Fullofit, heartfelt congratulations on the award of a VC to Toby. He can put up the ribbon immediately, of course, but he would likely receive the medal from the King at the investiture ceremony. I think the next such occasion was held at Buckingham Palace on 5 February 1917. Perhaps we can get a London story out of Toby! And that New Year’s Day attack on the DFW – you have more guts than Dick Tracy. With my luck I’d have lost three pilots in the time it took for that machine to go down. Tell Toby to watch himself.

Lou, I really enjoyed the vignette about Bishop. By the way, I’m hoping to make it two Stowe Maries in February when my son and I are driving from London to Harwich en route to a battlefield tour in the Netherlands. If we get to stop there, I’ll be sure to send you some photos. You really outdid yourself in the next episode. Getting lost over water like that must have been terrifying. It would have been too simple to fly directly into the North Sea in that weather without knowing what had happened! One of the marvellous things about this sim is how engrossing it can be even away from the front lines. Yours will remain one of the most memorable flights in Woff history!

MFair, I’m starting to think that Frank Lucas is a typical Southern politician – shaking hands with the unemployed! Well done.

Carrick, I do believe that Rene has started a new school of French painting. A very, very special school.


An Airman’s Odyssey – by Capt James Arthur Collins, VC, DSO, MC

Part Ninety-Two: In which I confront a dreaded task


We spent the last afternoon of December 1916 decorating the mess for a festive dinner. Ian Henderson had left a wonderful surprise for us before departing for HE – a large tureen emerged in the arms of the mess steward and Major Rodwell read a card that Henderson had left for us. “For those of you Sassenachs and colonial settlers requiring an introduction to a better (i.e. Scots) way of life, let me present you with a proper Atholl Brose.” The Major explained that Henderson had begun preparing this treat in early October – a potent mix of heavy cream, oats, honey, and several bottles of fine whisky – all stirred and turned and fermented into a milky, sweet, soothing, and highly alcoholic delicacy. It made an afternoon spent creating paper chains and bunting a delight. Ackerman from A Flight was particularly taken with the mix, and had us all in stitches by going down on one knee and crooning to Captain Watley “Pale Hands I Loved beside the Shalimar.”

Our dinner guests included many of the chaps from 27 Squadron. We had a splendid pork roast in a Madeira sauce, followed by plum pudding and drunken speeches. The PMC supplied the obligatory Christmas crackers with paper hats and noisemakers. And at midnight we persuaded a slightly tipsy Hansel to give a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Our C Flight was on for patrol at eight the next morning so I did not make too late a night of it. After firing every Very light we could find into the night sky I sat with Hansel on the step of the mess building for a last cigarette before bed.

“That Hun from the Roland was a good sort,” said Hansel out of the blue. I nodded. “It’s really rather rotten, isn’t it, sir? Having to shoot at the fellows, I mean.”

“It is,” I replied. “But the king gives you seven bob a day for doing it.”

Hansel smiled. “Yes, but it’s still a rotten thing to do. I shall be glad when the war is over, though.”

“And then what will you do?” I asked.

“I really don’t know,” Hansel replied. “Flying really is topping, and war flying is a topping sport. I wish only that we didn’t really have to shoot the other chaps.”

I let my head sag between my knees. “Hansel, for God’s sake! Those fellows are shooting at YOU.”

“Oh but sir, they’ll never hit me. I’m absolutely sure of that.”

I stood up. “Get some sleep,” I said. “We’re putting that idea to test in the morning.”

It was a crystalline blue morning, the first good day in a while. Our task was to patrol the line from Arras north to Lens. We climbed to eleven thousand feet and crossed into Hunland east of Boiry St-Martin. A mile or two over we turned north. Only a couple of minutes later, I noticed sunshine reflecting off something far below. I banked one way and then the other. Then I saw them – a large formation of enemy scouts several thousand feet below. I waggled my wings and turned about to count the Huns. We were four – Child, Orlebar, Hansel, and me. There were seven Huns, dark in colour with their nasty black crosses painted on white squares. Even from this distance one could tell they were Halberstadts.

I hesitated. Five of the Huns were spread out in a wide V formation. The other two were a little behind and above them. We would be outnumbered and a little lower than I would like, but I thought we might be able to surprise and destroy the two trailing Halberstadts before their mates were able to turn about. Still, there was a nagging doubt. One does not win wars by listening to one’s fears, I told myself. And down we went.

The two trailing Huns were alert and before we got in range they broke left and right and began to climb towards us. I glanced left at Child and Orlebar. Child was turning left to pick up the Hun on that side. Orlebar, however, was turning beneath me and heading for the Hun on my right. I looked right and saw a black smear of smoke paint the clear blue sky. A collision! I hoped against all odds that there were two Huns involved. But then a yellow panel of canvas with a bright red white and blue roundel caught the sunlight as it tumbled lazily in the air.

It was Hansel’s machine.

As a young boy back in Saskatchewan I had been a good pupil in school. Our schoolhouse was a single room with children from the age of five to the age of thirteen. The teacher had advanced me a year and still I led the children of my age in our final marks. There was one boy, Bogdan, who took an intense dislike to me. He teased me relentlessly and missed no opportunity to give me a cuff in the schoolyard or to steal my lunch or knock the cap from my head. Bogdan was three years older than me and was built like a threshing machine so I didn’t fight back or protest much. It seemed pointless. Then came the end of my third grade school year. On the last day of school we received our reports and mine was one to be proud of. The teacher, Mrs Hardinger, even gave me a book of stories about the Empire as a special award. But as soon as school was let out, Bogdan followed me and snatched the book away. In that instant I “saw red” as they say. All fear vanished and I wanted blood. I chased after Bogdan and jumped on his back. He swatted me to the ground, but I leapt back to my feet and punched him in the face as hard as I could. He staggered back with a roar but had no time to retaliate. I was on him with both fists flailing and knocked him back against a tree. There I grabbed him by both ears and smashed his head on the tree trunk again and again as hard as I could. Mrs Hardinger came running from the school house, having been called by several children. She tried in vain to haul me off Bogdan but I was determined to smash his head open like a coconut. I barely heard her screaming at me. In the end, a passing farmer helped her break up the fight and Bogdan ran off spitting curses and threats.


My school days -- me (far right) and Bogdan (fifth from right)

I had never reacted like that before or 1since, but in this instant I was back in that moment. Now there were six Bogdans, for the other five Halberstadts had seen the collision between Hansel and their colleague. For nearly five minutes I fired first at one and then another German machine. It was foolish to get into a turning fight with a Spad yet that is exactly what I did. I did not have the patience to zoom away and turn back. I wanted blood and I wanted it right now. One of the Huns spun away. I hit another with a full deflection shot as he tried to turn back at me. He to put his nose down and headed east. I saw Orlebar entertaining two more Huns. Child was nowhere to be seen but neither was the Hun he had been engaging. I turned about yet again and saw a Halberstadt heading towards Orlebar. I was on him in a second, the sun at my back. He did not see me until I fired from a mere thirty yards away. The tracers plunged into his machine all around the cockpit. The Halberstadt rolled on its back and tumbled earthward, clearly out of control. I watched with satisfaction until it smashed into the ground far below, making a third column of smoke beside those of Hansel and the Hun he fell with. This was my twenty-fourth victory, but I did not feel victorious.


"I was on him in a second, the sun at my back."

It was customary when a pilot fell to go through his things and make sure that nothing unseemly was sent home to the family. Items of flying kit were typically claimed by members of the flight. Normally I would have performed this sad duty. I could not face it and delegated the job to Child. But there was one task I could not delegate. I opened a bottle of Yukon Gold and, pouring myself four fingers of neat whisky, took out my pen and writing paper.

“Dear Mrs and Mr Hansel,” I began...