Fullofit - At this point in history, American football is barely distinguishable from Rugby football. I always find it fascinating to stumble on the rugby antecedents in modern times. Free kick after a fair catch, for example, or the occasional maul. Football in 1917 was 3 yards and a cloud of dust. If you've ever seen an American football from those years you'll know the reason why. That pipe-smoking Observer, Oliver has definitely seen him before. Not sure what's going on with that particular balloon. Something not right there.
Dreams of his women prove elusive for Oliver however much they may occupy his mind. As ever, the grim threshing floor of the war god is where he treads his measures. Excellent news about Ziggy's healing arm. Not so much Tybelsky's dyslexia. Ouch!

Raine - A fantastic account of young Mac. Easy for a reader to get lost in the rich historical detail. Well done, sir. He's moving up fast. Mac may need to learn a flick roll sooner than later if he is to stay alive. I was worried for a moment with that great bloody Hun latching on like the proverbial Gila monster. And what a binge! Pleased to see Commander Draper has both a sense of the moment and a sense of humor. Now, to stay alive...

Carrick - Red noses! The Baron's men! Those d*mn Huns can fly, that's for sure. Good show from young Thorpe giving it right back to those Hun rotters!

R. Talbot - The true historical approach. Excellent! Looking forward to Thomason's next adventure. I see his Logbook was once in the Scott Rall Collection. Is that what you were able to purchase?

Wulfe - Another tour de force. I concur with Raine that you have the feel of the Aviation Militaire like no other. Grey has fallen in with a rogues gallery to be sure. Pierre is truly a rascal. But now Paris sans supervision. Do tell. Inquiring minds.
Congrats on the confirmed kill. May it be the first of many.

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À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 48 of many



12 November 1917
56 Squadron RFC
Estrée-Blanche, France

Twenty minutes past Noon, with stomachs growling, A-Flight departed Estrée-Blanche for our new home at Laviéville. Weather unsettled and growing misty. Lost two pilots early. Harmon’s engine failed to start and Hoidge returned after takeoff with engine trouble.

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I’d planned a stop at Izel Le Hameau, home of No. 84 Squadron

Our hosts provided the latest intelligence on the weather and a fine lunch as well.

2.30 Airborne again en route to Laviéville. Just West of Albert, our new home was in 54’s old neighborhood. Chipilly and Corbie lay within easy reach. Once settled, I would call on the divine Madame de Rochefort at Le Café Fou.

The landing ground at Laviéville was a bit tricky for the uninitiated but A Flight landed without incident. Standing with Turnbull in the hangar watching C Flight plus Harmon make their landings, it was soon clear that Harmon had badly misjudged the approach. He was nearly down when he realized his error and opened the throttle wide. Too late. His stalling SE came dancing forward on it’s tail straight for our hangar. We ran for our lives. Harmon swerved at the last second, obliterated one shed then ran halfway through a second.

Two sheds written off and one bent SE5. Harmon was undamaged.

“Is there any truth to the rumor that Harmon is joining the Tank Corps?” remarked Turnbull.

Settling into proper Winter quarters. Laviéville boasts permanent Iron Hangars and Nissen huts for all. No more canvas! I’m with Mac, Beery and Maybery.

Maybery, or Richard as I’ve come to know him, is a Welshman, and one of the bravest men I've met in France. He passed out of Sandhurst in 1913 then took a commission in the 21st Lancers (Empress of India) and saw action in the first years of the war but on the Indian Frontier. Wounded, he transferred to the RFC, qualifying as an Observer in Fall of 1916. He took his wings in April 1917 and joined 56 Squadron. An exceptional pilot, Richard is one of those individuals who excels in any endeavor. Were he not the humblest of men, he would be insufferable. From what I’ve been able to learn, Arthur was in love with Richard’s cousin Nasra.



13 November 1917
56 Squadron RFC
Laviéville, France

A day of orientation flights and shuffling of aircraft. Mac will take my B.35 in a few days time. My new machine, fresh in from the depot, is B511. Moody and Allyn had it ready for test flights by late afternoon. It has a real Hispano Hispano that is the most powerful engine I’ve flown in France. Finally! Another day of tuning and she’ll be ready.

Both Albatri from two days ago confirmed. Eighty-nine now. Two more and I will draw level with Captain Swanson.



14 November 1917
56 Squadron RFC
Laviéville, France

9.00 First patrol out of Laviéville was an escort of 3 R.E.8s from RFC-59 on their recce of enemy lines between Bapaume and Bullecourt. B511 made her first combat patrol. A-Flight was Hoidge. Turnbull Dodds, Cawson and Roy. Crossing the lines at 4000 feet, Albatri attacked from on above. Green tails! Jasta 5.

In the confused melee I latched onto the nearest Hun. After 20 rounds the Vickers jammed.

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I put half a drum of Lewis into him at close range

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He dropped then from the chariot and his armor clattered upon him.

Climbing, I pulled the Lewis gun down but lost grip on the drum which flew over the side. After three minutes of cursing I cleared the stoppage. Circling north of Riencourt I attacked a green Albatros.

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He too journeyed down to the house of the Death God.

There were no friendly aircraft nearby. Unlikely the kill would be confirmed. Alone and low in Hunland I made for Allied lines finding Hoidge along the way. Continuing west we intercepted a silver-colored Green Tail racing for home. Painted on his fuselage was a red dragon breathing fire.

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Through the rain he fell, bursting into flame before he crashed 2 miles west of Riencourt.

Circled the rally point over Bapaume with Hoidge for 15 minutes then returned to Laviéville.

Took Roy, Cawson and Dodds up on a practice patrol this afternoon. The youngsters learn quickly but they are too eager. I admonish them but in truth I was no different. Let us hope their Gods are as merciful as those who watch over me. Flew B511 again and she is a marvel. At last, a first-rate machine! All honor to Corporals Moody and Allyn.

As predicted Wing denied the Green Albatros but confirmed the other two. 91 now.

Tonight after dinner I raised many toasts to Captain Swanson, whose score I equaled this day. I staggered back to our Flight Commanders hut much inebriated. Despite the occasion I couldn’t help but feel regret. I had such high hopes of meeting the man.



15 November 1917
56 Squadron RFC
Laviéville, France

9.00 Telephone report of heavy Hun activity along the Bapaume- Marcoing road.

With B flight in trail, we circled the intercept point for 10 minutes before sighting a lower flight of Albatri. I led A and B flights around to the North then dropped on the septet of Huns. Red noses! Jasta 11 again.

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Two Albatri took a malicious interest in me but B511 had enough speed to zoom above them. One broke off. I gained position on the other, hitting him with a 30-round burst, before he dove out. Staying high with the fight, I saw a red Albatros chasing Hoidge. Attacking, I landed a burst from 80 yards.

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Is it really you, my dear Baron?

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I broke hard as bullets tore through B511. White hot iron seared across my arse.

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As the Hun flew past, I kept sight on the Baron from the corner of my eye.

B511 flew on. Incredibly, my stinging backside and two bullet holes through the windscreen were the only meaningful damage.

The red Albatros dove left and I followed. Inexplicably the Baron’s rescuer was nowhere to be seen. A third burst of 60 rounds sent the Red Albatros sliding off to the right. He began a powered circling descent, gaining speed as he went. I followed but could not close. Crossing below 3000 feet I thought he might level out, but his spiral continued into the ground 3 miles NW of Old Mossy Face.

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Was it Von Richthofen this time?

Lucky B@stard, Oliver. That wingman nearly killed you!
Stupid Stupid Stupid!! You should be dead! DEAD!


I’d fixated on the Baron and neglected to check my tail. Lucky to get off with just another graze. Whether Eliza’s prayers, grey-eyed Athene, or vagary of chance, I couldn’t say. I’d made an inexcusable mistake and lived. I flew home much chastened and grateful to be alive.

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“...straight ahead by the flank the spearhead shore through his tunic,
yet he bent away to one side and avoided the dark death.”


Downward graze of left buttock. It stung but wasn’t serious. Had I not been leaning into the right-turning break the bullet might have caught me in the back or somewhere more vital. Still alive.

Grandpa was incredulous at first then sunk his teeth into the CR once the others described the fight.

The evening dispatch from 13th Wing brought confirmation. 92

Had I really slain Achilleus, or was it Patrokles wearing his master’s bloody-red armor?

Arthur was with me the last time, grinning wildly. He was so happy for me even as I downplayed my success. His long-ago toast from the night of all our decorations echoed in my mind.

“Von Richthofen, our worthy enemy.”

Arthur. I miss him greatly. I cling to the hope that he might be alive and a prisoner, but that fades with each passing week.


Last edited by epower; 12/16/20 07:31 PM.