, so I may just relax with a few Armagnacs and The Origin of Species (for which, many thanks). I'll try to drop you a line before Christmas, and will, of course, send one to the aged parents – although, I think, missing out anything that might make them fret. That's your job now, my dear chap!

Affectionately,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Boiry St Martin,
Nord

21st December 1917

Dear Marcus,

We've been fairly quiet here since I last sent you word – apart, that is, from hearing from uncle Ralph and aunt Emily in Warwickshire. I'd forgotten that mum's family are rather more extensive than the Timm's, so it was a bit of a shock when Sergeant Begby hove by my office with a package (a large one) from them both. Whilst things like socks, silk long johns, tobacco, fine tinned meats and so forth are absolutely spot on, I'm less convinced that the fly rod and reel will get much of an outing until I return to England, and then some, given that it doesn't interest me at all. I've no idea what I'm meant to be doing with a shotgun, and, frankly, I'm amazed that it made it through our postal system without further investigation. But, there it is: I now have a 12 bore shotgun from Branley and Hussey, and no inclination to use it. Not even on the Hun. To my mind, machine guns are guns. They are there to enable me to dissuade Hun aeroplanes from coming closer (or to let Ward do that from the back seat). You know that I've never shot at home and I can't see it changing now. I'm at a loss as what to do with the damn thing. I can't send it back, as that would be terribly bad form, and I can't actually use it, as I have no interest. Worse, I can't even sell it to someone who would be interested, because, assuming I survive this nonsense, at some point, Ralph and Emily will surely come calling, ask about the gun and wish to see it.

24th December

Well, in the few days since I started this letter, I've managed to do a few jobs, some unescorted I note to such places as Haucourt (a simple reconnaissance), Bertry (ditto) and Bohain en Vermondois. This last one was the most interesting, as it meant bombing the railway facilities there - the Huns get their Christmas schnapps and wurst sent up by such means. A trio of Nieuport 24s from 29 RFC came with us on this one, and we kept them busy with the local jastas, who are ridiculously energetic at the moment. It's Christmas, and they should be damn well grateful that we're not pasting their aerodromes, rather than nosing around over our lines as well as their own.

I can't begin to tell you how many times this wretched weather – almost perpetual low cloud, rain and winds – have saved our eggs and bacon of late. You see, the Hun scouts can't spot us in the murk, and hence, like this bombing job, we managed to pop in. I could see a line of Albatros V strutters sat no more than two thousand feet above us as we dived into towards the marshalling yards at about 120 knots, yet even after we'd raised a commotion by banging in bombs all over the place and stirred up Archie did they finally notice that we'd visited and gave chase. As we made it over our lines at about three thousand feet, I could see that the Huns had all but given up chasing us, and only two remained in pursuit. One of these was tackled, so Griffiths' obs told me, by a Nieuport scout that pounced on him and sent him down, leaving one DV.





I veered inland via as many of our airfields that I could think of, hoping that the Hun would take the hint and go home, but what a persistent fellow. We're quite safe flying by our own spotter balloons and airfields, as our own Archie and machine guns know us. When the Huns come over however, dressed up in their fantastic reds, yellows and so forth, they know immediately to let go at them with everything they have, and that's what happened to this Albatros. I don't know who actually got him, but he went down smoking not far from our old airfield at Courcelle, so we ended up back here safe and sound.

Incidentally, I did get a visit from Trenchard after all. I was awaiting being torn off a strip for abusing one of his staff, and yet he didn't seem bothered about that at all. I naturally apologised for my hasty actions then, but he seemed more amused than anything else. What he did say that excited me enormously was when he said that I shouldn't have to fly crocks over Hunland without the means of defence. The penny didn't drop for a few seconds, and I began to wonder if he was about to suggest moving a scout squadron into Boiry with us, to act as our chaperones in the air.

“I believe that you've rather taken with McKeever's Bristol Fighters” He said. I told him that they were splendid aircraft, and would go a long way towards sorting out our problems. “In that case” he continued, “I suppose we'd better let you have some”. I swear, I nearly kissed Trenchard at that juncture! Instead, I thanked him and asked when we might see them. It's all a bit hazy, but it looks like early in the New Year we'll have our evaluation and conversion 'planes, with a view to being fully operational on them by March or April. I can't wait. At long last, a 'plane with which we can genuinely take on the Huns and have a proper fighting chance. What a pity it's taken nearly three years. Never mind; the end result's the thing.

I thanked Boom again, and wished him a very merry Christmas, having finally found a use for one of the bottles of brandy that mum and dad sent me a while back. Trenchard seemed quite touched and wished us all at No. 12 a peaceful Christmas, whilst passing the bottle to Henderson for safe keeping. This all happened yesterday, and I wasted no time in assembling the crews to let them know what is in prospect. Although none of them have flown a Brisfit (unlike me), they all seemed quite excited by the idea, to say the least. Given that only six or seven months ago, we were flying those ghastly deathtraps from Farnborough, this is quite a turn up.

Anyway, I must stop writing as I have to lead a patrol out to Ribemont on the River Ancre to let our artillery people give the Huns a good plastering. I'll complete this later and get it sent forthwith. Too late for Christmas, but a Happy New Year to you. On his way out, Boom assured me that after today, we'd have no more work until New Year, so that's fine by me.

16th January 1918

I found this letter in my bureau earlier, and thought I might as well complete it and send it to you.

I very much hope that Christmas chez nous wasn't spoiled by the news of my crash on Christmas Eve, but I suppose it would have been to some degree. It's odd how the Corps is useless at disseminating goods news to people, and yet so adroit at reporting bad news in the twinkle of an eye? You'll know the basics – flew, crashed, hospital – but you won't know why it happened, so I'll tell you. Our spotting job on the Ancre was unescorted, which, although bad form in my book, wasn't terrible, given that we've been able to dodge the Huns so effectively and for so long in these conditions. I knew, though, that this wasn't going to be an ordinary job, as we quickly ran into a full Jasta's worth of Albatri. They didn't see us, but it took a bit of manouvring to avoid them and continue on. With them behind us, I felt a little better, despite the usual pelting rain and miserable cold when Ward pointed out two formations, one to port, one to starboard.

My heart sank when I realised that each one was a full Jasta, so probably about twenty or more Albatros scouts in total. I couldn't identify their formations, and, frankly, I was a little too busy to care! I think it was Jastas 2, 10 and perhaps 11, but that would be speculation. With my six RE8s, surrounded by around thirty Albatri, I made a quick decision to put down at a new field near Pontru, so I sent out the flare signifying that we were going to land (and in all probability damn well stay there) and headed down. The Huns were closing in and I could see some scraps breaking out between them and the members of B flight. I circled and Ward plied his trade against the Hun scouts as we tried to drive off as many as we could whilst the flight landed. In this, of course, we had help from the machine gunners near the field, but with no permanent Archie, it was a losing battle. A DIII managed to put some rounds into us, and I realised that we had to get down quickly if we wanted to survive, so I winged over violently and set up an emergency landing at the field.



We nearly got away with it too. If it hadn't been such a rough strip, and had the wind not lifted our tail on landing we might have been fine. Well, we weren't and with the ground that sodden and our landing so sudden, plus that wind, the prop dug in and broke, and then the whole plane stood nose down and pitched us both out. Ward was mostly fine – he's made of very stern stuff – however I managed to crack various ribs and the doctors thereafter diagnosed a crack in my left shoulder blade. Not that I knew: I was spark out until late on Christmas Day.

So, that's where I spent Christmas and New Year. Colin came to see me in hospital, as he'd heard about the crash, and was on his way back to England for some leave. It was nice to see him again. I'm afraid that they had me on quite strong medication, so all I did was gibber at Colin for a while before he got bored and left. I'm told that Trenchard looked in as well, but I don't remember that at all.

I was brought back here yesterday, and as expected, it's business as usual here. The squadron quack has told me I have to do only desk duties for the next fortnight, however given that he is a captain, I am a major and I have difficulty remembering things told to me by medics, I suspect I'll be back up tomorrow, just to see how I get on.

So there's the whole story for you. I would have loved to have been back with you all in Derbyshire, but there you are. I've vowed to take better care of myself this year, as I appreciate that there aren't many squadron commanders who fly quite as much as I do, but I do so feel the urge – even now – to do what I can, and that means flying. Roll on March! Good news at last!

Yours, ever,
Vic

First class work. Captures the times as they were. Look forward to more of the same.