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

Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,

Vic

Major Vic Timm,
12 RAF,
Soncamp Ferme,
Nord

20th June 1918

Dear Marcus,

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

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

Best laid plans, and all that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My fondest regards,

Vic

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

28th June 1918


Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

What a terrible waste.

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

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

Kindest regards,

Vic

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

July 5th 1918


Dear Marcus,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All my love, and many, many congratulations,

Vic

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

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

Keep up the excellent work please!!

Regafrds

Skimbo

Thank you very much indeed.

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

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

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

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

Cheers,
Si

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

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

Skimbo

Well, we'll see won't we!

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

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

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

Cheers,
Si

I've enjoyed the AARs too.

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

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

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

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

No pressure then...

Skimbo