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.