Finally I’m back to WOFF and what a great load of stories to sort through. Fullofit, your pictures of the buffet at Gare de Lyon have me craving lunch. Mortuus, that was a close call on the loop. My guy’s CO told him he’s a soldier and not a daredevil and not to mess about doing those “twirly things.” Wulfe, I find your story really evocative of the period and like the feel of the sergeant’s mess as you describe it. You have a great cast of characters. How much is historical and how much is your creation?
Lederhosen, great pictures as always. I like the look of flying out of Freiburg. Good luck over the mountains now that you’re posted. Hasse, another masterpiece is in the making. I liked the scene with Julius’s father and am intrigued by the mysterious Leni. Ace_Pilto, I’m looking forward to seeing Drongo at the front. He seems like a real “larrigan,” as they say in Oz.
Loftyc, best of luck with Fw Lofthoven! And Carrick, maybe Lou can create an energizer bunny award for the most consistent contributor. MFair, does Jericho have plans for that .45?
Maeran, loved the mannequin drop! By the way, did you use William Fry’s Air of Battle as your source for Doncaster info? Lou, your cross-channel flight was a hair raiser. That’s next on Jim Collins’s agenda and I’m getting nervous. Hope to see you in France. Finally, 77_Scout, maybe I’ll meet you in St-Omer soon.
Last edited by Raine; 01/03/1908:29 PM.
#4455965 - 01/03/1909:02 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: Oct 2011 Posts: 641Ace_Pilto
Part Seven: In which I sprout wings in ways reputable and otherwise
With each day, I became more confident with the BE. No longer did I have to check off in my head all the steps of the starting procedure. No longer was adjusting the mixture a conscious operation. The wind on one’s cheek, a change in the note of the engine’s hum, or a slight looseness in a control told me volumes and the machine simply responded to my thoughts. Perhaps, gradually, I was becoming a pilot.
My first cross-country came up on the 14th and I flew northwest in a frigid, cerulean sky over the downs, past the spires of Oxford, and picked up the shimmer of Draycote Water off to the west. I found Rugby and settled gently onto the small field at Lilbourne, just east of the town, where a superannuated recording officer noted my logbook and I returned to Netheravon, quite pleased with myself.
I’d developed a throaty cough and medicated it with whiskey and lemon. It’s an old family remedy. You place the lemon at the foot of your bed and open the bottle of whiskey as you lie down. When you see two lemons, you’re well again. This time, however, it didn’t work. Instead it developed into a bronchial infection and by the 16th I was ordered into the infirmary as the doctor feared it would develop into pneumonia. Fortunately, the weather turned bad again so I did not miss as much flying as I could have. It bothered me that Jerciho was already in France and Swaney was nearing the end of his training, while I had several more hours to put in.
Swaney visited several times, but it was a lonely Christmas. The infirmary was nearly empty as, I was told, most young pilots simply kill themselves and do not need long caring-for! The sleet drummed on the windows and the skeleton crew of attendants was preoccupied elsewhere. I read several poor novels and played chess with myself (losing badly every time). Finally, on the 27th, I was cleared to fly and in two days completed the remaining elements of my course, which included two mock bombing runs all the way to Thetford. My machine performed flawlessly and I added six hours to my logged time.
First night flight
On 28 December 1915 the day I’d been dreaming of arrived as Captain Hampton-Lewis strolled into the mess and informed those gathered about that Second Lieutenant James Collins was no longer provisional and had earned the right to put up his wings. He then informed me with a wink that, as I was not wearing the wings he had in his hand, I was improperly dressed and would have to buy a round for the officers present. Swaney, I learned, had received his wings that morning and was bound for France as there was an urgent need for pilots. In fact, he was already posted to No 3 Squadron – a Morane crowd. I ribbed him mercilessly and demanded he buy me a drink now for I was not likely to see him alive again. The Captain then informed me that I had been slotted for 3 Squadron as well, but because of my health another had taken my place.
I was sad not to be joining Swaney and Jericho at No 3, but happy that, unlike Swaney, I had been forced to forego my embarkation leave. So I was heading for London as a freshly-minted flying officer. And I was on my own until 3 January, when I was to report to Masons Yard  at 9:30 in the morning for further orders.
The train trip to Paddington was long and crowded. I shared a compartment with two majors and an outsized lady who snored. Quite full of myself, I opened my greatcoat enough to let the newly-sewn wings show. After a long time the balder of the majors leaned forward and peered at them. “A pilot? Really? How old are you?”
“Nineteen, sir,” I replied.
“Damned foolish thing to do,” he said.
“Quite,” added his companion.
And so the rest of the trip passed in silence. Except for the snoring woman.
I took a taxi to Mayfair and booked myself into the Cavendish, because Captain Hampton-Lewis had recommended it and because it would be a short walk to Mason’s Yard on the 3rd, and I did not intend to be late. Being alone in a strange and wonderful city was a new experience and as soon as I was settled in, I went out and wandered about as in a trance. There was tea to be taken at Fortnum’s , and I found Hawkes & Co. on Savile Row, where I got measured for two proper tunics, breeches, and slacks. The issued maternity jacket made me look like a Bohemian waiter. I dined alone at Wilton’s  and returned to the hotel to find a gay party underway, populated by RFC officers and beautiful young ladies and presided over by the Cavendish’s proprietress, the daunting Miss Rosa Lewis.
Rosa Lewis in 1914
I am not used to social occasions, and my experience with young ladies is negligible, but Miss Lewis had me smoking an actress’s Sobranies and learning the foxtrot within the hour. Of course, for the record, I retired later to my virtuous couch. Or that is what I’ll swear to.
I was determined to go to war comfortably and spent several hours in Dunhill’s pipe shop on St. James’s  and, just a few feet away, I discovered Berry Brothers, the wine and spirit merchants. There I first tasted the ginger cognac that they had devised for King Edward , and by the time I left I’d not only ordered a case (with the promise I’d wire them where to send it to me in France) but I’d secured the rights to sell the product in Canada through Collins’ Distillery. They were rather amused to hear of Collins Yukon Gold Whiskey, but declined the offer of a sample case. Their loss.
Berry Bros., 3 St James
Most evenings I joined some of the pilots from the hotel for dinner or shows. And before I knew it, the week was gone and I was sitting on a bench at Masons Yard. When my name was called I reported to a captain with one arm, saluted, and accepted a manila envelope with my orders and travel documents. I was to take the train to Farnborough, report by noon on the 4th, and ferry a BE2c to St-Omer where I was to report to the pilot pool.
 The RFC despatch office off Duke Street.
 Fortnum and Mason, across the street from the Cavendish, has been a purveyor of fine foods since the 1700s.
 Hawkes (now Gieves and Hawkes) is still at 1 Savile Row.
 Wilton’s is a fine seafood restaurant that had its origin as a shellfish merchant in Haymarket in the 1740s.
 Dunhill’s pipes began as a motoring accessory, having been designed to be used in a stiff breeze.
 Berry Bros. & Rudd still sell the King’s Ginger, and it’s highly recommended!
#4456014 - 01/04/1902:48 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: Aug 2010 Posts: 4,701carrick58
Don't forget to check the Dot Visibility rule on page 1 of this thread and ensure your rookie pilots are appropriately short-sighted. The hours required to improve your air vision should be based on hours served on operations, not training or familiarisation, so please note your number of hours when you arrive at your squadron and make your calculations from there.
#4456060 - 01/04/1905:06 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: May 2012 Posts: 3,214RAF_Louvert
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
Hasse, incredible introduction to Julius, super stuff.
Maeran, the dummy toss was brilliant, and a great bit of historical context. Well done.
Fullofit, another wonderful episode in Gaston’s tale. And the painting is superb.
Ace_Pilto, can’t wait to see how Drummond does when he gets to France. The man’s a character to be sure.
Mark, here’s hoping your pilot and mine can survive the Moranes.
Carrick, your pilots always seem to find the prettiest mademoiselles.
77_Scout, Aleck should not be too anxious to run into the Hun, it will happen soon enough.
Wulfe, Campbell’s reports are outstanding. Love all the historical bits being brought in.
lederhosen, great pics and report. And yes, those landing fields in the middle of the woods do look far too small.
Raine, great story, too bad though that Jim won’t be coming along to 3 Squadron. Good Lord willing his path will cross again with those of Mark and Swany. .
I know it’s been said already, but the writing here has really been taken up several notches. It’s a treat to catch up every day. Now, if you will allow me the pleasure, I shall add my own bit to bring Swany somewhat up to date on his adventure. .
January 4th, 1916 Auchel, France
Snow and ice and wind, four days straight of it, had 2nd Lt. Swanson feeling right at home in his new digs at No. 3 Squadron. He’d arrived in the small hours of the morning of the New Year, having missed nearly all the celebrations owing to the fact that he’d been bumping along in a tender from Saint-Omer since the night before. After shuttling his repaired mount from Saint-Inglevert to No. 1 Aircraft Depot late in the afternoon of December 31st, landing just as the snow began blowing about in earnest, he was informed that he was to proceed immediately to his new assignment. They were in desperate need of pilots and so time was of the essence. He had but a few minutes to grab a quick bite and a cup of tea and make a stop in the WC while his kit was being transferred from the front office of the B.E.2 to the back of the tender, after which he was off.
What should have been a two-hour drive took all night, due in part to the weather, but in larger part to the inexperience of his driver. The poor fellow, one Corporal Lewis, had no apparent sense of direction whatsoever, and was lost far more often than he was found. Add to this the fact that he seemed terrified to push the Crossley to a speed that might exceed a brisk walking pace. It was a god-awful ride. After countless wrong turns and seemingly endless detours Swany was beyond relieved when, seven hours after starting out, he and his kit were standing in the falling snow outside the door of the Officer’s Mess at Auchel. Offering a less-than-cordial wave good bye, Swany hoped he would never see Corporal Lewis or his wayward truck again as he watched both disappear into the wintery darkness.
The next four days found the entire camp snowed in, with all flights cancelled. It gave Swany time to settle into his new surroundings and to visit with the other American currently in camp, 2nd Lt. Mark Jericho. He already knew the fellow from Canada and Netheravon but they’d only had a passing acquaintance there, despite having a character like Jim Collins as a shared friend. It’s not that they’d been avoiding each other, it was just that they were always off in different directions. Now, however, they were sharing a hut, as the C.O. thought it a fine idea that the Yanks be kept together. And despite the fact that both Swany and Jericho were relatively quiet sorts, after several days with little else to do the two got to talking and realized they had more in common than simply their country of origin. They each enjoyed the outdoors, were quick to learn, and both were cut from a rugged cloth. In addition, the two men each enjoyed the works of Mark Twain, which was discovered when Swany was unpacking his gear and tossed onto his cot a dog-eared copy of “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court”. And perhaps most binding of all, they each found the other’s dialect downright funny; Mark with his southern Mississippi/Texas drawl, and Swany with his northern Scandinavian/Minnesotan/Canadian accent. The Brits in camp generally thought they both sounded odd.
#4456063 - 01/04/1905:26 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Thanks, Raine & Lou! At the moment, the 'cast' are works of fiction, save for Maj. Wilson, who was 20's first C.O. I plan to write in some more historical characters as the story progresses!
Sgt. Graham A. Campbell No. 20 Squadron R.F.C Netheravon, England.
January 4th, 1916.
The snow continues to keep us grounded here in Netheravon, and no flying has been done whatsoever since the start of the New Year. On the one hand, the chaps are rather tired of the lack of activity, but I will say that we have been thoroughly enjoying our day-excursions to Salisbury.
Today, I decided to conduct my own inspection of the workshops on the Eastern end of the aerodrome. Maj. Wilson has been toiling day and night to prepare 20 for our eventual deployment to France, and, as a result, the men have been running around in a frenzy collecting deliveries, maintaining our engines, and stocking our inventory for the journey. As I arrived at the workshops, I saw Warrant Officer Billing ordering around a gaggle of corporals, who were carefully unloading three 160hp Beardmore engines from the back of a truck. The engines were to be taken over with us as spares, along with twelve additional Lewis guns and a handful of Sterling Wireless sets, that would be installed in our F.E's overseas. I have been enjoying the modest comforts of the Sergeant's mess while I can, as I have also seen fabric tents being unloaded from trucks yesterday - no more stone walls for us over there! Hopefully it is slightly warmer in France.
Speaking of - I wonder how our boys who have left already are doing! Teddie Lawson promised he would write us at Netheravon, but as of yet no word has come. His letters are probably sitting on some Censor's desk, being appropriately mutilated in case of interception by German Spies.
I found out from Pearson that the Major has, in fact, already seen service in France, with No. 5, and has been previously mentioned in Despatches and received a MC! Rumours have even spread among the men that he is the legendary "Mad Major" - the R.F.C airman that has been seen stunting over German lines in spectacular fashion, as well as strafing the hun trenches. But, that can't be true, for he was just a Captain during his time! I had noticed his speech impediment when I first reported to Wilson, but, again having found this out from Pearson, it turns out that this is not an ailment from birth - but, in fact, the result of a serious air crash in which he badly broke his jaw and fractured his skull, in 1914. Although it is an awful thing to think, I am glad that the Major had the smash. It makes him feel more like one of 'us' - that is, the air fighter - and less like the harsh Captains that I knew in my initial excursion into France with the Sherwood Foresters. I must admit, the constant cold has me worried that a second touch of pneumonia will scupper my second chance at reaching the war.
Grounded again! Hopefully we'll get this war underway soon, though
Last edited by Wulfe; 01/04/1911:03 PM.
"I missed the fourteen-eighteen war, but not the sorrow afterward...
#4456064 - 01/04/1905:41 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Another day grounded with blowing snow; shows no sign of letting up. I spent much of the day keeping warm in the pilots room listening to the others talk, mostly about home. With Christmas passing and a new year of war just starting, everyone is feeling pretty low.
I got away to the relative quiet of the mess for a large part of the afternoon, to study my map of the local area. My army-issue map is excellent; a beautiful and colourful prewar bit of art from the Louvert Mapping Co. onto which some diligent soul has sketch the location of airfields, balloons, etc. I have always loved maps and getting to know my way around the area will be critical to my performance as a pilot. http://SimHQ.com/forum/tmp/13141.jpg
#4456068 - 01/04/1906:53 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Part Eight: In which I bid farewell to England, find France, and prepare to mount a killer machine
Mummy was a trifle out of sorts that I had not travelled to Cambridge to spend my leave sipping tea in her parlour with her friends and the vicar, but the wonders of the Cavendish Hotel’s social set and the theatres of the West End and the restaurants of Piccadilly and the Savoy Bar had somehow clouded my view, I suppose. Anyway, she and my sister Dorothy took the train to the city and I found them rooms at Brown’s Hotel, a short walk away. I’d lied to them that the Cavendish was fully booked. They would probably have been scandalized by the nightly revelry there.
I met them at Brown’s and took them to listen to de Groot’s orchestra and dine at the Piccadilly Hotel Grill Room. Dorothy wanted to teach me the foxtrot and was suspicious when she found I already had learned a few steps. But gentlemen never tell...
"I met them at Brown’s and took them to listen to de Groot’s orchestra and dine at the Piccadilly Hotel Grill Room."
We hired a car and driver to take me to Farnborough early the next morning and Mummy and Dorothy went along to see me off. The trip took a little under two hours and the day was bright and unseasonably warm. There was time for elevenses at a café near the Royal Aircraft Factory. My mother put a brave front on it all, but I could tell she was sick with worry. Dorothy laughed and teased, but her nerves showed as well. For my part, I was itching to be off and quite insensitive to their distress. I assured them that flying was wonderfully fun and very safe, that the Hun scarcely bothered us, and that we would push the enemy out of France and probably Belgium by summer’s end. We parted at the café and I walked to the factory gates alone, looking back only once.
The aircraft I was to ferry to St-Omer was a BE2c equipped with a new type of wireless telegraphy unit, destined for operational trials. A middle-aged civilian electrical engineer named Salter was to accompany me in the forward seat. He’d spent the morning being shown the basics of the Lewis gun, as the machine was to be armed for the flight across the Channel.
We took off around 12:30 in the afternoon and climbed slowly to the east. My kit was stowed behind my seat and together with the slightly portly Salter, his kit, and a collection of electronic bits and pieces, the aircraft struggled for altitude in the crisp air. After an hour, Tonbridge and Tunbridge Wells slipped under my left wings and, with some of our petrol burned off, the machine edged past 7000 feet. I wanted to cross the Channel at 10000 feet if possible so that I would have the ability to glide a long way if we encountered engine problems. Salter made me laugh, for he was playing with the Lewis like a schoolboy shooting red Indians, only his foes were imaginary Fokkers. Of course, I couldn’t hear the fellow over the engine, but the frozen spittle on his moustache told me he was making the necessary machine gun sounds. He looked back at me with a broad smile and saluted.
We met the coast just west of Dover and turned southeast for France. The needle of the altimeter edged just past the number ten and I at last throttled back slightly and rechecked the mixture as the white cliffs of England disappeared into the haze behind. A few minutes later I estimated we were entering the danger zone – the part of the crossing where we should be too far from either shore to glide for safety. “Just ten minutes, Lord,” I thought. “Let the engine run for ten more minutes and we’ll be fine.”
The engine did its job, buzzing along smoothly as I searched the haze for some signs of the French coast. Nothing. I began to pray again. “Thanks for the ten minutes, Lord. Any chance you could tack on another five or ten minutes of smooth sailing? And sorry about the other night. God bless Mummy and Dorothy. And look after Dad.”
The sun was westering and shining on the water two miles below with blinding force. I thought I saw something and squinted into the glare. There it was again, a shimmering grey shadow dulling the glare. I watched as the streak turned from silver-grey to green with a white border of crashing foam. The shape of Cap Gris Nez emerged, by my estimate about eight miles off to my right.
"The shape of Cap Gris Nez emerged..."
We turned eastward and followed the coast until the smoke of Calais’ chimneys directed our way southeast, and from that point the shapes of large woods and the canals and main railway line guided us towards St-Omer. We approached the depot and airfield from the southwest and I searched for the section of field at which I’d been ordered to land. Salter had been here before and pointed at a row of hangars at the east end of the complex.
"Salter had been here before and pointed at a row of hangars at the east end of the complex."
There was a inspection parade underway at the west end of the field and I made a point of passing overhead about fifty feet off the ground and scaring the dignitaries’ horses (I was later to learn that the parade was a reception for General Henderson, who had arrived from England only a short while earlier this day). I reported to the OC Pilots’ Pool, a pleasant fellow with the imposing name of Lieutenant W.F.C. Kennedy-Cochran-Patrick, who said that I should find my hut, get settled, and report to the hangars to get familiarised with machines other than the BE2, because I might be posted to a squadron flying any type. In the mess, I also learned that I was lucky to have found St-Omer at all, because the day before there had been a major fire in the Depot's bomb stores. Only a courageous effort by the major commanding the stores had saved the place from going up. 
I did so, and found that besides the ubiquitous BE2, there were two Bristol Scouts, a lone FE2, and one of the dreaded Moranes, of the type familiarly called a “Parasol.” One of the sergeants helped me into a Bristol and was talking me through its peculiarities when Lieut. Patrick appeared and told me to “get down from there.”
“You’ll never see a Bristol,” he said. “There are a few, but only for the experienced men. Let’s try you out on a Morane.” I stared at the thing, which occupied the other side of the same hangar. Its single wide wing hung from a central mast above the fuselage, looking more like the roof of a shed than a flying surface. It took little imagination to see the bloody thing separate itself from the machine in a tight turn. The tail was the real killer, though. The Morane lacked a proper tailplane. Instead, the entire tail surface was an elevator that pivoted on a central rod so that as the rear edge went up, the front edge went down. “Be very gentle with the elevator,” Patrick warned. “It’s twice as sensitive as you’d think, and it doesn’t take much to throw the nose into the ground as you try to lift off. Oh, and the stick is short for a tall fellow like you, so keep a grip on the thing.” I noticed what he meant. One would have to be an orangutan to hold the stick comfortably.
To my great relief, it had begun to snow and the wind was picking up. Patrick swore under his breath and suggested I put off my first flight here until the morning. I would at least live another few hours.
 David de Groot's Piccadilly Orchestra played the dining room of the Piccadilly Hotel throughout the war and the 1920s.
 Actually, Major Newall was the OC of 12 Sqn, based at St-Omer. He and a corporal broke into the storage shed and extinguished the flames, an action for which the Major received the Albert Medal. It is not known whether the corporal received anything other than burnt boots.
#4456092 - 01/04/1910:07 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: Oct 2011 Posts: 641Ace_Pilto
The Omrah had put into Libson, apparently German submarines were wreaking havoc on ships travelling into the channel and, in light of this, the captain had decided that a resupply and a few days in port were in order. Staring at the Portuguese city from the deck of the Omrah was even more torturous for Drummond than staring at the sea, Drummond had no identity papers or passport and, while the crew had been allowed ashore by the Portuguese authorities the contingent of troops, and Drummond, were required to stay aboard. Things weren't all bad though, each evening the crew came back with fresh food for the galley as the tins of mystery meat were getting low, due to the many delays that had hampered the voyage and Drummond had by now made friends with some of the troops, including a 2nd Lieutenant Drummond from Perth whom he had met on the voyage.
It turned out that they had more in common than a surname, the Lieutenant had also worked in a bank, owned by his father in Perth, and had joined the Australian Imperial Force in order to get away from the monotony of life as a clerk. Being from a well-to-do family 2nd Lt Drummond was able to secure a commission for himself in the army through his father's contacts and considered himself lucky to have been sent among the first Australian troops to France. His first name was Peter, he was a typically tall and tanned, blonde haired Westerner with an easy going smile and a dapper moustache that he took a lot of pride in maintaining. Peter had also taken to smoking a pipe in the hopes that, being only 22, this might make him seem more mature to the other men who weren't much younger than himself.
That night the crew had brought back a few bottles of Madeira and Drummond, Peter and the troops enjoyed some fresh oranges, spitted lamb and a healthy amount of the Portuguese wine, which none of them were accustomed to the strength of. Pretty soon their spirits were ebullient and they decided to start a Two up school.
Two up is a very simple game of chance. Two pennies are thrown from a wooden paddle called a 'kip'. The players place bets on whether the coins will land with either two heads, two tails or one tail and one head. Drummond still had a few of pounds from the sale of the horse he had stolen so he joined in the fun.
"Two tails." He called
Two tails came up. Drummond was mildly surprised. He'd never gambled before and the idea that he'd just doubled his money in a heartbeat was exhilarating.
"Let it ride, two tails." He said evenly, trying to contain his excitement. The men laughed, Drummond was mad to make the same bet twice but, as surely as the contrary nature of fortune is prone to behave in such circumstances, double tails came up again.
"Again, two tails"
"Drummond you crazy drongo, you'll never get two tails three times in a row." Peter cried, his cheeks flushed with grog, wreathed in pipe smoke. The men laughed, they were betting heavily against Drummond and, by the time they were ready for the next throw, he stood to win a small fortune.
"Go on then, we'll see. Come in spinner! Two Tails!"
The coins soared and spun through the air in an arc, landing with a tinny clatter on the deck. The men surged forward and huddled around them, showing each other to peer at the result. A wild cheer erupted. Drummond had converted his 5 pounds into just over fifty in only three throws! Fifty pounds was a lordly sum for most of them and Drummond, astounded at his good fortune, decided that he'd pushed his luck far enough. He slipped a couple of bob to one of the crew who'd remained behind for more refreshments, in order to be seen as being a good sport and because he felt slightly guilty at taking the other men's money. Drummond had won himself more than money though. More money than he'd ever had in fact. He'd also earned some new friends and a nickname.
(Note: 'Drongo' is old fashioned Australian slang for 'fool' or 'idiot')
Last edited by Ace_Pilto; 01/04/1910:09 PM.
Let's pretend I got the BWOC badge to embed here.
Wenn ihr sieg im deine Kampf selbst gegen, wirst schwer wie stahl sein.
#4456128 - 01/05/1901:57 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: Aug 2010 Posts: 4,701carrick58
4 Jan : got off to the lines on recon today. It was suppose to be 2 a/c but the other ship wont fire up so Right O I went by me self. I must say, I didnt see much of anything but the pics did after being processed. Only 2 came out out of 10, But HQ was happy.
#4456146 - 01/05/1911:14 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Well that didn't go very well. I was supposed to fly an orientation flight from Munster to St.Die and back. I have been given the new, and only AV.C1 of the squadron and it let me down. I just hope no one thinks I'm cursed and all that. Start was 12:20 with a full load of bombs although we were told not to get closer than 4km to the front. Weather was fine, for winter near the Alps! We took off and climbed to 1600m over Colmar and started for Munster. 20min later and the oil pressure starts to drop. It all went so fast as our motor conked out on us 3min later. Looking downwards one could see only wine fields and mountains filled with tree's. Where to land ???
At only 1600m we knew that gliding back home was out of the question. By the time we had reached 1000m my passenger, Oblt.Wind, was showing me a strange look on his face. I was new, straight out of flight school, and he didn't know me. I'll bet he was cursing the Hauptmann for this assignment. But one has to keep a brave face. It has been a few years since my stunting at Berlin but I felt that I could land safely. Then I remembered the bombs...all ten of them. I had to write a note to ask what to do about them. Heinrich's face went even whiter, if that was possible. He had forgotten them as well. One quick look around and down went the bombs into the woods.
My first choice to land was an opening but we quickly passed that, and even a second one too. Ahh to hell with it, a decision has to be made, and I'm going to land on a road. The largest one was still to our front. I had one go at this so I did my best..... and what do ya know, we landed safely about 8km from home...or about a 3hr walk. Heinrich decided to go for help and that I should stay by the aircraft.
Last edited by lederhosen; 01/05/1911:17 AM.
make mistakes and learn from them
I5 4440 3.1Ghz, Asrock B85m Pro3, Gtx 1060 3GB
#4456183 - 01/05/1907:04 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: Aug 2010 Posts: 4,701carrick58
Great stories all. Looks like the weather has been keeping everyone on the ground. Lou, properly scary stuff with the engine failure over the Channel! You and MFair are very brave getting assigned to fly the Parasols. Raine, how do you learn to dance foxtrot on a virtuous couch?
5 January, 1916 Le Bourget Sergent Gaston A. Voscadeaux
New Year came and went. The snowfall hasn’t stopped until the 3rd and was quickly followed by a torrential rain, which ceased in the evening of the 4th. Gaston was on pins and needles ever since receiving his orders to transfer to Toul, where he would join Escadrille C17 flying Caudrons. He was anxious to get underway. This would be his longest flight to date and he wanted it for once to be a worry free journey. No breakdowns, no crashes, no getting lost. He would stick to his usual plan, which was to follow the roads, train track and rivers. There were puddles everywhere. The recently snow-covered green grass once again dominated the take off area. Grass and sodden soil, the two factors responsible for today’s share of slips, falls and stuck-in-mud footwear. Gaston was glad his travel kit included l’antidérapant (“non-slip” - the French word for wine). He had left Le Bourget at 9:00 and was flying towards Epernay on the by now familiar trail. The weather was improving with each minute and the further east Gaston travelled the more dry it appeared to be. He reached the city one hour later and that marked the furthest point he had ever flown away from his home base. It was all new to him from now on. Gaston continued further east until he reached Chalons and turned southeast to follow a network of roads and train tracks that were crisscrossing each other. This would lead him to the enormous Lake du Der-Chantecoq where he would turn east and pass just as impressive La Val Forest. As the sprawling forest was passing by on his starboard Gaston promised himself to come back here hunting after the war. Oh, the size of the wild boar roaming these woods must be colossal. Gaston continued his journey eastward until he finally reached Toul city. From there it was just a short hop south to the west edge of the Haye Forest, where the Toul aerodrome was located. Gaston was relieved that everything went well and the weather cooperated. He began his descent and final approach. It was approaching 11:36. He took one last look. It would be his home for the unforeseeable future.
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."
#4456195 - 01/05/1908:40 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Fullofit, I think dancing on the virtuous couch was learned from the missionaries. I think that’s what it’s, I mean they call it.
The rain seems to have everyone on pins and needles waiting for what’s to come. Great stories Gents,
Mark Jericho Auchell aerodrome, France. Jan. 1916
Jericho sat at the controls of the most ungainly looking beast he had ever seen. He and his observer were to “make a few rounds about the field” so he could get used to the Morane. He blipped the engine, the signal to pull the chocks, and they bounded down the field. Being very conscious of the warnings about the sensitive elevator, he eased forward on the stick to bring the tail up. The Morane bounced twice and he felt the wheels pull free of the earth. Yawing back and forth he slowly gained altitude. Everything he had heard about this machine was true. One had to fly it every second.
After one circle of the field he began to feel comfortable enough to have a look around. “This would be some fine country to explore by horse back” he thought. His observer interrupted his gazing to point out some landmark and he was quickly reminded that there was a job to do and he was out ranked by the Captain behind him. His thoughts returned to the business at hand. After 20 minutes Captain Wharton tapped his shoulder and then to the ground. It was all over to soon and Jericho made a smooth landing on the field. As they disembarked from the Morane, Wharton turned in his direction and said, “tomorrow, weather permitting, we will visit the front lines.” Jericho saluted, “Yes Sir. I’ll be ready Sir.”
Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or a fool from either end. BOC Member since....I can't remember!