Hasse, Tough luck with that jam. Better luck with the Spandau next time. Julius should inspect the ammo belts personally.
Scout, I agree with Chris. At least you don't have to bayonet your enemy. Horrible business.
Carrick, Jasta 11? You should count your lucky stars. Forward firing gun or no.
MFair, you are getting good at this bombing business. Time to tell Major you are now an expert at bombing Haubourdin. Does he have know any other places your expertise could be used to a good effect?

27-28 March, 1916
Somewhere north of Verdun, in enemy trenches
Adjutant Gaston A. Voscadeaux

Gaston was moving through the trenches trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He noticed some officers giving him strange looks. To his mind every soldier he passed wore the dead man’s face. The stahlhelm wobbling on top of his head partially concealed his identity. The infantry unit he had been following took him all the way to the forward trench lines and Gaston was desperately searching for some type of cover to lie low and wait for the arrival of the night, so that he may attempt his great escape under the cover of darkness. He could not find such a place, so instead he picked up a small wooden crate pretending to be delivering it. It seemed to work as everyone ignored him as he carried it from place to place. Gaston was starting to get a picture of the maze he was in and formulating a plan of his escape. He scouted some sections which were not being currently occupied as heavily by the troops. One of these will serve as his exit point. He was amazed how much better these trenches were constructed in comparison to the French ones. There was more space and the drainage worked! The dusk was near and Gaston made himself ready. He knew it would be a moonless night. The time was moving agonizingly slowly but Voscadeaux had to be patient. He was waiting for the last moment before the old sentries were relieved by the new ones. His chances of slipping by a sleepy guard would be greatest at that time. A flare went up from time to time to illuminate the No Man’s Land. His hearing became more acute as his eyes were rendered useless in the dark. Gaston took his place, ready to go over the top. Now! He slinked onto the muddy battlefield. He stumbled blindly forward, crawling under the barbed wire. Whenever the flares were fired he would freeze and play dead. Gaston was covered in mud from the recent downpour. If anyone would be looking, all they’d see would be a lump of dirt and not a man. He continued to crawl. Rats scurried away from his path. He came upon a corpse partially sticking out of the mud. Was this a Frenchman or a Boche? The maggots were feasting on the rotting flesh. The stench was unbearable and Gaston couldn’t help but retch. He moved quickly away from this place trying to hold his breath as long as he could. Another flare went up and now was slowly floating down on its little parachute. Voscadeaux couldn’t see the friendly lines. He still had a long way to go. A dog pattered nearby with what looked like a lower section of a leg with a boot still on. A growl warned Gaston that the prize was the dog’s alone and not to be shared. He kept on crawling. The mud was in Gaston’s mouth, his nostrils and his eyes. He couldn’t tell how long he’s been at it but the trenches had to be close by. He could hear voices, laughter. He had to be near. Gaston was exhausted, sleepy, hungry and thirsty. He was so thirsty. Just a little bit more. Finally he saw the outline of the friendly trench. With a feeble voice he called out for help. Almost instantly several helmets cautiously popped up above the parapet. A torch was aimed at Gaston and after a quick interrogation he was carefully pulled into the trench. He resembled a pitiful picture of misery. A man all covered in mud sat crumpled against the base of the trench wall. Two soldiers kept him under guard. The German uniform he was wearing instilled a sense of mistrust. A Caporal came running with a field medic in tow. The medic, half-asleep looked him over, asked Gaston his name.
“- Gaston Voscadeaux, Escadrille Trente-et-Septième.”
“- Hey Doc, is he alright?” The Caporal leaned and took a closer look at Gaston.
“- Trente septième ...”
The medic took another look. “- He’ll be fine. He’s just dehydrated. Someone bring him a cup of wine.”
“- Escadrille 37 ...”
The doc thought for a second. “- Better mix it with water.”

"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."