Wow...a Red Eagle! That's no joke! Congrats! I've fallen quite a ways behind, but I'm hoping to make up for lost time before Christmas!

Raine: Another good yarn, and that screenshot of MacAllister going after the Albatros in the spotlight is stellar! And congrats on the gong!

Lou: A brilliantly written and thoroughly amusing two episodes. Glad your man made it back to Terra Firma save and at least partially sound.

Carrick: Be careful around those Green-Tailed artists! That lot are troublemakers, for sure....

Fullofit: My eyes must be going funny. I could have sworn I read "101 Kills"! Imagine...!

epower: There go my eyes again. Was sure I'd read "102 kills" for a second. Must have that checked out. Some very enjoyable stories, but perhaps your man ought to take the time off in England. It sounds like those 102 victories didn't come without a price, and it certainly looks like 56 has some tough neighbours...

Apologies to all I've missed.




A Sky Torn Asunder: The Memoirs of William D. Grey

Part 5: The Depot.

Pierre’s motor car was on its last legs as we arrived at the massive expanse of hangars and lined-up machines that was the Air Depot at Bourget. Davet took the lead as we entered the air park, which I was very grateful for as I surely would not know who to see or where to go if left by myself. After some enquiring to the whereabouts to one Lieutenant Bisset (a friend of Ortoli’s and Davet’s, and a test pilot at the depot), we eventually made our way to a towering Bessoneau with Spads packed in so tightly that I wondered how they were ever to be retrieved. After shaking hands with us, Bisset turned to Davet.

“Spad 31 crashed another machine? Well, no matter. I’ve got just the coucou for you. Tried her out this morning, her motor sings!”.

“Actually we need two”.

Là, Là! Did you forget how to fly over there?”

“Very funny. By the way, Le Capitane’s asked us to get a couple of the two-hundreds if you have any spare”.

The test pilot scoffed. “Sure, we have a couple, but not for the likes of you! Not unless you’ve been transferred to Spad 3 since you were last here! But, if you want my opinion, you’re better off with one-eighties anyway. The new motors are hell to maintain. You’d be lucky to get fifteen hours out of one of them”.

Bisset invited Davet to try our replacement Spads, and he spent fifteen minutes overflying the air park in each one. Satisfied, Davet thanked Bisset, and with that we climbed into the new machines, waved a quick farewell, and took off for home. The trip back to Fere-en-Tardenois was considerably easier than our adventure to the Depot, and we were touching back down in no time at all. I wondered how far along Pierre had got with his broken-down little Fiat.

Having missed my scheduled patrol for that afternoon, the Capitane assigned me to take the first patrol on the morning of the 7th, under Ortoli’s lead. Covin and Chartoire, also on the patrol, didn’t bother to change into their uniforms, instead simply pulling their combinations over their pyjamas. This became the subject of some ridicule directed at Covin, who had some particularly loud sleeping attire, but the Frenchman was unfazed by his comrade’s mockery. “It’s more incentive not to get shot down. What would the Bosches think?” was his joking response.

The patrol went off without much incident, apart from the distant sight of some Spads bringing down a Bosche two-seater in flames. I watched with morbid interest as the German aircraft went into a dive then slowly pitched up as its elevators tore away, carving a sickly black smile in the sky.

Although there had been no Bosches to speak of, save for the one unfortunate Biplace, I had noticed a great deal of other French aeroplanes, mostly the English Biplaces that the Sopwith Escadrilles flew, sometimes being escorted over the lines by Spads. At one point I saw a group of Sopwiths flying very low over German lines. From my vantage point it seemed that the “Flak” was giving them a hell of a time, but they appeared to sail on, unfazed by the barrage. I asked Leguene about it over supper that evening, and he told me that the old war pilots who had flown since 1916 or earlier weren’t much concerned about the German anti-aircraft fire. Having experienced my first shelling only hours ago, I struggled to comprehend this. I'd found the experience, to put it lightly, quite unsettling.



Part 6: A Raid is Ordered.

The next morning, I found myself being roused at Seven O’Clock. This wasn’t Georges’ typical gentle shaking awake followed by a cup of hot cocoa - instead, I was rather sharply poked in the ribs twice before having the cover torn off of me. Before I could even protest, the loud cry of “Merde! What’s the idea, Salaud?” informed me that Davet had just received the same treatment.

The intruder was a short, black-haired Sergeant with a pencil moustache and an impish face which seemed to match perfectly his manner. Impatiently, with his arms folded, he replied. “Don’t give me it, Amette! Get up, the Capitane wants everybody in the mess now!”.

“What in the name of god is all that damned noise?” came the cry from the adjacent room. “What do you think? It’s Messier, of course!” Davet cried back, shooting a venomous glance at the Sergeant. Irritated groans and Boos echoed through the barracks. The little Sergeant, Messier, smirked at the response as if he were proud of the anger he had caused. “Up, you lazy dogs! The Capitane wants you all in the mess!” he cried back. Every French insult I knew, and some that I didn’t, were thrown back his way.

Sure enough, as we congregated in the mess we found the Capitane waiting for us. “Gentlemen, we have a special assignment today”. There were groans of protest, which were quickly silenced by the Capitane holding up a hand. “I won’t hear it! This one’s important, and you’re all assigned. We’ve been ordered to strafe the Railyard at Vivaise. The Bosches have been bringing up ammunition through there. Ortoli will lead the attacking flight, and I will lead another flight to cover the attackers”.

The Capitane went through the details of our imminent assault, and then gave the assignments. Both Davet and I were sorted into the flight that would do the strafing. I had done a little bit of strafing practice at Plessis, and didn’t have much fondness for it. It seemed bizarre to me to want to dive an aeroplane straight at the ground. The talk over breakfast was tense and anticipatory - the older pilots seemed put out at the thought of a raid, but the younger pilots seemed both nervous and excited. “What do you think will happen if I shoot an ammunition crate?” Bordage was asking with a grin. “I bet it’ll go up like a christmas tree!”. Blanc laughed deeply as he lit a cigarette. “Ha! Speaking of christmas, you might want to be less eager about flying at ground level if you want to see it, petit!”. Bordage’s face reddened to match his fiery, gallic hair. “Don’t call me Petit, Gros!”. The pilots laughed aloud together.

Our patrol time - Eleven O’Clock - rolled around, and we made our way onto the airfield. I was impressed by the sight of our Spads all lined up and ready to go. One by one, with the Capitane’s 200 Horsepower Spad in the lead, we took off, climbing up to our altitude in the usual lazy, spiralling fashion before turning out East. It was over Soissons that I suddenly realised that I had the same feeling I had experienced on my first flight with Spad 31 - that almost innocent nervous anticipation. The prospect of our raid was equal parts fascinating, exciting and worrying.

As it happened, I was not to find out what a raid was like. We had scarcely crossed the lines north of Soissons when Ortoli suddenly signalled that we were being attacked and curved sharply to the left. Confused, the rest of us followed, and I nervously searched for the attackers. Suddenly, about 500 meters above us, the silhouette of a plane appeared. I recognised the violent angular curve of its wingtips: Albatros.

A second appeared. Then two more, and another. One machine lazily circled lower with the precise calm of a predator, getting a better look at us, as we anxiously weaved below. As the Germans descended further I got a better look at their leader - he was strikingly painted, with red wheels and a spinner to match. His tail was pinstriped in red and white. They continued in their effortless, almost contemptuously lazy circle - and then, as one, they sharply pointed their nose down and fell like lightning upon us.

For the opening moments it seemed that none of the Bosches had picked me out. I circled to the right and saw Spads and Albatroses rolling frantically with one another, climbing and falling. With me straining my engine to reach them, I watched as one by one the Spads rolled over into sharp dives, the Albatroses frantically chasing them with machine guns chattering.

Suddenly I was compelled to look behind me, and to my shock I saw the red-nosed Bosche diving straight for me. Instinctually I booted the rudder and curved out of his way, and he pitched back up, flattening out at my level. For a moment we circled, almost lazily, staring at each other down the lengths of our wingtips. The sky seemed empty now - it was just me and my opponent. For a moment I saw a glint of sun from his goggles, then it was lost behind his wing as he suddenly pitched towards me again. I tried to turn my Spad to meet him, but the German machine was quicker, and soon he was behind me again. At first I felt only a mild surprise that he had gotten behind me so well, but as I curved to the right, then back to the left, then right again, a panic started to rise in my throat; I may as well have been towing the Bosche behind me with a rope.

I became more aggressive in my manoeuvring, and the Bosche coolly did the same. More than once it seemed that he had me cold, but each time I managed to spin, or dive, or slip just clear of his guns. I caught sight of a second Albatros, not too far away, and felt my heart sink. It was just then that Ortoli’s first instruction to me popped into my head, clearly as if he’d been stood beside me at that moment. “If we get into a fight and you get into trouble, dive away. Our Coucous are much faster in a dive than les Bosches”.

One more half-turn would see me pointed West. I waited until the green behind our lines flashed into view, and then I threw my stick forwards with an aggression that made me come clear out of my seat, the straps biting harshly into my shoulders. Watching over my shoulder, I watched as the Albatros quickly shrunk, his looming red spinner reducing to a pinprick against the sky. The Bosche didn’t seem to follow - assumedly he knew there was no use - and he casually turned back to the East. Looking up, I saw a pair of machines with English roundels, headed towards the fight. Shaken, I only made it as far as the aerodrome at Soissons before I came in to land, feeling as though I might be sick. As I landed and switched off, I heard the excited chattering of pilots and mechanics, and soon a crowd had formed around me as I willed my shaking hands to undo my harness.

“Allo! Where are you from?” a round-faced pilot happily called out to me as my feet touched terra firma. “Uh, Spad 31” I murmured, unbuttoning my combination and pulling my flying cap from my head. The pilot raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve just come from a fight, no? I know that look! But you must come join us in the mess and tell us about it!”.

I quietly thanked the mechanics as they wheeled my Spad away to check it over, and followed the pilots to the mess, where I was informed merrily that I was being hosted by Sopwith 55. I had lunch with four pilots and their observers, and recounted my experience as best I could. The pilots listened on, and at the mention of the Albatros’ pinstriped tail their excitement turned to quiet anger. “Mais oui. We call them the Striped Escadrille. We’ve lost some friends to them”, one pilot explained.

After lunch one of the Lieutenant-pilots phoned my Escadrille to let them know I was safe and sound. By this point I had managed to calm down a fair amount, and so I thanked the pilots of Sopwith 55 for their hospitality and climbed back into my Spad, heading for home. Ortoli had returned ahead of me, as well as the pilots of the Capitane’s flight, but Davet and Covin were nowhere to be found. The atmosphere in the mess was tense. I drew up a chair beside Ortoli, who patted me on the back as I sat down. “Good to see you alive and well, Grey. I was worried when you hadn’t come back at first”.

“I had some trouble with a Bosche” I informed him. “He damned nearly got me, but I remembered your advice. Do you know where the others are?”. Ortoli’s expression hardened. “I saw Covin get across the lines. No doubt he’s safe. I don’t know what happened to Davet”.

Surely enough, Covin returned not long after I had. He carried his usual smiling, joking demeanour, but under it he seemed rattled like myself. No word came of Davet, and I had started to worry after two hours had passed. The day fell into evening, and still no word came.

I didn’t sleep that night. When I opened my eyes, I saw Davet’s empty cot, the sheet messily bundled up at the foot of it like he usually left it. When I closed my eyes, I could feel the emptiness of the room. When I finally neared sleep, I was revisited by the red-nosed Albatros. My last conscious thought before my exhaustion finally overcame me was of the Albatros’ guns. It quite suddenly occurred to me that he hadn’t fired once, even when it seemed that he was a mere inch away from having me right in his sights. I found this terrifying - for in my mind this only proved his skill, his perfectionism. I was sure that if he had fired even once, he would undoubtedly have found his mark.







Last edited by Wulfe; 12/20/20 01:28 PM.