Vzfw Bruno Wolff
Jasta 64w

April 21st, 1918

Brought down two Frenchmen today. A SPAD VII and a Sopwith two-seater. My sixth and seventh Luftsieg,

Carrick, how many has Limoges got by now? Wulfe, hope to see Mayes back soon, but I'm thoroughly enjoying Odenthal, and I love the skin! DC, that was a "near run thing", Glad Sitwell made it back in one piece. Jerbear, some good reports from Goode! Wolff seems to be tearing up the front.

Here is the next installment of Holger's story...

Part 3 - Vzfw Holger Barfuss, Jasta 7

“Can you read the next line?” asked the kindly medical officer.

“I can, but it’s still blurry,” said Holger Barfuss. “And ever since you removed the glass I get terrible headaches when I read. And the damned boss has me working in the office until I can fly. Reading all day. When I’m not writing, you see.”

The doctor wrote something in his note pad and tore off the page. “Give this to your Staffelfuehrer and ask him to find you something else to do.”

“Thank you, Herr Doktor!” said Barfuss and walked out of St. Nicholas Hospital to the waiting truck. He was whistling. "Are you up for a beer?" he asked the driver. "I'm buying and I'll cover for you. My examination was delayed."

Back at Marckebeeke aerodrome, Leutnant Jacobs read the note and eyed Barfuss warily. “What use are you, Vizefeldwebel Barfuss? You’re too sick to fly, you can’t do paper work, or so it seems. And you’re too senior to be a Putzer.”[1]

“The gentlemen of the Jasta like their dinner, and I like to shop, sir. I could assist in provisioning the mess. I’d have to do a better job than they’re doing now.”

Jacobs was sure that his sergeant pilot would be “buttering his own bread,” but he could think of nothing else. He told Barfuss to report to Feldwebel Braun. Braun was the QM sergeant, a fat and lazy fellow whom Barfuss quite liked. Barfuss informed Braun that the boss told him to do all Braun’s work for him, provision the mess, and generally make Braun’s life easy, so Braun went along without objection. Barfuss spent the afternoon taking stock of supplies and was delighted to learn that very little came through army sources. Most provisioning was local, and he set about securing an Ausweis to go into Courtrai.

In the morning he signed for a horse and cart, a dull corporal named Blaetter, an envelope of Belgian and German cash, and a register to record expenses. He carried a sidearm because of the cash. Their first stop was a dingy bar near the twin tower of the ancient Broeltorens bridge, not far from the centre of town. From there they acquired a passenger, a tough-looking fellow with one eye. Blaetter asked who the passenger was and Barfuss told him to forget he ever saw the man. The one-eyed man guided them to a house at the end of a side street near the river, where he unlocked a shed and loaded a string of flour, a string bag of onions, a box of sausages, and three cases of wine. From there they left town, crossing the river and heading north into the countryside. At a farm, Barfuss steered the wagon off the road into a lane. They emerged two hours later without one of the cases of wine, but with a pig, five chickens, and several dozen eggs.

“We come back tomorrow,” he told the corporal. “I’ve bought us a cow.”

“How did you know where to go for all this food?” asked Blaetter.

“I first found out where to drink” was the reply. Filling out the register would take some thought.

On 1 May 1918, Holger Barfuss was cleared to fly, a move that disappointed many of his fellow pilots after several days of comparatively fine dining. He broke in easily, for the first day’s patrols were without incident. It seemed that the great offensive was losing energy. The sky, just days ago so full of activity, was a relaxing place void of threats. Or so it seemed.

They were assured that there would be another push, and on the morning of 2 May were tasked with shooting out the eyes of the British near Armentieres – downing balloons. Barfuss only experienced this form of entertainment once. He didn’t relish the thought. Ltn Huttenrauch led the patrol, which included Bohne and Jacobs, a new officer named Lerchenmueller, and Barfuss. Barfuss flew an Albatros as usual. Lerchenmueller flew a Pfalz. The others all had the little nimble triplanes. As they approached the enemy balloon lines, Barfuss opened the throttle and pulled ahead of the others. He saw no virtue in potting along behind the slower Fokkers waiting for the British Flak to find them. The balloon shone orange in the early morning sun and he approached it from the south, which because of the direction of the wind let him attack the gasbag from the side and above. He fired at least a hundred rounds without result, pulling up and left at the last moment and nearly colliding with his target. Bohne was next in and the balloon exploded into flame at his first burst. Such is fortune!

Barfuss circled and looked for the others, but for some reason they all seemed to have disappeared. He climbed out of machine gun range and searched the sky carefully. Then he saw them, about a mile off to the northeast, milling about curiously. It was several seconds before it dawned on him that they must be tangling with some enemy machines. The black Albatros climbed steadily towards the melee. Several little brown Camels were darting about. For a moment it seemed impossible that this stately minuet in the sky was really combat, but then there was a flash of orange light and a machine began nosing down, afire from nose to tail and trailing a column of black smoke. Barfuss saw the angled wingtips and realized with a surge of sickness in his stomach that this was the end of Lerchenmueller.

He dived, the morning sun at his back, on the Camel that had downed Lerchenmueller. He surprised the Englishman. The first burst must have hit the fellow, for the machine did not turn. The second burst sent the Sopwith tumbling to earth. Its pilot had lived less than a minute to celebrate his victory over Lerchenmueller. On returning to Marckebeeke, Jacobs himself confirmed this as Barfuss’s second victory.


" He dived, the morning sun at his back, on the Camel that had downed Lerchenmueller."

The next morning was clear, but high winds delayed the first patrol until nearly eleven. This was a barrier patrol, walking a beat like a policeman down the front and just inside friendly territory. This time there were four Fokkers and two Albatrosses. They followed the Lys to the front and turned south. Near Lille, Barfuss spotted movement below. He banked and made out an enemy machine, a Spad, heading west at low altitude. Barfuss opened the throttle and began a long dive at full power. None of the others followed. It did not take long to catch the Spad, who seemed unaware of his approach. He began firing from a hundred metres and closed to point-blank range before the Frenchman, for the machine carried French roundels, even moved. The fellow was done for. Barfuss turned and caught the Spad before its superior speed could carry it out of range. The next burst send the machine down.

He landed at Lomme and requisitioned a motorcycle to take him to the crash site, just in the reserve lines near Bois-Grenier. By the time he arrived the soldiers had nearly stripped the machine, but he was able to cut the serial number from the fuselage. He took a glance into the cockpit and for a moment thought the pilot was alive. He seemed unmarked, but then Barfuss noticed the blood on the man’s leg and thigh. He had likely suffered an arterial wound and bled to death.

The confirmation preceded him to Marckebeeke and they celebrated that night in the Kasino. The highlight of the evening was a call from Fourth Army HQ: Barfuss had been awarded the Eiserne Kreuz 2. Klasse.

Notes:

[1] Putzer = lit. “cleaner,” i.e. batman

[2] Ausweis = Pass

April 29th, 1918.

After a hard day's work, the pilots of Jasta 6 lounged around the large front room of the Chateau at Cappy aerodrome, deep in discussion about the tense events of a fight they had had with a group of Camels earlier in the day. In particular, they discussed one event they had seen.

"Did you see it?"

"No, I was busy with an Englander. Kirchstein saw it, though. Our friend had just cleared his tail..."

"Kirchstein...?"

One pilot sat, the glow of an expensive French cigarette flickering in his eyes, which seemed a shade duller than usual.

"Yes, that's what happened. He got an Englander off me and three surrounded him for his trouble."

The Staffel pilots leaned in, grimly awaiting Kirchstein's account of the event. The Leutnant sighed, washed down the French cigarette smoke down with a sip of red wine, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Well, you see, our friend had only just shot about the fellow behind me when two Sopwiths fell upon him. I could see already that he had been shot about, but still he turned to face these two English. As I turned to fight alongside him I could see him shooting up one of the Englanders! However, the second replied. Our friend tried to climb away, but the Englander had the speed on him. Anticipating shooting our friend down, the damned fool English pilot pulled straight up into our friend's belly. The Camel's upper wings came away immediately, and at first I thought our friend was okay. However, his machine went into a nose-dive and I saw his control surfaces break away from his now-crooked tail. He went all the way down in the dive, and his machine splintered into matchwood on the ground. He can't have survived."

Some pilots nodded, some stared blankly, some were indifferent. Kirchstein let out another sigh, and erased the face of the dead rookie flieger from his mind. He checked the time: 8 P.M. Five hours would pass before the pilot's name could be uttered again.


The next morning British troops amassed around the twisted wreckage of a Fokker Triplane that had fallen not far behind their trench yesterday, about mid-day. To the side of the soldiers, who had begun stripping down the wreckage for souvenirs, a smaller crowd laid down the broken body of a German Airman. Coldly, they searched the dead Airman's pockets for any items of value. To their annoyance, this pilot seemed to have nothing in his pockets except for a few maps of various sectors of the front. One inquisitive Tommy lifted an identity card out of the corpse's coat pocket. He scrutinised the name, attempting to sound it out one syllable at a time. Eventually, he gave up, and sought help.

"'Ey, Lieutenant, you know a bit of German don't you?" He called out, and a sharply-dressed young Lieutenant turned to face him. "Naturally," he replied, and came over to observe the card. "How do you say this feller's name?" the Private asked, and the Lieutenant leaned over the card, squinting.

"Odenthal. Anselm Odenthal".



It seems that Odenthal should have taken heed of his own emblem...as it turns out, it was an omen for the unfortunate airman's fate! As Kirchstein explained, Anse was killed moments after a collision with a Camel, which pulled up into his belly. The Tommies later buried him in a shell crater. It appears that I require a new Hun pilot! Shame, I was beginning to enjoy flying as Odenthal! But C'est la Guerre

The tenacious young rookie never did stick around long enough to see his first confirmed victory.

P.S, thanks for the comments about the skin - glad you liked it!

Wow... nice writing. Sorry about Odenthal. I was just getting into his story. Apparently, flying a balsa and canvas airframe powered by a lawn mower engine is hard.

Look forward to your next pilot, man. Keep up the good work.

- Witt

31 October 1917
Aboard the RMS Adriatic
Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

“Happy Halloween.”

Second Lieutenant Andrew Dunn leaned on the port side railing near the bow of the RMS Adriatic and tried not to vomit. The seas had been rough since they'd left New York, but they seemed especially antagonistic at the moment. Or maybe it was the corned beef and biscuits he'd had an hour ago; they had seemed especially rancid this time around.

“Andy,” the voice called again, closer this time. A moment later 2nd Lieutenant Eugene Matthews – Dunn's shadow since Kelly Field – stepped up to Dunn's side and leaned on the same railing. “Didja hear me? It's Halloween!” He seemed overly enthusiastic, grinning broadly as he proclaimed the holiday.

“I heard ya,” Dunn muttered. He worked his jaw for a moment, then spit over the side of the ship into the opalescent gray water.

“C'mon, Andy, don't be a goop. Betcha if we tried hard enough we could trick-or-treat up some snacks. Settle that stomach of yours right down.”

Matthews was always a little too happy for Dunn's taste, and at the moment he just wanted to lay down and die – alone. “I'm good,” he said. A moment later, the beef and biscuits decided the waters of the Atlantic Ocean were a better place than Dunn's stomach, and the young lieutenant vomited over the side with such force that Matthews let out an unidentifiable yelp and jumped back from the railing as if it were electrified.

Dunn wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and spit once more into the roiling steel waters.

Matthews patted him on the shoulder but didn't step any closer. “Maybe I'll see if Alan wants to go trick-or-treating instead. You... you take care, now.” He stepped away without another word and disappeared into the ship.

Dunn stared down into the water and wiped at his mouth again. Sea sick. Wouldn't my daddy be proud! He wondered if flying an aeroplane would make him sick. That'd be great, he thought. Just great.

* * *

Six months later
Toul-Croix de Metz Airfield
Near Verdun, France

Dunn gripped the stick of the Nieuport N28C with both hands and tried to bring the nose up, but it didn't want to stay. The engine sputtered and the biplane started to fall toward the earth from several hundred feet up. Dunn uttered a single curse word and tried to keep the plane aloft.

The newly formed 94th Aero Squadron had spent weeks training on various planes. Dunn himself had flown Moranes, De Havilands, and a number of Nieuports. He'd heard the N28C was a good plane, but he'd also heard about the notorious fuel issues with the Gnome 9N engine. Bad mixes, clogs, even full-on fires were more common than Dunn preferred. Especially when his Nieuport was acting up like today. And on his first solo flight with the 94th. Great.

He fought the biplane for another 30 seconds or so, trying to decide if he should try to turn back to Toul Field. The 94th's commanding officer, Major Raoul Lufbery, had been very clear in his instructions: “Form up with B Flight and then circle the field to get a feel for your machine. Then land,” he'd said. “No tom-foolery and no combat.”

Dunn was still trying to decided whether to abandon the flight or not when the rotary engine simply sputtered out and died. That makes the decision a lot easier, he thought, twisting his mouth as if he'd eaten more rancid beef and biscuits.

He leveled the plane as best he could and peered over the sides trying to find a place to put down. A treeline lay straight ahead, but beyond it he could see fields and pastures that looked promising. With a gentle hand he guided the now-silent aircraft over the trees, then dropped the plane gently toward the surface. Moments later, the wheels touched down as the plane bounced once then settled to the ground. Dunn let out a whoop and a dopey grin split his face. A second later, his grin faded as he spotted a fence line directly in the plane's path. He tried to swing the plane to the left using the rudder, but that only succeeded in tilting the plane until the right wing began digging a groove in the freshly tilled earth.

Dunn swore again as the plane slewed into the fence, the right wing taking the brunt of the impact and pulling up a dozen yards of fence in the process. Together, plane, pilot, and fenceline skidded another 100 feet before coming to a halt. The sudden silence came as a surprise and Dunn opened his eyes and loosened his death-grip on the stick. Dust and debris settled onto the plane's damaged surfaces as the engine and frame pinged and creaked in complaint.

He pulled off his goggles and hat and hurled them onto the broken wing. “Dammit.”





So I played out some training missions as best I could due to the lack of US two-seaters, etc., and then started an actual campaign to fly some training flights with the 94th. The above is the result of my first outing as a US pilot. It does not bode well.

- Witt

careful of Fence lines, I ve lost many a good pilot and a few Aces thrown in.


Raine: 2 e/a 1 Scout type and 1 Two Seat. However , He almost got the Chop .

Adjutant, Darcel Limoges
Esc 95 Spads
Raray AF
Marne, France.

Aug 29, 1918.


Our three a/c were put up against a German Balloon today. We never got to Zee gas bag. In the murky sky, we ran into 5 e/a Silver with Yellow and Green Tails so dove straight at em. Pulling out, it was head long into 4 Green Tailed Fokker type e/a. Twisting and turning we barley made it out and back after loosing 1 Spad. It was quick said my wing mate 2 e/a slipped in behind him and he burned. The fight was so Chaotic, My rigger said that I had only 24 rds in one gun and the other had jammed with 32 rds left in it.

Sorry about Anselm Wulfe, hard luck. Nice we can reincarnate. The hard part is to come up with a new backstory than generate a new pilot.

Welcome Witt - good to have another Yank on board, and from the same Pursuit Group. Great job with the story, stay alive and keep em coming.

Raine - Another good installment on Holger. Glad he got he got back in the air, he could have ended up where Richthofen was early in the war, "counting cheese and eggs," Sounds like he had a talent for it and he would have a better chance of living longer. As for Bruno Wolff, I don't expect him to live long, just having some fun.

Carrick - looks like you're having a lot of fun as a Frenchie. Never done a French campaign, maybe it's time, at least in the Lafayette Flying Corps.


2nd Lt. John B. Goode
147th Aero Squadron

Friday, August 30th 1918

Woke up Tuesday morning, after our little party, much the worse for wear. The room was spinning and I couldn't stand up. It was like being on a merry-go-round. Threw up all over the floor, which Pup (1) thought was just great, but Dewey got her away before she could tank up on a hot meal. Everyone except Meissner laughed about it, figuring I was still drunk. He keeps an eye on what everyone is doing and he was aware that all I had drunk was a couple of beers to be sociable. He had our pill roller come see me.

I had vertigo, probably from changes in air pressure while flying. I chew gum and seldom get dizzy but I guess that only works so long. The Doc. had me propped up in bed, told me to keep my head as still as possible and just rest, hopefully it would right itself after a few days. So, that's what I've been doing, laying here in the dark for almost 4 whole days. The Doc. gave me Ginger for the nausea but I wasn't able to hold anything down until Thursday. Much better by then, but still wobbly on my legs. Meissner's not going to let me fly for at least a week, then he's going to arrange for a Sal.(2) from 1st Aero to take me up and see how I do. I'm hopeful this doesn't end my pursuit career. Meissner and the Doc think I'll spring back just fine, the resilience of youth and all that. Pup sticks pretty close. I'm going to choose to believe it's because she knows there's something wrong and she's worried about me but she may just be hoping I'll throw up again. Nice to have her around. Haven't been dreaming about Dodd so much.

We'll be moving back to our old stomping grounds around Verdun soon, probably in the 1st week of September. Everything is hush, hush, don't want the Germans to know anything about where we're going. This'll be the first big American show. Guess somebody'll have to ferry my crate for .me.

We got a new guy in Thursday, 2nd Lt. Meredith Dowd, formerly of the Lafayette Flying Corps, haven't met him yet."

Big news, the Air Service is no longer under the Signal Corps, we're re-designated as the US Army Air Service. The chords on our c#nt caps will change from green and black, to orange and white and our collar insignia will be a silver prop between wings instead of the crossed signal flags.

When I was finally able to read, I devoured all the news I could. The Stars and Stripes says that 14 states have ratified the Prohibition Amendment, 22 more are needed yet. Momma must be jumping for joy and it'll give Daddy plenty of fodder for his Gas Barrages (3). Can't say I care one way or the other. I do like a beer now and then and liquor is good medicine sometimes but I can live without it. This'll put a lot of people out of work ant it'll be a lot of work to enforce, hope the big boys in Washington know what their doing.

Heard Ack Grant(4) over at the 27th made as ass out of himself. He was trying to boost morale by telling the mechanics that half of each medal awarded to the flyers belongs to them. They just laughed him off, one of them asked him how they’re gonna show that to their wives and girlfriends after earning this kind of credit. He's a good flyer and and a good leader in the air but seems to have a tin ear when it comes to leadership on the ground. He's riding that Luke guy pretty hard, but he probably deserves it. He just doesn't think any rules apply to him and you can't have that our here, we've all got to work together. The boys in the 27th want to get rid of him, hope they don't try to dump him on us. Probably they'll just make him a ferry pilot again.


(1) Pup - fictitious Squadron mascot. A stray John Goode picked up out of a muddy shell hole. Now officially named Mickey III, Mickey II having gone with his owner, Major Geoffrey H. Bonnell when he was transferred.
(2) Salmson 2A2 Observation Plane. 1st Aero was an American Squadron equipped with these aircraft and were frequently escorted by the 1st Pursuit Group's Squadrons.
(3) Gas Barrage - sermon or sermonizing.
(4) 1st Lt Alfred ‘Ack Grant, DSC, 4 aerial victories by war’s end. A member of the 27th Aero from its inception to Armistice.

Witt, despite the less-than-ideal start I'm already hooked on Dunn's story! He sounds like a real character...I'm looking forwards to his exploits

Sgt. Albert Mayes MC,
No. 3 Squadron R.A.F
2 Victories.


August 30th, 1918.

I was still stiff when I stepped off the truck at Valheureux, at 7 AM. Capt. Wallace came to greet me. "Welcome back, Mayes!" he boomed, a grin spread wide across his face. "I trust you're not still too sore?". "No," I lied, and hobbled towards the hangars. As I walked past the hangars, I noticed our Scotsman, Lt. Franklyn, in a hot debate with his mechanic about the efficiency of one of his Vickers, and I smiled. It was good to see the new ones surviving.

After I had settled and had my morning tea in the mess, Wallace looked at me seriously. "Can you fly?" he asked, and I nodded. "Of Course, Captain" was my reply, and Wallace's wide grin returned for a moment, before fading away. "Excellent...I need an experienced man to fly with the new chap". I sighed, doubting whether 11 sorties really qualified me as the experienced man. "I'll keep an eye on him. Who is he?" I asked, and Wallace pointed out a frail looking boy milling around the aerodrome, looking quite unsure of what to do with himself. "Over there. Sgt. Rast. A quiet fellow, bit of a misfit. He was born in Bombay, you know!". I looked over this delicate pilot, and felt my hopes for him drain the longer I looked. I wish the Captain hadn't told me anything other than his name...

At 11:50 AM we headed to the field, where I saw Maj. McClintock for the first time in weeks. He did not smile when he saw me, but his eyes seemed to glint with approval. "Sgt. Mayes. Glad you're back". He briefly said, and I nodded. "Thank you, Major". On the airfield I could see Maxted, Wallace and Franklyn sharing jokes as their machines were readied.

We climbed into our Camels and by 12 PM we were airborne. To my annoyance, the controls of my machine felt vague and unfamilliar. My new machine was an old Squadron spare that had been sitting under a tarp in a repairs hangar since my arrival. It was marked with an 'H' on the fuselage and upper left wing, denoting it as an unassigned machine. This worried me, as it made me stand out in the flight, and I imagined myself being mistaken for an ace by some ambitious hun. However, the new machine had its upsides; the right Vickers had been taken from an old Sopwith Pup, and according to the armorer it had gone beautifully ever since it arrived with its original machine in 1917, the most reliable Vickers he'd seen.

I joined up alongside Wallace's Camel, easily recognisable by a large 'C' on its fuselage, and behind and to my right sat the new chap, Rast. However, he quickly fell out of formation as we begun to climb. My own formative flying wasn't so good either, as my left leg still hurt when I applied pressure to the rudder pedals. Naturally, we climbed over Vert Galland, as per usual. We did like to put on a show for those S.E pilots - we'd often met them during the evenings on our escapades to Amiens and argued over whom had the better machine...we all knew that the S.E. was undoubtedly superior to the Camel, but we would never admit it to those damn showboaters that flew them!

Every so often as we climbed I checked over my shoulder for Rast, who had been meekly flying behind our flight, keeping out of the formation's way. We reached our altitude and headed for Mont St. Eloi, where we would commence our line patrol. Soon enough the front loomed up towards us like a great brown beast, and my instincts in a flash came back to me. My handling of my machine became automatic as I scanned for those hellish Fokkers, and I almost forgot to keep an eye on Rast. He was still ambling along behind us, looking as unsure of himself in the air as he had done this morning on the ground. I looked up through the cutout in my top wing, and saw the flash of two machines go past. I gave a start, and leaned back in my cockpit to get a better view of the high-up machines as they passed behind us. To my utmost relief, it was simply "Archie" flight; I had forgotten their tendency to suddenly appear.

We reached the lines, and 'Got our feet muddy', as I had heard Maxted describe it before Meaning our wheels were now above the mud of no-mans-land - (I rather liked this description!), before crossing into Hunland and turning on to our patrol route. The Archie came up at us soon after we'd crossed the border, and with every new burst I winced, an image of my shattered Camel appearing and fading in my head in sync with the artillery clouds. behind me, Rast wallowed around, clearly panicked, and I signalled to him; 'STAY CLOSE'. He straighened out and maintained his position behind us.

We crossed back onto our side briefly, and I settled into formation behind Rast. I was worried that he wasn't checking behind him for huns. I flew in this position for about four minutes before I saw Rast's Camel behaving curiously, twitching around, and to my amazement the rookie's head popped into his cockpit, and stayed there for a few seconds. He reappeared, to my bemusement, and a couple seconds later a great flash of sparks came out from my nose! I panicked, nearly throwing my Camel into the spin as I jerked the stick. I was on fire!

A few gut-wrenching seconds passed, and I realised with an exasperated sigh that, no, I wasn't on fire. Nor was there any problems with the engine. Could it have been the sunlight hitting my propellor? I was so sure I had seen sparks! Perhaps a friendly Archie shell had gone off under my nose - no, there's no way I wouldn't have noticed...I vowed to keep a very watchful eye on my engine, and continued on.

As we turned back Hunlandwards, I went ahead of Rast and got close to Wallace once more. I was still a bit shaken up by the 'sparks', and having an experienced airman nearby helped calm me slightly (although it would have made no difference had my engine decided to torch me after all!).

Having seen not a single miserable hun, we moodily turned for home. On the way back, we passed a flight of S.E's that were just heading out for their afternoon patrol. The leader cheekily waggled his wings at us as we passed. Showoff. Upon landing, we saw a Camel badly smashed up on the airfield, and we all nervously looked at each other as we de-planed. It turned out that Smuts had stalled while landing, but thankfully he was nowhere near as damaged as his machine, and got away with a few cuts and bruises on his face.

After, in the mess hall, the pilots were sharing various stories from past dogfights. I saw Rast sitting alone on the edge of the conversation, and joined him. I noticed his hand shaking slightly, creating zigzag patterns in his cigarette smoke. My mind briefly flashed over an image of the zigzag-fuselage Fokker I had shot down some weeks ago, but I quickly pushed the unsettling afterimage away. "How was your first flight?" I asked, and Rast turned to face me, his eyes wide. "It was okay, but I couldn't figure out how to have a smoke". I blinked in astonishment. "Come again...?" I asked, in disbelief. "Well, you see," Rast mumbled, "I figured out I could get my cigarette lit by ducking into the cockpit, but the second I came up again it was torn right out of my mouth!"

Realisation washed over me. Those sparks that I thought were my engine going up - it was Rast's bloody cigarette going through my Propellor blades! "Rast, you damn buffoon!" I spat, causing the young Sergeant to nearly jump out his skin. "I..I..." he stammered, but I cut him off. "That damned cigarette could have murdered me!" I shouted, causing the other pilots to immediately cease their conversations and turn round to discover the source of the commotion. I stared at Rast, who sat speechless, and then turned away, sighing. "Don't try to light up while we're flying again, for god's sake, man..." I said, in a softer tone, and Rast dumbly nodded.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmm, good stories to go with my morning cup of coffee.

Adjutant, Darcel Limoges
Esc 95 Spads
Raray AF
Marne, France.

3 Victory's

My section of 3 a/c flew the offensive Patrol this morning. We encountered and bounced 5 Bosche a/c. One turned for home, my wingmates chased one. I got chased by 3. I would pull ahead then chandelled into them both guns blazing. On the second pass, One dove and one turned for home. I repeated the process and got a hit or a few because the e/a motor stopped forcing him to land in a field. The score 2 fokkers for 1 spad missing.

Wahoo, back on Canada after spending the summer in the Baltics. Some great history there.

Maj Sitwell has mostly been stuck behind a desk for the past week, but he should get up into the air again soon.

He did manage to fly two patrols, but there was no enemy contact.

Great to have you home, DC! Enjoy your WOFF time.

Good story about the cigarette Wulfe

2nd Lt. John B. Goode
147th Aero Squadron, USAS

Saturday, August 31st 1918

No duties, they'll give me something to do tomorrow. My job is to get better right now. Feel guilty with all the activity going on around me, doing nothing. We got a briefing today, the trucks that are being loaded now, will leave for our new home tonight. All transport and troop columns are traveling at night to keep the buildup as much of a secret as possible. We're going to Rembercourt (1), about a mile SW of the village of Erize-le-Petite, facing St Mihiel. This is OUR show, all American 1st Army on the ground. Billy Mitchel is in charge of the air show, American, French, British and even some Italian Squadrons. He expects we'll face as many as 2,000 German aircraft. The Army's going to pinch off the salient from the south and west. Billy plans to use us in large formations, striking alternately on both sides of the salient, just like a boxer gives a right hook and left hook successively to his opponent. We haven't been given the exact date yet but it'll be sometime in mid-September. We're all keyed up.

Packed up everything I won't need for the next few days. I'll be left behind with the clean up detail when everyone else pulls out.

Swedeholm from the 95th is back from convalescence in Caen. Been gone since the middle of July. Looks pretty thin and drawn, not as mouthy as he was. His boyfriend almost wagged his tail when he showed up, he’s been pretty quiet too, without Swedeholm to act as his brain..(2)


(1) Rembercourt is represented as Lesle-en-Barrios on the Verdun campaign map.
(2) These two men are my own invention, not real pilots. They are based on my last two supervisors in the company I worked for. Their names are slightly altered. I felt that after a 28 year relationship, working closely together, I wanted to include them as two characters who were and despicable and obnoxious as they themselves are.

Sgt. Albert Mayes MC,
No. 3 Squadron R.A.F
2 Victories.

August 31st, 1918 (Part 1):

'B' flight has the dawn patrol today. As per usual, Maj. McClintock is at the head of our flight. I have Rast on my wing again, I'm hoping the lad has woken up with more sense than he went to sleep with, but I doubt it. In a strange way, I've begun to feel like it's up to me to keep him alive...he seems helpless on his own.

I awakened to a dark, wet morning, but my spirits were unusually high. Lazily throwing on my uniform, I stepped out into the morning mist and took a long, deep breath of fresh French country air. After enjoying the coldness for a moment I decided to pay my mechanic, Erroll, a visit. He was excited to see me, having a story to tell me about working on an S.E that came in to Valheureux for an emergency landing in my absence. "Imagine!", he was blurting out, "200 Horsepower! No wonder those S.E's dart about the way they do!". I laughed. "It's just a shame about the numpties they have flying them! By any means, reckon you could chuck my old Clerget and get one of those Woseley jobs in my old crate?" I asked, and Erroll grinned. "Well, I bet I could but then you'd lose that snappy turn of yours...not to mention the entire nose would need to be re-done. Your best bet is to ask ol' McClintock for an S.E. for Christmas!" I chuckled, and shrugged. "God forbid, he's probably fed up with the amount of Camels I've murdered, I doubt he'd let me near the RAF's fanciest toy!" I replied, to the amusement of Erroll. I snapped my fingers; "Oh - by the way. Take-off's at 0530 today...reckon you could give the mixture lever a once-over before then? It was sticky yesterday, I couldn't move the damned thing at all when we got up there!". "Yeah, why not...you fussy bloody pilots..." Errol replied. I gave him a sharp-toothed grin, wished him good morning again, and headed to the mess to have my breakfast before we went up.

We took off at the scheduled time and headed out into the mud at surprisingly low altitude, only 4000 feet or so. Strange that McClintock would take us out so low. Once we were out squarely in the middle of the mud for every hun to see we begun to loiter, flying in a lazy circle and slowly climbing. After about 15 minutes the huns were yet to accept our invitation, and I begun to feel quite hopeful that we may just get a quiet flight in. Rast sat in his usual position behind our formation. He looked just as unsure of himself in the air as yesterday, and I reminded myself that I'd have to keep an eye on him if the huns did finally show.

I caught a glimpse of four machines a decent way off, and excitedly strained my eyes. Ah, it was just 'Archie' Flight. Those devils! With no huns in the air, I turned my attention to two insolent Sausage Balloons on the hun side. As we patrolled, I would just about muster up the courage to attack one, but then my nerve would go just as I was about to go for it. Fokkers seemed a damn sight less intimidating than Flak ever since my crash-landing ordeal. Another 15 minutes had passed. Where the bloody hell were the huns? There were more than enough to go around when I first arrived! At one point I looked over at Cpt. Wallace. He caught my gaze, and just shrugged as if to say "I haven't the foggiest where they've got to either!". I climbed above my flight and split off from them slightly, in order to get a better look around. Still the sky showed me nothing but clouds, and in between them blue gaps of empty space, wondering if they were pulling some kind of insidious trick, or stalking us like wolves and waiting...

Finally, McClintock signalled for us to head home, and we all eagerly obeyed, having not seen a single German (or Brit, now that I mention it!) other than our own. Had the war ended without anybody telling us...?

Well, we would find out later. At 1 PM we're off into Hunland to attack a railway station.

Sgt. Albert Mayes MC,
No. 3 Squadron R.A.F
2 Victories.

August 31st, 1918 (Part 2).

It was time to go up again. The usual 'B' flight mob took off at 13:16, a little behind schedule, and headed to our climb point. I must admit, this sortie had me nervous before we had even set off - I had ever-increasingly vivid flashbacks of our airfield attack the closer we got to the hour of departure.

Rast was looking slightly more comfortable in the air, now that he'd had a couple sorties to feel-out the Camel's quirks. He still hung behind us, but he was much more stable in the sky, and wasn't lagging behind quite so much. Also, good old Cpt. Wallace cheered me right up - as we flew over the S.E. airfield he'd spotted one redheaded pilot wandering around on the airfield, and so he'd gone right over the poor unsuspecting airman's head almost at ground level! The fellow threw himself to the ground in terror as Wallace tore overhead, and I burst out laughing - as I passed the S.E. pilot was back on his feet, and to add further hilarity to the situation I saw him pull his Webley from it's holster and throw it at my machine!

Tears in my eyes from laughter at the sheer nonsense of the situation, my machine wobbled all over the sky. I could see my wingmen also twitching about, and knew that they must be in a similar state. Eventually, we composed ourselves and tightened up our formation again. For that moment I felt like just a boy larking about again.

We climbed to about 3000 feet and headed towards Arras once more. The weather had cleared up a bit since the morning, although there were still a fair few clouds ahead. As we approached the front we had resumed our usual serious attitude, scanning around for high-flying Fokkers waiting hungrily to send us to our oblivion. Maxted and I drifted closer to Rast. We both knew he would be the most vulnerable out of the lot of us - he was yet to make the hun's acquaintance. We crossed into the mud.

The clouds covered our approach as we reached the border of Hunland, but that didn't make me feel an awful lot better as I was all-too-aware of how the crafty hun liked to use clouds to his advantage. I groaned as we sighted our target - a Sausage Balloon sat right beside it. The Archie would be relentless so close to that damned gasbag! Wallace was first to dive down, and the rest of us followed him in. I could see my flight tearing into the station, and so I set my sights on that damned ballon and switfly ignited it, at which point it expoded in a huge ball of fire. I turned hard and very nearly got caught up in the fireball - in fact, my left wingips were even slightly singed! A torrade of bullets from the ground went up at me as I flew back towards my flight.

For the next few minutes Hunland became a savage mess of tracer fire, Archy bursts and explosions on the ground. 'Archy' flight had arrived now as well, and we were really ripping up any ground target we could find. Oh, what havoc we were causing, and no hun machines to challenge us! Eventually McClintock fired off the 'Recall Signal', and we all at once turned to form up on his Camel. At this point the German Archy gunners must have snapped out of their haze, for it seemed that they fired the Western Front's entire supply of shells at us! Looking straight ahead and gripping my control stick with bone-white knuckles I fought my every instinct to keep in the formation., to not turn and flee the terrifying flak. A flight of 5 German scouts flew high overhead, but they must have been complete novices for they didn't even appear to see us, despite the torrent of Archie!

To my horror McClintock, caught up in the moment, decided it was the proper thing to do to circle the Archy positions and MG nests, to taunt the huns on the ground! It appears the rest of the squadron was enjoying rubbing it in as well, and Wallace was even looping and waggling his wings! I was becoming very consious of our situation, and was almost certain that the Archy batteries were (if they hadn't already) telephoning the nearby 'Staffels'. [i]Damn it, McClintock, just take us home![i] I shouted at the Major in my head, gritting my teeth.

At long last, McClintock turned us homewards. It turns out his showboating would cost him, as upon his landing his undercarriage ripped away, and he got fairly dinged up as his Camel jolted to a stop. Later examination showed that his underside was riddled with shrapnel - it's a wonder it all managed to miss him!

Extraordinarily, my Balloon claim was rejected. I must admit, I feel quite hard done-by! Surely the entire squadron must have seen that fireball! Oh well. I've been awarded 4 days' leave, so the day isn't a complete loss.

Adjutant, Darcel Limoges
Esc 95 Spads
Raray AF
Marne, France.

3 Victory's

Aug 31, 1918.

Morning Escort: No contact except for a lot of cannon fire no damage to our 4 a/c or the 2 Seat.

Afternoon Line Patrol: 2 Section 5 a/c attacked 5 e/a only to have 5 more e/a join in. I used a lot of pot shots till 3 e/a dropped on my tail. after a few chandell's while holding down the gun triggers , I think I damaged one e/a , I realized Id get the chop. Nose down and full speed , I ran. The e/a chased me back across the lines then gave up. The flight claimed 2 Fokkers for 1 pilot wnd his machine a write off. ( crash on landing short of AF )

2nd Lt. John B. Goode
147th Aero Squadron

Sunday, September 1st, 1918

The first truck convoy left at sundown for our new airfield at Rembercourt. Whitey, Bedroll, Abe and Willard (1-4) are ferrying new SPADs to Rembercourt from the depot at Colombey-les-Belles. I don’t know who’s going to ferry my plane.

With all the baggage packed on the trucks and sent ahead, we’re living pretty primitive. Only us pilots and enough ground crew to get the SPADs in the air when it’s time to go. Pup went with Cpl. Herd in one of the cars, she was all excited about the commotion, wonder how she’ll do in the car.

Writing some long overdue letters.

(1) 1st Lt Wilbert Wallace (Whitey) White Jr., served as C Flight commander, credited with 8 aerial combat victories. Killed 10 Oct 1918 near Dun-sur-Meuse when he sacrificed his life, colliding with a Fokker that was attacking a new pilot in his flight. He left a wife and 2 children.
(2) 2nd Lt, Frank S. (Bedroll) Ennis - A Flight, 1 aerial victory, also known as "Muff"
(3) 1st Lt. Thomas J. (Abe) Abernathy - A Flight, 3 aerial victories
(4) 2nd Lt. George G. Willard, joined B Flight, 147th Aero Squadron 22 July 1918.

I've been thoroughly enjoying the USAS Boys' stories, and so seeing as Mayes is grounded until the 4th I thought I'd have a crack at kicking off my own American career! I don't think it'll be nearly as exciting as the others, but here goes!

The story of Benjamin A. Drummond.
Part 1: Arrival.

31st August 1918.

The truck slowed to a stop, for maybe the 10th time now, in a small encampment filled with mud-streaked, weary looking Doughboys. I took the much-needed chance to clamber out the back, leaving my kit-bag, and stretch my legs. The short overweight Corporal jumped down from the cab of the truck. "Sorry, sir, we'll be off in a moment - I'm just going to go collect the next recruit".

I held up a hand in acknowledgement, and leaned against the side of the truck, looking around the camp. Our boys sat around drinking, smoking and palling around, just like they would have done back home. I wondered where they've been to so far, if any of them had been through that 'Passchendale' scrap we'd heard about back home. Over by a large stack of ammunition crates the Corporal was speaking with an infantry Captain, before they both disappeared into a tent. I sighed...although I'd thoroughly enjoyed seeing the French countryside (so different from home!), after the long and trying trip overseas from the States, and the truck ride from Dunkerque (which was beginning to drag on in an irksome way) I felt myself becoming a bit stir-crazy, and just wanted to get to Vaucoulers, where my first assignment with the 103rd Aero Squadron awaited me. I had undertaken my pre-flight training at the University of Texas at age Seventeen, enamoured with stories of our famous heroes of the "Lafayette Flying Corps'. After that I made a long ride by car to Rockwell Field in San Diego to do my Primary and Pursuit training.

After all that, I was finally ready to be shipped off to the 'Great European War', and I embarked upon that long, gruelling months-long cruise to get here! Some of my older friends back in Killeen had already come over as Doughboys. The war had always seemed like some unobtainable far-away adventure, and I remember just how unprepared I was to find out that poor old Blake, one of the boys I'd gone to school with, had been killed in Passchendaele. I could have made it out here sooner if I'd joined the infantry, but seeing the exploits of our flyboys in the newspapers each week desperately made me want to fly! And so I waited and enlisted the 'proper way'.

I was snapped out of my reminiscing by the sight of the Corporal's head bobbing out of the tent, with a brand-new and shiny pilot in tow. I flicked the cigarette and groaned as I climbed back into the truck. "We movin' again?" one of the guys in the back asked me. "Yeah, we were just stopping off to pick up another new guy". A kit bag flew through the flap of the truck and was followed by a tall, spritely young pilot. The new guy had a seat, and we were off again. I tried to get some shut-eye.

I don't know how many hours had gone by, but I was abruptly woken up when we hit a particularly nasty bump in the road. I blearily looked around. Out the back of the truck I could see that it was early evening now. The truck slowed down once more, turned right sharply, and rolled to a stop. Overhead was an all-too-familliar droning sound...that was an Aeroplane engine! The Corporal appeared at the back of the truck. "We're here". He said, and we all excitedly scrambled over each-other to get the first glimpse of our new home.

In awe we stared at the rows of hangars and aeroplanes that now surrounded us. As we marveled, we heard the cry of "ATTEN-SHUN!" and we all instinctively snapped into the position. Before us stood a magnificently confident looking Major, his chest adorned with medal ribbons. He eyed us over for a moment, and spoke. "Gentlemen. Welcome, to the 3rd Pursuit Group! My name is Maj. Thaw, and I will be your Pursuit Group's commanding officer. We have four squadrons based on this Aerodrome. No doubt you have already learned your assigned units. You will report to your squadron commanders in 15 minutes time, and from there you shall be shown to your assigned machines and your living quarters. Over there" - he gestured to a row of forty-or-so barracks - "is where you will find your commanders, in the four leftmost barracks. Oh - and one more thing, Gents - you'll be going up tomorrow, so ready yourselves. I want each and every one of you to come back with a Hun to your name!" We let out a great cheer, and made our way over.



Part 2: Reunion.

1st September 1918.

Oh boy, what a start to the day!

As I hadn't had much of a chance to meet my fellow pilots yesterday, I woke up early and headed to the 103rd's mess. The moment I stepped in a voice called out "Frisky, that you?". I haven't heard that nickname since I'd left Killeen! I snapped round, looking for the culprit and spotted a sleek pilot in a long leather coat rushing up to me. "Casper Reynolds?!" I exclaimed in delight, and the pilot slapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, kiddo! What the hell are you doing out here? You finally got your wings?" Casper asked, and I grinned, pointing to the brass-coloured insignia at my chest.

Casper was one of the boys from my hometown, and one of my best friends growing up. He'd always refer to me as either 'kiddo' (he knew it annoyed me - I was 2 months his senior!) or 'Frisky', a name I'd earned after a particularly embarrasing attempt at woo-ing a gal I'd had a thing for a few years back. Funny how the name had stuck. Casper and I had got up to all kinds of mischief during the summers, before he had shipped out last year to join the Lafayette Flying Corps. I was immensely happy to see him again.

We sat down together and Casper slid me over a hip-flask of whiskey. I took a 'bite', and passed it back. "So what's France like?" I asked, and Casper grinned. "Well, firstly, the Madmoiselles are to die for!" he said, and then paused, before touching a palm to the wooden table and winking. "The food is great, the barracks are comfy - it's a bit different from home, but you'll come to love it soon enough". Smiling, I lit a cigarette. "Got any Germans yet?" I asked, but just then a Captain came sauntering over to us, and looked down at me. "This is the egg, huh?" he asked. "Yeah - hey, Pyne, you remember that story I told you about how we stole the Johnson's truck and ended up getting chased all over town by the police? Yeah, this is the kid!". Pyne looked at me and burst out laughing. "Used to thrills, then? Good - you'll fit right in!". I chuckled nervously. "Anyway. What I came to say was, we're going up in 15 minutes. Line patrol". He turned to me. "You're on my wing. Stick to me like glue. Reynolds will be behind you, keeping an eye on ya".

After some more idle catching-up with Casper we donned our flying gear and stepped out onto the field. There, four from the left, sat my new SPAD XIII, a large nubmer '12' painted on its wings and fuselage. I was giddy with excitement! We climbed into our machines and our flight lead, Cpt. Larner, gave us the signal. The mechanics swung our props, pulled the chocks away, and we were off!

As Pyne had suggested, I tried to stick to him 'like glue'. However, I must confess my formation flying was a little, should we say, ambiguous. More than once I drifted too close, earning me a stern look from Pyne each time. I felt myself go red as I saw Casper, on the other end of the formation, looking over at me with a big grin on his face. I knew he'd ride me for my poor flying when we got back!





We cruised along towards St. Mihel, and I caught my first glimpse of the front (apart from in the papers back home). It was terrifying. Infinite miles of trenches, shell craters, smashed up vehicles and buildings...I suddenly felt immense pity for the French. The face of their country had been scarred, maybe forever.

We paused to climb up in a wide circle. Soon we were above the clouds, and I soon forgot about the mud as I marveled at the clouds, now below us! We went higher than I'd ever managed during my training, I'd never felt so free! I looked back over at Casper, who was still grinning, but for a different reason. He must have been recognising the same emotions in me that he'd felt the first time he went up with the Lafayette Flying Corps.

Eventually we got to our altitude and turned West, following our trench lines. I stared out to the East, expecting to see the dreaded Bosche at any moment and picturing great dogfights in the sky in which Larner, Pyne, Casper and I sent down scores of Germans in flames. I smiled to myself, and turned my eyes forwards once more. Ahead of me, black spots appeared against a cloud, and slowly faded. Confused, I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Still there. What...was that? I looked harder, and noticed three machines above the strange cloud. Then, I realised...it was anti-aircraft fire! And those machines - they must be Germans!

At my control the engine of my SPAD roared into life and I pulled up, straining to get on the same level as the Bosche machines. This was it! Grinning from ear to ear, I cocked my twin vickers as we bore down on our prey. Just then, the artillery begun to burst around us. Surprised, I jolted off to the side, looking down. Damn - we were over Bosche lines! I looked at the three machines again, and with a twinge of disappointment realised that, no, they were SPADs. Deflated, I settled back into formation and tried to ignore the flak.

It was barely five minutes later that Larner suddenly waggled his wings and pointed his nose up, climbing hard. I did the same, frantically looking around for what he had seen, and - there! Four Germans high above us in formation, no doubt about it! I could see the crosses! We fanned out, and I saw the three SPADs ahead of us turn to also give chase. My heart raced once more, and I set my sights on the Bosche leader. He would be the first to fall to my guns. Getting closer, I could see that these were Biplace machines, the Observers in the back all pointing to each other, then our flight, before taking up their machine-guns.

I had drifted ahead of my flight, but I was still far too low to do anything about the Germans above us. Suddenly, the leader of the other SPAD flight flashed overhead, and I got a good look at his machine. It was Cpt. Soubiran - and he was gaining on the Bosche! Tracers flew back and forth as Soubiran peppered the rear machine. Exhilaraton flooded through me, and I doubled my efforts to climb up to the Hun machines. A second SPAD now arrived and went after his target, then another. Our boys weaved back and forth, shooting and then dodging the return fire. How expert they looked! I may have been frustrated at being stuck below the fight, but I was watching one hell of a show!

I whooped with delight as one Boshe machine lulled out of formation with a SPAD hot on its heels before going up in a brilliant ball of flames and breaking apart!





I was now ahead of the fight, and still climbing to reach it, but my flight had arrived now and the Bosche were taking a hell of a whipping! A second German had now broken off from the formation, and was being swarmed. Suddenly, as we crossed into the German side, the last two threw their machines into a spiral and started coming down! I immediately swung my SPAD around to face them and bore down on our prey. You're not getting away that easily! I thought to myself, as the panicked German two-seaters attempted to spiral down. One went into a steep dive and I followed, with another SPAD in tow. To my dismay, the German went all the way down into the dirt.

Determined to get a Hun for myself, I turned back and climbed towards the last German, who now had two SPADs chasing him. I watched his observer fire a burst at one machine, and suddenly my bloodlust left me as I watched, horrified, as the SPAD he had targeted nosed up, and then went into a spin, plummeting towards the earth. I tried to catch a glimpse of the number on the wings to see who it was going down, but they were too far off to tell.






The falling machine disappeared into a cloud, and I prayed that the pilot would be able to recover from his death-spin. Suddenly anger surged in me, and I charged the German machine responsible. He had been shot to pieces by my wingmen, both of his lower wings had been shot away, but still I opened up on him until my left Vickers jammed. I circled away to clear the jam, and when I turned back I could see the Bosche machine in a smouldering heap, having fallen next to a ruined cottage in the middle of the mud. Grimly satisfied, I flew home.

I was the first back at Vaucouleurs. I excitedly jumped out of my SPAD, eagerly anticipating discussing the morning's events with Casper. Soubiran arrived back first, then Pyne & Larner. The rest showed up over the next 30 minutes. Everybody except for Casper. I excitedly joined the pilots in the mess hall as we fervently blurted out our accomplishments for the day. Another 20 minutes went past before somebody pointed out Casper's absence. Suddenly, the image of the spinning SPAD dropping through the clouds flashed into my mind.

I sat out for hours at the edge of the airfield, waiting for my buddy to show up. He never did. At about 5 PM, Cpt. Larner appeared beside me. "Drummond..." he started, and I turned round, begging him in my head to give me some good news. "The Major's just been to see Soubiran. We've had a telephone call from the lines". My heart sunk, my breathing became erratic. "Around the time we had our fight, they saw a SPAD tumble out of a cloud and go in. They couldn't get out to recover the pilot, but they say it had an Indian Head on its fuselage. We think it's 2nd. Lt. Reynolds".

The ground fell out from beneath my feet. My head spun. I looked dumbly at Larner, who patted me on the shoulder consolingly. "I'm sorry, Drummond" was all he said, before turning back and heading for our Barracks. When he was out of eyeshot, I burst into tears. Images flashed through my head rapidly. Us making a tyre-swing back home. Casper in his uniform at the train station, the day before he left. That devilish grin he'd given me earlier today, as I'd struggled to keep formation. How could he be dead? How was it even possible?

Eventually I wiped my eyes, and my sorrow shifted into a burning rage. I vowed right then and there.

I was going to kill every filthy Bosche that I saw.

Really enjoying this thread. Kudos to all, and thanks for makin' me and Dunn feel welcome.

@Jerbear - Great storyline w/ Lt Goode. I especially liked the historical touches - Prohibition, moving from Signal Corps to USAAS, etc. Keep up the good work! By the way, is Goode from "deep down in Lou'siana close to New Orleans"?

@Wulfe - Nice touch with the cigarette story. Also, I kinda like Rast. Hope he sticks around. As for the US side of things, welcome to the Muricans. Great opening story and the loss of Reynolds was especially touching. Great job.

- Witt