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Fullofit - Congrats to Ziggy on his most well-deserved new bling. And that is a pretty one. To his last outing, if those Frenchmen continued to work together throughout their attacks the way they do at the beginning our Zygmunt could be in a world of hurt.

Epower - Great interview with Macmillan, I’d not seen that one before that I recall, thanks for sharing. I trust you’ve read “Into the Blue”. If not you most definitely should, perhaps next to a roaring fire now that you have the last of that needed wood put up for winter. As for Freddy getting himself to the Chateau Anthrax, it’s too far off, he’ll have to make do with the nearest CCS.

Raine - MacAlister was able to experience a searchlight sortie and live to tell the tale. His luck held I see, not only in not falling victim to that sneak attack in the darkness but also in dropping one of his assailants. Now to those bloody Bolsheviks, they’ve really made a cock-up of it, freeing all those Hun troops to move to the Western Front. And Hughes caught a Blighty one in the form of a popped ear drum? There’s a fellow likely counting his own lucky stars.

KK - Apologies for the cliffhanger. Here you go.

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17 December 1917
65 Squadron R.F.C.
Bailleul, France

(continued)


It is said that the Lord looks after children, drunks, and fools. As Captain Frederick Abbott drifted down over No Man’s Land, the engine in his mount stone dead, the Hun barrage raging below him, and the muddy earth creeping ever nearer, he considered this. He was nearly nineteen, and currently sober as a church mouse, which left only the last group to qualify for. A fool it was then, for it was clear that some unseen force was at work, given the divine glide rate the disabled Camel was now demonstrating. Freddy watched the devastated expanse of shell holes and tangled barbed wire slip beneath him dangerously close, while he searched desperately for somewhere to set down. But he floated on. He saw the British front-line trenches and forward lookout posts slide by, breathing a sigh of relief and waving to the Tommies who were giving him thumbs-ups and cheers from their hiding places. Still he floated on, sure that the wheels of the Camel must now be skimming the ground as he cleared the support trenches. Yet somehow he floated further still, defying gravity as he cleared the reserve trenches, and finally the communication trenches. A threatening vanguard of trees loomed large ahead but in it a gap, and through the gap a grassy meadow opened itself to him and the Camel at last touched down, as if set there by the Almighty’s own hand. It rolled gently and peacefully to a stop a short distance from a British observation balloon.



Captain Abbott removed his flying goggles and gloves and undid his harness, and thanked God for his deliverance. He then removed the cockpit watch from its holder on the dash and slipped it into his pocket after which he gingerly rose from his perch and climbed carefully down from his mount. As he did so he noticed a small amount of blood on the starboard side of the seat cushion surrounding the hole created by the Hun bullet when it tore through canvas, wood, wicker, and cloth before burrowing into Freddy's posterior. It was far less blood than he was expecting to see, especially considering how badly the right side of his buttocks was throbbing. Once on the ground he began a walk-around, or rather a limp-around, inspection of his Camel. The poor thing was shot up something awful; he counted at least sixty new vents. As he came around the front of his mount for the second time a tender approached from the direction of the nearby balloon and pulled up immediately next to him. A stocky. mustached First Lieutenant of medium height jumped out from the passenger side and ordered the driver, an older-looking Corporal, to take the three lads who were scrambling from the back of the tender, and push the disabled aeroplane into the nearby trees out of sight from enemy guns. He then turned to Abbott and introduced himself.

“Lieutenant Morris at your service. Are you alright Captain?”

“I am, apart from the Hun bullet lodged in my backside”, Freddy grinned. “Can’t say the same though for my old girl”, he continued as he pointed to the Camel being wheeled off. “Frederick Abbott by the way, but call me Freddy, everyone does.” The Captain held out his hand.

“A pleasure to meet you Freddy, and you must call me Dickie then”, the Lieutenant smiled back as the two men shook hands. “We best take you to have that wound attended to. There’s a clearing station about seven miles from here at Bailleul if you think you can manage a tender ride that far.”

“Bailleul, toppers, that’s where I’m stationed!” Abbott beamed. “And no worries about me managing the ride, though I may have to stand for most of it. I don’t appear to be losing much blood, and the bullet’s not going anywhere. And if you’ve a phone back at your camp I can ring up the squadron straight away and have them send a crew to collect my kite.”

“We do have a phone, and you’re welcome to it”, the Lieutenant piped back. “And I’ll post a guard on your plane until it’s been collected.”

“Spiffing - lead on then, Dickie!”

It was shortly after lunchtime when the tender reached Bailleul where Captain Abbott asked Lieutenant Morris to drop him at camp so he could remove his flying gear and check in with Major Cunningham before going over to the casualty clearing station located nearby in the large school building on the southeast edge of the Asylum. Freddy thanked Dickie for his kindness and assured him he would pay the Lieutenant and his men a return visit and drop off a gift to show his appreciation, just as soon as the situation allowed. And with that the two men parted ways. Twenty-some minutes later, with his flying kit shed and a brief report made to the Old Man, who thoughtfully provided him several shots of whiskey to help take the edge off, Abbott was taken to the North Midland CCS where his wound was attended to. As Frederick lay on his stomach on a sheeted table in the smaller of the two operating theatres at the station, trousers and drawers down to his knees, a doctor who looked far too young to be such was busily poking about in the wound on the outboard region of the Captain’s right butt cheek in an attempt to remove the Boche bullet. Abbott had passed on the morphine, (just as he had back in July for his shoulder injury), relying instead on the recently administered whiskey and his own tolerance to pain to see him through. He gritted his overly large teeth as the fledgling surgeon dug about with a forceps trying for a grip on the offending slug. An elder nurse attended, looking fairly annoyed with the whole affair as she dabbed up the rivulet of blood slowly oozing from the punctured flesh.

“Are we finding our way around back there, Doctor?” Freddy jokingly grimaced. “Wouldn’t mind being done with this before tea.” The annoyed looking nurse chuckled quietly to herself at the remark.

“Yes, yes, nearly there now - think I’ve gotten hold of it at last”, the doctor assured as he increased his grip on the forceps and slowly pulled back. “And there it is”, he stated matter-of-factly as he dropped the bloody pellet into the metal tray lying on the headend of the table, showing it to Abbott as he did so.

“Thank God”, the Captain exclaimed, then added, “and thank you Doctor.”

“Yes, yes, of course, no worries. Now you just lay here a while and we’ll let things drain a bit before we dress it. After that you can return to camp. But I want you back here in the morning so we can have another look at it and apply a clean dressing.”

The boyish surgeon was gone before Frederick had a chance to respond. A minute later, after placing a layer of gauze gently over the wound to keep the dirt out while it drained, the annoyed nurse was gone as well.

So there the King’s ace lay, alone, flat on his stomach, bare arse pointing skyward for all the world to see. Five minutes went by, then ten, then ten more, when suddenly a familiar voice was heard from the nearby door of the room.

“Well look what the cat dragged in, and showing his best face too.”

Freddy snapped his head around as he lifted himself up on his elbows and discovered that there, in the doorway, stood Nurse Ellison.

“Lizzie!”


(to be continued)

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