Darcel Limoges Sous Lt. Esc 95 Spads Ochy, AF Verdun , France 4 Victory s.
Sep 14, 1918.
Lifted off to do a AF attack only to have engine trouble ( Oil Lines ? ). Put the a/c back down quickly . When my flight came back , it was missing 2 machines. With the day going badly, It got worst . My Fokker claim was REJECTED ! Was ist das problem ?
Appreciate the SPAD profile Wolfe, nice job on all of them.
2nd Lt. John B. Goode 147th Aero Squadron, USAS
Sunday, September 15th 1918
Early morning protection patrol, Whitey leading. Salmson from 99th AS photographed about 3 miles of German held rear area between Lachasusse’e and Jonville-en-Woevre. This SPAD working very well so far. Great satisfaction to get a plane that will carry you over and back.
Five Fokkers appeared above us on return trip and tried to run through us to get to the Sal.. One got through, Dewey and I cut him off before he was able to engage the photo plane. We had a fine little scrap with him until I made a close pass, spraying him stem to stern as I passed by. His prop stopped. Dewey made a similar pass and half his top wing parted company as he tumbled end over end into nobody’s land, Filed a claim together.
150 square miles have been retaken, casualties said to be light. A group of us went to St. Mihiel which wasn’t shelled very hard. French flags flying everywhere, the men took off their hats and bowed when they saw we were Americans. These French have been living under German occupation for the last 4 years. Up in Chaillon we found a wonderful German officer’s club where we found boucoup loot. Got beer steins, liquor, wine, beer, chairs, tables, china, cupboard, boots, rugs, stoves, a bar mirror, helments, clothes. Loaded it all on a truck. Dewey and I cherched a picture of the Kaiser to hang in our room. I found another couple spiked helmet, very fancy dress type. Very nice piano, going to really fix up our mess.
Back in time for a 7 SPAD patrol, Chatillon-sous- les-Cotes to Three Fingers Lake, (1) Alk leading, 17:00. Chased 4 Hannovarians (2)across their lines. When we caught up I fired into the one in front of me from about 100 yards, then dove below to avoid the attentions the fellow in the back pew. Dewey latched on to one while I stayed above to watch out for him, occasionally putting in a few pot shots when I got an opportunity. We were joined by Bedroll (3). After taking a tremendous amount of machine gunning, half the Hun’s top wing broke off, but the pilot kept enough control of his machine to continue fighting for a few minutes before Dewey delivered the coup de grass and the biplace went into a spin, crashing not far into Germany. Filing a claim, hopefully the balloon line saw it.
Ernest Love is missing. (4) He took off after his patrol several minutes late because of problems with his engine. None of the patrol ever saw him, no word yet.
Ken Porter is back. Was in a hospital on the French Riviera. Claimed his recovery from dysentery came as much from a bottle of 150 year old Brandy given him by an old French gentleman as from laying on the beach.
(1) Lake Lachausse’e (2) Hannovarian – Hannover CLIII (3) 2nd Lt, Frank S. (Bedroll) Ennis - A Flight, 1 aerial victory, also known as "Muff" (4) Lt. Ernest A Love’s grave was found after the war in the area of Tronville. While looking for his patrrol, he had been shot down by Ltn. Franz Buchner, Commander of Jasta 13 over Lake Lachausse'e. This was Buchner’s 2nd victory for the day and his 28th total. Love’s burning SPAD crashed at Tronville. A French priest took him to his church, which was being used as a German Field Hospital. He succumbed to his wounds next day.
Darcel Limoges Sous Lt. Esc 95 Spads Ochy, AF Verdun , France 4 Victorys.
I flew in a Vee formation along with Marcel and Jean. We chased 4 e/a 2 Seat types. I caught mine as he spun out of a stall in the St Micheil area. Good many hits then went uncontrolled spining into the ground. Looking around I saw a flamer going down. Then RTB. Our three a/c claimed 3 destroyed including my Rumpler.
Darcel Limoges Sous Lt. Esc 95 Spads Ochy, AF Verdun , France 5 Victory s.
Sep 16, 1918.
My 2 Seat is confirmed. Our morning 3 a/c Patrol took us up to the lines and into a Beehive of a/c. We chased 3 e/a in a climb only to see Mon Dieu ! 7 e/a diving to the right on 3 a/c who was in a cork screw above 4 a/c. Off to zee left was 5 more diving towards us. I fired when I could at passing e/a ,but mainly looking for a way out of the Melee. At one time, I had Nuee de Huns above and on my tail. Our 3 a/c were damaged,but we made it back. Claims 0. As I reported to the Intell Officer, I saw 3 Flamers dont know who or Type of a/c.
Busy morning today. Furlow, Monk and Ponder ferried 3 Blériot SPADs over from 3rd Air Park at first light. Not long after the replacement SPADs had landed a fourth machine touched down on our field - it was another egg, Christien or something-or-other. Monk sent him Soubiran's way, as he went we idly discussed his chances in the air. "Not a week, I think..." Ponder said, in his usual cold fashion. "Nah, he'll be okay" Monk replied. I wondered if they'd done the same thing with me when I'd first got here. He ended up being assigned to 2nd Flight with me.
The Mechanics spent the early morning giving the new machines a once-over as we went for our morning briefing. Our first job of the day was escorting a D.H.4 from 168th along the lines to Forêt de Puvenelle. No cover from 1st. flight today - they were off on a morning line patrol.
I took up one of the new replacement machines. She still felt unfamilliar to my own machine (who sat in a very sorry-looking state in the 'repairs' hangar, with no wings on her), but I was just grateful that I didn't have to go up in "Deathtrap" again.
We met up with the D.H just over the top of Forêt du Hasoy, almost directly on top of ol' "Je Vois Tout", who was lazily hanging in the sky at around 500 meters. Must be alright being a balloon crewman - no war on the ground, and most fighters were too yellow to bother you. We climbed above our Biplace colleague and settled into formation. Not long after, Dolan waggled his wings and pointed out to the West - we turned and saw a formation of machines a long way off, weaving and dodging around a cloud of AA fire that had singled them out. Two Seaters I thought, but chasing Bosche recon machines wasn't our job. We stuck with the D.H.
Christiani (that egg's proper name) stuck with us pretty well in formation, I was pleased to see. He seemed sturdy enough in the heavy weather as well - I think Ponder was being a bit harsh with his prediction of less than a week. That being said, he hadn't met a Fokker in the air yet. We reached the mud with no throuble (apart from the damned wind) and headed over. On our way across the mud we bumped into 1st. Flight, and greeted each other with cheery wing-waggles on our way past.
We had scarcely crossed into German lines when Furlow spotted a group of Fokkers climbing up from underneath us. Soubiran immediately gave the signal to attack, and we fell almost vertically down on the Bosches. The D.H. clocked on to what was happening and turned right back around for home. We all watched in awe as Soubiran dove into the mess of Fokkers at a seemingly impossible speed, and before we could even react he was in amongst them fighting tooth-and-nail. We now pushed our noses down, trying to catch up to the boss, who was now alone against 5 of the brutes. I had just gotten squarely behind one of them when the damned wind knocked me onto my side, and I watched in frustration as the German turned around with a start and looped away. Next thing I knew my machine was being absolutely peppered from somewhere behind me. I turned round to see a Fokker point-blank range on my tail, and I thought that was it for me. Just as he lined up the killing shot, Monk appeared behind him and sent a burst through him. I watched as my would-be killer listed to the side and went into a spin.
I flew off to the side and checked over my wings. Holed-up, but good. Immediately I was being hammered by tracer rounds again - a second Fokker had snuck up on me! Man, I was having a terrible morning. I barrel-rolled over him and he shot out in front of me, allowing me to get a burst into his back as he went. he immediately dove and turned for home. My machine full of holes by this point, I was inclined to let him go. Good thing I did, because a second later my engine begun to splutter and then fell silent. My fuel line had been hit.
As I drifted down I saw Furlow shooting up a Hun real good. Then I was below them, with no-mans-land rising up rapidly at me. Grimacing, I realised we were still on the German side. Come on, SPAD, just see me across...
No good. This crate was dropping out the sky like it was made of lead. As I approached the ground I saw with horror that the ground raised up in front of me into a hill, and there was nothing I could do to avoid it. Trying to pitch up to put the wheels between me and the hill, I impacted hard, the SPAD jolting onto its side before listing onto one wingtip. The thick mud on the hill gave way and I slid, still propped up on my side, down the side of the hill before finally slowing to a stop. To my amazement, the undercarriage had stayed intact, but the left-hand wings were utterly destroyed, torn apart. The splintered edges of the lower spars had dug into the mud and so I came to a stop still propped-up on my side.
Stunned, but amazingly unhurt, I half-jumped half-fell out of my SPAD and landed with a great thud belly-first on the floor. Drowsily picking myself up, I staggered away from my machine before turning back to look at it. It was a twisted mess. I stood with my hands on my hips, bleakly looking around no-mans-land, when the growl of an engine snapped me out of my stupor. Looking up, I saw Furlow flying overhead. I wonder if he'd got his hun in the end.
As I watched him fly, I heard distant shouting echoing through the ambience. It was in German. Snapping my head around, I saw two grey-clad figures cresting a hill in the distance.
Rained all night, but cleared in the morning. Luke got 2 more balloons today, putting him neck and neck with Rick at 8 confirmed.
11:45, Eight SPAD escort for the 99th to Souilly. Art (1) leading. Red Simon (2) left the formation with engine trouble about 12:30
Red shot down a Halberstadt over Etain after he left our formation, Balloon line observed it so he’ll get hit credit.
The photo ships covered 3 miles in Germany between Lachauss’ee and Jonville-en-Wovre. Saw two enemy formations, not engaged. The Huns appear to be avoiding us these days.
Returned at 13:50
1700, went on a 7 Spad patrol with Art along the Chatillon-sous-les-Cotes to three Fingers lake.
Saw 6 Fokkers, they attempted to avoid engagement but we caught them. General melee, I fired on several. Black and white stripes on their fins. (3) . Saw one in my new mirror but too late, he got a good burst into me before I could side slip away, I could smell the tracers going past. Damaged my controls and one bullet grazed my left arm as it passed through my teddy bear suit, burned like a branding iron.
1st time I’ve been hit in all the months I’ve been at the front. Went down in a spin but finally recovered at 1,000 meters, The others got him off me and I limped home, great difficulty maintaining direction.
Simmy filed claim and Abe and Ken Porter filed for one together.(4, 5, 6)
Black was peeved at me over what, I, had done to, HIS SPAD, almost dismissing MY damage as a thing of little concern.
Got word that Mike Ellmer died at the hospital yesterday, was in very much in pain from the burns, out of his head. Despised the man, but I still hate to see pointless death, all because of a poorly designed machine.
Two new boys, Oscar Myers Ed Peake (7, 8) both 1st Loots, they make them 1st Loots when they come out of Issoudun now.
Amused ourselves today mugging and playing with our captured equipment and took photos. Rick had a good time running around with a spiked helmet on his head, pow, powing with a Mauser pistol at everyone. A group of German prisoners, working around the airdrome seemed to enjoy our games more than we did.
Our sausage not observed, no credit
No news on what happened to Love.
(1) Lt. Arthur Hast (Alkali Ike, often shortened to Alk.) Jones, will be B Flight commander, credited with 4 victories. The nickname, usually shortened to Alk, was given to him by 2Lt. Emile (Frenchy) Vadnais, who took it upon himself to assign nicknames to his fellow pilot cadets during flight training in Canada. This nickname was probably derived from the 1911 comedy "Alkali Ike's Auto" staring Augustus Carney. (2) 1st Lt. Louis S. (Red) Simon Jr. - C Flight, 2 aerial Victories (3) Jasta 62s (4) Lt. Francis M.(Simmy) Simonds - B Flight, 4 aerial victories (5)1st Lt. Thomas J. (Abe) Abernathy - A Flight, 3 aerial victories (6) Lt Kenneth Lee Porter, replaced WIlbert White as C Flight commander, officially credited with 5 aerial victories. (7)1st Lt. Oscar B Myers – from Brooklyn, NY, graduate of University of Texas School of Military Aeronautics, 2 aerial victories (8)1st Lt. Edward F. Peake from Churchland, VA, graduate of the Univeristy of Texas School of Mil Aeronotics.
With Frisky out until tomorrow and Calamity Mayes still being fussed over by pretty French nurses, I decided to get a different perspective on the battle of St. Mihiel
the last couple days have been tricky for the USAS! Jerbear, hopefully the mechanics can patch up your Kellner! I thoroughly enjoyed reading about Goode's connection with 'Babygirl' and was hoping he'd develop a similar fondness for his new crate!!
The Story of Bertram von Haas.
Part 1: Trial by Fire.
17 September 1918.
Bertram von Haas stood by the steps of the Chateau, just one field over from Tichemon aerodrome, battling against the heavy wind to light a cigarette. Ducking his head inside his tailor-made fur flying coat he was able to get a match to stay alive just long enough to accomplish this task.
As he inhaled deeply, an immaculately-dressed Leutnant bounced down the steps towards him, wearing an expression of mild contempt. Bertram turned, smoke rolling from his nose and blending with the early mist. "Flieger von Haas. We take off in thirty minutes. Stick to Liebich like glue and don't leave the formation for anything. Clear?". Bertram regarded the Leutnant with a look of boredom. "Ja. As crystal, Herr Buchner". He clicked his heels as he said it. He may just be another poorly-trained replacement plucked from the Front-Line regiments, but he was smart enough to show every respect to the flight leader of his first sortie.
He made his way down a well-worn dirt path towards the airfield through the mist, sunight peeking through the trees and flashing in his eyes. With an irritated grunt he produced a typical Prussian Gray cap from his pocket, pulling it low over his brow to block the intrusive sunlight.
As he rounded the row of trees that separated the two fields, he saw several machines of J.G.II being prepared for the morning sorties - each machine had a blue fuselage, but their noses distinguished the individual Jastas. Three yellow-nosed machines of Jasta 19 poked out from a hangar. On the field, the white-nosed Jasta 12 machines were sitting ready to be taken up. Lined up a short distance away from them were the green-nosed Jasta 13 machines. In this row Bertram saw his own machine, and felt a stab of pride. Finally, Jasta 15's red-nosed Fokkers sat neatly inside the hangar closest to Bertram. One particular machine bore a crude skull on its fuselage - Bertram seemed drawn to this machine. He decided he would rather like to meet its pilot.
Bertram's own machine, which he had embellished with the image of a prowling wolf the evening before, was having its final adjustments made to it by a nervous-looking runt of a mechanic. "Herr Odie!" Bertram barked from across the field, and the mechanic spun round in a fright. "Have you loaded each round as I asked?". The mechanic mutely nodded. As he had explained to his mechanic, Bertram was very particular about each and every round passing through his machine-gun, and hand-picked only the straighest and best quality rounds for his belts - a trick he had picked up from his days as a gunner during the height of the fighting at Verdun. Even now that city haunted him - the plumes of thin wispy smoke seeming to reach out across France in his direction, straining to finally get him, the one that survived.
"Good, Odie". He smiled and winked at the young mechanic - the only man (or, more accurately, boy) that he had felt any real connection to since his arrival two days ago. 'Odie', or Karl Odenthal, was a commoner like himself, although Odie didn't know it (Bertram had received the 'von' in his name after slaying 4 Frenchmen in hand-to-hand combat before having his kneecap almost completely shattered by a trench club in July of last year. The injury had never really healed, nor had his conscience) . The poor lad had never seen any fighting in the war - he was far too young and frail - but he had sought out any position in the Luftstreitkrafte that would make itself available, eventually being sent to Jasta 13 as an aeroplane mechanic. According to Odie he wished to be like his older brother, an air fighter who had been killed in a collision some months prior.
After meticulously inspecting Odie's handiwork for some time, checking the taughtness of every cable and the responsiveness of every control survace, the pilots of his patrol begun to show up. First came Ltn. Buchner, his flight lead and the squadron Kanone, responsible for the destruction of 29 enemy machines to date, then Niethammer, Hummel and Landvogt appeared, briskly climbing into their machines with an effortlessness that implied their experience in the air. Finaly, Fw. Konrad Liebich, assigned to watch over the new pilot, appeared. Liebich was a short, slightly overweight man with a chirpiness that Bertram found vexing. It seemed apparent that Liebich, the son of a wealthy banker, had never seen the front from outside of his Aeroplane.
By any means, Liebich's cheery disposition was of no import to Bertram now, not today on his first sortie! As he sat at the controls of his factory-new Fokker biplane, the newest German machine to the front, he bit back a smile as he pulled his ragged scarf over his face. Ah, here he was! About to partake in the heroism and luxury of being an air fighter for the first time!
Suddenly a bright white flare split the dull grey, and Bertram fired up the ignition of his machine. The cutting-edge electric starter kicked his propellor into life, and the Mercedes engine roared awake. Buchner's Fokker begun to creep forwards before tearing down the airfield and soaring up into the sky, and the rest followed. Soon it was Bertam's turn; with no hesitation he opened up the throttle and felt the powerful machine jolt forwards underneath him. Within seconds he had left the ground, and he looked over with a grin at the green fields flashing past beneath him, as they steadily lessened in distance.
After a while of climbing which reminded Bertram of the dull exercises he had been put through in the Jastaschule, Buchner led the flight towards Verdun. The French and Americans had been steadily advancing on the city for the past few days, in the war's most recent offensive. Curiously Bertram regarded the front from above, the long scar of dull grey-brown mud that had been his home for the last year. It was almost certainly better to be above it, but much more cold. As he flew, he ran over the details of the morning's briefing: "Our enemies have been sending their two-seaters over en masse" Buchner echoed in his head, This morning we shall patrol the front and attack any such machine we see. As he gazed over the 9 Fokkers surrounding him, he almost felt a stab of pity for any two-seater unfortunate enough to cross their path.
A New Career.
Suddenly, as the formation was passing over the top of le Queue du Grand Etang, three of Bertram's wingmen violently veered out of formation. Surprised, he watched them go and, as he traced their motions, he caught sight of a second formation, equal in size, shadowing his own. More pilots of his flight now turned to face this formation. It dawned on him immediately that their pursuers were enemy machines!
Bertram turned to his Spandaus, cocking them with his left hand, before swinging his machine around. What luck that he should have the chance for a kill on his first flight! Six machines with long, flat wings lazily turned towards their Fokkers with an air of confidence about their motions. Straining his eyes, Bertram recognised the shape of these machines from the countless illustrations he had looked over in the Jastaschule. They were SPAD XIIIs, France's most modern scout machine. So, this would be a proper fight then! He would have to be careful.
In an instant the structure of both sides was shattered, as 16 machines converged to form a chaotic furball above the lake far below. As they merged, there was a terrific flash of light as two machine collided head-on at a sickeningly fast pace, both of which burst into large plumes of fire and fell broken towards the ground. As Bertram manoeuvred his machine past the fireball a section of wing with a German Cross flashed over his head. Stunned from witnessing the collision, Bertram tried to retain his composure, but the nature of the situation overcame him and soon he was simply looping and rolling through the tangled mess of aeroplanes, firing occasional short staccato bursts at machines that flashed past him. Just as soon as the furball had commenced, it seemed to break apart again, with scattered machines running for home. As Bertram scanned frantically around him, he saw one or two melees between some more bold individuals. Ahead of him, a blue Fokker dove down with a SPAD in tow. Seeing his chance, Bertram pushed his nose down and followed the pair.
The SPAD in front of him looped and twisted, trying to stay on the tail of the Fokker which desperately skirted around his bullets. Patiently, Bertram focused simply on staying behind his man. Eventually his patience was rewarded - the SPAD pulled up into a climb and Bertram let his Spandaus speak freely, their bullet-words tearing holes through the SPAD's wings before Bertram's eyes. He broke into a grin as his guns flashed - the Frenchman was his! The startled enemy pilot rolled over before losing control of his machine in a spiralling dive. Bertram peered over the side of his Fokker as the Frenchman spun to oblivion, shouting out in joy as he watched the machine disappear into the trees far below. Above him he saw his colleague circling, peering over at him from his own machine. Gratefully, he waved to Bertram, who tossed up an arm in response, before turning for home. Apart from the fellow above him, there seemed to be no trace of the mess of machines that only a few seconds ago had filled the skies.
von Haas' first victim.
After a lonesome flight, Bertram brought his Fokker back down to earth, the exhilaration still coursing through his veins. He climbed down from his machine and turned to watch another Fokker landing. The second Fokker taxiid over to his machine, and shut its engine off. Over the side, Ltn. Hummel peered over the side. "Ah, Haas! You're alive! I saw a Fokker have a fearsome crash, and feared it might be you!" he called, to which Bertram merely shrugged. "No. It happened just in front of me, though. I don't know who it was". As they talked, more Fokkers appeared over the airfield.
The pilots of Jasta 13 congregated in a pleasant little cottage at the edge of the aerodrome for lunch. In the dining room, Bertram looked around his surroundings while sitting at the long ornate dining table. It would have been perfectly homely, if not for the various parts of destroyed French, British and American aircraft that were mounted on the walls. The pilots were served a simple stew of chicken and various vegetables. Bertram didn't find the meal very appealing, but the chance for hot food had seldom presented itself to him in the war so far, and so he gratefully ate. To his surprise, he was also handed a glass of Cognac. Infinitely better than the Schnapps he had become accustomed to.
Predictably, the topic of conversation around the table was the furball. Each pilot talked almost over each other, recounting their own versions of the scrap.
"Ach, I barely had a chance to shoot before my damn guns jammed!"
"My dear Hummel, you say that every time!"
Laughter erupted around the table, as Edmund Hummel shrunk into his seat, embarrased. Buchner held his hands up as if to say "It's only a joke, don't take it to heart!". Now Viktor Landvogt begun his account.
"I saw a nasty crash with a Fokker and a SPAD. It must have been poor Liebich, I haven't seen him since we got down".
The pilots went silent, sullen faces replacing the laughter. Bertram thought for a moment, and then spoke.
"Yes, it was Herr Liebich. I was right behind him when he had the smash. Terrible luck". The pilots all sullenly nodded, before Landvogt tried to lighten the mood. "I was almost for it too, a Frenchman was right behind me. Although, he was suddenly gone, no sign of him!".
Bertram swelled. "Yes, I sent that Frenchman down!" he exclaimed, pridefully. To his surprise and outrage, the pilots all burst into laughter again. "Ah, Herr von Haas, I appreciate your enthusiasm but nobody ever scores on their first sortie!" Niethammer boomed. Bertram made to reply, but bit his tongue and forced a smile.
After lunch, Bertram returned to the Chateau, turning up the grand old staircase and heading to Adjutant Bauer's office to file his claim. In there he found Vfw. Albert Haussman, also filling out a report. He looked up as Bertram walked in. "Did you see my SPAD go in, by any chance, von Haas?" he asked, and Bertram shook his head. "Sorry". Haussman threw his arms up. "Ach! How was it seen by nobody?!" he grumbled, turning back to his paperwork.
In the evening, the Adjutant's Clerk, a stocky little Korporal by the name of Stein, visited Bertram's quarters to inform him that his SPAD claim had been turned down. Sourly, Bertram thanked Stein before retiring to bed, pondering over how the wingman he'd saved hadn't seen the SPAD go down. Despite his disappointment, he eagerly awaited the next day. What sport today had been!
Darcel Limoges Sous Lt. Esc 95 Spads Ochy, AF Verdun , France 5 Victory s.
Sep 17, 1918.
Defensive Patrol: Chased and caught 2 Recon types our side of the lines My flight mates ( Marcel and Jean knocked down both. I was tail end a/c co never got close to Zee Bosche.
WOLFE: Good beginning with Bertram and a good Jasta. Thirteen is one of my favorites. Nice skin too, fits in well with the overall Jasta 13 Fokker look.
2nd Lt. John B. Goode 147th Aero Squadron, USAS
Tuesday, September 17th 1918
No flying, operations officer again while Sgt Black and his boys try to get my SPAD back in order.
Pup wants to be up under my feet all day in the operations office.
Sgt Black appears to be taking the engine apart and rebuilding it, while the rigger, Evans, went over every nut, bolt and turnbuckle.
Fokker claim from Sunday for Dewey and me rejected. The claim with Dewey and Brotherton confirmed.
I put 6th rat in my string over Mickey and put another one at his feet for the unconfirmed Fokker. I had an old cartoon of the Kaiser as a wiener with a helmet on his head being chased by the British bull dog so I cut out the wiener and put it at Mickey’s feet for the unconfirmed sausage. I glued it on and painted fire coming out of his a$$, then went over it with clear lacquer, looks pretty nice.
Wally (1) shot down. Mitchell said they got into a fight with 7 Fokkers. Seven SPADs against 7 Fokkers. He saw Wally go down out of control over Germany. Davy got really drunk tonight. He’s out for revenge, says he’s, “going to make those #%&*$# B@$+@rd$ pay for killing Walley.” I tried to talk sense to him, made him promise not to get reckless, reminded him about his folks and his girl Dora back home. “Besides,” I told him, “you’re might get a Boche but it’s unlikely you’ll get the one that got Wally. You’ll just make some poor Square Head pay for something he didn’t do. We don’t even know that he’s not alive! At least wait to see if we get some word about him!” I think I got him calmed down. Put him to bed, his bunkies promised to make sure he didn’t roll over on his back and drown himself on his own puke.
Another new pilot, 1st Lt Hayward Cutting.
(1 )1st Lt. Waldo H. Heinrichs, an actual pilot in the 95th Aero Squadron, depicted as an acquaintance of 2nd Lt. John B. Goode and a friend of his fictitious cousin in the 95th Aero, David ‘Davy’ Crockett. His SPAD was credited to Ltn Georg van Hantelmann, Jasta 15. Hantelmann was also credited with shooting down David Putnam of the 139th Aero Squadron, at that time, America’s Ace of Aces with 13 victories and Frank Luke’s wing man Joseph Wehner. Heinrichs was badly wounded in the crash and his injuries indifferently treated by the Germans. He survived the war. Served in WW II as an Intelligence Officer with the 8th Fighter Command.
(2)1st Lt Hayward E. Cutting- a member of the noted family of pharmaceuticals, had attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology School of Military Aeronautics. After the war he made notable explorations in the Gobi Desert.
Bertram's eyes flicked over again at the five Spads below him. Unbeknown to his commander, Ltn. Buchner, he had taken his Fokker up early in the morning, alone. Streaming through the rain, he shadowed the five enemy machines as they crossed into the mud from their side. He was determined to bring down his first confirmed!
Finally steeling his nerves, he dove down into the five machines. As he descended he saw the French roundels on their wings. Rather similar to targets, he thought. His first burst alerted the Frenchmen to his presence as it smashed through the wingtip of one machine. Whipping his Fokker around, he found himself behind two more, who were uncertainly turning in a left bank away from him. He picked the closer of the two, and let his Spandaus explode into life once more. His bullets found their mark, and the Frenchman spiralled down to his demise. Upon seeing this, the four remaining Frenchmen turned tail. Knowing their machines had the superior speed, Bertram sighed as he watched them go.
Just then, Bertram saw another French scout, this time alone, flying low along the lines. He turned towards the Frenchman who, to Bertram's delight, turned to meet him. Immediately he noted that this Frenchman's manoeuvres were far more confident than the five he had just attacked. They flashed past each other and then with a startling agility this new French pilot looped up and over Bertram. As he rolled overhead, Bertram saw a large red number 1 painted on the Frenchman's right wing. The Spad dove down below Bertram again, and he followed. As his nose dipped, the French machine again shot past him, looping up and over. Bertram was impressed, but recognised the pattern. The third time the Frenchman tried the trick, Bertram stayed high and the Spad hung in front of him, before falling back down towards the earth. Now, Bertram was squarely behind him.
Realising his error, the Spad dove low down to the trees, attempting to escape, but Bertram had gotten the taste for blood by this point. He dove hard after the enemy machine, and fired a long burst into its back as it tried to climb away. Just as before, the Spad rolled lazily over on its side and went into a spin.
Proud of his achievements, Bertram flew home to report two Spads destroyed To his immense surprise, Buchner was furious with him.
"Who do you think you are, taking my machine on an unauthorised flight over enemy lines?!"
"My..my apologies, sir! I downed two -"
"Downed two what? Ghosts? Who was there to confirm these claims, von Haas?"
"Only me"
"Only you! And you thought you had a hope in hell of having these claims confirmed?"
Suddenly impassioned, Bertram's voice raised to meet that of Buchner's.
"Five Spads in formation, they never saw me alone! I knocked one down and the rest fled! The second had a red number 1 on his wings, and two red, white and blue bands! Both fell over Foret du Hasoy, both are still burning!"
The Leutnant blinked. "What did you say?" Suddenly, Bertram checked himself. "...my humblest apologies, sir. It was not my place to - " he was cut off. "No, that second Spad. Describe it again. In detail!"
Bertram was taken aback. "It...it had two diagonal bands on its wings, in the colours of France. On its right wing it had a red number 1. The fuselage had a similar band". Buchner seemed to sway, as if stunned, before quickly turning to the telephone on his desk. To an unknown recipient he barked the words "Get me any news you can of the French air fighters today!" before promptly hanging up.
Slowly, he turned to Bertram. "If your claim is accurate, you are either incredibly talented, or incredibly lucky. Either way, I'm not having you taking my machines up to be shot about by Spads. I'm assigning you two day's duties as the Adjutant's Clerk. You are not permitted to fly until I give the word. Are we clear?"
"But -"
"von Haas, are we clear?"
"...yes, Herr Staffelfuhrer".
Late in the evening, Buchner's telephone rang. Eagerly he answered, listening intently to the voice on the other side. If one were to listen in, they would be able to make out the odd word in a phrase: "uncontrolled...by French infantry...that night in hospital....a white wolf". A grin begun to spread over his face. "Yes. Yes, thank you. Very good". He leaned back in his chair, producing a bottle of Brandy and a glass from within a drawer and pouring himself out a generous drink. "That damned rookie wasn't lying...he really did get Deullin!".
And so von Haas claims his first two confirmed victories, one of which was none other than Albert Louis Deullin, the 20-victory French ace! Pretty lucky, I think...;)
Just back in action and trying to catch up on everyone's stories. I'm enjoying Von Haas, Wulfe. I don't know how you keep so many narratives straight! Jerbear, continuing great job bringing the feel and colour of the USAS to life. Carrick, your Frenchman is doing well!
Here is a quick catch-up narrative for Holger Barfuss. Part 5
Vzfw Holger Barfuss, Jasta 7
The next week was uneventful, except for two attacks on the English balloon line, the first on 8 May and the second on 10 May. On both occasions, Holger Barfuss raced his Albatros to get the first run at the Luftwuerste, but neither flamed for him. On the return from the 10 May attack, the Staffel was attacked while still low over the enemy lines by a large group of Camels. Barfuss twisted and turned with two Camels on his tail, escaping at less than 200 metres amid heavy ground fire. He returned to Ste-Marguerite with petrol sloshing about his feet and more than 40 holes in his machine.
The house in the village had become a favourite spot, and even some of the officers made hints that they would like an invitation. Every night one of the NCO pilots undertook to make the evening meal. OStv Breishorn did nothing but soup, but the few soups he made were very good. OStv Hornberger had a Swiss mother, and did a very good Swiss Gebackenerkaese, even though he swore it was missing the right cheese.
Our bad luck continued. On 14 May 1918, Leutnant Stauffer returned badly shot about after an encounter with a DH4 and died of wounds that evening. The Staffel flew many sorties on 15 May. Barfuss was up three times that day, twice getting tangled in inconclusive long battles with French Spads, which had made an appearance in the skies north of Lille.
On 16 May, Barfuss joined a flight of six machines led by Staffelfueher Jacobs. They flew well north until they were able to see the silvery line of the English Channel in the distance, beyond the flooded lands leading up to Nieuport. After patrolling for nearly half an hour over the front, a shimmering cluster of black flak puffs signalled the approach of enemy aircraft from the east. As they closed, Jacobs signalled the attack and it soon became clear that these were Bristols – the first that Barfuss had encountered.
Like so many fights, this one evolved quickly from a messy hornet’s nest of machines into a series of individual fights spreading across the sky. Barfuss was amazed by how his opponent handled the large two-seater. He pushed his Albatros to the limit trying to out-turn the Englander, but the Bristol was being twisted about more capably than most of the Sopwiths he had seen. The English observer, though, was merely a passenger. Barfuss grinned to see the man’s Lewis guns swinging about wildly as the fellow held grimly to the sides of his compartment. But the amusement was cut short when the Bristol levelled out momentarily and the observer fired a short burst directly into the black Albatros. Instantly the engine began to vibrate and scalding water sprayed just past Barfuss’s face.
He was low now, and past friendly lines. Oil pressure fell away and Barfuss switched off. The Albatross glided eastward while the din of battle below rose to meet it. He would not make the lines. Stumps of broken trees and tangles of barbed wire flashed past. Barfuss held the nose up as long as possible until, with a heavy thud, the machine struck the mud, slewed to the left, and slowly, almost gracefully, nosed over.
Barfuss quickly unbuckled and dropped into the mud. Shell fell close by. He thought for a moment about burning the machine, but the approach of another salvo of shells sent him head-first into a crater, where he waited until nightfall. Every few minutes more shells dropped. The arrival in his shell-hole of a large section of the Albatros’s rudder told him that setting fire to the thing was no longer a duty. Around two in the morning, Barfuss set out to crawl home.
The scene was surreal. Fragments of brick walls loomed grey in the darkness – a farm long pounded to powder. Beyond it lay an area of stubby grass and waterlogged depressions. In one such hole he crawled into a decaying body. The corpse wore a coarse woolen kilt, a Scottish soldier. Nearby, a skeletal German sat doubled over, his rifle cradled in his arms.
At length, Barfuss heard a challenge. He did not know the correct reply so he shouted “German airman!”
“Quatsch!” came the reply. “Who are you? Speak up or I’ll shoot.”
“You will need to get in line. I’ve been shot at all day and by better men than you,” replied Barfuss. “Vizefeldwebel Holger Barfuss, Jasta 7. I demand to be taken to your officer.”
“He’s dead,” came the reply.
“Then invite me for a drink, Arschloch. I’ll trade for cigarettes.” Barfuss heard laughter.
“Come in, but keep your hands when I can see them.”
His newfound friend was a somewhat elderly private of a Westphalian reserve battalion. He led Barfuss to a deep dugout where a sergeant asked him questions until Barfuss again lost his temper and demanded to be either shot or poured a Schnapps. The Schnapps won out. It took most of the following days to be passed back to a village from which Barfuss could call the Staffel. The duty officer put Leutnant Jacobs on the line.
“Sergeant Barfuss, it’s good to hear from you,” said the Staffelfuehrer. Barfuss began to explain his whereabouts.
“Take a day and get yourself and your kit clean and fed. I don’t want you tracking mud all over our nice aerodrome,” said Jacobs. “I’ll send a vehicle after dark.”
Barfuss found a unit under canvas just outside the village, close by a stream. He washed himself and his uniform as well as he could and spent much of the afternoon lying in a field. At six in the evening, he managed to coax a few pieces of sausage and bread from the infantry and headed to the town’s church, his rendezvous point. A little after seven, a motorcycle with a sidecar pulled up. He recognized the driver. It was close to eleven when he finally reported back to the Staffel.
Leutnant Degelow was gone, having left on the 17th for Jasta 40. There were several new faces among the pilots.
On 20 May, the first patrol tangled with some Camels, and Barfuss chased one a long way west, finally downing it. Without a witness, the victory could not be made official. That afternoon he was with a small group of machines that responded to a call from headquarters to intercept some enemy machines north of Menen. Ten minutes after takeoff they were at 2000 metres over Menen when they were attacked by a very large formation of Camels. For the first few seconds, Barfuss flew defensively, avoiding first one then another enemy machine. Then an Albatros flashed past with an English machine on its tail. Barfuss dived after them, firing from long range to distract the Camel. The Camel turned, and Barfuss fired ahead of it and let the enemy pilot fly into the stream of lead. The Englishman spun away and Barfuss followed. The pair headed west. Every few seconds, Barfuss fired a short burst. He was gaining slowly. This Camel was faster than most he had met to date.
They were approaching the enemy lines when the Englishman suddenly rolled and dived under him. Barfuss quickly got on its tail and fired again. Ammunition was getting low. Finally the Camel rolled once more, but this time it dived vertically into the earth near the British lines.
"Finally the Camel rolled once more, but this time it dived vertically into the earth near the British lines."
Barfuss recovered and headed east, following the silver line of the Lys back home. He had downed two Camels in a day, but neither could be confirmed. It was good enough. But the day had not gone well. Three of the new pilots – Ltn Gerlach, Ltn Baermann, and OStv Leister had been lost in the afternoon fight with the Camels.
Letters had arrived from his sisters. Barfuss sniffed in disgust as they complained of rationing and petty hardships. Both questioned the wisdom of continuing the war. “What is happening to my country?” he shouted across the table at OStv Jansen. Jansen shrugged, put his finger to his head like a pistol and pulled the imaginary trigger.
Welcome back, Raine! I see Barfuss is wasting no time in jumping right back into it
2nd. Lt. Albert Mayes MC No. 42 Stationary Hospital, 5 Victories.
September 18th, 1918.
I sat by the boiler,slowly smoking a cigarette and watching the nurses indifferently hoist the stretcher-bound body up, before quickly shimmying out the room. Under the scratchy wool sheet lay Hurst. The poor fellow had finally succumbed to the wound in his stomach during the night. Hurst was well-liked by most of the ward, and the news came as a terrible surprise to us all...poor Hurst never even as much as winced in pain during the last several days, and always wore a smile underneath those kind, witty eyes of his. He must have been awfully brave.
I watched right up until the door swung closed behind the silhouette of the bear-like Liverpudlian, sighing deeply and leaning closer to find some comfort in the boiler's warmth. What a truly grotesque thing war could be. Feeling well-and-truly miserable, I mulled over the rehearsed recounting of the story about Rast's cigarette that I had prepared in my head. I never did tell it to Hurst, but I bet he would have enjoyed it.
I was handed a telegram from one of the nurses today - a telegram from McClintock, congratulating me on my 5th victory and my promotion to 2nd. Lieutenant. He claimed there would be a 'raucous celebration' upon my return. Other than that, there was the odd bit of news about life at Valheureux. Franklyn had claimed a two-seater while flying my Camel, and had become convinced that its red nose could bring luck to any pilot that flew her.A replacement arrived for Rast, but he'd landed himself in a casualty-clearing station on his third sortie, suffering a shard of bullet shrapnel to the eye.
At least when I am in the air there are distractions. From here, in this stuffy hospital that smelled of iron and infection, it all seemed rather pointless to me.
The nurses returned to strip Hurst's bedsheets from the frame.
The infantry truck slowly ground to a halt at the Vauconleurs crossroads, and I thanked the Corporal driver before jumping down, and landing on my bad leg. Wincing, I briefly looked around, took in a deep breath of fresh air, and limped towards my aerodrome as I heard the motor behind me grumble back into life and pull the truck off towards Houdelaincourt. It was only a short walk, less than a mile, thank god. In my head I could still hear the bullets zipping past me as I'd run from the German patrol that had been sent out to get me.
Blindly charging through no-mans-land, a bullet fired from one of the Boche infantrymen had grazed my calf, putting a hole in the side of my boot as I'd dove into a shell-hole. The Germans weren't overly bothered by my escape, and promptly shrugged and turned back for their trench. From there I'd faced an all-too-familliar task of crawling from hole to hole through the muck and death of no-mans-land. This time, however, there were many more bodies visible on the front, most of them recently killed and only beginning to rot. It was a horrific sight. Eventually I made it to our side, nearly being bayonetted by a French patrol in the process. Luckily, they recognised me as 'Brit' as they'd surrounded me, and I was taken back to their forward trench. No phone-line in this one - it had been blown to bits during an artillery barrage, and so I managed with my broken French to hop from town to town across the course of the day, before finally running into a group that were headed past my aerodrome.
Anyway. As I turned off the road through a farmer's field I saw three SPADs of the 29th coming in to land - one was trailing oil pretty bad. Looks like they'd had a rough time of it. Crossing onto the airfield itself I was delighted to see my own machine sitting back in the 2nd. Flight hangar, looking brand-new. I saw the fin rocking back and forth, then the ailerons, and could make out the shape of a mechanic in my office, testing out the new surfaces. The right aileron had been totally replaced, and was yet to be re-painted. Admittedly, I liked the look of it - seemed like my SPAD had earned herself a battle scar! A closer look revealed that Paris had re-painted my tail fin and wheel-struts in that overdone blue design in my absence. We would be having words about that later!
Into the 103rd's mess I went, and saw Furlow standing, mouth agape. just staring at me. Next to him was Monk in a similar state. "I...I saw you crash...?" Furlow started, unsure of his own words. I shrugged. "Yup. Tough trip back. Soubiran in at the moment?". Monk nodded quietly, and pointed to his office. I knocked on the door, and heard Soubiran yell "Come in!".
Standing in front of the boss, I could see the surprise on his face. "You're back, Drummond! I thought you'd gone west! Furlow said he saw your machine crashed in the mud". I nodded. "Yeah, I did go in, but didn't get too bad of a knock". Soubiran nodded slowly, then smiled slightly. "Ok, good. We'll need you in the air tomorrow". And with that, I was dismissed.
Monk was waiting for me as I stepped out, the expression of disbelief now replaced with that troublemaker's grin of his. "Damn, Ben...two times you go down on the Bosche side and two times you pop right back up at our door! Forget Frisky - I'm calling you Houdini!".
That night the 103rd's pilots had a grand old do to celebrate my return - although I didn't partake much in the celebrations. I was exhausted from my second stint and so turned in early. As I left, I could see one or two pilots already falling-down drunk. I expect plenty hangovers in the morning. Sadly, Christiani wasn't present during the celebrations - he'd been forced down wounded yesterday.
Part 18: The Second Death.
September 18th, 1918:
Sitting in the office of my SPAD - my SPAD - felt glorious. Everything was exactly as it should be. The ever-so-slight bend in the mixture lever, the immediate responsiveness of the flight stick, it was all there. To my left I watched Dolan give the signal, and our engines roared into life. Irving rolled first, then Caufmann, then me.
Despite being glad to be back in the air, and my machine, our mission for the morning unsettled me. We were being sent up to escort the same D.H from the 168th that we'd ferried across the day I got myself shot down. Different route this time though - the D.H had been ordered to take some photographs over Three Fingers* Pond, just east of Verdun. To make matters worse, the weather was especially rough this morning, drenching us to the skin again, and the sky was a murky dark grey colour. Our flight of four found the D.H. over the top of Commercy, and it's crew looked just as miserable as we did.
We crossed over the lines, keeping a sharp eye out for Bosche machines, although how we'd ever spot them in this mess I had no idea. Suddenly there was a brilliant blue flash that lit up the murky sky clear as day for an instant, and I turned cold as I realised we were flying through a damned thunderstorm! I shakily shot a look over at Caufmann, and he glanced back at me with a look of terror on his face. Fighting every instinct, we persisted on with our flight. Below us I saw the D.H. observer ducked down in his office, trying to hide from the rain and the lightning. The clouds seemed to swallow us and soon we couldn't see the ground below us. Another bright flash. Now the fear had found me, and again I peered down at the D.H. To my disbelief, the madmen were flying straight and true right through the storm! Surely they had no idea where we were headed by this point...C'mon, guys, just turn back!
We climbed to get above the storm, but quickly realising that we'd lose sight of the D.H, we reluctantly dropped again. I could see Dolan ahead of us looking over his shoulder every so often to make sure we were all still okay. We weren't, but we were still flying at least. There was a third flash, and this time we saw a great fork of lightning whip across the clouds off to our left. God, this was insanity! Just then, we suddenly flashed through a cloud wall and were out the other side of the storm. I looked up into blue skies and burst out laughing. What the hell had we just done?! 1st. Flight would never believe us! Looking down, I saw that we were still out over the mud, but near the Bosche side. The storm had obviously blown us off course, as the D.H. begun to list to the left. We followed, then looked out front. To our dismay, a second storm cloud lay ahead of us.
Just before going headlong into the next thunder cloud we straightened out on a parallel with the Meuse. If we could keep an eye on the river, it would lead us to our target. Dolan tried to lead us in a weaving path through the clouds, but this only resulted in us losing sight of the D.H. Kicking ourselves, we looked over the side of our machines trying to re-acquire the two-seater. In a slight break in the clouds I spotted two U.S roundels - it turns out the D.H. had kept with us, rather than the other way round. How embarrassing. We tightened up our escort now, for fear of losing the Biplace machine again. Together we navigated into a less cloudy slice of sky, and almost immediately the flak came up at us. Those Germans on the ground sure have good eyes to spot us on such a dark and stormy morning! That being said, the sun had come up a bit more now and the visibility wasn't nearly as bad as before. In fact, not long after the flak came up we were taken by complete surprise as we saw a formation of machines flying parallel to us! We gave a start, but it was nothing to worry about - just some Frenchie SPADs escorting a British D.H. Just as soon as we'd seen them they were again swallowed up by the clouds.
Over Lac de Medine the weather eased off a bit more, and the rain stopped! Now a lot more at ease, we spread our formation out a bit and I pulled ahead, flying S-patterns as I scanned for Germans, all the while remaining conscious of Soubiran's warning to me...one more solo excursion and I was out. Finally we reached the Three Fingers, where, to our surprise, we found 1st. Flight. They're still out patrolling? I thought to myself as they waggled their wings and came over to greet us, before turning off home. As they flashed past I saw Soubiran give a wave.
The D.H. lined up its targets, and I saw the Observer readying his camera. I looked up, and shouted an expletive that was luckily drowned out by the wind. Slightly above us and not too far off at all I saw five Fokkers, flying parallel to us. No doubt they had seen us and were planning their attack. I waggled my wings, but there was no need. My flight was already manoeuvring into position to face the oncoming threat. Five of them to our four - tough odds. Suddenly their formation snapped round to face ours, and we readily responded in turn. Our SPADs raced towards the Fokkers head-on, and I charged my twin Vickers. Our two formations merged and exploded out in all sides, a mess of machines all chasing each others tails.
I struggled to pick out a good target, and soon I had a red-nosed Fokker tailing me. To my amazement, the other three joined him. What the hell are you all chasing me for...there's four of us! I angrily blurted out in my head, as I saw my equally surprised wingmen turn to chase my pursuers. Irving and Dolan quickly had two off of me, but the other two stuck fast, Caufmann still hot on their heels. It was no good, though. They were gaining on me. Bracing myself, I pulled into a Split-S and went under the two Fokkers. This allowed Caufmann to catch up and remove another Fokker from my tail. That only left one. Looping around, my last pursuer and I locked horns, passing scarily close to each other as we did so. As the Fokker flashed past I saw a striped red-and-white tail on his machine.
Now, this hun was good. Before I knew what was happening I had bullets passing through my machine. We looped and rolled across the sky, fighting ferociously, but I couldn't for the life of me get rid of him! Much to my delight, Irving flashed past us with his guns blazing at which point the wily Fokker broke off and ran for home. Determined to have my revenge, I got after him and soon had him in my sights. I don't think he expected it - he'd straightened out and was sitting nice and still for me. I shot him up pretty good, then a second stream of bullets hit him, fired from Irving's SPAD.
Together we drove the German lower and lower until eventually he fell into a spin, trailing smoke behind him. Leaning over the side, I saw him smash into a tree and become lodged in its branches. Satisfied, I turned for Verdun and the safety of our own lines. As I flew I saw one of my wingmen in front of me. I was surprised at how fast I was coming up on him....as I flashed past him I saw it was Caufmann. His propeller had stopped. For a split second I saw him look up at me with a panicked expression on his face.
Cursing and circling back, I watched as Caufmann glided down towards the lines. Closer and closer to the ground he came. I helplessly watched as German bullets started to fly up at him from the trenches. Bastards! Can't you see he's out the fight?! I thought, gritting my teeth. Come on, Caufmann, land the thing! Get her down!
All my thoughts stopped dead in their tracks, and the world seemed to fall away, as far below me a bright orange glow begun to lick around the cowling of Caufmann's SPAD. I watched in muted horror as, only mere feet off the ground, Caufmann's machine suddenly burst into a brilliant ball of flame, banked and dropped its nose steeply, and smashed into the ground just a few feet from the banks of the Meuse. My stomach turned as it dawned on me that, in his last desperate moments, he must have been aiming to crash in the river to douse the flames.
Numbly, I flew home, staring blankly at the column of smoke rising from the wreckage of Caufmann's machine.
When we landed, Irving rushed up to me. "Did you get that Fokker? Sorry, Frisk, I never saw it go in...". That would mean an unconfirmed. I didn't care. I wasn't even listening to him. Without so much as turning to face him, I staggered into the Mess and grabbed a report sheet and a bottle of wine. As I wrote, emotions came flooding back to me.Suddenly I shot up out of my seat and tossed the bottle across the mess. "Damn it!" I roared, kicking my chair and sending it flying, before storming towards the door. "What the hell are you doing, Frisk?" Dolan called after me.
I spun around on my heel to face him."He was down! He was right there, and they killed him! Just shot him up, didn't even care that he couldn't defend himself, those bastards! Those god-damn bastards!" I screamed, before falling backwards into a chair, my head spinning. Stunned, Irving and Dolan just stared at me. It hadn't yet dawned on them that I was referring to Caufmann.
Later, Soubiran called me into his office. "Drummond. I heard what happened, I'm sorry. But, you need a rest. Flying's clearly gotten to you". I met his gaze, my eyes burning with rage. "I don't need no rest," I spat. Soubiran sighed, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. "Well, I'm limiting your flying time. I've been up there longer than you, and I know when a guy needs a break. That will be all". Seething, I stood up.
"But, sir - "
"Drummond, that will be all, I said. Good evening".
As Irving had warned, my Fokker wasn't confirmed. Oh well, at least I knew I'd killed him. Still dazed, I realised with a pang that I hadn't felt this torn-up since Casper had been killed, on my very first day. I drank myself into a stupor before retiring to my bunk.
*The Americans' nickname for Etang-de-Lachausse, as pointed out by Jerbear, the expert on all things USAS!
Davy didn’t listen after all. Went out with Sewall after balloons but ran into 3 Fokkers. They started back toward our lines when suddenly Davy dove through a cloud. Sewall followed and saw him in a fight with 5 Fokkers. Sewall was maneuvering to get into a position to attack when Davy went down on fire.(1) Such a damn hot head! I suppose there’s some possibility that he survived somehow, but I can’t imagine how. Don’t know what I’m going to do without him. He was like a big brother to me. What am I going to tell his folks now. This is 3 boys lost from the family. Charlie, Blanchard and now Davy.
Crazy Luke brought down 2 balloons. 2 Fokkers and a biplace today. That puts him way ahead of Rick. Rick’s going to make a big deal out of it, throw a party. You’d think Luke would be running off at the mouth, like usual, but he’s keeping to himself. His buddy, his only buddy, I guess, Wehner, got his ticket West in the same fight.
Doc looked at my wound, nice scab, no signs of infection.
Dope is that the next push will be on the Argonne. Thousands of camions (2) going up the Verdun road. Something going on up there for sure.
(1) This was based on Waldo Heinrichs best friend Billy Tayor who set out to avenge Heinrichs. He was credited to Ltn Buchner of Jasta 13. So, WOLFE, we'll say your Jastafuhrer got Davey, I guess. (2) Camions – le trucks
Had Luke’s banquette tonight. Heavy drinking, ragtime on our liberated piano. Held it at our mess, lots of birds from the 95th came over but not many from the 27th, Ack Grant conspicuously absent, rather disgraceful and petty of a Squadron Commander in my opinion.
Rick, Whitey, Harney and Peterson gave speeches. Luke was put on a table but couldn’t say anything, surprising from the biggest mouth in USAS. Just mumbled thanks and something about not letting the Germans take him alive. Rousing cheers all around.
Rick proclaimed him the new Ace of Aces and “more power to him, long may he reign.” Rick seemed almost glad to be rid of the title. One of the things Rick said in his speech was that “There never had been an aviator who possessed the confidence, ability and courage that Frank Luke has shown during these last couple of weeks.”
Luke’s being sent on leave to Orly and Paris. Hartney thinks that’ll give him time to settle down, maybe keep him from getting himself killed like poor Davy. I say Luke’s still crazy as a bedbug and the balloonatic of all balloonatics. My diagnoses for his condition is that “he is not expected to live.”
Wound declared healed enough to fly. Going up tomorrow, weather permitting.
Lost plenty friends over here, it’s hard, but this one’s different, this is family. I feel like I’m carrying around a big weight in my chest. Drank more than I should have at the banquette, didn’t help. Sewall says the birds who got Davy were blue with green noses. I’ll keep an eye out for them.
Letting out a deep sigh, Bertram tried to ignore the pressure headache that had been steadily building up behind his left temple. From behind his small, rickety desk in the sparse unfurnished room outside the Adjutant's office he stared at the towering piles of paperwork that seemed to be walling him in. It was his second day as the Adjutant's assistant, and he groaned as he tried to find a place for the bureaucratic mess in front of him. This job would kill him faster than any Spad could.
He turned over a coffee-stained sheet of paper and glanced over it. It was a list of the aircraft on store with the Jasta, and an empty box for marks on their current condition.From a drawer Bertram produced a pencil with the end badly chewed - an insufferable habit of Ltn. Giselher's. Giselher was the current Offizier zur besonderen Verwendung*, well-known among the pilots of Jasta 13 for being, as Haussman had put it yesterday, a 'Lazy Arschlosch". Apparently, he was constantly shirking his duties, forgetting or outright neglecting to file claims, not keeping records of machine and parts inventory, etc. This only meant more work for the unfortunate Bertram; the moment Giselher caught wind of the fact that Bertram had been punished with clerk duty he'd simply moved all the contents of his own desk onto the one outside.
Bertram looked over the sheet a second time, before slowly beginning to write his remarks on each aircraft, occasionally referring to the stack of mechanics' reports to the right of his desk. 22 machines later, in exactly the same condition they were in yesterday's report, he placed the sheet to the side with a great sigh and thumbed through the other reports. Ah, now what was this? Bertram leaned forwards over the sheet in front of him...it was Buchner's combat report from yesterday. He flicked through the Staffelfuhrer's account, skipping the more mundane details such as the route and altitude flown.
Eventually he came to the victory claims list, and he had to bite back a laugh. The wily Kanone had reported four enemy machines destroyed in the same day! With glee, Bertram read through the first of the claims. "Spad XIII - Shot Down in Flames over Dampvitoux - American Markings". Bertram lifted the telephone on his desk from its hook, and punched in a number. A scratchy voice quickly answered:
"Hallo?"
"Ja. Is this the Balloon abteilung at Foret de la Reine?"
"Speaking."
"Sehr Gut. Tell me, did you happen to see a Spad go down in flames yesterday, around mid-day?"
There was a pause on the other line, followed by a dull boom as the man on the other end threw a palm over the telephone. As Bertram patiently waited, he could hear the muffled shouts of two men on the other side of the line.
"Karl, did you see any machines burn yesterday, mid-day?"
"Uhm...Oh, yes, there was one fight we saw! A machine fell in flames. Is that one of the Staffels?"
"Yeah - trying to confirm a Spad".
"Here - let me talk to the fellow!"
There was an unpleasant knocking sound as the phone switched hands. Twirling the chewed pencil around with his free hand, Bertram awaited the new voice on the other end. A young-sounding fellow then began to speak.
"Hallo? You wanted to know about a Spad?"
"Yes, as much detail as you can manage, if you please".
"Yes, well, it was around mid-day when I saw some Fokkers patrolling the lines. Not an uncommon sight, you understand, so we didn't pay much attention. However, when I next looked they were rolling around with two other machines - I think there were five aeroplanes in total. One of ours got behind one of theirs and I saw him catch fire and fall down, just a couple miles away. The other fellow ran for home, and the Fokkers continued on their route. I can't say it was a Spad, but there you go!"
Bertram smiled, and wrote a large "C" next to the claim on Buchner's report sheet. "Thank you. Sounds like that was our man. Goodbye". For good measure, Bertram called a few artillery positions in the area. Two came up empty-handed, but one unit claimed they had found the remains of a Spad in the area Buchner had reported the kill. True to the Kanone's story, the wreck they found bore "Odd markings - like an English machine except the red and white had swapped places". American roundels. The Artillerymen had managed to wrench the body from the wreckage, horrifically burned as it was, and after looting the aeroplane for any souvenirs they turned out the dead airman's pockets. At first this irked Bertram, but then he felt rather like a hypocrite as he thought back to the French Tachometer he had looted from a Nieuport XII that had come down on his trench in 1917. In fact, the Tach was still neatly packed in the trunk at the foot of his bed.
One more day until he could fly again. Bertram took a swig from the bottle of Schnapps he kept hidden under his desk, and smiled. "I will be the next Kanone," he said, and rather seemed pleased with himself. He looked back down over the report.
"Spad XIII, forced down over Chambley - pilot captured - French markings". Bertram reached for the telephone once more.
Offizier zur besonderen Verwendung, or OzbV, was the title given to a Jasta's Adjutant. I believe the translation would be "Officer for Special Duties".
With a pounding headache I stood beside my fellow pilots as we surrounded a small wooden podium in a semicircle. On the podium, Soubiran was giving a brief speech about Caufmann. 'He was a great flyer, a good friend', and so on. All the pilots kept their composure, and, although it took some willpower, I did the same. I think by morning the initial shock of Caufmann's death had just about worn off. I was still pretty torn-up, but it was a lot more manageable than last night.
After the ceremony had concluded a cross was erected in Caufmann's honour, and we drifted off moodily to watch as all 11 of our machines were rolled out onto the aerodrome. Today we would be saying goodbye to Vaucouleurs and heading out towards a new home field at Lisle-en-Barrois with the rest of the 3rd P.G. Until yesterday, the aerodrome had been occupied by none other than 'Les Cigognes', the famous French unit Group de Combat 12. Coincidentally, one of their squadrons was Esc. 103, or as Monk called them, "Our Frenchie cousins".
After rolling off the ground, I took one last look at Vaucouleurs. Only now did I realise how significant the place was to me - it was here that I'd won my first victories and felt my first stabs of loss. There I'd had three machines shot-out from under me, and had learned how to survive, fight and kill in the air. I'd miss the place. We climbed up in the usual spot, allowing us to give 'Je Vois Tout' a farewell flight, before turning west. Just before we crossed the lines over St. Mihiel (which now seemed a lot closer to the city) Tobin dropped out with engine problems and circled back towards Vaucouleurs. Pyne sidled over into his spot, and we pressed on. To our surprise, over St. Mihiel we saw a mass of trucks headed for Verdun. We'd heard rumours about another big push on Argonne...must be true!
After roughly a 20-minute flight we arrived at our new home, Lisle-en-Barrois, and to our delight we found it to be a lovely little 'drome. 12 Hangars meant plenty of space for the P.G's machines, and the new accommodations were very homely. On the western side of the field, dotting the end of a curved dirt path that sat behind the hangars, stood a pair of lovely old two-storey houses; One for the pilots of the 28th and 93rd, the other for the 103rd and 213th. The interior of our new nest was a far-cry from the old barracks over at Vaucouleurs - upon entering you were met with a grand old staircase that led up to the various rooms (we had our own rooms now!) that we would be staying in. To the right of the staircase were two offices, for our two Adjutants. The most exciting room, however, was on the left. It was a sitting room with a towering ceiling, complete with luxurious leather armchairs, ornate wooden tables, and, best of all, a well-stocked bar, complete with stools and a counter-top!
A short walk up the dirt path would take you to a large out-house in which the mechanics had set up something of a parts-shop. On a large workbench I saw a stripped-down Marlin, and to the left of the bench were some wings, no fabric on them, propped up against the wall. To either side of this a few tents were erected, presumably for the mechanics. The floors were a mess of engine parts. Excitedly, we all continued up the path, exploring our new home, As we did so, we could see the SPADs of the 213th coming in to land.
Now on the eastern side of the aerodrome, we found another pair of buildings, two barracks, with large signs over the doors that read "NCO & ENLISTED". Finally, at the far end of the path, we stepped into a beautiful white U-shaped cottage. The inside was filled with tables, and one door to the right led into a decent-sized kitchen. We figured that this was the new mess - it was quite a walk from our new lodgings, being all the way on the other side of the aerodrome, but it was a small price to pay for our comfy new set-up.
At around 11 AM Tobin showed up with the 93rd, and we all had a good laugh at his child-like excitement at the new digs.
Soubiran, Dolan, and Gray from the 213th decided to take a quick walk over to drop in on the new neighbours - the 1st Pursuit group (Consisting of the 24th, 94th, 95th, and 147th Aero Squadrons) over at Rembercourt Aerodrome - only a stone's throw away - mentioning that they had an "Old pal from the Lafayette" over there. Tobin went, too - he had spent some time in the 94th, and was eager to see his old buddies. I would have gone with them, but in all honesty I was a little nervous. The 1st had some crack pilots over there, in particular I was, embarrassingly, a little star-struck by Rickenbacker and Luke.
Instead, I hunted Paris down and demanded that he paint over the blue on my machine - again. Took her up after Paris had finished to dry the paint and get a feel for the local landmarks.
![[Linked Image]](http://SimHQ.com/forum/files/11399.jpg)
![[Linked Image]](http://SimHQ.com/forum/files/11417.jpg)
![[Linked Image]](https://i.imgur.com/TVSoYzR.png)
![[Linked Image]](https://i.imgur.com/5KRk4EE.png)
![[Linked Image]](http://SimHQ.com/forum/files/11424.jpg)
![[Linked Image]](https://i.imgur.com/z281zIc.png)
![[Linked Image]](http://SimHQ.com/forum/files/11428.png)
![[Linked Image]](https://i.imgur.com/i5Nr29w.png)
![[Linked Image]](https://i.imgur.com/YDG7Y8V.png)
![[Linked Image]](https://i.imgur.com/vNTsI1n.png)