Thank you, you are most kind.

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

Cheers,
Si

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

8th October 1917

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Affectionately yours,

Vic

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

Greetings,
Catfish

Hi Cats,

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

Cheers,
Si

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

10th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regards, as ever,

Vic

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

14th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, etc,

Vic

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

16th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

Affectionate regards,

Vic

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

17th December 1917

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

Affectionately,

Vic

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

21st December 1917

Dear Marcus,

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

24th December

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

16th January 1918

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Yours, ever,
Vic

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