Introduction:

Hi folks.

This will be my attempt to run through RFC-24 from the beginning of their service in France (February 7, 1916) to the Armistice. I'm hoping that by sticking with them I'll be able to tell this squadron's story: Or at least their story in an alternate reality.

I am simply not good enough to expect to make it to the end, so as one pilot dies I will simply rename my pilot and soldier on with the same game. This means my own stats will eventually be out of sync, which is alright. That's what pen and paper is for.

The only mod I'm using is Aces100Redux, which seems to have done away with Major Lanoe Hawker, RFC 24's commander. Oh well. It's worth it to me for the increased immersion.

My house rules are as follows:

I'll advance 1d6 (one six-sided die)'s days between missions. This is just to keep the war moving at a good rate of speed. In 'exchange' there will be no leave of absences. Also, encounters are set to high. Thus we can assume that between days we fly non-combat or uneventful sweeps.

I cannot make a claim against an enemy craft unless they go down in Allied territory, or in German territory if there's a squad plane within sight of me.

I can't shoot at any balloon unless it's my target, or I'm within 1.5 miles of it. IE- no adventuring.

If injured, I must try to disengage. This doesn't necessarily mean 'let them shoot me in the back,' but it does mean my main goal becomes getting out of there.

Since, using Bletchley's OFF Pilot Personality Profiles, I rolled someone who's 'Career Orientated', I can't break formation. If my flight leader doesn't think we're in trouble, then obviously we're fine - unless we're about to be jumped of course. If I'm the flight leader, my primary goal has to be the mission.

I hope you enjoy this. Feel free to let me know what you like, what you don't like, or if I make any obvious errors.

February 6, 1916


Lieutenant Richard 'Ricky' Reinard, RFC, was on escort duty. Specifically, he was escorting himself, five relative newbs, and their Airco DH.2s across the Channel to St. Omer where 24th Squadron would finally join the fight against the perfidious Hun. At least that's how his CO, Captain Robert, put it in order to hide his obvious bloodlust. Frightening little man, but a good pilot. He flew as much as anyone since his transfer.

Reinard had killed one as an observer. He didn't see the need to brag though: Some idiot had brought an old unarmed Taube to the fight and he'd turned it into a flamer. At night he could still hear the pilot's screams.

Growing up he'd believed the lies they tell to little children, especially those of moderately wealthy homes like his. War was glorious. Honourable. A cleansing, purifying thing that destroyed corruption, slew the metaphorical dragon, and of course served the interests of God and the Crown. Not necessarily in that order.

They couldn't hide the reports, though they tried hard enough, of the bloodbath in France and Belgium. They hid the truth for fear people would realize the truth: Their generals, some ennobled and others craving that elevation, were incompetent. They didn't understand what was happening, didn't care to learn, and for that thousands upon thousands stained the Flanders fields crimson. The only saving grace seemed to be that Germany was even worse with their Prussian zeal and inability to admit error.

"I won't die for you," he swore at the countryside passing beneath his roving eyes. "I will live despite you."

********

"If he does not stop that," 2nd Lieutenant Tallon 'Tal' Treveylan told his plane, "I shall shoot him down and claim a gun misfire."

'He' was Francis Richard. Richard was new to the squadron and his aircraft, which wasn't really the problem. He wanted to use this transfer flight to test his craft's limits however, and that was. He danced in and out of formation like a God damned firefly and once came within twenty yards of rear-ending Treveylan. He'd dodged of course, hating himself and Richard both for the necessity. By the time he returned to formation the ass was off again, executing a respectable dive on a fishing boat. At some unseen signal he broke his dive, climbing steadily up and around until he'd completed a God damn loop. By now he was over a mile behind, some two thousand feet below, and would need another 10 minutes just to catch up again.

Tal wouldn't shoot. Of course not. Though there would be words, and Richard might end up on the ground. He wouldn't waste his one, best chance at getting his life right on that one.

The aeroplane shuddered. In his agitation Tal had pulled his nose back too far, and the Airco didn't appreciate that at all. He levelled out, then gradually rejoined the party.

Up ahead Richard barrel-rolled.

Grr.

********

Sergeant Cedric Creed stayed well back of the others. This was his first flight in an Airco, having trained on the Farman Shorthorn and Vickers. Both of those planes were pushers with forward observers, which meant for the first time he could clearly see ahead and to a very real extent down. He appreciated the former, but couldn't escape the sensation of being suspended in midair and about to fall.

"This is what you wanted," he reminded himself and that was true. There were sergeants by the thousands in the trenches. Little chance for advancement there. Little chance for anything but a German bullet. If you wanted to distinguish yourself, the air was the place to be. He had daily contact with his flight commander, not infrequent contact with those above him, and who knew? A few claims down the line or some other meritorious service could bring great things indeed.

He turned and looked over his shoulder. It wasn't easy seeing through the clouds and his own airplane's lattice work, but he could still make out Dover and her famous cliffs.

"Good bye," he told his motherland. "Thank you."

Nice, CatKnight! I dig Cedric's picture, he really looks like a fresh faced kid getting his first taste of war... I have probably spent more time in the DH2 than any other plane...I do not envy you the next year!


Ps, the roll the dice plan is a good way to advance the war and save some sanity!

Rick Rawlings: Thanks Rick! I feel rusty as a writer today. Hopefully things will get easier as I get moving on this.
*******

February 6, 1916


St. Omer wasn't ready.

It wasn't anyone's fault. It was the middle of winter after all, and even if the snow had all gone for the moment the ground was still rock hard. The strip of field meant for landing, more or less a square bordered on two sides by hangars, was therefore no more than a polite suggestion in a former field. Aeroplane tractors, not built for nor up to the task, proved ineffective against the frozen, rutted earth despite several clever (and not so clever) attempts at rigging tills and plows.

This meant a number of hard, jolting landings. Of the sixteen aircraft to land that day, three hopelessly sprung their undercarriages and two pilots lost teeth as they bounced and shuddered to a stop. One of the more experienced pilots, Lieutenant Henry, actually managed to stall in mid-landing. No harm done, except for stopping a few hearts as his plane dropped out of the sky from thirty feet and landed on one wheel and a wing, but overall it was a shameful, embarrassing display.

Sixteen pilots, five staff officers, forty-seven mechanics, six attendants, three cooks and three drivers called St. Omer home now, and Captain Mark Robert stood at the center of the maelstrom. By land he was an experienced hunter: He enjoyed the chase, thrilled to the animal's frantic effort to escape and enjoyed the power of determining life or death. He'd tried his hand as an observer-gunner last year, but depending on others (a pilot) galled him. Always better to take destiny in one's own hands, and so he learned to fly.

He despised the administrative end of leadership, or the coaching and training, or well...any of it. It was worth the price though, for as soon as these morons managed to clear his field they'd be able to fly and hunt the most dangerous game of all.

Man.

***********

"Not now, son. He's going to be at that for awhile." Lieutenant Reinard steered me away from our commander. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink in the mess."

"Shouldn't I introduce myself?" I asked as Captain Robert railed at his chief engineer, who in turn led a team trying to wheel Henry's wounded craft off the field.

"Sure, he has plenty of time for greeting right now," Reinard snorted. "Relax, you'll meet him later." He led me away.

No one in the mess, but after a little hunting through the command building we found what would serve as our recreation hall. Chairs, tables, a billiards table, phonograph. Reinard pulled a bottle down from a shelf, stared at it for a moment and shrugged. "Hand me that glass there." He filled it with the brown, noxious liquid and kept the bottle for himself.

Meaningless chatter, soon rendered even worse because Reinard went after his bottle like a doomed man might seek salvation. He drank methodically, his answers to my polite questions turning shorter and less helpful by the minute.

"I think we'll bunk you with Wilkins," he said finally, eyeing me coldly. "He's a c..ch...he won't fight. You two should get along."

Since my sleeping arrangements hadn't even crossed my mind, I wondered where this came from. "Sir, perhaps you've had enough."

He laughed, a dark little sound that carried no amusement whatsoever. "Perhaps you should mind your own affairs!"

***********

Wilkins it was. A Lieutenant with the unfortunate first name of Tock. I found him in our room, a cramped box about the size of a cell in a house retrofitted into a dormitory. Thin, pale and a little sad, he looked up with haunted eyes as I sat across from him. "My God," he muttered. "Another one."

"Another what?" I asked. Our knees nearly touched as we sat. Hopefully this was just temporary housing. I don't like to think I'm claustrophobic, but the dim lighting and our closeness made we want to go elsewhere.

Him also perhaps. Wilkins withdrew into himself. "Never mind, never mind."

I was getting tired of these meaningless conversations. "Lieutenant, it looks like we have to live with each other for awhile. You might as well tell me."

He flinched as if struck. "All right," he muttered. "It's nothing. Another young man." He looked all of 25. "Another one to die in the King's war. All right?"

I lifted my head. "What are you talking about Wilkins? We just got here. We'll be fine."

"You don't know that." He stood up and moved away from me, at least as far as he could. Wilkins turned and lectured: "How many have died already? And those who've lived, what have they turned into as a result? Killers? Monsters." He shuddered.

"That's not going to happen," I told him. "Either one." Dying hadn't crossed my mind, at least as more than a theoretical possibility. "You heard the Captain back in Hounslow. We have the best machines now. This war is as good as won."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead sunk his head into his chest. "Right."

"Right." I hoped Wilkins just had a bad case of nerves.

And that he wasn't a prophet.

Order of Battle, RFC-24
February 7, 1916

Thanks CatKnight
Made a excellent read with the morning coffee. Looking forward to more.

.

CatKnight, you've a good start Sir, but as you've asked for feedback I am going to be the bastige here and give you my constructive criticism.

Your story needs to find its voice. As it is now it is quite confusing. It's generally best to pick a single perspective and write from that, and since Cedric is your character his would be the obvious one to pick, (though writing in the first person as you've done in that last bit can be very tough to maintain throughout). Also, introducing him third in your opening narrative made me feel immediately disconnected from him, and I don't believe that is what you wanted. The whole affair feels more like a movie script at the moment than it does a building story that I want to become invested in. All that said, I do like some of your phrasing, and you are pulling in good bits of historical context.

Please do not let what I've outlined here discourage you, and by all means do keep at it, just find your focus.

Lou

.

I concur with Lou...IMHO all the dialog reads like a script or novel rather than a squadron history. My apologies if I misunderstood your goal. And by all means carry on with your fine effort.

Duke: Thanks!

Lou, busdriver: Thanks very much for your comments. You're right, I'm jumping around too much. As I told Rick, the writing felt a bit rusty and I'm trying to find my place. For one thing, this is a very large squadron which makes getting to know the pilots harder than when I had, say, a six-man Aviatik squad in DiD. Hopefully as we start going through some missions it'll get easier. By all means, please keep letting me know what you think.
*******

February 7, 1916


Cold. The icy grip of winter in the French countryside greeted me as I stepped out of the narrow confines that I shared with Lieutenant Wilkins to get into my heavy jacket. Today would be my first live patrol where we could expect enemy interference. I'm proud to say my hands were steady enough, though I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. Was this fear? No, I can't say I was afraid. That would take knowing what to be afraid of. Excited then? Perhaps. Apprehensive? Uncertain? Closer to the mark.

Captain Robert, our CO, announced that everyone would get up in the air at least once today or tomorrow while it remained dry. Even those pilots who'd sprung their craft in landing - perhaps especially them. He wanted us to begin learning the countryside and the approaches, landmarks, neighbors, that kind of thing. If our neighbors from the east chose to introduce themselves, so much the better.

Breath steamed as I crossed the field towards the mess for some coffee. There's something about early mornings I've always liked. The lighting perhaps, or the fresh air full of unspoken promise. Of the former there was plenty, the sun a yellow orb somewhere over Germany and the sky a pure blue laced with cumulus. The latter... well, the air stank of oil and petrol. Drivers moved tractors into position to pull out our planes, while mechanics swarmed the planes wounded yesterday trying to get them shipshape.

While drinking I met my new wingman, 2nd Lieutenant Richard. Why he chose to be my wing and not vice versa never really appeared, except for his desire to 'help the new pilots along.' He was the one who thrilled some and annoyed others by practicing his aerobatics all during the trip across the Channel. At one point near the French coast he abruptly broke formation and streaked eastward. After a moment's hesitation we followed, wondering if he'd spotted the Boche ... but no, he'd chosen to race a seagull.

Still, despite his behavior Richard had some good points. It was his idea to bite down on my scarf during lift off to prevent my teeth chattering while we bounced along the ground and it worked quite well, though my jaw ached by the time I spit it out to wipe moisture off my goggles.

Today's mission, according to my flight leader, a 2nd Lieutenant Wilkinson, was a milkrun. Fly to Savy aerodrome to the southeast, look around, turn for home. There would be three of us, while Captain Herbert would lead two others to watch from a distance in case we found more than was expected.

Once more I had the strange impression of being suspended in mid-air once we levelled off. The Airco's visibility to the rear may be a little lacking, but to the front it's quite good. Too good, as I could see the ground passing below seemingly inches from my feet as I worked the pedals. When we reached 5,000 feet Wilkinson signalled, and we practiced our gunnery by absolutely thrashing a cloud.

Then, without warning, Wilkinson dove away.

I watched for several moments trying to gauge his problem. Had a shot somehow struck him? Perhaps his gun backfired? Engine trouble? Nothing obvious appeared so I scanned the sky for the enemy. Clear.

Now I had a decision to make: Continue to Savy or follow Wilkinson. Richard edged closer, taking his place on my wing. To the rear I could dimly make out the three forms of Captain Herbert's escort. I didn't want to appear derelict in duty on my first patrol so I flew on.

With the decision made, the rest of the patrol was simple enough. We saw no one, and no one chose to challenge us. Upon arriving at Savy we turned for home with Richard above and to my right every step of the way. Another bone jarring landing with the scarf jammed once more between my teeth, and the thing was done.

One mission down. Only God knew how many to go.

February 10, 1916

Lt. Wilkinson made it back safely from our foray, but just. He made a dead-stick landing at St. Omer, and once again the rock hard ground and a particularly pernicious rut betrayed us. It ripped out his undercarriage, and though Wilkinson was only dazed by the affair mechanics declared his plane a loss. The lower part of the fuselage took a beating sliding across the ground apparently.

This was enough for Captain Robert, who made a few calls and bundled us all to Bertangles West near Doullens. On the 8th and 9th we flew patrols back and forth as, far below, tractors, trucks and cars all carried our gear. Twice the Germans intervened, first with Aviatiks than Fokker scouts, and twice we repelled them. Lieutenant Reinard earned the first kill in our squadron's history and promptly drank himself into oblivion. He didn't feel much better when Command called him away. I think they want to give him a medal.

Lieutenant Richard was also called away, so it ended up just being Wilkinson (in a new plane) and I on morning patrol. while Lieutenant Wilkins led an overwatch flight of three. Our mission: Fly to the enemy front near Fricourt and let the Huns know they can't just cross into our airspace any time they want.

Well, about that.

We were still three or four miles from the front when I spotted them perhaps 500 feet below: Fokkers. Wilkinson saw them as well and chose to risk the throw. 2 on 2, but we had the newer machines not to mention the advantage. They noticed us quickly enough and broke formation.

I managed to get off a few quick bursts, but overshot my target. No time to get around, for now he was behind me and firing fast. Fabric tore, my engine sputtered, and something hot and all encompassing struck my back. No time for fear, little for pain. I choked, literally, tasting bile and blood both when I heard this horrible roaring right behind me.

I spun. The fool hadn't realized he'd hit my engine! He was right behind me. A flash of yellow fabric, crunching wood, an inconceivable force blotting out thought...

....blackness.


That didn't take long.

Poor Cedric, we shall miss him.

It is an interesting narrative experiment CatKnight. In most fiction that has a First Person narrative the narrator survives until the end of the story, and it has a beginning a middle and an end. The reader knows that the narrator is going to survive, at least until the end of the story (or until just before the end, with a postscript perhaps to tie up loose ends). In this case neither the author nor the reader knows how long the narrator is going to survive before another one takes over - and some of the minor characters will last longer than the original narrator, to carry on into the story started by the next narrator. Perhaps your original 'ensemble' approach with several story lines following both AI and player generated characters, rather than just concentrating on the player character, would help to ease the sudden discontinuities when the player character gets written out? Whatever, your writing is good. Carry on!

.

CatKnight, I misunderstood when you first outlined your plan and thought you were going to continue with the same pilot throughout by simply starting him anew after each death. I see now this is not your plan, although your last entry does have Cedric writing from the grave, a writing perspective by the way that allows you god-like insights and one that has been used in storytelling with good success over the years.

.

Interesting idea and good reads, CatKnight!

I suggest that you keep all the stories on the first post. Maybe use a show/hide button for each month.

This is an interesting story.

SO Griffin: Thanks!

Bletchley: Perhaps. I'm still feeling out what the best way is to handle this. I expected to lose pilots, but nothing quite as unholy as my second mission.

Louvert: I'm sorry if I wasn't clear. As far as WOFF is concerned, it's the same pilot: The pilot cannot die. I set it up like this so all the minor/AI characters wouldn't reset with a new game. It means my mission and kill counts will be off in game, but I can track that easily enough. The game still shows Cedric alive, but we're now on pilot 2.

Raine: Thank you. Let's see how we do.

OldHat: Thanks. I'll probably keep it like this, and perhaps eventually turn page 1 into a summary: Sort of a 'Hall of Fame.' (or Shame as the case my be)

February 20, 1916

Hello, my friends! It is I, Donald (Don Juan) Chiasson, and I shall now regal you with my first adventure!

I arrived in Bertangles on a cold, but sunny morning. Oh, but I long for the spring and the gentle caress of a familiar hand. The former I can do nothing about, but the latter. Well, that is what leave is for!

My commander, a grumpy little man name of Robert, thought I should go up this very morning to prove my honour and valour and other words ending in -our. Of course, says I, but who is to go with me to watch my daring?

So he introduces me to a Lieutenant Wilkinson (again!) and a Lieutenant Richards. The latter is a bit somber. It appears he attempted to protect his last wingman and did a poor job of it. Well, says I, I will not need his help. Thank you though. He just gives me this little grin. I must be careful not to anger the Lieutenant: He already has two medals, a Distinguished Service Order and Military Cross, so he must have some skill.

Our mission was to fly into Brittany and take a look around. I informed the dear Captain that Brittany was in quite the wrong direction, and he told me not to worry about it. Well, that is fine. Some of the Breton women are quite comely and they must be as lonely as those elsewhere in France for my attentions! It is unfortunate that I will only be able to admire them from afar, but perhaps I shall pick one or two out for a road trip.

Despite the chill it is a beautiful day. I admire the sun's reflection off the dials of my craft: The dials are green, so the reflection was a green prism of course, once more reminding me of a gentle spring day. I am lost in this thought when the engine begins to whine most obnoxiously. Then it spits oil, a bubbling sound almost like giving someone the raspberry, and I know there is something very wrong. My map tells me I'm 8 miles past Vert Galand aerodrome, so I drop away and run.

Five miles out my engine's RPM drops by half. I'd been in a controlled descent up to this point, but I'd hoped to coast into the airfield. Now I must land. Fortunately there aren't that many farms here: Good, rich grassland. The grass is dead from the chill of course, but at least there are no fences.

Alas, there is a tree. I land hard, and somehow did not see the tree materialize in my path. I yanked back on the stick, hard, clipped its branches with my undercarriage, cartwheeled and landed on my top wings.

Fear not, my friends. The aircraft is a loss, but I am not. I will be enjoying the tender ministrations of the fair at the local hospital however. I must feign a chill and hope the nurses come to keep me warm.

February 27, 1916


Hello, once again my friends! I have returned to share more of my tales of conquest!

Alas, no pictures once more I'm afraid. I was sure I told the photographer to take one, but he was a Frenchman and everyone knows the average Frenchman is not quite exactly if you know what I mean.

It is just as well, you know. One look at my fresh face and doe like eyes and your heart would burst from despair. Indeed, that is what one of the nurses told me in so many words: "May your heart burst!" Ah, true love. It is sweet and delicate, like a fine wine. The sweet and delicate kind. And perhaps some cheese.

Having been declared fit for duty, I returned to Bertangles West and was scheduled to fly on the 27th instant. Today Lieutenant Roland would lead Richards and I as we escorted a BE12 across the lines to bomb Bertincourt aerodrome. It was a simple matter, the only strangeness being a little wild yawing in our formation as we tried to stay slow enough so as not to leave the BE behind entirely.

Our friend dropped his gift for the Hun and we turned away. For a moment I saw some Fokker eindeckers, but they were uninterested in us, and as Lieutenant Roland did not see them I didn't press the matter. Some days are just too pleasant to fight, and while the air itself was of course crisp and wintry, the sun felt warm.

We were nearing Bapaume when I saw we would pass almost directly over a balloon. What fun! I descended rapidly through a thick cloud bank full of ice crystals that pelted at my face and left tiny round marks in the wings, and there it was: A German 'drachen', listing to one side and limp. Their gunners were a bit better though, hulling me twice from ground level. I, of course, did much better than that and blew the 'drachen' to pieces. Richards and Roland were close enough to witness, which is good as I would have hated to do that and not get credit.

I began climbing to catch them and our charge, the BE12. All was well, we were just over the line and I was thinking about what to put in my report when my engine sputtered and I lost way immediately.

Again!? Who the devil is designing these machines? Were I more suspicious I would suspect suitors of one of my many admirers. Hm. I must check into the mechanics' pool more closely.

Fortunately, I happened to be passing right over Bethune field along the border. It was therefore a small thing to control my descent, then turn in a series of two legs to land on the ground.


Order of Battle and Kill Board, March 1916


* Some of the interpersonal information (personalities, like/dislike, state of the field, etc.) are taken from Bletchley's OFF Pilot Personality Profile rules. AI dates for joining the squadron are based on how many missions they were given before game start.

Just out of interest, no 24 Sqn became a VIP transport squadron in 1920 and is one of the few remaining RAF squadrons now with the Hercules C130J. See: No 24 Squadron RAF https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No._24_Squadron_RAF