Fullofit, sorry to read of Dominique's passing. Best of luck to Etienne. He's off to a fine start. Robert, great reading. I'm looking forward to meeting Bishop and getting your take on his personality. Carrick, best of luck with the N23!

Here is Colin Urquhart's latest. He had a close call on the 11th.

A journal of the Great War – By an Anonymous Aviator

Part 21

From the 7th to the 10th of January the weather closed in again: intense cold, high wind, and driving snow. The poor fellows in the trenches have it much worse than us, of course, but the forced idleness made us morose and very sorry for ourselves. We have had a few casualties and four days of sitting about and playing cards and talking about the war did us no good at all. Commander Bromet did his best to keep us busy with lectures and sports and such, but we were getting rusty and we knew it.

Finally on 11 January we had a fine morning. I was assigned the job of taking a patrol of six Pups up to the lines just north of Arras. It was a splendid morning. I decided to forego the usual routine of gaining altitude near Doullens before heading for the lines. Instead we climbed steadily all the way from Vert Galant to Arras, reaching 10000 feet before we arrived there. The morning sun was blinding against the snowy fields, and visibility to the south was difficult. My neck was beginning to ache from search the clear blue sky when, over our lines to the southwest, six or seven specks appeared. I turned towards them.

The unidentified aircraft turned south. If they were ours they would likely be heading to a field, but they were over showing no signs of heading for an aerodrome. I angled to the east to cut them off from home if they were Huns. We were within a mile when suddenly they turned to meet us – seven Halberstadt scouts. I climbed and slipped away as they approached, machine guns blazing.

For some reason, three of the Huns managed to occupy our entire patrol except me. I was a little ahead of the others after the chase, and I ended up with four Halberstadts all to myself! My little Pup twisted and turned, and I got the odd quick burst away. But every few minutes I would have to turn away from three Huns while a fourth peppered poor “Sheila.” Two rounds smashed my instrument panel. One likely hit the interruptor gear, for the Vickers seemed to fire slowly and erratically. With every hit the little Pup handled a little more sluggishly.


"I ended up with four Halberstadts all to myself!"

I panicked. None of the Huns were tiring, and I thought that another good burst would do me in. I threw the Pup into a spin and prayed it would hold together. We were close over our trenches. The machine did not at first respond when I tried to come out of the spin and for a terrible three or four seconds I saw the ground approaching and knew I was dead. Then, for no clear reason, the Pup slowly began to respond, one wing down. I picked the nearest snow-covered field and put down, smashing the undercarriage and port lower wing but thankfully not turning over. As luck would have it, I was close to one of our forward emergency fields and soon had a guard from 8 Squadron at La Bellevue and a ride back to their comfortable mess. They insisted on pouring whiskey into me and I gratefully obliged.

PO Dawson and his fellows worked through the night to repair my Sheila, and on the following morning I joined Colin MacKenzie’s flight on another line patrol, but shortly before reaching Arras there was an almighty bang up front and the LeRhône began to shake. I shut off and began a long glide to Soncamp Farm field.

On the 13th I made the third unscheduled landing in as many days. I was again given the chance to lead a flight, Compston’s, but a connector rod broke and I dropped in to visit La Bellevue again.

Rumour has it we are to be relieved from our detached duty in early February. There is great speculation that the squadron could be split up into its original components, but most agree that we will likely remain a formed unit with a formal designation.

I have acquired a semi-permanent companion – a white, black, and brown wirehaired terrier who wandered into the aerodrome one day and took up residence in our cabin. He has taken to sleeping on my bed, burrowing under the fine Hudson’s Bay blanket I received from home. He is muddying the creamy white wool of the blanket, but it is a fair price to pay for his skill as a ratter. Our Nissen was crawling with vermin, but now it quite free of them as long as the dog is about. I have named him “Pincher” and the others have agreed that the name suits him. Kris McNaughton, one of our newer fellows and a Manitoban, has acquired some blue twill, brass buttons, and braid. He plans to make a jacket for Pincher and kit him out as a flight lieutenant.