2nd Lt. John B. Goode 147th Aero Squadron, USAAS Epiez
May 21st 1918
Lots of excitement today. Late in the morning, 3 Germans flew over, but they didn't drop any bombs, just having a look see, I guess. Only 9 of our machines are outfitted with machine guns, these were sent up to patrol in pairs to prevent this from happening again. The boys were hoping the Huns would come back, but they didn't reappear.
In the afternoon, Whitey took his machine up to try the guns out. He attacked a little island in the lake. He said he didn't hit it once. The Major ordered that there be no offensive flying until all the guns have been properly aligned and calibrated so the patrols were cancelled. The pilots who are armed spent the rest of the day in the gunnery pits with their machines. The rest of us were sent to the range for rifle and pistol practice. We had a shooting match with the 27th, which we lost badly. The Major was not pleased, so I guess we'll be spending a lot more of our time on the range.
News came this evening that Major Raoul Lufberry of the 94th Aero was killed in action near Toul this morning. The dope is that he was brought down in flames and jumped from his ship.
Finally got an answer from Davey. A bit of the letter was cut out by the censors but it appears they are back in business at Toul. I won't write back since, presumably we will be there before long and he should know we're coming anyway.
May 22nd 1918
Practicing formation flying. Each flight was assigned an area to patrol, but we aren't allowed to approach the front. We're flying at much higher altitude than we have generally done in the past and the pressure is bothering my ears. I got some Wrigley's Spearmint at the canteen, I don't like chewing gum as it makes you look ignorant, standing around, chewing your cud like a cow, but it's pretty good stuff and helps my ears pop quicker.
May 23rd 1918
The AEF Squadron Info Bureau came by today to take pictures of us with our aircraft in front of Hangar 3. They took a group photo of all of us with Mickey and the Major before they finally left us in peace. I assume they send the pictures to our hometown newspapers.
Major Rice, who was with us at Hicks Field was our guest for dinner. He's on leave until he recovers from being gassed. He regaled us with stories about his service with the British but it didn't go over very well. Most of us think he's a blowhard.
May 24th 1918
Cold and windy, we watched movies in one of the hangars most of the day. Frenchy went to the hospital with an earache. Pip went too, he has chronic appendicitis.
May 25th 1918
Still cold, windy, rainy, more movies The men rigged a stage by moving a flat trailer in front of hangar 9 for a show put on by two ladies from the YMCA this evening. Miss Keames sang and Miss Seiler played the harp. Before the show, the ladies had a good dinner with us, pork and yams. The Major presented them with certificates of appreciation which seemed to please them very much.
NOTE: Bare with me, the 147th will finally move up to the Front on the 31st. Things should get more exciting then.
My 2nd Aunt by marriage sent a letter explaining how bad things are getting at home. She said that I should make my way across the Alps ( do a reverse Hannibal ) go drop into Spain. I would have an open passage on a steam ship for Brazil booked for me. and make my way to Chili where Uncle Hugo has started a mail plane business. She ends the letter with a
The Komandant announced that I was promoted to Leutant effective a week ago. I led the Jasta ( all 9 a/c ) on 2 flights losing 2 pilots and planes for 1 Spad. I must be rusty, I collected bullet holes each time up.
Jerbear, more outstanding reading. I can't wait for Goode to get to the front. Carrick, you keep ticking along like a Timex! Watch your six.
Corderoy nearly bought the farm from one of his own squadron...
Diary of Maj. Geoffrey Corderoy, 70 Squadron RFC Part 52: 22-28 January 1918
24 January 1918 – St-Omer
The latest chapter in my story began two days ago with a decision to accompany Gorringe’s flight on a line patrol. Line patrols are generally peaceful affairs as the Hun seldom ventures into our midst unless we stray well into Hunland, low on fuel, and missing several members due to the evils regularly brought upon us by Monsieur Clerget.
We had a sunny, cold morning for our job, with fluffy great clouds tumbling up to 12000 feet. Our height was only 8000 feet, so we had to keep alert for the chance of enemy waiting in ambush among the cumulus. After more than an hour of fruitless parading to and fro, we turned north for the fourth time and pretty much ran headlong into a group of silver Pfalz scouts level with us. The Huns were five to our six, and they quickly turned eastward. In a dive, a Pfalz leaves a Camel in its wake in seconds. But I caught one of the Huns in his turn with a good burst into its belly. The grid shuddered and began to stream a thin grey wisp, likely from a pierced radiator. In a second I was on him, firing from 150 yards and closing quickly.
Suddenly there was a cracking of rounds passing close by, and a round smacked into my left Vickers. Then a blow caught my right leg like a smack from a hot poker. Blood immediately stained the upper thigh area of my sidcot and there was a gash in the top of my right fug boot where the round had continued past, just missing my right lower leg. My Camel sideslipped away and I spotted another Camel flashing past, firing. It was Peverell. The silly bugger had dropped behind my Hun while I was closing on him and had, it seemed, shot me!
We were over the Hun trench lines when this happened so I set course for La Gorgue, our nearest field. I felt cold and a little sick, and had an overwhelming need for sleep. But I knew where that would lead. I’d seen others fall over their stick unconscious, sending their machines vertically down to a sleep without end. I switched off five miles out and sang loudly to myself, bawling out the patter to “Any Old Iron.”
As La Gorgue, the lads from 43 pulled me out and took me in a tender to 51 CCS at Merville. This was like Old Boys’ Day, for it was here at 51 CCS that I recovered from my knee injury when with 46 Squadron back in June 1917. I even got to chat once more with the tender of heart (and severe of face) VAD aide, Miss Hutchins. My wound, while painful, is minor. It appears that a round from Peverell’s guns creased the side of my right buttock and some of the upper leg, tearing a groove in the skin, but leaving bone and muscle untouched. It has been dressed and is being irrigated, and I shall be shipped tonight or tomorrow to No 7 General Hospital at the Malassises academy at St-Omer. They are sending down a temporary commander for the squadron, as I may be allowed home leave once declared free from risk of sepsis.
In the meanwhile, Peverell is in a terrible state. He has brought me my kit and a fine bottle of brandy as a peace offering, but Wing has ordered him to appear before a board of inquiry. I have offered a written account in which I stated that we converged on the Pfalz from opposite sides without seeing one another. It is slightly generous, but it does no good to destroy a man who is already punishing himself, and Peverell is a good chap.
26 January 1918 – Calais
Spent only one day at Malassises . They have stopped the irrigation and are allowing the wound to heal naturally, aided by stitches for most of its length. I can sit without too much discomfort and with my old slacks on, the dressings are not noticeable. Today I tried without success to get a ride to Pervys to see Mairi and the Baroness, but had no luck. I shall be on a leave boat tonight, bound for Dover.
The buildings at Malassises that housed No 7 General Hospital.
28 January 1918 – London
Arrived yesterday afternoon at Victoria Station and took a taxi to the Cavendish. Rosa Lewis is unchanged since I saw her in October, and there is a gathering of flying officers and young ladies every night, it seems. I am very tired and not much for parties these days, although I stayed downstairs until nine last night to hear an Irish girl sing some lovely ballads, and left when the party became louder.
I sent a message to St. Thomas’s Hospital for Catherine. It is time we met, and I have invited her to dinner at Scott’s. My infatuation with Mairi Chisholm has taught me that whatever I felt for Catherine, it was not the real thing. If it were, I should have been immune. That is not to say that Mairi is the love of my life. She interests me, I suppose. But it is unfair to lead poor Catherine on. She has been so endeared to me in her correspondence and it is best I end it all before I cause her more distress.
I dread this!
Must leave off writing, as it is time to leave to meet her. I am to meet Catherine at Piccadilly Circus, inappropriately by the statue of Eros. I feel such a cad.
Scott's, as it appeared in 1962.
 This tune was a music hall staple, made famous by Harry Chapman.
 No 7 General Hospital was located in a former monastery and school at Malassises, just south of St-Omer and east of 1 AD.
 A noted London seafood restaurant. Now located in Mayfair, at this time it stood near the corner of Coventry Road and Great Windmill Road in the West End theatre district. It is a very short walk from Piccadilly Circus. In later years, Scott's on Coventry Road was frequented by Ian Fleming, who occasionally placed James Bond there.
Alarm !, Bombers over the lines. The Jasta had eight machines warmed up so off we went. Over the Trench s we found pay dirt in the form of a Flight of Brequet's and Spads. We were slightly lower as we slammed into the Bombers. I got a few hits on one of the lumbering machines the spotted a kill made by Underofficer Knoch, a smoker then the lower wing came off. No time left to look as the Escorts hit us . At one time I had up to 3 Spads chasing me. Just a lot of shooting no kills . My gas tank was holed so I floated down out of the flight onto a road by a church. Some where I also saw a mid air collision. It turned out to be a new guy Bayerling, I think, and a Spad driver. No one could live thru that. The Jasta lost 1 a/c , Pilot KIA, = one Wnd with a damaged Tri plane. Enemy Lost: 1 Bomber and a fighter. the Raid broken up.
Diary of Maj. Geoffrey Corderoy, 70 Squadron RFC Part 53: 29 January 1918
29 January 1918 – Cavendish Hotel, Jermyn Street, London
So. Let me begin with last night.
I stood shivering outside the Palladium waiting for Catherine. She was to meet me at seven and she was already twenty minutes late. Our table was reserved for seven-fifteen. I studied every cab and omnibus feeling their way in the darkness of a blacked-out Piccadilly Circus. At least the waving wands of searchlight beams above the city reflected a bluish light back from the low cloud. I want to come here again to see the illuminated Bovril and Schwepps signs in full electric bloom, I mused, and wondered when we’d ever see the lights will come on again. 
“You look lost, poor dear.” It was her. I hadn’t seen her alight. I smiled nervously and immediately began to question my resolve, for she looked lovely in a fine bluebell-coloured dress with a short woolen jacket with fur collar and cuffs, all topped with a black brimmed hat at a jaunty angle.
“And you look lovely,” I replied. “We’d best rush along. We’re a bit late.” She explained that she had been held back to assist with a surgical team working on a young sailor.
We arrived at Scott’s and were greeted by the maître d’, who began to explain our assignment to a table near the kitchen by dropping names of important guests in the room that evening, but then his eyes fell on the dark crimson ribbon on my RFC tunic as I removed my coat and scarf. In a minute he was shuffling waiters about like a whispering sergeant-major (a thing I confess I’ve never seen), and a table for two appeared near the front windows.
We settled in and Catherine ordered a sherry, while I knocked back a whiskey. Catherine ordered the sole meunière. I’d had my fill of sole in France, where it was the thing to order when the ubiquitous omelette and chips weren’t enough. I ordered a Scotch salmon dish and a bottle of 1909 Chablis. We mumbled about trivial matters for several matters until Catherine put down her knife and fork and said “So, explain the letter.”
My first reaction was to ask, “what letter?” but that would be dishonest. We both knew what she meant. I explained that I had found that in France it was best to accept each day on as one’s sole focus. Those men whose minds drifted to what would happen to them next week, month, or year were the ones who were most vulnerable to breakdown. Everyone reaches his limit, I said, but one’s duty is to withstand the inevitable war fatigue and remain effective as long as possible. “Surfeit of imagination kills more pilots than the Hun,” I explained. I had come to understand the Stoic philosophers. Life is a game of chance, especially in war. One lives it best by accepting whatever comes. Pain, loss, and fear are simply part of the process of war. The real glory lies in handling whatever fate hands you, bad or – like the effect of a VC in gaining a decent table – good.
“I think we need to talk about us,” I began nervously. How would she react when I told her I could not reciprocate her deep feelings for me?
“Oh God, I’ve been dreading this.” Catherine placed her silk-gloved hand over mine. “Geoffrey, dearest. You must know that Alan is alive and back in England.”
Alan Scarborough was a young pilot in my flight at 60 Squadron. He was engaged to (and had been living with) Catherine before being sent to France. He’d been missing since October and presumed dead. I’d not had a cigarette in a month but flagged down a waiter to bring me a package of Dunhills. Another bottle of Chablis was in order as well.
“Last week on Wednesday I was coming out of the hospital and there he was, sitting on a bench and smiling as if he had never left. I lost control of my legs.” Catherine dabbed tears away with her napkin. “He’d been shot down and broke his arm. He was wearing a sweater rather than his tunic and pretended to be a non-commissioned officer, thinking he might not be expected to know as much. Unfortunately, what it meant was that after he was release from hospital he went to a harder camp for non-officers where he was sent to work as part of a labour detail every day. Last month he escaped and made his way to Holland.”
By this time the tears were flowing freely and she was struggling to speak. I could see other diners speculating about what kind of cad I was and what I’d done to upset the beautiful young lady. At length Catherine explained that she felt bound to marry Alan and to break off with me. I expressed regret, but agreed it was quite the proper thing.
“Does Alan know about us?” I asked, as if the concept of “us” were real. In truth, we’d spoken for less than an hour in Oxford, and then exchanged a half-dozen letters. She said she had not told him anything other than that I’d brought Alan’s effects to her in Oxford and been very supportive.
She declined dessert, so we left soon after. I hailed a cab, paid the driver, kissed her hand, and wished her and Alan well. She looked miserable, poor girl. I then strolled whistling down Piccadilly towards the Cavendish.
Back at the hotel, Rosa Lewis was hosting an animated soirée in which the RFC was well represented. There were several ladies of society and more than a few young and stunning actresses. I was offered a glass of champagne by Rosa and introduced around the room. To my utter joy, I spotted the familiar face of Chidlaw-Roberts, with whom I’d shared a Nissen at 60 Squadron. He was in London for only a few days and was about to receive a well-deserved MC. He’d just shot down a big-name Hun “ace” He was due back at 60 Squadron right after his MC investiture but was due for HE in the next couple of weeks. He already knew he would take over a flight at 29 Training Squadron once he got to England for good. We ordered oysters and brandy and found a table to ourselves in a corner away from the social whirl around us. 
I caught up on the news of 60. Major Patrick was back in England and a new commander in place. Soden had a flight. John Crompton was killed about two weeks ago. Chidlaw-Roberts himself had been shot up by Werner Voss shortly before Voss was attacked and killed by the boys of 56.
Then the conversation turned. Chidlaw-Roberts had spent a couple of days working at 11 Wing before leaving France for his investiture. One of the staff officers there had confided that Lieut. Col. Scott wanted to replace me at 70 Squadron and have me posted to England. “Watch your back, Corderoy. Until Bishop is back from Canada, you’re in danger of eclipsing Scott’s protegé. It would be better to take you out of action until Bishop is back in action.”
I told C-R about dragging my poor captive Hun pilot into 11 Wing to convince Scott’s team to confirm the Pfalz I’d forced to land. Scott wouldn’t forgive me for that stunt, I supposed. But I was damned if I was going to turn 70 Squadron over to someone else now that we’d become something of a crack unit.
I’ve never thought of myself as a politician, but I’m sure I can learn.
 The famous Bovril and Schwepps signs went up just before the war, and were the first of the signs that eventually turned Piccadilly Circus into a illuminated landmark.
 Capt Robert Lewis Chidlaw-Roberts had nine victories at this time. His most recent was Leutnant Max Müller, commander of the Jasta Boelke, a 36 victory ace.
So Mrs Canuck approaches me today as I am packing for my work trip which will take me away from home (and my computer) for the next several months.
She hands me the brand new gaming laptop ive been staring at in the store for the past several months, saying that it would be a shame to miss out on all that free time I would have to play WOFF over there.
My god this woman is a saint and a hero. I am very excited to say that the adventures of Mr Sitwell shall continue through the summer and I should have a decent amount of time to fly regularly and update here.
Huzzah and see you in the (now better rendered) skies.
The Red Cross forwarded a letter from the Countess Dewinter ( My 3rd cousin ) in England she said that she was fine and recently divorced Husband # 3 a Lord Hackknee in the British Parliament where there was talk of trying all German Officers/ Pilots as War Criminals She thought that I should know.
There doesn't seem to be an end . On Escort, I led out 6 a/c into 2 flights of 6 Spads to protect the Lone Recon gathering info for the Army. What a bee hive of circling firing machines. I hit one hard and the a/c staggered then dove as I lost sight of him. Next up was getting the Spads off my wing-mates. RTB ed with a shot up DR I and over stressed wires. Totals 2 Spads + 1 Damaged ( mine) for 1 Triplane. + 2 damaged in the fight.
Raine your Geoffrey really dodged a bullet on that last mission, she might have handed him his bollocks! A most dangerous adversary.
Lederhosen - Did you do the "Blue Max" skins yourself, they look excellent.
2nd Lt. John B. Goode 147th Aero Squadron, USAAS
27 May 1918
Kaiser Bill is launching his 3rd Spring Offensive, apparently concentrating along the Aisne River. Dewey told me they pronounce it Aayn, how the French, and the Brits for that matter, get their pronunciations out of what they write is beyond me.
We continue our routine preparations for Front Line duty, can't be long now. All of us are on pins and needles.
May 29th 1918
A little excitement for A Flight on their patrol. While they were getting ready to take off all the Anti-Aircraft on the field started firing at an approaching balloon. Abe, Ash, Pip and Gas took of after it. It turned out to be an unoccupied observation ballon that must have broken loose. They didn't get too close because of all the Archie and ground units firing at it.
May 30th 1918
We were allowed leave today. A bunch of us took a truck to Neufchateau. We were ordering lunch when a driver found and told us the Major wanted us back. WE WERE LEAVING FOR TOUL IMMEDIATELY! We whooped and hollered and nearly knocked the waiter off his feet getting out of the joint.
By the time we got back to Epiez, everylthing was being loaded up. The trucks set off this evening, but were recalled when the orders were cancelled. That made us all mighty blue, I can tell you, so we all went back to quarters to get some sleep. Guess it'll all come out in the wash tomorrow.
It's 2 am. About 11 the fire sirene went off. One of the hangars assigned to the 27th was on fire. Evidently a Nieuport that was being refueled caught fire. We got the other aircraft out and some of the men managed to cut the top canvas to save part of the hangar. Too excited to go back to sleep. Dewey is already back to sawing logs, guess I'll read something.
May 31st 1918 - GENGOULT
New orders came down this morning for the move. Before morning formation was dismissed, a self important little pipsqueak of a 2nd Loot from the Dental Corps, of all things, hauled himself up in front of us. He addressed us in a fatherly tone, adjuring us to "Keep your teeth clean! You are to brush your teeth night and morning, like this," he motioned with his finger, "up and down, not sideways," making the heretical back and forth motion and frowning. Well enough, let's go to breakfast we thought. BUT NO! The little squirt pulls out a tooth brush to give us an exhibition as to how this holy and sacred procedure was to be accomplished. We all just looked at each other in disbelief. Here we all are, on the brink of flying off to do deadly combat with the Huns and he's going on about brushing our chompers! Abe broke in, yelling "Wonder if he thinks we're gonna bite the Germans to death!" That put us all to laughing, but he held his dignity, said something we didn't hear and walked away, satisfied that he had shared the Gospel whether it fell on good ground or stony. Amen
Got our bedrolls and cots packed, took our flying clothes down to the hangar and flew over late in the morning while the trucks made their way in the afternoon. So, now we are installed at Gengoult Aerodrome, about 5 k from Toul.
This is one of the larges aerodromes at the Front. The hangars are large G.I. Buildings with concrete floors. The main draw back to the place is that the hangars are on the opposite end of the field from the barracks, over a half mile away.
After landing and giving over our Nieuports to the ground crews, we were met by the Group Adjutant, who called us to attention and welcomed us, then led us toward the barracks. There were any number of pilots and enlisted men milling around the hangars, gawking at us. One yelled, "Better send word to the Boche...It's not safe to fly over the lines anymore, the Canadian Circus is here!" They all seemed to think this was the height of levity. There were a few harsh return comments from our ranks, suggesting more or less that they should put a sock in it as we changed direction to get a closer look at these mouthy birds. It was then the Adjutant's turn to express himself with a few choice things to say to both groups about the proper conduct of an officer. We then continued on our way without further incident.
The quarters are real humdingers, cinder block buildings with rooms for two and a building full of showers with a quick heating apparatus. Even concrete walks instead of he ankle deep mud at Issoudun. No mud, bookoo (1) Boches, can't beat it! Dewey and I are in a large room that has a basin and running water rght outside our door. Lawrence and O'Niell have the next room and together we comprise a suite.
Room unacceptably dirty, we got it cleaned up before the baggage arrived. Fixed up the closet and grabbed three chairs for our room.
Have seen only a few of the birds from the 94th and 95th, they're markedly unfriendly, we wonder what their problem is. You'd think they'd be glad to see us! The more the merrier.
As soon as we got the room set up, I went looking for Davy. I asked around and an orderly said all the pilots from the 95th were at the hangars or on alert so I walked back over there. It was exciting to see the real operation of a Front Line Pursuit Group happening all around me! Could hardly believe I was really here at last.
I saw a pair of pilots standing next to a ship in front of the 95th's hangars, put on my friendliest face and walked over. One was a 1st Loot with a weaselly sort of face, the other was the same rank as myself, shorter, dark, hairy, heavy eyebrows, rather unintelligent looking, chewing gum. I saluted the ranker as I approached. He responded by returning my salute in an offhanded way and proceeded to try to wind me up by asking me if I was "one of the Canuks, whose come to take over the war so the rest of us can sit back and watch, now that you're done fighting the Battle of Paris.(2)"
I did what I usually do when confronted with this type. I remained completely unmoved, just saying "I suppose so sir. Do you know if Lt. Crockett is around?"
The hairy one, lets call him The Monkey, answered for him in a hostile "WHO WANTS TA KNOW?"
"His cousin," I replied, quite un-flustered.
Then Weasel Face chimed in, "On alert, over there," pointing at a tent at the end of the field with 5 Nieuports parked in a line near it.
I saluted again, thanked them and walked toward the tent with completely unruffled feathers despite their sneering. I find that this usually takes the wind out of that sorts sails.
The flap to the Alert Tent was open but I stopped at the opening, scratched the canvas and said "Hello!"
From inside I heard "Yeah!" so I walked into the dimness. There Davy sat in his Teddy Bear Suit, helmet, goggles on his head, sitting leaned back in a chair with his feet on a table, reading a paper. Four other pilots sat around the tent in similar attitudes. Davy nearly tipped over when he saw me, jumped up with that big grin and a 'HEY...JOHNNY BOY, BOUT TIME!" Then it was back slapping , a head lock and a Chinese Rubdown (3) for me which amused everyone but myself. It was just like we were 10 and 14 years old again..
After a short catching up he said he'd be on alert for another hour unless something came down the buzz wire (4) and they had to take off. I gave him my room number and he said he'd drop by.
When Davy came around, Dewey and I were pasting illustrations from magazines on our bare whitewashed walls to give the room some color. He looks fit as a fiddle, I'll have to write his folks to tell them so. I introduced him to Dewey then I asked him why the boys from the other outfits had a stick up their butts about us. He said they had heard quite a bit about us since we had come over and we appeared cocky and arrogant, thinking that we were ready to fight the Boche the minute we got off the boat and none of the rules everybody else had to live with should apply to us. That we appeared to think that as soon as we got to Toul we should be able to handle the sector without them and we, in fact, don't know #%&*$#. Some of them had been finishing up at Issoudun when we arrived and they resented that our Majors had pushed us through there without finishing the program, shoving men aside who had been there first, going through ground school. They had heard that we cracked up a lot of valuable ships at Epiez by being a bunch of Splitass Merchants (5). Furthermore, it was maintained that our mechanics were undesirables, left at home when the first overseas squadrons had left.
That was a lot to swallow and there was more that doesn't come to mind right now. Dewey looked offended but kept silent. Davy wasn't trying to pick a fight, he was just answering my question the way Davy answers questions, direct and to the point.
I admitted that there were far too many mishaps with the aircraft but that the majority of the accidents were had by the ferry pilots from Orly. Pushing through Issoudun, I explained wasn't up to us and I was certainly well aware the we didn't know #%&*$# as did the rest of the Canadian Circus, if that's what they want to call us. I told him I was sorry that we had been perceived in that way and we hoped that we would be judged by what they saw of us when, with their help and advice, we were finally ready to meet the Huns.
Before he left he said he would introduce me around tonight at the shindig.
Went over to the enameled baths this evening and had a fine hot shower bath. Would like to go right to bed after finishing writing this but Major Huffer of the 94th is throwing a "Gala Event" and we're supposed to get an official welcome from the French trained squadrons.
(1) bookoo - Americanization of the French beaucoup
(2) Battle of Paris - Behind the lines drinking and whoring, especially but not necessarily in the City of Lights
(3) Chinese Rub Down - to hold another in a head lock and rub the top if that person's head with one's fist until the friction becomes painful.
As newly appointed Schwarmfuhrer of the Jasta, I took 2 wing men and went after an enemy balloon today. The flight ran into 2 Spads covering the gas bag. My wingman knocked down 1 that I had damaged the other Powered up and went home. My other wing mate got the balloon as i flew slightly above the inferno. I was Driving a replacement DR I till they get a Flying Wire Kit for my old machine. All back Safe.
Another Escort into Hostile Space, we spotted over 5 flights of e/a going in during the Recon. Then an enemy flight Broke into us while another circled behind. It was then I knew that we had lost the War. The flights 3 a/c fought hard and 2 a/c went down. Upon landing, I packed my bag. I knew if I and others could survive that there would be WOTR.