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

Good stuff, very atmospheric!
H

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Is this stuff OK, by the way? There's more to post if people wish to continue reading it.

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

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

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

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

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

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 Péronne 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 Cléry-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

Really nice read, maybe some pics can spice it.

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...

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

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

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.

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

21st January 1918

Dear Marcus,

Thank you immensely for the photograph that you sent, received this morning. Was that taken near the railway station at Matlock Bath? The four of you all look very well, although I suppose it was pretty cold that day. Do pass on my love to Elsbeth; she really is a most remarkable young woman – I had no idea that she wants to be a journalist when she's finished her time at Manchester University. Good for her, I say. It's certainly about time that we started to appreciate the talents of the half of the population which, until now, have lain mostly dormant. I was reading a recent copy of the Manchester Guardian the other day, and it had a rather haphazard report on the number of women now working in the munitions factories, thereby filling in for the menfolk to come to the front – willingly or otherwise. It seems madness to me that we have so many talented and resourceful women in Britain, and yet, until we're threatened by the Huns in so dire a manner, we are reluctant to make use of their talents.

Not necessarily, I might add, a popular sentiment out here.

In recent days we've had jobs over Hun airfields – Roucourt and Eswars in particular – and both ended badly, with my 'plane shot up on both occasions and crews lost. Ward is beginning to show signs of being a little “trigger happy” and I'm minded to recommend him to go home toot sweet as it's not good when one's obs starts blazing away at Huns when they're clearly beyond any sort of range. Certainly, being chased back by angry Albatri yesterday, being peppered with shot and having Ward unable to reply because he'd run out of ammunition did not particularly impress me; still less when I had to rely on other 'B' flight crews, one of whom was forced down behind the lines.

It has to be said; I don't know if the Huns have started putting something in the food and drink that they give to their pilots, but they've clearly got their dander up. I suppose it might well be that they've got tired of us bombing their railheads and aerodromes to perdition, but I get the feeling that there's something else afoot, and that they've moved some very aggressive Jastas into our area. Certainly, we're now facing very competent airmen and Jastas whose liveries I can't guess without reference back to Captain Grey, our intelligence officer. He's managed to identify some new adversaries, but perplexingly, it's not Richtofen's mob. They are, though, rather too competent, and seeing as Boom is looking in on Saturday I will be asking for better protection – I ask you, three Nieuports for six Harrys? - as well as a speeding up of our conversion to Brisfits.

Apropos of which: I took one up yesterday afternoon, having been harried down by V-strutters in the morning, and it was extremely tempting to head Eastwards to search out some Huns. That's how confident I am of these new 'planes.

I suppose that all I have to do is to avoid getting downed before we're ready to launch ourselves in March. This waiting is driving me mad.

Affectionately,
Vic

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

24th January 1918

Dear Marcus,

Just a very brief note to let you know that I'm well and thriving, despite the awful weather and the technical problems that meant that my aeroplane was unavailable for some days. It appears that gremlins had struck, according to Haines, our chief engineer here at Boiry, and given that we don't have enough REs for all the crews, I felt that I couldn't purloin one. I took the opportunity to get through an awful lot of paperwork, and having done so, then felt justified in taking Captain Battle's BSA and riding over to see Colin, whose squadron is not that far away. Over lunch, he intoned gravely that this was Fate, and that I should jolly well take the hint and stop flying altogether. Easy enough for him to say, but seeing as since the end of last year, pretty much all my experienced crews have been released back to England to train others, or have been promoted out to vacancies in other squadrons, I can hardly stop flying now.

I read with interest your letter dated the 15th and can only agree with your sentiments: if we can't beat the Huns with a million Americans at our backs, then the curtain is sure to fall on us, the French and the Belgians. I believe that the Huns can't win it, although I do wonder what they've done with their troops who must have become idle after the Russians threw in the towel. My fervent hope is that they'll all get posted to Italy or Palestine; the realist or pessimist suspects that they might well turn up here. We shall see.

My love to you and Elsbeth.

Yours,

Vic

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

25th January 1918

Dear Marcus,

I'm back in the air again – D2113 was presented to me by Haines this morning, with strict instructions that I must take care of it. I'm very much inclined to do so, but apparently DHQ have different views on the subject, so after some time having the trim adjusted and the controls set to my liking, I went up with 'B' flight to disturb the Huns at the rail junction just south east of Douai.

With a new aeroplane, and a new observer – a Lt. Coker, recently arrived from England – and given that my flight are effectively new to the front as well, I thought it prudent to omit the usual load of eggs and instead had flares loaded, in order to give the flight an aiming point for their eggs.
One other reason for this was that I wished, if necessary, to be able to interject myself between any Huns that we met and the rest of the flight to be able to provide a small amount of protection. Well, at least to put the Huns off their aim. This wouldn't usually be necessary, however our elders and betters had, once again, decreed that despite the target location and the fine weather, we didn't need a scout escort. On learning this from DHQ, I'm afraid that I did rather swear at length and at some volume.

We set off and as luck would have it, despite the presence of Hun scouts in the air – they're much more active nowadays – we were left largely unmolested, largely due to some RNAS chaps up in Camels, who became our de facto escort, albeit at a great distance. Once over the rail junction, it was simple enough to drop a pair of flares right onto the place, and I then stood back as 'B' flight went in and laced the area with bombs. Thankfully, their archie seemed quite torpid, and I'm told that only minor damage was inflicted on our 'planes.

Wheeling about, I was just beginning to start patting myself on the back when Coker pounded me about the shoulders, pointing eastwards. I could see some three winged 'planes headed our way. Whilst the naval boys have some Sopwith Triplanes, which they've used to good effect for some time, it was immediately apparent that these were Huns – they've introduced their own triplane, supposedly because they were so impressed with ours. I'd heard about the Hun triplane, and the reports are that they're remarkably nimble and well armed, so taking them on was out of the question. I signalled everyone to tighten up on me and dived like mad towards the lines, with the Fokkers in pursuit.

As we neared the lines, I could see that they were more or less upon us – they're not as quick as we'd been told – so I felt that a little diversionary action was called for. I heaved back on the stick, cracked the rudder hard left and gunned the engine, which pulled me out of the flight like a rocket and heading towards the Hun scouts. To my great satisfaction, this manouvre apparently startled the Huns so much that they all skittered and climbed away, further increasing the distance twixt them and the flight. Coker, with great presence of mind, started hammering away with his Lewis at the triplanes as I pulled the bus hard to port and flipped her over, back towards the lines.

For whatever reason – I suspect the Huns' hearts weren't in it – we weren't pursued any further, and I was pleased to realise that they'd given up on us. I was rather less pleased when we were greeted over the lines with several large white and black balls of smoke in our vicinity. Woof! Woof! The explosions rocked the 'plane and I could see pieces of canvas becoming shredded on the starboard wing and the aft section of the fuselage. I jinked and weaved the 'plane as best I could and the firing abated, stopping as we flew over the lines near Arras. I don't mind the Huns throwing shells up at us, but I'm damned if I'm going to put up with our own Archie doing so. A letter to Trenchard will be written this evening.

We landed back at Boiry just after 10 to find that everyone had returned safe and sound. Mr. Haines was less than impressed with my use of his lovely new Harry Tate, but at least I brought it back in one piece, as I pointed out to him. I last saw him shouting at a cowering group of riggers, to get my 'plane sorted out tout de suite.

That's about it. The weather's fine, if cold, and I've now officially returned to flying duties. I'll get onto DHQ shortly, and see what fun and games they have for us for tomorrow. More anon, no doubt.

Much love,

Vic

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

27th February 1918

Dear Marcus,

Thank you for your letter of the 17th – I have been rereading it and laughing for days, although I shouldn't. It's actually quite touching to hear that the Simmons side of the family has a male member in it that thinks that because I'm flying and not yet dead, that I am a role model for him. Poor lamb. Seventeen years old eh? Unlikely to make twenty unless people like yourself impress upon him that this is not a patriotic game that we play out here. People are dying and being invalided back on a monotonously regular basis. Tell Patrick to get a proper job or to matriculate, to go up to university or to the South Pole. Anywhere but this.

I've been putting in more time on our two Brisfits – we will be officially switching over to these lovely devices fairly soon, and training is going well – but I've also had to keep on flying in our everyday operations, which has proven quite hazardous at times. Since I last wrote to you, I've been involved in some fairly unpleasant flights into Hunland mostly to Cambrai and St. Quentin, which are clearly being sized up by our generals, although I'm not sure what for. From my observations, such as they are, I'm sure that the Huns are bolstering their numbers up here, and I'm equally sure that it will end it tears for all of us, particularly if they decide to assault us. Much of 5th Army's strength has been whittled down due to the battle of Cambrai and the awful slog up at Passchendaele, and we apparently have Portuguese troops between us and the Huns. Untested infantry, fresh from the Portuguese dominions and entirely unused to the cold, mud and misery of Northern France and Flanders.

Much as I dislike what we endure, my heart goes out to them. It must be unimaginable compared to their homes.

Since my last letter, I seem to have developed the habit, when on ops, of attracting stray bullets and pieces of Archie to our petrol tanks. This is not, I hasten to add, a skill which is in any way desirable, and I very much deplore that we've had a few missions where I've suddenly found us out of fuel and having to put down. Thankfully, this hasn't happened – touch wood – in Hun territory to the degree where I can't glide us back, but I think that Coker's beginning to regret crewing with me, and he certainly does the Brisfit training – where he flies – with much gusto. Perhaps, I give him reason. For example, we were up on the 4th ordered to bomb the railway station at Bohain en Vermandois, just north east of St. Quentin, and whilst we managed it (just!), on the way home we were harried mercilessly by Jasta 37 in their buzzy little DV's, all of which came to a head – given that we had no escort again) – as we headed back to Boiry via Lieremont, which is another of our bases, I was ahead of the rest of the flight, which was being constantly attacked by the Huns, so dove low over the airfield to wake them up.

I continued to circle round and flared the flight to indicate that they should land forthwith – which they started to do – whilst I whisked us round with Coker blazing away at any Hun scout that was brave enough to have a go. Given that it wasn't just Coker, but the rest of the gunners at Lieremont who were blasting away at them, I can only assume that they're extremely brave or extremely thick to have carried on.

With everyone down and in various states of having been shot up, I winged over myself – damn near stalled the swine – and managed the shortest ever landing in an RE8, I swear. The engine was dead before we'd stopped rolling, and Coker reported about 30 or so bullet holes in our 'plane – some of which, I'm sure, came from our ground based guns. We took D2113 back to Boiry on a Crossley. Not flyable for a week, at least.

That's more or less it. The next day I took up another RE8, with which I was unfamiliar and wasn't set up for me, and managed, I'm quite ashamed to say, to crash it on landing. Damn the fool whose 'plane it was – no-one should set up their trim like that, or have such a hair grip on the ailerons. Utterly ridiculous. Still, it's been enough to have me off ops for this last 2 weeks, although I think that Corporal Price, who's my duty clerk, has been happy enough to have me nursing my knee and arguing the toss with DHQ and supply depots. Not wrong perhaps, given that we're now trying to get in the relevant spares for the expected Brisfits, whilst trying to arrange the orderly disposal of everything RE8 related at an, as yet, unspecified date.

Such is life. I spend my time on this, arguing with DHQ about the lack of cover, arguing with Trenchard by letter about the lack of cover, 'phoning up and arguing with squadron commanders about the lack of cover or fending off petulant Harry pilots from No. 12 complaining about the lack of cover. I'd complain to the Hun authorities about the unfairness of putting bloody great Jastas right where we don't need them to be – and we really don't need von Richtofen and his chums where they are just now – but I think my letter would probably have the opposite effect, so I won't be posting it any time soon.

That's about it for the moment. I'm meant to be up again tomorrow, for a bit of spotting for the RA, but that's late morning, so, for once, I think I'll pop over to the mess and see if Coker's willing to talk tactics. I do miss Colin's presence in that respect. A very clever man, whose insights saved our bacon on numerous occasions. He's back in England helping to train people so at least he's unlikely to turn up on the doorstep any time soon.

My best wishes to you on these important terms at Manchester. Remember: if you make it through the next few months you will get a degree – something that you should treasure. Once this whole thing is over, we will need people like you and Elsbeth to help rebuild our country. So many people have gone west, and we will need those who are left to be the best that they can. If I am spared – and God knows how that's happened thus far – then I will be deliriously happy, and probably spend a year completely drunk. But there's much to do, both now, and, in the event that we beat the Huns – still not certain, even with the Yanks turning up in number, as they're supposed to do – in the future.

Anyhow, that's where we are, and I'm sure I'm rambling. I shall sign off and take that stroll over to the mess, huddled in my overcoat. How I hate Winter weather!

Yours affectionately,

Vic

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

19th March 1918

Dear Marcus,

Well, as you're no doubt aware, the Huns are up and active over here, and trying their very best to stem the flow of my letters to you and the aged parents.
This is really something of a brief note to let you know that I'm still alive and kicking. After my last letter, we had a few more jobs over in Hunland, and these went moderately well, if one ignores one's escort haring off without a by your leave to pick upon Hun two seaters who happened to be in the same area. Ridiculous. Unfortunately, in each case, the escort of scouts had been provided by the French, which meant that complaints were terribly unlikely to make it beyond DHQ, and rather less likely to be received by the French. After all: why would you send an allied force the complaints of an officer from a recipient air force? Hence my concerns have apparently sunk into the quagmire of detente, never to be seen again.

The fight on the 1st of this month, however, was quite different, as we were up on a reconnaissance job to Malincourt, behind Hun lines, and blessed with an escort of half a dozen SE5a's from RFC 1. You'd think that this would ensure that the Huns would have stayed absent, given that No. 1 are a tip top outfit, but, as per usual, one sniff of Hannovers in the area, and off they went, looking for a notch and a Military Medal, only to leave us to be assaulted by several packs of Pfalzs and Albatri as we attempted to reconnoitre the line between Malincourt and Aubencheul-aux-Bois.

I wouldn't mind if we had done the job in the Brisfits – we're all ready to fly them now, and spares are coming in to store – but in Harry Tates? Absolute nonsense, and in the absence of our escort, we were subject to continuous assault from the Huns, made no better because my flight are still ignorant of how to work in formation. Hence I lost touch with them more than once, and had to signal violently to them to pull themselves together, and back into line. All this whilst being laced by Hun Archie – and ours, as we hove westwards! - and trying to keep the Hun scouts off.

It became too much. I signalled, after the final sweep over Aubencheul, that everyone should descend and find a convenient airfield upon which to alight. Having done so, Coker immediately thumped me in the back, and I could see Hun tracer running past the 'plane, with some of them clearly making an impact on the starboard wing. Thank God we were within friendly territory. I bucked and jinked our poor old wreck all over whilst Coker blazed away at a pair of Pfalzs that were keen to see us down.

Well, I suppose they got that wish. With the ailerons broken and the port wing in tatters, there was no alternative but go down, and go down we did. I heaved on the stick and kicked the rudder, but our poor aeroplane was clearly done for. More to the point, I was terrified that I was done for, and sent up a fairly unconvincing prayer to the Almighty, in a desperate attempt to forestall the inevitable. With little control over the 'plane, I tried to guide it onto a relatively clear patch of meadow near Ronssoy, but couldn't get the nose up far enough to effect a proper landing.

I don't remember being pulled out of our RE8, but Coker did so and recovering his notes, waited for someone to appear. Apparently, I was uninjured, but unconscious, and remained that way for three days in hospital. I remember waking up with a start, black and blue, but it would seem with no other ill effect. I was simply glad to be waking up in this world.

I was kept under observation for 24 hours, after which I was released back out to the squadron, with doctor's order to rest. Presumably, I'm likely to “crack up”. I didn't agree, and argued the toss with our visiting MD, Dr. Eustace, however for once it became clear that I wasn't going to be able to get out of it. Result: 10 days leave in a sanatorium at Wimereux, watching the Atlantic wash up on the shingle. I have to say, that after a week or so, I felt that I hadn't a care in the world. Boom sent Henderson to see me and ask after me, and we spent half an hour chatting as though the war didn't even exist. Only at the end of the conversation did he ask me when I felt I'd be well enough to return to duty. I told him tomorrow, and he smiled wanly. I suppose he gets a lot of fools saying that.

So, eventually, I returned to No. 12, only to find that Boom had ordered the MO to debar me from flying until the 19th, which is, of course, today. I suspect that Trenchard and his cohorts have learned my usual means of bypassing their wishes and that was the result. Well, they'd missed one, so I've spent the last few days taking up Brisfits to ensure that when we take them over the lines into Hunland I'll be able to lead from the front, so to speak.

And there we have it. The Huns have decided to have a go at us just at the same time as I've been off, and thus it's been an anxious time, although nothing I could influence. The tales I'm now hearing are that we're being forced back by the swarms of Huns that have been released by the end of war with the Russians, so I suppose it's inevitable. I have to go, as my 'planes being warmed up, and I have work to do.

Much love,
Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

15th April 1918

Dear Marcus,

It was an absolute delight to snatch a day with you, Elsbeth and the parents last week. I'm sure that it took both of you away from your studies, as well as necessitating prodding mother and father into a little more animation than is usual in their daily routines, however I thank you profoundly for it. The chance to get away from Farnborough and the lines has been a much needed form of restitution for me.

I didn't explain what had been happening during flying duties, seeing as the parents are frail enough as it is. They can see the physical scars on me, but I'm sure that they treat it as some sort of heroic wound that simply serves to exalt their equally heroic son. I do not think that they are in any way ready for the truth of the situation, but you, I think, can bear it and deserve to read it. You may tell Elsbeth, but perhaps she does not need to know details.

Since I last wrote regarding my work over the lines, the Huns have launched a major offensive in the area, and hence we've been shuffled off to a featureless plain called Soncamp Ferme – it really is part of a farm as well. So it's back to tents and dirt, however this is luxury compared to what's been going on on the ground. The Huns have been hammering away at us and several units – including those poor Portuguese – have been quite shattered. From our point of view, it's also been difficult, as the jastas are up and about, in numbers, and our escorts – on the occasions that we have one – are still most liable to fly off and pick on whatever Huns intrude into the area, regardless of their duty to escort us to and from objectives.

A case in point was on the 22nd of March. Up we went with four Brisfits from No. 11, which was quite fine, however once they caught a sniff of DFWs in the immediate area, they were off beating them up whilst I had to lead the flight over to Drocourt to bomb the junction there. We managed that, and it was only on the homeward leg that the Pfalzs caught up with us and played merry hell with us as we crossed the lines. Lt. McArfy and Lt. Foster were both forced down – although, I'm glad to say without loss – before the Pfalzs were spotted and engaged by our erstwhile escort, who, I presume, had been entertaining each other by stunting or suchlike.

I was not in a terribly good mood upon landing, particularly with a 'plane that had been peppered with Hun bullets. I rang No. 11 to find that no-one was around, believe it or not, so then rang DHQ to lodge the strongest possible complaint at such lax work.

And again, on the 23rd and the 24th, despite having half a dozen Camels as escorts, the pattern repeated itself as they found the prospect of chasing Hun obs planes to be preferable to their orders, which were to protect us. On the first occasion, we ended up trying to spot between Aix-Noulette and Caucourt whilst under attack from Albatri and triplanes. Unpleasant, and not recommended as they outgun us, can outrun us and are far more manouvreable. All that could be done was to close up, put up a hail of fire and hope that the Camels returned. Again, 'planes were forced down due to our scouts' inability to follow a brief. The 24th, though, was much more serious, and found us trying to spot near Estourmel, whilst our Camel escort from No. 43 was engaged with a jasta of Pfalzs and Albatri. I smelt a rat, and immediately noticed Fokker triplanes heading down on us vertically.

Of course, this was clearly the Hun plan. Take away the escort, put another jasta onto us. There were so many of the swine – please excuse my language – that I lost count. Tracer was flying everywhere and I could feel the Tsk! Tsk! Tsk! as bullets hit our poor 'plane. Over our lines, but dropping in altitude, and clearly fighting a losing battle, I flared 'dud' and headed down, making a very rough landing indeed parallel to RHA batteries near Masnieres. I didn't even realise that Coker had been injured until I turned to check that he was alright. He was not. He had slumped inside the fuselage, and there was enough blood spattered about to make it clear that he had been badly wounded. By the time I had dragged him out of the 'plane, some of the gunners had run over to assist, and they whisked him off tout de suite to a field station nearby. I have since learned that Coker will live, but has lost one eye. That's his war done.

I cadged lifts as best I could until I made it back to Soncamp some hours later with my tale of woe. Dunstan had also been shot down, and, unfortunately for him and his obs, it was a flamer.

This time, I didn't bother telephoning anyone. I simply took the squadron hack and made my way over to Boom's HQ. I had best not repeat what I said to him, for fear of impropriety, however after that, things happened very suddenly. First, we were stood down for a week, and I was sent on – against my will – a form of recouperative leave. This was ridiculous, as I am perfectly well, and it is my crews that need such leave. I could not, though, disobey a straight order and so went, complaining loudly, I might add.

The second outcome was orders to return to England to oversee the transfer of our new aeroplanes – these blessed Bristol Fighters I was boring you about over lunch that day – from the plant at Filton near Bristol to Farnborough for final inspection and acceptance to the squadron. I know very well that Trenchard never lets things happen by accident, and I'm fairly well convinced that this was his way of ensuring that I was out of action for a further week or so.

As it turns out, he was probably right to do so. I'm still fretting about being so morose when we all met up. I'm afraid that things have become too much for me, but the offer from Henderson – Boom's right hand man – to become an instructor seemed to me to betray the squadron. I would not, and will not, do it.

Which is why, I suppose, I'm now back at Soncamp Ferme, sitting in my tent, listening to Iverson playing his violin next door and finishing a cup of coffee. We fly in about an hour's time, except today will be very different indeed to my last outing. I've flown my last mission in a Harry Tate, and jolly good riddance. Ungainly, unmanouvreable, too slow and a near certain flamer, I will not miss them one bit. Nor, I can say, will the rest of the squadron. Again, we have some new crews, but all have either been converted over to Biffs, or else have flown nothing else. This time, now our homework is done, when we take off and head towards Hunland, we will have a machine that is capable of matching the Hun jastas. And God help them if we run into any.

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

17th April 1918

Dear Marcus,

What a day! Having flown twice yesterday on bombing raids far into Hunland, and having come back with a beat up 'plane, I had hoped to be spared today, given that my 'plane was carted off for remedial work by Haines and his crew. Fortunately (in a way) Paddock picked up a wound yesterday, and his 'plane which was undamaged and his obs Sgt. Gething were available. With Coker gone, the poor soul, this was a mend and make do solution so up we went.

Both raids on the 16th saw us fighting off jastas in Pfalzs. I was hoping that having Biffs would enable us to turn the tables, but, sure enough, the fools running this show have decided that even when laden with bombs, Biffs need no escort of scouts, so once again – again – I ended up on the phone to DHQ. What precisely is the point of giving us Brisfits, I asked, if you load us up with two hundredweight of bombs, and then send us into a hive of Hun planes without any cover? Unsurprisingly, I was unable to get a coherent answer out of Boom's staff, so I phoned Henderson to pose the same question.

“My dear Timm” he said,”You wanted Bristol Fighters and now you have them, and must fulfill your orders.”

I pointed out to him that if we're all carrying bombs then the damn Huns might as well send up Eindeckers, as they'd probably be able to handle us thus laden. No comment from H. except to say that my comments were noted, blah, blah.

Today though we went off to Bully-les-Mines (how I loathe that area) near Lens to do some plates for the Brass. I cannot begin to describe to you the mayhem that ensued as we neared the area to bob up and down, Gething doing his holiday snaps. The air was thick with SPADs, Harry Tates – the poor sods – Biffs, and, unfortunately, with Fokker triplanes. The latter were everywhere, and regardless of how we climbed away and manouvred out of range, the damn Huns were there. To be sure, I saw enough of them dropping out in flames, or too damaged to continue, but they took an awful toll of the other RAF – yes, we're all now one service, it would seem – flights up over Lens. Gething reckoned we probably lost about a dozen in the course of ninety minutes, and the Huns a not dissimilar number.

We were harassed all the way from Bully back to St. Eloi, I suspect by von Richtofen's lot. They were mostly in those infernal tripes and avoided Gething's twin Lewises by attacking in the climb, where he had no purchase. I jinked us about, but it's an awfully difficult job to have one's obs know one's flying tactics after the briefest of introductions, so he blazed away to good intent but I'm sure didn't hit a thing.

The same couldn't be said of one Dreidecker which found us after the final turn after Bully and popped a handful of rounds into our engine. Well, to its credit, it ran for a few more minutes, but having heard it labouring, I thought it best to turn out to St. Eloi airfield as a precaution. And, of course, the engine promptly seized around thirty seconds later. By now, the Hun had turned back, so it was a fairly simple job of dropping our Biff back to Earth, although St. Eloi proved a destination too far, given our lack of forward motion.

But what a day. We stood up to the worst that the Circus could throw at us, did our job and still, as far as I can see, knocked them down, even though we were knocked down. They flew with great skill and daring and were perfectly well organised to meet us, but all of us came back – myself and Gething excepted. Haines and his crew have gone to retrieve our Biff from where we put down.

I cannot but admire the Huns we faced today. In the past, they've made a run for it when attacked or faced down. These fellows were having absolutely none of that. It's scant consolation that we can probably afford such losses, whereas the Huns can't. I'm going to ask round about the Hun who did for me and Gething. It was a green mottled Fokker tripe – so clearly not von Richthofen – but I recall a Camel jockey from No. 46 telling me that his little brother flies something like that. If it was him, then I suppose I'm content to still be here! Still, Gething assures me that when our assailant finally turned back, he was emitting smoke from his radial, so it's quite possible that he put the Red Baron's younger brother out of action.

I'm so tired that I could drop, but I had to write this.

How stupid was I to think that flying Brisfits would solve our problems? They've simply made us more attractive to the Circus!

My candle's guttering and I have an Armagnac to finish. There's no life in the Mess. Everyone is asleep, as we are sure to be up several times tomorrow. I cannot believe this will end well, but must do so. The slaughter is beyond my comprehension, and tomorrow will simply be witness to more.

If we lose, we lose the war.

Affectionately,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

18th April 1918

Dear Marcus,

I'm scribbling this quick note to you between flights. We had a late start today – it seems that the Brass were uncertain about pulling us out of Soncamp further West, which delayed things – and only went up around three o'clock, to take plates over Villers-Bretonneux, which, I regret to say, is only a few miles from Amiens.

The Huns have done their homework, and from what I'm hearing we're receiving a royal thrashing on the ground. Not only have the Portuguese been wiped out, but also an awful lot of our own chaps, and there's a serious doubt that the combined strength of our fellows, the French and the Americans who are here – who are, of course, as green as grass – may not be sufficient to stop the Huns breaking through. It's a terrible time, and so we are all doing what we can.

We took off to have a look see at Villers (an area, frankly, that I don't know) escorted by Camels from 46, who are, at least, quite reliable. It turned out quite quickly that we needed their help, as the Hun jastas were, again, up in some strength, and our escort were forced to peel off and deal with at least two separate incursions from Fokker triplanes. This they did most gallantly, which allowed our further incursion to the newly appointed lines. I can assure you that Amiens is in danger, and the fighting below is most desperate, and this is matched above.

As we pressed on, our escort was drawn away again to deal with Huns, but that still left another two jastas waiting for us. Not being one to withdraw without good reason, it seemed to me that they'd have to tackle us by coming up to meet us, so I signalled that we close and climb, which put off the reckoning for a few minutes. It also helps that our Rolls Royce engines work best at the altitude that we had attained, so therein lay an advantage.

Unfortunately, and despite the fact that we did the job that we had been sent to do, we were assailed by several jastas in Pfalzs and Albatri, and much of the time was spent stunting in order to avoid what rugby players call an early bath. I don't know how many Huns were around, but Gething was having something of a to do with a DV who's latched onto us, whilst I was busy chasing a Pfalz who'd been stupid enough to offer me the opportunity.

I put a few bursts into the Pfalz, and down it went trailing smoke, whilst Gething swears that he put down the Albatros chasing us. It matters not. His adversary managed to hit our tank, and when I saw the petrol emptying out I immediately cut the engine. I don't care if I become a POW anymore. I will not die in a flamer.

As luck would have it, we came down in a wheat field near Vecquemont, well away from the fighting, and were able to hail a passing battalion and use their communication gear. The Brisfit's still there in the field, so far as I know, but we've been able to get back here toot sweet to be able to go up shortly.

Since all this started, we've lost six crews dead, one presumed dead and another missing. I'm leading up the remainder of the squadron after I finish this note and this coffee. That's the remaining six crews.

I'm not in the least religious, but I'm beginning to feel the urge to pray. I hope that this note will find you well, and that when you read it, I will still be in the land of the living.

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

21st April 1918

Dear Marcus,

Today has been so tremendously exciting that it is difficult to know where to start, so I suppose that I should start at the beginning. I warn you that I am several sheets to the wind as I write, so please take this into account.

We have been flying and fighting like mad since my last note some days ago – I think I dropped you a line or two then? Since that time we have been up three or four times a day trying to stop the Huns from pushing us back and to some good purpose, as it turns out.

Every time we put into the air on a job, we are apparently magnets for Hun scouts in the area and regardless of what cover we are provided by the Escardilles or our own people are assailed by Huns seeking to knock us down. On the 19th alone we flew four times, with the warning ringing in our ears that Soncamp is becoming untenable and therefore likely to be evacuated promptly and with little warning. I spoke to DHQ about this and all they can say is that depending on circumstances and our efforts we may have to withdraw north westwards and to the Channel.

That day, in the final job over Hunland, we attacked a railyard at Dechy, near Douai, and were rewarded, despite the gallant interventions of our Spad escorts from Esc 95, with assaults from two separate jastas. The first occurred just over Dechy as we planted our eggs on the rail lines there by Pfalzs from Jasta 18. Having bombed, I signalled everyone to close up and make for home as quickly as possible and having fought off the Pfalzs, still found ourselves being followed by these fellows, presumably with them expecting that one or more of us would drop out and become victim to them. Not a bit of it. As we breached our lines near Arras, I felt that this stood us in good stead and pulled our 'plane through 180 degrees to turn the tables. Our erstwhile assailants now had to reckon on a fight over our territory or flight. Most of them chose flight, but I managed to single out one brave fellow who decided to stay and cross swords.

They are such lovely looking looking aeroplanes, and the one I chanced upon was gaily painted in red and white – no, not von Richthofen, although more of him anon. Clearly he was quite rattled by this reversal and I managed to latch upon his tail and give him several bursts which quite discomfited him. Gething, who's still with me, put a few more rounds into him and we were able to watch him founder and then crash into a wood just short of the town.

Not content with that, and having regained some sort of formation, we saw our escort of Spad XIIIs buzz off towards something they'd seen, and feeling the sort of confidence that only comes from complacency, signalled everyone – now bereft of bombs – to follow and observe. Thus we ended up following the Frenchmen into a fight with Albatros DVa's from Jasta 37 (I am relying on Gething's identifications for this) and although we didn't put anyone down, some of my flight were apparently instrumental in helping our escorting scouts to put some more Huns down. After our return to Soncamp, a Capt. Mathis from Escadrille 95 actually phoned through to DHQ to thank us for our help in assailing the Huns. I was quite flabbergasted to learn this.

After being beaten up quite badly by a Fokker Dreidekker from the Circus the next day – we had to effect a forced landing on the banks of the Somme, but fortunately upon our own side – I was deeply dubious of today's job which was to go and bomb Wasquehal airfield which is one of the Huns' main bases up near Lille. We set off with an escort of Brisfits from 20 Squadron but, as is now the rule rather than the exception, found ourselves without them and being trailed by both Fokker scouts and Albatri, with varying degrees of assiduousness. Gradually, being faster than the triplanes, we lost those, however we ended up over Wasquehal, having hit their field, with Albatros scouts in attendance and determined to exact a measure of revenge from us. What a business. Where normally I would signal the flight – or rather the Squadron, as I had taken the remaining five 'planes up – to close up and gain height, I instead signalled a general engagement, and had the pleasure of watching my fellows best the Huns in all respects. We weren't lucky enough to knock one down, but I enabled Gething to provide cover for those who did have such an opportunity.

It amazed me that we managed to drive them off, and one or two of them down, before we were able to turn for home.

We returned to learn from DHQ that we are likely to be pulled out of Soncamp in the next few days, but also, and quite unexpectedly, to find out that my claims for the Pflaz in mentioned in my last letter and the one on the 19th had both been confirmed. This, along with the cessation of any more jobs for the day, immediately led to my being hoisted aloft and carried to the mess. Really, these chaps are so much upon a knife edge that they will take any opportunity, no matter how trivial, to take a drink and carouse. However, given that these shooting downs have been confirmed, it seems that I am apparently a Great Hero, with 26 Huns downed since my arrival here in 1915.

Having just watched my fellows chase off a jasta, and not wishing to spoil their mood, I felt it best to go along with this. They have little enough at the moment to celebrate. I'm sure that the mood would have subsided, however a little later another message came in from DHQ which stated that von Richthofen had been shot down and captured near Amiens, which, unsurprisingly, lifted spirits further. We know next to nothing about it yet, but apparently the Baron was downed by an RAF pilot, although I won't believe it until I see a picture of him in irons. If he's gone, good riddance, particularly if it demoralises the jastas! I've grown to loathe them, although I cannot but admire their tenacity. Either way, our obs 'planes will be a little safer.

Thus the party ensued. Around an hour ago, I took a 'phone call from Boom, who congratulated me on my successes and then pointed out that it had taken me over a year to down a Hun since the last one, and demanded to know what I was about. I'm sure that most people don't know about Trenchard's sense of humour – or even that he has one.

Having said all of the above, we're still in dire straits here, and it's even worse to the south, so there's no knowing what all of the preceding might indicate. I expect to be told to leave here tomorrow, and it pains me to hear of Hun successes towards Amiens, the demise of the Baron notwithstanding.

We're up again tomorrow morning I suspect, which is why I chose to retreat from the mess to write this. I'll be sending word over there in a few minutes to tell them to curtail things, but it would be churlish in the extreme to not let them celebrate whatever, and what little, good news comes our way.

The guns are banging away again; it sounds like the howitzers are at work. I will try to sleep. What a day.

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

18th May 1918

Dear Marcus,

Thanks for the recently received copy of Hobbes' Leviathan. I've been reading it on and off for the last two weeks, given that I've been out of action and off duty due to the Huns. Once again, I've been patched up by our hospitalers out here – they really do the most superb job and under very trying circumstances – having been 'jumped' by a Hun jasta right over our own field, believe it or not. Thankfully, I'm mostly alright, although my arm was in a cast for a week or two and has been in a sling since then, but Gething, I'm pleased to relate, is quite well and has been flying with 'Pob' Peirce who, I suspect, has been very glad of his services. Gething is an extraordinarily good shot, and all of our recent successes have been down to him. Peirce has already accounted for a few Huns with Gething behind him, and I imagine he may not be too keen on relinquishing him now that I'm fit to fly again. Whilst I'd like Gething back, I can see that he's done Peirce's sense of self confidence no end of good, so I think that I'll be taking up one of our newly arrived observers instead, rather than to rock that particular boat. There's a Sgt. Pole, recently popped up from England who is as yet unmatched, so I suppose he's coming up with me in due course. I will announce this splendid turn of events to him in a short while.

Prior to being shot down on the 25th April, things were already at fever pitch, as you might imagine, and as you'll probably been reading in the Times or the Guardian. The damn Huns have been pressing endlessly – Albert's gone, Thiepval, and oh so many other places: Cambrai, utterly lost, Bretonneux – lost and recovered by the Australians after a fight between our tanks and Hun tanks. I didn't even know they had any of their own. Well, there you are.

The fighting's died down somewhat, as the Huns seem to have given up on taking Amiens, Arras and Ypres. They've come bloody close to all three, it must be said, but even though outnumbered, the Tommies and Poilus (and, lest we forget, Doughboys) have acquitted themselves superbly all along the line, and I can't imagine that the Hun generals will be anything other than gloomy about their prospects. Passchendaele last year was, in my humble opinion, the writing on the wall for the Huns: they couldn't defend it and lost hundreds of thousands of men. We did too, but we took it, which, whilst being the most hollow of victories in the material sense, was a moral victory in the sense that it was a reverse that the Germans couldn't deny. Clearly, the fillip it gave to the French has been exhibited in the last few weeks of the most desperate fighting. They've given their all to defend La France, and I'm told that the Americans are proving to be excellent soldiers, although horribly badly led and subject to repeating the sort of tactics that got the 5th Army in such a pickle two years ago.

Anyhow, the point is: the front is now stabilised, so we're all wondering what's going to happen now. It looks like the Huns have shot their bolt, but they're resourceful types and it's best never to underestimate them.

We were, of course, involved heavily in the fighting in late April, mounting flights up to Poselhoek, Thiepval and Balatre amongst other places. That last one – to Balatre – was a farce. We went up early afternoon on the 23th April in miserable weather with a few SPADs from Esc 102 as escort, with the intention of bombing the Hun airfield at Balatre. As it turned out, there was no chance at all of reaching the damn place as we ran into wave after wave of Hun scouts – a full jasta each time – who were clearly out for blood. The Frenchman ran off the first lot, from jasta 32, I think, seeing as we were laden down with 112 pounders, but then a jasta of Pfalz scouts popped up just south east of Albert, around a dozen in total, so rather than commit suicide, I signalled to the other chaps – only four of us left in any condition to fly – to ditch their bombs and scrub the job as dud. Not a problem, given that we were over Hun lines anyway.

The Huns, inevitably, gave chase, but began to peel away as we made it back into our territory. It shows how aggressive they've become that two of them followed us back to our field, whereupon I signalled that we should have at them, which is what we did. I fired around 80 rounds at one lovely looking 'plane – bright blue and white – that came my way, but it was Gething with those formidable Lewises that did the damage. The Hun crashed near our field around two o'clock.

The following day things failed to improve. I've implored Boom to pull us back, but he's adamant: we're there for the army. All very well for him to say, but the Huns were at that point 5 miles away and about to take Mount Kemmel! So, up we went again, early doors, with some Camels from No. 13 RNAS in attendance. I beg your pardon; I should have said, 213 Squadron, RAF.

You see, the senior service have always had a bee in their bonnet about us in the Corps, particularly given that they've always had better 'planes, so having to muck in with us has been quite painful for them. What's made it so much worse is that the clash of squadron numbers has led – to their palpable disgust – to having their squadrons renumbered, rather than ours! Hence, they've had to add 200 to each squadron, and thus 213 Squadron. Most amusing.

That, though, was a terribly rough job, and although our escort fought as valiantly as one could, both they and we were beaten back by endless Huns. We were forced down with engine problems after being attacked by a bright yellow Hun Albatros from jasta 28 which reduced our Rolls Royce to a selection of barely salvageable engine parts as we dropped out onto the banks of the Somme near Franvillers. I didn't even wait to see to its recovery. Hitching a lift with some REME people, Gething and I made our way back to Soncamp to claim the last remaining spare Brisfit in the place. I don't even know now what happened to that 'plane. I suppose it was shot to pieces in the fighting afterwards.

That was nearly it for then, but the following day we were up bright and early – and you know how much I love 6.00am starts – to bomb Vitry en Artois, yet again. It seems that they won't take the hint, and keep on rebuilding that damn railway junction. Anyway, we went up and I managed to get us completely lost in all the cloud. Hardly surprising, but largely inevitable. The only positive point to this was that the Huns were about as flummoxed as we were. I could see, at one point, an entire jasta of about 15 Pfalzes fly over us no more than 2000 feet above us, but not one of them saw us. Just as well. They'd have made mincemeat of us if they had.

Having totally lost my bearings, it took me a while to find Vitry and that station, but, bombs gone, I had the satisfaction of looking over Geth's shoulder to an adjacent warehouse engulfed in flames. A good job well done, I felt. We were plagued on the way back by Albatri from jasta 40, but without any further payload, it was a pleasure to be able to outrun them. Brisfits are simply faster than them, and they know it, so they mostly gave up as we recrossed the lines. Well, apart from a couple of foolhardy fellows who followed us over the line. Of course, I signalled all assembled to feel free to have a go, and that's exactly what they did. I won't take the Huns on with the odds stacked in their favour, but I'm more than willing to let my chaps do the converse.

We put in a claim for a DV, shot down just east of Arras.

So, onto the mad fight over Soncamp. I vowed a while back never to take off in such circumstances, but, given the pounding we've been taking, I felt that it would be good to let the squadron take off and try their odds against the Huns. Phew! There were over a dozen of the swine from some jasta or other, all in Pfalzs' and all on the prowl. I'm very pleased to relate that we managed to down about three or so of them, but, inevitably, lost a few 'planes ourselves. Pleasingly, nobody was lost in the fight, and material losses can be made good quickly, which is more than the Huns can say, I suspect. Gething and I didn't down one, and, of course, we were downed as you know. I trudged back over our field to the MO to have a fracture of the ulna prescribed. I then went into the mess and drank two or three large brandies. Having calmed down, I walked back to my quarters and counted four previously unknown bullet holes in my flying coat.

I think I'll stop there. I'm up again for the first time since that scrap, but things are somewhat quieter, with the Huns having apparently decided to call off their offensives. We've still got Arras, Ypres and Amiens, and I'm on tenterhooks to see what happens next. If I were Foch, I'd attack near Ypres again and drive the Huns back there – it would shatter their morale. Failing that, I think I'd go for the gut: they're clearly overextended around Amiens, as the Australians have proven, and supply must be a nightmare. Hammer them there, and that might well make them fall back in short order.

Anyway, enough pontification. I'll sign off by wishing you luck in your ongoing finals, and trust that you'll pass on my best wishes to Elsbeth.

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RAF,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord
26th May 1918

Dear Marcus,

First of all thanks for your note dated the 22nd which arrived yesterday. I know just how busy you are with exams and vivas at this time. I was touched that you might write.

You'll see that I've finally started using our RAF nomenclature in my letterhead! I can hardly complain about the RNAS grumblers, I suppose, unless I do make some sort of effort so that's exactly what I've done.

Since my last letter, there's been a fair amount of work for us to do, but pleasingly it looks like the Hun offensive has more or less dried up in terms of them gaining ground – there's plenty of fighting and shelling, particularly down towards Amiens, but they've clearly been held on the ground, and I'm very proud of the work that the Squadron has done in this time to help hinder their plans.

We flew the day after my letter to you, only to experience something that I'd never have happen before: Pole and myself were shot down by a Hun observation plane – a Hannover – when we overflew them on the way to Deinze railway station, loaded, as ever, with 112 pounders. I'd seen the Huns a little lower, and given that we had half a dozen Biffs from No. 22 in attendance as escorts, I thought that they might do the decent thing and chase the Huns off if they got a little too close. Not a bit of it. They kept formation, and some wag in the Hun formation obviously thought that he'd have a pop from what must have been several hundred yards. Anyway, regardless of the luck involved, I felt our engine suddenly labour, cough and then conk out, in no more than 15 seconds. I just had enough time to ditch the bombs and find a field. The ignominy!

Life got no easier in the next few days. We had to do a few bombing jobs without escort – my pet peeve – whilst on the 21st Pole and myself actually collided with a Pfalz scout near Arras. Fortunately, it was our undercarriage and his wings, but it quite scared me to death, and Pole's reaction was so violent upon our forced landing that the Squadron quack grounded him. Grounded he remains for at least another week or two, the poor fellow. It certainly brought home to me just how bloody dangerous it's become out here, given that the Huns don't even send out pilots capable of avoiding collisions with us. The old Hun air service would never have sent up such pilots. The one who hit us was exceptionally lucky. He survived the experience, although I'm told he's been hospitalised with assorted injuries. And that's a pilot from the Circus, believe it or not.

Anyhow, the last few days have seen us going off to do those unpleasant tasks that would be better handled by the DH4 or Big Ack squadrons, namely bombing Hun airfields or rail junctions and marshalling yards.

We've been extremely lucky in the last few days, with either competent escorts – usually French, I should add, although 56 Squadron RAF helped us out yesterday – or else rain, the one thing that ensures a poor Hun turnout. As a result we plastered Villers-au-Tertre aerodrome, the home of Jasta 33, with bombs, and then reprised this feat on Brebieres yards the day before last. All of this to no Hun involvement, despite the fact that we're near Douai, and that's where the Circus live to this day, despite the loss of the elder Richthofen. It all seemed peculiarly bloodless, as though the Huns have run out of energy or spirit to carry on after all their earlier exertions...

And so to yesterday, and what a day it was for myself, 'C' flight (who I'm commanding, since they are all neophytes), and my new obs, Lt. Barr-Latimer, whose father is apparently a friend of Lloyd George well regarded in the Liberals at home. All I'm interested in at the moment is can he shoot, signal and take plates? I now know a little more about him.

Because 'C' flight are new to us, I took them up for an unescorted attack on the railway station at Douai with something approaching misgiving, but it's a short flight and an early start so I hoped for the best. Of course, it turned out nothing like that. From what I now gather, the Circus were up early doors as well, and on the prowl in an area betwixt Arras and all compass points north, west and south, in order to spread a little unhappiness where they could.

Of course, with three neophyte crews, and seeing about four or five Pfalzs from Jasta 11 coming piling in as we passed North of Arras, I signalled everyone that the job was dud, and to jettison the bombs, which they did. They were rather less than competent when it came to forming a front against the Huns, so Barr-Latimer and I steamed in in our Biff taking potshots akimbo. It clearly worked though. Although Hislop was driven down near St Eloi, I had the pleasure of sending his assailant to keep him company about a minute afterwards – possibly my best gunnery for some years.

The fight wheeled and whirled, until the Huns made off and my fellows set off back south east to Soncamp Ferme. As they departed, I noticed a pair of Pfalzs – Jasta 8 this time – looking pounce on my fledglings. Well, one of them won't be doing that again (forced down by myself and B-L), whilst the other has, I suspect, learnt a salutary lesson in keeping an eye out when over enemy territory! I think Barr-Latimer got the final few shots in, but I suspect he was going down anyway, and also fell just near St Eloi airfield.

At this point, with bombs absent, my flight huddled and heading home best they could, poor lambs, there was little point in pursuing the issue any further so the other Jasta 8 plane sped off, and I decided to head back to Soncamp. On any other day, I suspect that this would have uncontentious, and that we would simply have flown home – but not that day. With the Circus roaming up and down the front around Arras, it was, I suppose, only a matter of time before we came upon yet more Huns. As we beetled off south west, we both picked up on Hun two seaters – DFWs, I thought – heading in our direction, but also a flight of about four or more scouts heading towards us from the east. And so it proved to be. The DFWs were obviously otherwise engaged (and followed by what I suspect were Hannovers at a much greater height), but we, trying to climb from the lowly thousand feet we'd attained, were being overhauled by the Hun scouts.

After a moment's consideration, and given our location – not far from our old digs at Avesnes le Compte – I decided to go to ground and outrace the Huns. B-L indicated that they were yet more Pfalzs, but that we were drawing away, which my own observations confirmed. So far, so good. Mindful that Soncamp was only another 7-8 miles, I was anxious to see what they did. Clearly, four Pfalz scouts following me into our aerodrome would be quite unwelcome, with regard to the other two members of my flight who might – or might not – be back and landed by now. There was no way of knowing. I certainly did not look forward to the prospect of landing with a clutch of Huns hanging around...

Thankfully, the decision was made for us. B-L tapped my shoulder, and I could see that all bar one of the Huns had given up and headed eastwards. Checking the map, and our relation to the Somme, I made a calculation and held course for two or three minutes, gaining several hundred feet of altitude. Then, at around 2000 feet, I wheeled our Brisfit sharply round headed towards the Pfalz, who, it was quickly apparent, was now headed east! We made ground on him, and, on a whim, I fired off around 20 rounds at him at a safe distance. To my surprise, he wheeled his 'plane round and headed for us; this was a remarkably stupid act, and could have only one outcome. I raked his Pfalz and then B-L gave him a further burst as he flew over. I hauled the Biff hard over port and latched onto his tail as he unsteadily pulled up before us. I felt terribly sorry for him. I'd now picked out that his black liveried Pfalz was one of Jasta 7, but I found it hard to believe that a Jasta 7 pilot could be quite so gauche in a scrap.

I put another 20-30 rounds into his kite and B-L, probably the same, before the Hun crashed into a meadow north east of Avesnes. Flying over one last time, I saw him pulling himself painfully out of the cockpit of the Pfalz, whilst various diminutive figures in khaki raced in towards him.

From there, I suppose it was only another ten minutes before we made it back to Soncamp, to post – memorably for No. 12 – a claim for three Hun scouts, from three separate Jastas, in three separate fights. Boom was on the phone within the hour, and I was told that we wouldn't be on any more jobs for the day, or an early job today. One doesn't have to be a genius to see a morale building exercise when it occurs. Hence, something of a do in the mess, even though I retired early, having managed to identify to the assembled celebrants that this was an example of a new observer who had a keen eye and a good command of the Lewis. And I left them to it.

I think – I can't be sure, and I can't be bothered to look that if all three Huns were credited, then we'd actually have about 30 or so of the blighters since I fetched up in France, what seems like a Century ago. I'm sure that McCudden and Mannock will be popping by to learn lessons, etc. v. soon. Or, perhaps not.

It looks like we're spared any more work until sun up tomorrow, and so I'll be up later with 'C' flight, to see if they can understand the rudiments of formation flying. I've arranged for a flight of Camels from a neighbouring squadron to appear at precisely 3.30pm, just as we approach Doullens at 6000 feet. They will take the part of interlopers, and it promises to be as interesting a lesson for 'C' flight as our brief scrap with that Jasta 7 pilot was for him.

Then I will sleep. I am so dead tired all of these days. It's only when I'm actually flying that I probably approach any level of animation. But there we are – I can't refuse my workload, although I wish it would vanish, along with the Huns, the Front, our bloody politicians, and everyone else complicit in this horror; which, I concede, includes myself.

Well, I am not consistent, I suppose, and, as you are fond of telling me “I contain multitudes”, and I am beginning to understand quite what you might mean.

Best of luck on the remaining exams, etc. I will try to get leave soon. Love to Elsbeth and the parents.

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RAF,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

20th June 1918

Dear Marcus,

Here we are again – I was pleased to be able to take a week out of duties here and get back to Paris, but it in no way compensated for having a fortnight’s leave rescinded at a late juncture. Well, I suppose if Peck hadn’t gone missing over Hunland and then subsequently turned up in hospital, then I would imagine that I wouldn’t have had to have stayed put and rearrange the furniture, so to speak.

As it turned out, the job where he went down was one of those horrible abstract things that pop up now and again. The intention was to fly up to Sequedin near Lille and to patrol a line from thither south westwards, taking plates as we went.

Best laid plans, and all that.

As it turned out, on rising to a few thousand and on the way to Arras, I espied some of our chaps in Harry Tates being chased by Hannover two seaters – these are quite respectable Hun reconnaissance and bomber planes, not entirely dissimilar to our own Biffs – and, reasoning that our chaps hadn’t a ghost of a chance against them, I signaled everyone to drop on them and allow our fellows to get out of what was otherwise a horribly unequal scrap.

So, that’s exactly what we did. We plunged in to find that these Hannovers were being excellently handled by some very hot Hun pilots, and that their gunners were full of mustard too. We took several hits and our Rolls Royce soon started labouring, despite the hammering we were giving out. A terribly bruising contest, and yet so very at odds with the weather that day. It was beautifully sunny, with little fluffy cumulous clouds almost there for the taking – and in it all, ourselves and the Huns and a constant hail of bullets passing back and forth. Sheer madness.

Having lost some forward motion, I gave chase as best I could with Barr-Latimer excitedly pounding me about the head and shoulders, pointing out where not only had our escort from 41 Squadron joined in, in their SE5a’s, but also where some Camels had popped up and were having a go.

Suffice to say, the RE8’s got away without loss, which is better than we could say. Capt. Alverston flared ‘dead engine’ and dropped out near Arras, whilst B-L and I flew on, slowly catching the Hannovers and watching them as they fought off fighting passes from my fellows and the scout squadrons. What a very brave set of men they were: it took until we’d overflown Habarcq, just near Arras, when the Hannover that I and B-L had been taking to task finally dropped smoking over the edge of the village and into a small copse beyond. I didn’t see anyone emerge, but upon returning to Soncamp, reported the crash to Capt. Gray. Some hours later word came through that in fact both the Huns were dead. A great pity. They fought hard and I would have loved to have taken them prisoner. In fact, I suppose that they are probably not too dissimilar to people like myself and B-L.

Anyhow, that was it for that day, and a rearrangement was needed in the squadron given Peck’s non-appearance thereafter. I ended up with Sgt. Bose at DHQ, and was treated rather nicely I should say, with a full evening meal being put on to which I was invited. I had come from No. 12, and wasn’t dressed properly, being still in my RE uniform and boots, however they couldn’t have been kinder, and despite being the only khaki clad (and slightly muddy) uniform in a room of splendid red jackets, I was treated most gallantly, and I was surprised to hear that one or two of the people present had heard not only of No. 12 squadron, but had also heard about myself – usually from Colin Wilshaw, I should hasten to add. That man is incorrigible.

A rather nice meal later, Bose picked me up and we whisked back to Soncamp, having had orders from Henderson’s lackeys to sort out temporary flight commanders and take myself off to London.

Well, this didn’t happen of course – I’d have needed two flight commanders to take up the slack. So, I took it on the chin, and having been told to ready myself to be away, couldn’t fly for the next week. Only then did I receive word to go to Paris where I met up not only with Boom, but also with Haig, who I can’t remember meeting, and – however briefly – Marshal Foch, who, whilst he clearly speaks no English, was kind enough to comment upon my service within the Army and air services. I can well understand why he’s where he is today. Haig was a different kettle of fish, but was possessed of something like a relentless gaze. I wouldn’t care to be on his staff, particularly; I imagine they all feel like skewered fish most of the time.

After a few days sunning myself, literally, in Paris, and having lived a rather pleasant existence for nearly 96 hours, I was hauled unceremoniously back to Soncamp where Peck had re-emerged, unable to fly and Capt. Kerfoot had gone missing – again. Thus, I was three flight commanders down, should I include myself. I sent Boom a brief note explaining the problem, and was surprised to receive a wire back less than an hour later saying on the lines of “Don’t worry, No. 11 will cover your work, rearrange, blah, blah, 7 days leave as necessary for pilots and crew, etc” Most extraordinary. I do wonder if he’s going soft in his dotage.

Anyway, elsewhere it seems that the Austrians have kicked off – yet again – against the Italians at the Piave River, whilst I’m told that the Americans are doing sterling work around the Aisne, stopping the Huns from pushing on. If I didn’t know better, and if I didn’t fly over this apparition of Hell most days, I suppose that I would be vaguely happy, in a lugubrious way, no doubt.

This will have to do for a while, as I’m due back up shortly, this time with ‘A’ flight, although we expect their flight commander to return soon – Kerfoot, apparently, was briefly captured up near Lille but was able to make his way back the other day. Worse luck for him, there’s no automatic leave in such circumstances, so it’s back into the line for him. I will be requesting a week’s leave on his behalf later, assuming he doesn’t go missing again.

That’s all the news that is fit to print. I trust that you will be receiving the outcome from your finals any day now? I know that you’ve had vivas, and mother and father have said that you’re desperately coiled up in anticipation of the end result. You have my very deepest sympathy: I understand how you must feel, and I look forward earnestly to finding out the result of your studies. My love to Elsbeth, and good luck to her on her end of year exams.

My fondest regards,

Vic

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

28th June 1918


Dear Marcus,

There's so much I should tell you about life out here of late and what we've seen, but the overwhelming news came through today that Colin is dead. Apparently he was up with a trainee at Hendon and must have handed over control to his charge. Whatever the reason, he and his neophyte pilot stalled and crashed and both died. I cannot properly express my feelings at this time. Wilshaw was both a friend and confidant when it came to flying, and his outrageous activities outside of my sphere generally meant that I had a much better reputation than I deserve. Without him, we would surely have been shot down and killed a long time ago.

It is odd, but I have no contact details whatsoever for Colin in relation to his parents and family. I am making enquiries, and will send my sympathies accordingly. The RAF has lost a very talented flyer, and I have lost a very good friend, despite the infrequency of our contact in the last year or so.

What a terrible waste, given that he enabled us to manouvre through the very worst of the Huns' activities when he observed for me. Not only was he a top notch observer, but, as you will know from letters passim that were it not for him, then the chances that we would have survived that period would have been markedly reduced.

What a terrible waste.

There is no better news from here. The Huns are deploying new scouts, Fokker DVIIs, and our encounters with them have been brutal. We were shot down yesterday coming home from Lievin and B-L was a bag of nerves as we crash landed. I was no better. I wonder how we will carry on.

This is indeed a very black day. I will sign off.

Kindest regards,

Vic

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

July 5th 1918


Dear Marcus,

Here I am again, reasonably hale and hearty, and delighted to hear about your success in your finals. I’ve had my fingers crossed for you since early May, and you have indeed brought great honour upon yourself and the Timm name. Our first graduate, and, should I say, our graduate with a first. I am very sure that Manchester University is not in the habit of handling out first class honours to any Tom, Dick or Harry who happens to be passing by, so it is with swelling pride that I hereby proclaim to the world that I am privileged to be the brother of Mr. Marcus Timm, BEng. (Hons) First Class, Manchester University, 1918. You richly deserve your success, and upon word of it, I sent to mother and father and insisted that they have photographs taken of your graduation, given that I cannot be there. I am assured that this will be the case.

To add a little timbre to your experience as a graduand, I can only offer my homage as the elder brother who has had the good fortune to have downed a few more Huns since I last wrote. I set out with ‘C’ flight the day before yesterday at just after eight in the morning with a view to spotting for the RA over Grandcourt, but as is only too common nowadays, I and my flight ran into Huns in profusion – two separate flights of six scouts as we headed outwards. Not a terribly appealing prospect when there are only four of you.

There was no dodging the issue and down the Huns came in the gaily painted Albatri. This lot, Barr-Latimer tells me were Bavarians – Jasta 76b – although I’m not sure what the ‘b’ stands for, unless it is Bavaria. Either way, we were set upon with gusto short of the lines and my flight, lest I remind you, all recent entrees to the front were forced down, although I later ascertained that no-one was killed, and, miraculously, no-one was even scratched in the fight. That is certainly unusual, but no less welcome for it.

B-L and I had the unpleasant and rather unwelcome experience of finding ourselves in our Brisfit with about half a dozen Albatros DVa’s trying to have a go at us, as our comrades fell out of the fight.

One thing I’d noticed though, was that the Hun pilots were not very good, and were blazing away without regard to circumstance, and so I drifted back towards a local balloon, in the hope they might help out. I’m delighted to say that they did so in spades and that one or two Huns took the hint and pushed off.

Of those that didn’t, I could hear B-L hammering away at them with his Lewises and had the opportunity, as we dropped to around 1000 feet over the trenches, to turn onto these fellows and put a few rounds into them. There was nothing sudden about the fight, but slowly the Huns were knocked down – not by me, I hasten to add, but by Barr-Latimer, who plied his trade with aplomb.

B-L assures me that our claim for two DVa’s west of Boiry St Martin is solid, although I’m beyond caring about such things. The point is that they went down.

We were actually chased by a further flight from the same staffel back to Soncamp, and I rather had wind up with half a dozen Albatri in pursuit when it became obvious that our field was the object of their attentions. You will be unsurprised that I put our plane down as far from the hangars as possible, grabbed B-L and then legged it into the nearby woods, in time to watch our fellows down a DV and set another one smoking.

We walked back in, a little shaken up, I should add. Everyone has been accounted for, and it looks very possible that the two DVa’s near Boiry might be credited to us. I’m hardly bothered, but I suppose it’s noteworthy.

On a frivolous note, we celebrated America’s holiday by drinking plenty of whiskey but without local Americans to call on, it seemed a little trite. We are such whores to the calendar!

I shall away at this point as sleep will soon be upon me and I need to spend some of tomorrow sorting out manifests and returns to DHQ.

Midsummer. Everything is so luminescent around me. It looks utterly unreal. I find that I cannot reconcile this life on terra firma with the insanity when we fly. What my crews must think of this, and of me, I cannot guess.

Time to swim in the river; a pleasure that neither the brass nor the Huns can take away, and then bed.

All my love, and many, many congratulations,

Vic

This is an amazing read - you capture the spirit and bravado of these early pioneers perfectly.

I love the language Timms employs in his letters home - I can almost imagine him hunched over a candle scribbling to his family back home - the waft of cigars and brandy in the air typical of a British gentleman.

Keep up the excellent work please!!

Regafrds

Skimbo

Thank you very much indeed.

I began writing the journal because I wanted to put forward what I felt would be a realistic diary from a British pilot, stuck in two seaters, and therefore well away from the 'glory' of dogfighting 'the Hun'.

I know there are massive holes in the narrative, because it's difficult to fly missions - and believe me, every one of these reports is based upon an OFF mission - and to pull everything together, which is also a reason why the story isn't always quite what I'd like it do be. Having said that, I can cop out and say it's a diary, so don't blame me (although of course, you can for good reasons!).

The sheer effort involved also explains the lack of screenshots. It's a tad easier, in my experience, to pause games and take those killer screenies when in a scout, and when you don't actually have the (self-inflicted) weight of a flight and mission. Once you do, the imperative lies elsewhere, and that's what OFF is so teribly good at.

It's always a pleasure to find that someone else has enjoyed one's work, and so I extend my thanks. I just hope that I can keep you vaguely rapt until such point as either Vic cops it (likely) or November 11th comes around (rather less likely!).

Cheers,
Si

Grown attached to the chap - Here's hoping November doesn't roll by with ol' Vic going Wifred Owen on us! (I.e. dying one week before the war ends)

Be careful out there - he's got a few fans for sure...

Skimbo

Well, we'll see won't we!

This is a pilot who's defied all my expectations. He's attacked Albatros DIIIs in a BE2d, Focker Triplanes in a Harry Tate and still lived to tell the tale. It's not uncommon in OFF for observation planes to be unescorted, and even bomber flights attract minimal escorts most of the time, and, of course, they all promptly bugger off and attack enemy scouts the moment they see them!

Now he's in a Bristol Fighter, and now that I'm (I hope) a much more competent pilot, I find it easier to avoid the obvious gotchas, and upon Vic's 'birth' I swore that this would be a pilot who would preserve his own life by avoiding unnecessary fights. That's undoubtedly helped. I wonder sometimes just how many of us (in FE2/FE/OFF/ROF/RB3D) jump into fights purely because we can, there's no down side (apart from writing off a pilot) and because we're simply not being realists in the same way that WWI pilots were forced to.

So, expect no heroics from Major Timm, and I'll continue to post as much as I can until 11.11.18, or until the terrible day...

Cheers,
Si

I've enjoyed the AARs too.

You have a good writing style and I can almost feel Vic's experience and invincibility growing with each update.

If he bites the big one we'll have to make do with a note from his CO, won't we.

What you say rings true, it is after all a game/simulation. There are no ramifications should your pilot be 'offed' that a quick load won't resolve.

On the flip side I can see that playing as you have has injected more realism into the game and certainly brought life to our 'binary man' Vic - from simply being a collection of 1s and 0s into a tangible human being. Maybe gone is the laissez faire attitude that you would normally have what with Vic surviving so long and with an audience waiting on your every word.

No pressure then...

Skimbo

Thanks Vitesse and Skimbo.

It's not that Vic feels invincible - he's simply got to the fatalistic stage. The early war reports show a certain lack of respect for 'Huns' and a cavalier attitude. Compare and contrast Major Timm in 1918. Thanks for the compliment about the writing; I'm delighted that others enjoy it.

Skimbo makes a very good point about treating as a fully human experience. We obviously can't, since we're not in Flanders, wet and cold in flight, fearful of flak and enemy scouts, and subject to the daily life of a pilot (and bear in mind, they had a much more palatable war than those on the ground in very many ways), but what we can do is to invest our imaginations into the time spent in front of the PC, and the more immersive the game world, the easier it is - which is a reason why OFF is so well suited to how I game. You may be slightly unsurprised to read that in my callow youth, I adored RPGs like D&D, Traveller and so forth.

It's the theatre of the mind, and what D&D didn't provide - or what OFF doesn't yet provide - I can, and, I hope, in such a way as to bring that world and his ephemeral, digital existence into a sharper focus and to better effect for others.

I'm still not that happy with my efforts overall, and if I had more time I'd certainly do more research and multiple drafts before I posted, but there's a dynamic that can't be disobeyed - I need to write whilst experiences are fresh in the mind, whilst also winding in the additional threads of Vic's life. So it's a compromise.

Next compromise should be up soon, with the odd screenshot assuming I remember to take them.

Brilliant - I await your next 'compromise' (as you call it) with baited breath.

It really is gripping stuff - you shouldn't be so hard on yourself.

Tell me do you draw on any elements of your own life/friends to flesh out the backstory of vics people back home?

Skimbo

"Brilliant - I await your next 'compromise' (as you call it) with baited breath."

Thanks - on its way.

"It really is gripping stuff - you shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

I know it could be better and some of the stuff I've posted makes me wince when I reread it, but that informs anything I write thereafter, so it all serves a purpose. I'd love to think it was good enough to get published, but I know that it's simply a reasonable effort from a part timer, and that's probably good enough for me. I'm surprised that I've had about 12K visits, but that's undoubtedly people checking back rather than 12K fans (I wish!).

"Tell me do you draw on any elements of your own life/friends to flesh out the backstory of vics people back home?"

A little.

I do live in northern England, near Manchester, but I've never lived in Derbyshire. None of my family served in the great war, as far as I'm aware, and only a few in the second world war.

My writing, such as it is, is based upon reading multiple accounts of flyers from the RFC, reading shedloads of history and then just plunging in. Frankly, if I didn't own and fly OFF, I wouldn't have written the diary, but I do, so I did.

In terms of people, I've lifted surnames from my past (don't ask) and I've tried to recreate a post-Edwardian feel of a middle class family working through a disaster that they simply don't understand. I hope that that comes through in the letters and the replies.

If I had a year to spare, I would love to turn it into a book, but I suspect that I'll never have that time, and, to tell the truth, I would guess that I'd be hard pressed to find a publisher who'd take on a book that would probably only sell a few copies at best. Still, if it provides a worthwhile read to like minded people on t'interweb, then that's a pretty good deal!

EDIT - 22.07.12 - Due to unforeseen circumstances, Vic's not flown at of late. That will all change in the next day or so, so please keep an eye out for new reports, should you be so minded!

Good evening everyone.

I've been away from my PC - figuratively - for such a long time that I even missed the release of WOFF. Well, It's now (finally) loaded and sat upon my PC with Matt Milne's epic score hammering away. Matt do yourself a favour and drop a copy of it to Spielberg soon as I suspect it's right up his street.

I was hoping, by way of reintroduction, to be able to post up the flying guide to the BE2c that I wrote a couple of years back for the edification and entertainment of any poor sod daft enough to climb into one, but, alas, SimHQ doesn't seem to have that facility, so I'll simply announce that I'm going to try and finish Vic's war - one way or another - in WOFF. As it is, and perhaps very Vic like, I can barely remember much about his history now, though I'll reread everything, and whilst he's on 30ish Huns bagged, those numbers don't matter.

He's in 12 Squadron RAF, the date is July 5th, 1918. He walks to his Bristol Fighter chatting to Barr-Latimer, his observer. This is France in mid summer and soon Detente forces will try to throw the Hun back out of France and Belgium. Major Timm is aware of the circumstances and what is required; his tread is thoughtful as BL extinguishes a cigarette and climbs onto the wing.

There is much to do.

One word -

'Its about bloody time'

that's four words but I don't care - can't wait to read. Do you think the woff flight model might make life hard for our fella? Or has it been that long that it wouldn't matter what sim you flew

I expect a great read - welcome back

Skimbo

Thanks Skimbo.

I've got some outstanding technical issues, and one or two non-techy ones that have prevented me from taking to the air. The techy one's to do with TrackIR, which I hope to bottom soon; the other ones are covered by the phrases "local elections" and "adopting a child". Not much point on enlarging on those, I suspect.

As soon as most of them - specifically TrackIR - are sorted, I'll be flying and writing again.

Still got problems with TrackIR - why won't it #%&*$# work with Win7 when it does with XP? Everything's up to date? Gaaaa!

It will get sorted and I will fly again.

Awaiting fixes to technical problems - then I hit the air again....