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 Pιronne from the South East, I felt our Quirk shudder as a piece of shrapnel from local archie tore through the 'plane. The 'plane bobbed alarmingly for a second or two, but I found that applying both hands to the stick and kicking the rudder bar stabilised us quite quickly. Looking up, I could see that the shrapnel had torn a large hole in the port upper wing, but, of more concern, had appeared to have caused a leak below from the petrol tank.

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

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

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

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

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

I will write later, assuming that all goes well.

Fondest regards,

Vic

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