Jack Cairns and Phillip Cambell on leave...

I met Phillip at breakfast the next morning. He'd scarcely slept and he looked like an orphan who had lost his dog, poor chap. He’d wandered the streets of Paris aimlessly before working up the nerve to go to the police station to see if there was any way to find where his dear Catie might be, but the police officers had found his request highly amusing, and they had speculated rudely on Catie’s whereabouts. He knew her family name, which frankly I forget, but apparently it was far too common to be of any use. So in the end he’d simply walked under the street lamps and searched among the thousands of faces for her, ending up on the far side of the city by the Bois de Boulogne, lost and depressed, with the Stars growing faint and the sky beginning to grow pale in the east.

I took it upon myself to take him on a tour of the city, relying on a pre-breakfast conversation with the Ritz concierge for my expertise, as I have never before set foot in Paris. We started by walking the short distance to the Louvre, where French soldiers were working to pile sandbags around its walls. Interestingly, there was a captured LVG parked in the courtyard for the public to see. Less interestingly, the famous Mona Lisa was much smaller than I’d imagined.

Phillip became bored rather quickly, and kept asking why the French had so many pictures of “nekked folks.” So we crossed the river and wandered through the left bank districts, stopping for coffee and a snack, and ending up at Les Invalides, where we were able to view Napoleon’s tomb. There was an interesting military museum there. It told the story of Napoleon’s incredible career and of the heroism of Nap’s army from the Revolution up to 1814, after which apparently nothing of interest or import had occurred.

I was interested to note the inscription on the 17th century cannon that lined the courtyard: Ultima Ratio Regum. Phillip asked what It meant and I translated: “The final argument of kings.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” he mused. “Only it’s us who are making that argument these days."

We wandered through the Champs de Mars, the park that leads to the Eiffel Tower. There was a squadron of cavalry exercising on the grass, and farther along, dozens of picnickers were enjoying wine and cheese and long, crusty loaves. I noticed Phillip scanning their faces, still looking. “I was here last night,” he said. We took a ride on La Grande Roue, which Cambell said was called a Ferris Wheel back home, named after a really big one they’d built for the world’s fair in Chicago twenty-odd years back.

We crossed the river again and wandered up towards the Champs-Élysées, back through the Tuilleries, then through Place Vendôme and the Ritz, ending up near the famous opera house. By this time it was getting on to two o'clock and I needed to be at the embassy for five, so we made a final short stop at the beer garden of the Casino de Paris. Here there were a number of interesting and unattached women, two of which joined our table. It was just the thing for Cambell, and he cheered a little. I used my fractured French and learned that our friends were Annabelle and Lise. A chanteuse began to sing, accompanied by a small orchestra. The song was lovely, a thing called Le Temps des Cerises.

Quand vous en serez au temps des cerises
Si vous avez peur des chagrins d'amour
Évitez les belles!
Moi qui ne crains pas les peines cruelles
Je ne vivrai pas sans souffrir un jour...
Quand vous en serez au temps des cerises
Vous aurez aussi des chagrins d'amour !

“By God, Phillip, it’s written for you,” I said. He asked why and I translated some of the words…

When you find yourself in the cherry-season
If you’re afraid of the sorrows of love
Stay clear of the beautiful ladies!
For my part, I’m not afraid of the cruel pains.
I won’t live a day without the suffering…
When you find yourself in the cherry-season
You’ll also have the pains of love.


La Grande Roue de Paris -- built for the exhibition of 1900 and dismantled in 1920.

Quade McGregor
Lt, Rfc
B Flight, 41 Sqn
Lealvillers, France.

Feb 6, 1918.

Offensive Patrol

E/A: 5 Pflaz D-III,s
B Flt: 7 SE,s

Results: All 5 E/a claimed.

Losses: 2 Destroyed ( one on take off) 3 Lt Damage+ 1 pilot Wnd.


Aye, we gave them a Spanking today. Spotted and engaged a Flight (5) Pflaz D-III,s at the end of our Patrol point between Lens and Loos on their side of the lines. Our 6 Se,s made a good showing against their 5 a/c.
At one point I had 2 of the sods on me tail, but my new wing man took one off so I was able to knock one down. No problem confirming his motor was u/s and bottom wing kaput. I fired a few rds just to keep him nervous as he landed. I had to put down at LaGogue due to fuel at 30 %.


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The ADJ was so happy the C.O. pinned a Air Force Medal on me.

The continuing service of Albert "Mushroom" Ward:

5 Feb 1918 @ 07h02 Patrol to our airfield at Valheureux

At briefing we were advised this would be a routine patrol. Wind was expected to be 8 kn from the SW with scattered cumulus from 2000 to 10000 ft.

We formed up north of the field as usual and attained an altitude of 11900 ft to put us above the prevailing cloud cover before heading out on our first leg to Marieux airfield.
I was flying alone with “A” flight composed of Irwin, Jarvis and Parry, providing top cover.

We had hardly left our staging area when 6 enemy two seaters were observed heading east at least 3000 ft above us. I decided giving chase was impractical and continued on.
We arrived at Marieux and turned west towards Valheureux not seen any enemy craft.
Upon arriving at Valheureux we turned sharply climbing to 16100 ft on our return course to Baizieux. The bright sunshine rising above the clouds in the east and the clean crisp air filling my lungs, and the solitude of quiet pleasing flight made the trip especially enjoyable. We all landed safely, reported in and headed for the mess for some tea, sausages and biscuits. I was feeling quite ravenous and relaxed. Quiet flights like this are so few these days and much looked for. I planned to look in on Dunstan in the afternoon to see how he was coming along, and to ask Major Halcombe-Brown if he could approve some leave time that I had coming. It had been a long time since I had an opportunity to return to the farm of Angeline and Yvette. I still had their picture with me and every time I looked at it I felt the pangs and longings. Just how much longer could this war go on I wondered.

YouTube Video:

Sgt. James O'Shaugnessy
RFC-9, R.E. 8
February 6, 1918


Following Lieutenant Bennett's death we took a few days to regroup and think about what happened. It was a simple funeral, made even quicker by the fact no one could recover his cooked and shattered body from the wreckage. 2nd Lt. Dixon opined that we'd rather remember him alive and trying to manage his mounds of paperwork than as a pile of char and...

Sorry mates, I can't even write it. I knew him less than a week, and I can't say I felt strongly for him one way or the other, but the manner of his death really brought the nature of this war home to me.

The same can be said for Sergeant Alden, who used this opportunity to appeal for a home defense assignment. This they granted and, until this morning, his tent stood empty.

The war continues though, and command wouldn't let us lie on our laurels for ever. On the third Dixon let me lead my first flight. I was so proud until I realized when he wanted me to take off.



Our mission was to bomb an airfield. Up until now I'd simply relied on my leader's aim and timing with some modest success. Now it was up to me. As we would have no escort, I determined this would be an in-out affair, dive on the airfield to make sure our bombs hit, then run for home. My mates agreed with my assessment.

There is a German balloon about 3 or 4 miles west of this field. Its occupants greet us as we pass by calling up a metallic storm from his mates on the ground. Explosive bursts appear everywhere, balls of fire and smoke. The RE rocks, knocking me a little off course. Close enough anyway, I cut my power and break into a dive.



HIT! Lt. Iverson assures me that I've taken down 2 hangars with my 112 lb. bombs by myself. I pull up hard and around, giving the order to regroup, but I'm not sure everyone sees me. I end up arcing around the airfield at around 1,000 feet altitude while everyone gathers. The airplane is still shaking, the flak guns still firing at a tremendous rate.

We formed up and flew home. That's when I noticed I wasn't climbing quite as fast as my mates.

In fact, I was falling. My RPM was dropping.

Holy mother. Fuel pressure? Fine. Nothing from the engine. Oil? Okay. Truth be told I never found out what ailed my poor crate, only that I had to lift my nose to avoid sailing into some trees.

Grounded some twenty miles behind enemy lines. We fired the craft of course just ahead of two bombers who tried to drop their load on us. Fortunately we'd 'crashed' near a farm owned by a Frenchman who was only too happy to help. Once we'd exchanged uniforms for farmers' garb he was only too happy to drive us to Bruxelles. It took a full day but we managed to slip back over the lines in the darkness.

That was the flight that convinced me that, much as I seemed to be getting good at it and appreciated the support of whoever chose to protect us - a flight of SE 5s chased off some Pfalzes when we took back to the air on the 6th - I'd much rather have my fate in my own hands. When I reached HQ I quietly put in a transfer to a fighter squadron. Any fighter squadron.

Oberleutnant zur See Niemann is out of service until 16 February 1918. He was scratched by a bullet during a balloon attack mission in the Nieuwpoort sector, and the doctors don't want to take any unnecessary risks with his recovery. So Niemann will be pushing papers while waiting for his wound to heal.

It sucks, but at least my pilot wasn't killed! I've always hated balloon busting...

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Hasse, here’s hoping Niemann is assigned a comely and competent nurse to see him through his recovery. As you say, it’s tough, but far better than being dead. And a big congrats on the 300-hour mark, that's a milestone to be sure.

CatKnight, Sgt. O’Shaugnessy has had his baptism by fire I see. His squadron was hit hard in those last two sorties, hope his luck improves, though I think luck has been exhausted at the moment on that successful return across the lines on foot. Just as a sidebar history-wise, an RFC airman would have used ‘Hun’ or ‘Fritz’, (the latter being less likely), when referring to the enemy in a derogatory way. ‘Kraut’ is WWII slang.

Robert, congratulations to Mushroom as well on passing the 300-hour mark in his log book. He may want to take an extra dose of caution though, some rather close calls in those last dog fights. Also, that aborted landing attempt by the AI pilot is definitely a first for me too. Never saw that one before – way to go OBD.

Carrick, good to see Quade is doing so well, and an ace at that. He’ll be fighting back the mademoiselles with a cane now that he has that gong on his tunic. Although, from the looks of it, he already has a girlfriend who holds a penchant for the bamboo. I’m guessing it’s not just the Hun that young Quade’s been giving a spanking.

Banjoman, sorry to see Abner’s publicity tour is coming to its inevitable close. He’ll be back in the thick of it soon enough, but oh the stories he will have to tell when he returns to his squadron.

Raine, looks like Jack has been having a tough go of it with the far-too-regular losses of his tent mates. At least Phillip has remained as a constant. And being presented the MC should do something to improve the situation, though hardly solace for lost comrades. Of course, a few days leave will be far better medicine than any bit of flash on the tunic. Good to see that both Cairns and Cambell were allowed to get away for a bit. Lovely song by the way, haven't heard it for years and years.

Congratulations to all on the presentation of the DID hour medals, well deserved each and every one. And thank you again to Olham and Jim for keeping the stats and posting the charts, much appreciated gents. Great stories and reports and videos as always, they’ve made my Sunday morning coffee most enjoyable.

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Love this pic!

Lots of good stories and pics to read this morning. Keep em flying.

Quade McGregor
Lt, Rfc
B Flight, 41 Sqn
Lealvillers, France.

Feb 7, 1918.


Patrol lines.

A Flt: Cover over lines. 5 SE,s
B Flt: Low flight. 6 SE,s

E/a: 7 A/C Pflaz,s ?
E/a: 6 2 seat Rumplers.

Results: 3 Rumplers destroyed + 1 damaged.
Sqn Losses: 1 SE missing + 1 pilot Wnd and 4 damaged ( mine had 18 holes)

Remarks: Nearly bought it today with help from a wingmate.
The flight tried to catch a 7 a/c flight on their side of the lines,but they were too high and turned inland. The flight Lt. spotted and had us dive on six Rumplers over Lens. What a furball. I didna hit anything except once with maybe 3 rds. I can confirm 2 kills from my wingmates as I almost collided with the wreckage on the way down by Fast Freddie ( wing has a F on it). My ammo was down to 102 rds vickers and a jammed Lewis with 108 rds in it. RTB.


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RAF Louvert: Thanks for the feedback about Hun/Fritz vs. Kraut!

I do have a question: How WOULD an escapee get back across the lines? In Flanders especially, I'd expect the way to be barred by rows of trenches and barbed wire.

In case Louvert misses this today, the number one escape route was through neutral Holland.

Carrick: Beautiful picture!

Great reports and pics in the last two days!
Raine, quite the tour of Paris that Cairns took Phillip on. Too bad he was not in the mood to enjoy it. Ah, how the heart can snuff out all other pleasures and dominate ones mind!
CatKnight and Carrick, you folks are posting some amazing screen caps. It's hard to keep an eye on your journal entries because of them.
Hasse, sorry to see Niemann out of action. I guess it's time to fly another pilot for awhile.
Banjoman, We need Abner at the front!! Time to stop kissing the babies and frolicking about!

CatKnight: great story and pics. Carrick: You are getting some serious stick time of late. Best of luck and keep the great pictures coming! Hasse, please be careful with Niemann. I really want to see him make it to the end. Robert: Your video, even though it was a quiet flight, was lovely. Beautiful flying.

Here is the rest of Jack Cairns' leave story...

The investiture was a bit of a bore, really. Phillip and I got back to the Ritz after three, which left little time to get dressed and hail a cab to the embassy. Phillip went down to the bar in the hotel and chummed with a group of Yanks there, so he begged off accompanying me to catch up with life in the former colonies.

The drive was barely two minutes, and the driver overcharged me, I’m sure. The walk would have been only about ten minutes. I arrived at the embassy around four-thirty, just in time to be quickly ushered into a waiting room and lectured on the drill for the ceremony by an unctuous staff colonel with an affected cavalry lisp. Thereupon we were offered a drink but cautioned about drinking, told we had time to chat but instructed not to make noise, and advised that Lord Bertie would be welcoming us to “our” embassy and we were to make ourselves at home – but for God’s sake not to touch anything.

Lord Bertie showed up a few minutes after, looking like a character out of a Gilbert and Sullivan production, all mustache and red veins. He’d been ambassador here since Christ was a corporal and the fine wines and food had left their stamp on his frame. He was a good-natured cove, though, and I began to relax. The others around me were a mixed lot from every branch of the services. There were four nursing sisters in the room, but a large pie-faced matron guarded them like a mother rhinoceros, all armour plate and beady eyes.
Finally, we were ushered into a small ballroom and seated in wooden folding chairs. I saw General Rawlinson, who I’d seen once before on a brief visit to Léalvillers. As GOC IV Corps, he was somewhere in the chain of command. A captain wearing aiguillettes held a velvet cushion and the lisping colonel placed each medal on it as a name and citation were read out. My turn came quickly and I marched up: three paces, check-step, guardsman’s halt. It was important to me to appear smarter than the engineers and doctors and county regiment chaps – looked good on the Argylls and RFC. General Rawlinson asked how many Hun I’d bagged. “Nine confirmed, sir, a few more for sure but unconfirmed.”

“Nine, eh?” he said. “Keep it up, Mr. Cairns.” He pinned the medal on. Three paces back, salute, about turn, march off.

There was a brief reception after. I caught wind that Rawlinson was being appointed to some sort of liaison or strategy group to coordinate with the French. Given the rumours of an impending German push, I prayed they knew what they were doing.

It was cold and clear outside, and I enjoyed the stroll back to the hotel, showing off my new gong. As soon as I was back I’d get the ribbon put up. The tailor at the Ritz was already working on my other tunic. Next to the embassy was a private club, Le Cercle de l’Union interaliée. I stood aside as a pompous gentlemen left the front door, all cape and stick and swagger. What in God’s name did this man have to do with winning the war, I wondered. There were fine dress clothing stores and restaurants along the road. I thought of poor Hoskins and Major Powell. I flagged a cab and headed for Montmartre.

The sordid details of that night are best forgotten. Suffice it to say that if I should ever become a vicar like my father, I shall have some rather interesting memories with which to contrast the bottle drives and strawberry fêtes!

Phillip appeared late and bleary-eyed for breakfast and we arranged a trip out to Versailles. We decided that we’d both have cheered to see old Louis’ head roll. I was beginning to feel like a bit of a Bolshevik of late. Had it not been for some of the horrid stories coming out of Russia of late, I might have flirted with such ideas. But I was coming to realise that ruling classes, no matter their origin, were prone to the follies of pride, and as things stood, British ruling stupidity had a faint glimmer of decency that the others lacked. I flirted with the idea of moving to America if I survived the war.

Phillip brought me to a jazz club on the Left Bank that night, a place full of American soldiers who were much the worse for drink. It seemed that all of them had more ribbons that the two of us, yet none had yet seen action yet. I was foolish enough to mention that fact. Phillip was marvellous though, intervening loudly to prevent me from having to fight my way out of the basement boîte and then apologizing to me on behalf of his countrymen and explaining that they were Northerners and their stupidity couldn't be helped.

We were bound back the war the next day, and being virtually broke we walked all the way to the Gare du Nord and took lunch in a small place near the station. The train left around one in afternoon and proceeded to Amiens at a rate of barely six miles an hour. We shared a compartment with two Canadian observers and chatted well into the night before falling asleep as the train stuttered its way back to the front.

I was going home.

Notes:

1. General Rawlinson was just about to be appointed as the military representative to the allied Supreme War Council. His appointment took effect a few days after the investiture.

2. Lord Bertie would end his long term as British Ambassador to France within two months, leaving due to health problems. He died the following year.

3. A "guardsman's halt" is a drill movement. The halt command is given on the left foot, the right foot takes a check pace, and then the left foot slides audibly to the position of attention as the right arm cuts to the side, all to be followed by a thundering right foot stomp as the right leg is raised and then straightened. The sliding of the left foot characterizes the movement as a guardsman's halt.

4. The Cercle was a club founded to promote unity among the Entente and to offer services to officers of all allied nations. Its rooms were located next door to the British embassy. Cairns obviously reacted negatively based on a quick assumption about the fellow he saw leaving the club. The Cercle still exists.

The continuing service of Albert "Mushroom" Ward:

6 Feb 1918 @ 07h02 Intercept over Monchy

Briefing session revealed we would have 8 kn winds from the south and scattered cumulus from 2000 to 6000 ft. Front line troops near Monchy reported several flights of reconnaisance two seaters crossing the lines headed west. We were tasked to intercept them if possible.

I lead “B” flight composed of Jarvis and Parry, “A” flight sent Bowman, Walkerdine and Mealing. We formed up north of the field and attained an altitude of 6500 ft to get above the prevailing cloud cover. I then set a course for Boiry St. Martin. I expected the Hun to be flying at considerable altitude to I began to take the flight up to 15000 ft. We were at 11000 as we approached Boiry and had seen no sight of the Hun. I turned the flight to the ENE still gaining altitude and arrived over the lines at Monchy. We circled for 20 minutes with no sign of the Hun. I elected to leave the lines and venture SW towards our base at Baizieux thus widening our search pattern. We passed north of Bapaume and were just approaching the rail lines east of Miraumont when I spotted five craft heading NE. On a chance that they might be Hun two seaters I swung the flight across their path.
We had the advantage of height this time and I made sure we stayed well in front of them until we were sure what they were and that we could effectively turn and dive on them. “A” flight had been down too low to be helpful and I suspect didn’t see them because they carried on their merry way oblivious to what was transpiring above them.
Once I was sure of their profile and that they were two seaters, I turned the flight head on into them and dove down, then coming up slightly strafed the lead and second aircraft as I sailed under them. I took a few rounds in my upper starboard plane tip for the effort.
I turned and came at them again from below and held a safe distance as I sent rounds into the tail end charlie. He soon began to smoke, and I could see that Jarvis had one also smoking. Parry took out the wingman as well. I saw Parry going after another which he soon had smoking and going down. We were almost on top of Bellevue field during all the action and must have been providing the ground crews with some excitement. I circled to form up and saw Jarvis not far behind me but no sight of Parry. We circled a bit and then I gave a waggle and pointed down to Bellevue. Jarvis raised a hand of acknowledgement and so we began our descent. I landed first at Bellevue, pulled in front of the first available hangar, cut the engine and exited the plane, watching for Jarvis approach. He came in safely but was slow to exit his mount. I jogged over to his craft and saw that he had been grazed in his right arm. I helped him out and we headed over the the hangar area. I asked him if he had seen Parry. “Bloody tiger” he responded. “Don’t know what got in to him today. It seemed like he was on a vengeance run. I saw his engine begin to smoke not long after he smoked the second Rumpler, but I didn’t see what happened after that. I hope he is down safely.” “I will send out a recovery team to locate him. He can’t be far. I only hope he hasn’t bought the farm. One thing is for sure, we sure put the wind up them. Four down out of five is a damn good show. Let’s get you over to the aid station and have that taken care of. It should get you a couple of days off mate!” I headed to the RO’s office to report in and then went back to the aid station to confirm that Jarvis was ok. It looks like he will be able to stay on base but unable to fly for a few days. I think I can find the medicine he needs in my locker. The recovery team came back with Parry in tow and reported they had found the wreckage of the four Rumplers. They were from MFFA-1 Parry was lightly wounded but his craft was a writeoff. It looks like Jarvis will have company for a few days.

YouTube Video:

Quade McGregor
Lt, Rfc
B Flight, 41 Sqn
Lealvillers, France.


Feb 8th 1918.

Weather going south. All flights Canx due to weather. The forcast is the same until Feb 10th so will take a a Pass and see a little bit of France.

Wow! Way too much going on after a brief absence. Missed you folks. Great stories and screenshots. Lou, thank you again for all the bling! It really adds to the Campaign.

Fantastic reports! Even if I didn't have a pilot in this campaign, I'd be eager to read about the adventures of other pilots.

I'm dying to fly DID, but unfortunately Niemann is out of action for over a week. His wounding happened very suddenly. A well-aimed (or lucky!) burst from the AAMGs defending a balloon hit the Pfalz and my screen went red. A scary moment when your pilot has over 300 hours under his belt! I immediately headed back towards friendly lines and made a landing as quickly as I could. I was worried that Niemann would bleed to death or something (you'll never know), so in a way it was a great relief to see that he was only WIA.

To be honest, I don't expect Niemann to reach the Armistice alive. The air war in 1918 is crazy, and the closer to the end we approach, the more dangerous it becomes. In real life, the last year of the Great War was also extremely bloody for the air forces.

Maybe I should create an early war pilot for the other DID campaign? Hmm...

Hasse, we should would love to have you join us in the Centenary DID.

Jack Cairns' first day back...

I was back a day early, but as Phillip was out of leave it made sense to travel together. He was a lot breezier now that he’d put Catie more or less behind him. And it was simply good to be home, such as home was. The Vicarage was still the cosiest Nissen hut in the RFC, and Phillip had brought back a recording of Le Temps des Cerises for the gramophone, so we had good memories to share.

Nathaniel Heaton, our new hut-mate, was packing when we arrived back. He’d been transferred out along with young Dutton, both headed for 29 Squadron. Poor sods, No 29 still had Nieuports but they were due for SEs. In Heaton’s place, and already moved into the spare bed, was a Canadian with the unfortunate name of Stanley Asa Puffer. Puffer was a keen sort, a former infantryman. His home town was some desolate spot on the prairies. His father was a provincial politician. I well understood why he’d gone to war.

Most significantly, we had a new CO. Major Powell was now confirmed as a prisoner of war, and in his place we’d got Major Bowman, who bore the nickname “Beery” due to his ruddy complexion. Major Bowman was just in from 56 and was a genuine Hun-getter, with more than two dozen kills to his credit. He was in the process of interviewing each pilot here, and my turn was due after lunch.

But first there was business to attend to. I read the orders with some trepidation. I had the early job on 7 February – a two-plane jaunt into deepest, darkest Hunland to drop bombs on the aerodrome at Douai. God, how I hated Douai! It was Heaton and my job. His going-away present and my welcome-back. A Flight was to provide cover. Diving into Douai with just the two of us was idiotic.

I was up by four to supervise the fitting of the bombs and check over and grease the ammunition. I told Heaton we’d go in at 3000 feet, no lower, loose our bombs and get straight out. The weather was poor, driving snow down low, with clouds at 4000 towering up to 10000 feet. We lost A Flight somewhere near Arras, and had to navigate by dead reckoning as we could not see the ground. I spiralled down 15 minutes after seeing Arras under the left wing and immediately spotted Douai. Our target was only a few miles to the north-northwest. As we approached we made out eight or nine two-seaters circling about to land. I flew through them, dropped my bombs, and pulled away. Tracers criss-crossed from every direction and hundreds of shells were expended on Heaton and me. I spotted three single-seaters, probably Albatri, off to the north. They left us alone and we headed for home at full throttle.

My interview with the CO went well, I thought. He was a friendly sort, but no-nonsense and determined to make us a crack show. He told us he had no plans to fly a desk and he wanted to judge every man in the air personally. I looked forward to flying with him.


Geoffrey Hilton "Beery" Bowman