So much has happened here in the last week! I’m going to be away for about a week and a half with limited access to a computer. I’m going to ask RAF_Louvert to step in as the “campaign gods” until I’m back on 25 February. Lou – I hope you don’t mind.
MFair – congratulations on an outstanding start to Gunther’s career.
Fullofit – I still can’t believe that Toby stood up the King for a bit of fluff! And after all that he is rewarded with a Tripe! You are one lucky devil. His first couple of combats have gone very well. As MFair said, Toby has acquired a very good feel for “Anne.”
Seb – Von Toombs has had an outstanding start. I loved your 6 February 1917 photo of the Albatri in line at the aerodrome. That was a frightening experience coming under heavy ground fire. I find you have to be very careful after some time off. More than once I’ve had a career finish shortly after the return from several days off with an injury.
Harry – our pilots are being led astray by some interesting vixens these days. That nurse Higginstein has been attending the Carrick Health Sciences Centre course for a special nursing!
Carrick – I agree with Shredward’s observation about the 10 February 1917 photograph of the Nieuports in the snow. It was right out of a book.
Martin – it’s so good to have you dive into the campaign so quickly after connecting with WOFF. It didn’t take Sub-lieutenant Davies long to get into a hair-raising scrap!
An Airman’s Odyssey – by Capt James Arthur Collins, VC, DSO, MC
Part Ninety-Nine: In which good things come in small packagesAtherton is gone. He had barely unpacked.
So it was with the new fellows lately. They arrived from the depot, wandered about the fringe of the conversation and tried to catch the major’s eye, stumbled over a few introductions, threw their kit on a cot, and took a chair at the bottom of the table for dinner. The first two or three days were easy for them, just familiarisation flights. Most were terrible at formation flying and few had the notion that gunnery was the difference between life and death here. It took four or five weeks before any of them could find their way about the sky in a scrap, and another month or two before they were likely to bag a Hun. But by then they were likely dead. We had been going through new fellows at a frightful rate. Since the New Year in C Flight alone, Hansel, Kerr, Cromwell, and now Atherton had come and gone. Child and Orlebar soldiered on, and Major Harvey-Kelly attached himself somewhat regularly.
“Boom” Trenchard had declared that missing pilots should be replaced at once. “No empty chairs,” he commanded. Our newest fellow arrived barely five minutes before dinner that night. He was unable to get fully introduced before we sat down. To my delight he was a fellow Canadian, a diminutive chap named Ward. Major Harvey-Kelly was served his plate of ham, peas, and potatoes, was poured a glass of red wine, and called on Ward to stand up and introduce himself. The new man reluctantly got up.
“You’d better stand on that chair,” said Captain Xavier. “We can’t see you down here.”
Without a second’s hesitation, little Ward got up on his chair and began waving down the table. “Hey everyone, how you doing? Name’s Jimmy Wade an’ I come from North Sydney, Nova Scotia. For anyone that’s not fully educated, that’s in Canada. God’s country.”
“Tell us about your flying experience so far,” said the major.
“Nothing much to talk about,” said Wade. “Started on Rumpties. Broke two of 'em. Then Avros. Only broke one of 'em. Then BEs. Didn’t break any of those things, but had one fall apart by itself. Then trained on DH2s. My little card here says I should be assigned to rotary-engined two-seaters. I guess it’s only natural they put me on inline-engined scouts.”
There was a very long silence, broken only when Major Harvey-Kelly said, “Well, we shall have to notify the Huns that they'd best give up now. This is Captain Collins, your flight commander,” he said, pointing his dinner knife in my direction. “He’s another Canadian. Can’t be helped, I suppose, what with the war on and all.”
I took Ward up daily but left him out of offensive and line patrols for the first week. We had a few. On 6 February, Child, Orlebar, and I chased a Roland from Bapaume to Riencourt. The next day we went with Reed and the major to shoot up a Hun aerodrome near Douai. And the day after that we shot up a balloon near Cambrai.
It wasn’t until 10 February that I dared to take little Wade up to the lines. By this time he had worked to remedy his more major faults – a complete inability to keep station and a tendency to land too fast. He had already taken the undercarriage off one Spad by overrunning the field and vaulting a ditch. Ours was a line patrol near the large wood we called Mossy Face. We paraded up and down the line at eleven thousand feet, huddling behind their windscreens from the icy blast. The Major pulled abreast and waggled his wings. I could not see what he was pointing at so he led the way, a long spiralling dive in which we pulled out at three thousand feet just five hundred yards behind a lone Albatros. Just as I prepared to fire, the Hun put his nose down and headed for his aerodrome at Riencourt. We gave chase despite heavy ground fire and Archie. Over the aerodrome, two more Albatri were circling. It was a great but short scrap. When machine-gun rounds began to snap through the fabric of my wings, I zigzagged away and fired a white Very light to signal the others to break off. A pillar of black smoke rose from the other side of the German airfield. I saw Harvey-Kelly and Child, but Wade had disappeared. Dammit! It was a long journey home to Fienvillers.
"Just as I prepared to fire, the Hun put his nose down and headed for his aerodrome at Riencourt."I landed and taxied up to the sheds where Sergeant McGlashan and his lads met me.
“Any joy today, sir?” he asked.
“Not for me anyway, Sergeant. The others will be down in an instant. But Mr Wade…” I searched for the words.
“The wee gentleman is having us work nights again,” Sergeant McGlashan said. He was pointing across the field. That was when I first noticed Wade’s machine, half-hidden amidst the bushes that flanked the ditch down by the road. And Wade himself was running towards me.
“Did you see the smoke, sir? Did you see the bugger burn? I got one! I got an Albatros!”
Perhaps I’d get to know this new fellow.
I was on for an early patrol the next day but Corporal Merchant, our hut servant, arrived at seven with tea and biscuits and the wonderful news that we had a combination of snow and fog and all flying had been cancelled. He told me, however, that the commander wanted to see me as soon as I was up. I pulled on a pair of slacks over my pyjamas and a cable knit sweater, and I made my way to the squadron office, mug in hand and running my fingers through my tangled hair.
“Jimmy,” said the major with a grin, “I have some good news. Come on in.” I entered his office at the back of the orderly room and saw the Equipment Officer, Davison, was already there and enjoying one of the major’s Turkish cigarettes. “Davison here tells me the two of you have been planning a filthy outing to Paris.”
“I don’t know about filthy, sir. But one can always hope.”
“I was going to wait until lunch to let you know,” said the major. “But with the weather I figured the earlier the better. You’ve been back in France nearly four months and are due for leave. It was going to start tomorrow. With the weather, I have been able to change the paperwork to add today to your leave. You and Davison are both excused duty until the 25th instant.”
Davison spoke up. “I have a supply lorry conveniently dispatched to Amiens in an hour’s time. If you throw your kit together it can get us to the station in time for the noon train and we'll be in the city tonight. But for God’s sake, clean yourself up. Not going anywhere with you looking like that.”
We were both giggling like schoolgirls as the major waved us out of his office. “Do try to preserve the Entente, will you two? Paris. Good God. What in heaven’s name is wrong with these boys?”