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

21st January 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Affectionately,
Vic

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

24th January 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

My love to you and Elsbeth.

Yours,

Vic

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

25th January 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

Vic

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

27th February 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours affectionately,

Vic

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

19th March 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,
Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

15th April 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

17th April 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If we lose, we lose the war.

Affectionately,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

18th April 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

21st April 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RFC,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

18th May 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

Vic