Rene Deassult Lavasure
Adjutant Esc N 68
Manancourt,en Vermois,
Verdun France,

4 e/a confirmed
2 e/a Un-confirmed
1 Trk confirmed


23 Nov 1916.


I took out a Bosche 2 Seat ,but got taken out by Zee rear gun. Led a section of 3 a/c down on 2 Scouts attacking a G-4 on Recon. shot off a d rum then dropped back to reload as our Lt. took up zee chase
( I saw it crash after the Lt fired 3 strings of shot at it, Then on the deck, I saw Blue wings. I circled and slanted down emptying my Lewis Gun, shot pass , as bullets ripped my a/c and body Blood splattered and the motor sounded strange. and was loosing power. I landed our side near some Infantry, My wing-mates confirmed the 2 Seat crashing, # 4 .

22. TRIUMPHS AND DEFEATS

Jasta 2, Lagnicourt, late November 1916.

The death of Boelcke had devastated the men of Jagdstaffel 2. The hardest blow fell on Erwin Böhme, whose Albatros had collided with Boelcke’s on that fateful late October day. Having returned from Boelcke’s crash site, Böhme had acted like a man out of his senses. Fearing he might have suicidal tendencies, Richthofen had taken Böhme’s service pistol and handed it over to Julius for safekeeping. Oberleutnant Stefan Kirmaier, Boelcke’s second-in-command, took over as the Staffelführer of Jasta 2. Kirmaier was one of the rising stars of the Luftstreitkräfte and had already shown great skill in hunting down enemy machines with his Albatros. Kirmaier promised to his men to carry on the work started by Boelcke and to make the enemy aviators tremble in fear at the sight of his Staffel’s Albatroses.

The funeral service of Boelcke was held at the Cambrai cathedral on the last day of October. The whole of Jasta 2 participated in the ceremony, along with a large number of high-ranking officers and members of the nobility. Boelcke’s star pupil Manfred von Richthofen was given the great honour of carrying the fallen hero’s numerous medals and orders on a black velvet pillow, as was the custom of the German military. The ceremony was very solemn and moving, but after it was over, Julius noticed he was feeling somehow numb. The war was taking an increasingly heavy toll on his comrades, and the idea of making the enemy pay dearly for each fallen German pilot began to dominate his thinking.

After paying their last respects to Boelcke, the Staffel returned to action once more. The autumn weather was becoming a difficult challenge to the conduct of flight operations, but the Jastas were determined to keep up the pressure against the Entente air forces whenever the weather allowed it. The German army in the West was on the defense, facing heavy British and French attacks both on the Somme and at Verdun. Despite losing some ground, and both suffering and causing heavy casualties, the Germans had managed to hold their lines. The Luftstreitkräfte leadership estimated that since September, the combination of new Staffel tactics and the introduction of the superb Albatros scout had allowed the Germans to shoot down at least four enemy planes for each loss of their own. In some sectors, the ratio was even better. This was surely enough to clear the skies of British and French air services, if only the pressure could be kept up in the months to come.

On 11 November, Julius was leading a Schwarm of Albatros west of Bapaume when they spotted a large formation of French Caudrons heading south. Julius led his group in a diving attack against the French machines. Coming out of the sun, the Germans achieved a complete surprise. Julius fired a long burst from his twin Spandaus, the stream of bullets sawing the upper wing of a Caudron in half. The French plane spun out of control and soon disintegrated in the air. The enemy formation was scattered in all directions, though most of the Caudrons managed to escape by taking advantage of the nearly constant November cloud cover. Julius’s victory was confirmed by the ground forces. It was his number five, so he was now officially an ace.

Two days later, the whole Staffel fought a battle with French Nieuports southwest of Bapaume. Julius maneuvered behind one Nieuport and managed to score hits in its engine. Belching out thick smoke, the enemy machine disappeared in a low cloud behind the British lines. The crash was not witnessed by friendly forces, so Julius was not credited with a victory.

Then on 22 November, disaster struck Jasta 2 again. A bullet hit Oberleutnant Kirmaier in the head, killing him instantly during a fierce encounter with some British Airco De Havilland scouts. Though nobody could fill in the spot left by the now legendary Boelcke, Kirmaier had quickly earned the respect of the men by leading the Staffel by example and with great personal courage.

Furiously hoping for revenge against the British, the Staffel returned to combat on the next day. Their hopes were soon answered as they encountered DH.2’s from the same enemy squadron which had been responsible for Kirmaier’s death. Richthofen led the attack, and soon a deadly turning battle developed south of Bapaume. Julius scored several good hits on the engine of one DH.2, forcing the British pilot to desperately attempt a retreat. However, another De Havilland came to the rescue and distracted Julius long enough for the stricken machine to escape. Meanwhile, after a particularly difficult battle, Richthofen had managed to shoot down one enemy machine. This brought the encounter to an end, as the
remaining British scouts retreated to the safety of their lines.

Soon it was revealed that Richthofen’s victory had been a very special one. He had brought down and killed Major Lanoe Hawker, recipient of the Victoria Cross and commander of the famous No. 24 Squadron. Richthofen took the Lewis gun as a trophy from the wreck of Hawker’s machine.

The death of a respected enemy combatant (“the British Boelcke”, as Richthofen called him) did not bring back the fallen heros of the Jasta, but the men could at least feel some satisfaction from the heavy blows they had struck against the enemy.

Privately, Julius had begun to despise the feeling of bloodthirstiness which now seemed to have replaced the numbness left by Boelcke’s death. But the war was showing no signs of coming to an end anytime soon, and Julius understood they would yet need all the hardiness they could muster to survive it.

Hasse: Nicely done.

Rene Deassult Lavasure
Anges of l ' amour Rehab
Hospital Cabana 4.
Toulouse, France.


Since I will be here for a few days, I was assigned a Day Nurse.

https://giphy.com/gifs/nurse-blink-182-xT0xeJOfZRCgJyopk4/fullscreen

Good tale about Squadron life in Jasta 2 after Boelcke's fall!

Sous Lt. James B. Fullard,
Esc. N.124 'Americaine',
Cachy, France

November 15th, 1916.

Over the next few days, more deliveries of Spads arrived at Cachy and were distributed among the escadrilles. De Laage, Masson and Johnson all received replacement machines, while the rest of us retained our Nieuports, looking on enviously at the pilots as they took their new ships up to trial them. One thing the Spad recipients unanimously agreed on was that the new type was fast - faster than anything they’d flown, or encountered, to date.

On the morning of the 4th, I was given my first assignment over the Somme frontlines - a balloon-bust at Bapaume. The weather couldn’t have been worse. Low visibility, stinging ice-rain, and an abundance of clouds for the Bosche in their new Albatroses to hide behind. I found it slightly odd to see the leaders’ streamers being attached to the struts of my tired old Nieuport 17as it sat beside the three factory-new Spad scouts of my flight. Nonetheless, at 9 O’Clock we set out for the front, and 40 minutes later we were approaching the great scar that was no-man’s-land.

Through the rain and cloud we shakily kept our formation, with the Spads reluctantly matching their speeds to mine and Elmore’s Nieuport 17s. Halfway into the mud, I spotted our balloon, lazily rolling back and forth over the city of Bapaume. I tilted my nose down towards it - and was promptly overtaken by the Spads. My mouth hung open in surprise as I watched them pile on speed at an unbelievable rate , like yellow flashes of lightning. At once they realised they were overtaking us, and so swung back around clumsily to get behind my ship once more. In doing so, they disappeared into the clouds and I didn’t see them again.


By the time I was diving down at the balloon, Elmore had been lost to the clouds as well. I fired off my Le Prieurs and sighed miserably as they cannoned off in random directions, slicing each section of sky except for the one occupied by the Balloon. I then turned to my faithful Millatraleuse, loosing a long burst at the ballon. Immediately I saw licks of flame, and grinned as the lumbering bovine shape exploded into fire.

Evidently, the explosion was seen by my wingmen, who returned to my side not long afterwards. With an abundance of hate-filled AA now firing at us, I decided to make good our escape, sailing South towards Courcelette. As we were approaching the lines, a second balloon made itself apparent to me. I looked over my shoulder at Elmore, who broke into a broad grin and slowly nodded his head. Charging my gun once more, I fired another long burst and, to my surprise, witnessed my target burst into flames just as easily as the first. Not wanting to push my luck any further, I turned us West.

As we de-planed, Elmore threw his arm over my shoulder with a wolf-grin across his face. “Feeling frisky today, I observe!” he crooned. I laughed and shrugged him off. “Well, the Bosche might start getting ideas if we don’t make an appearance every so often. By the way, did you see the first one go down?”. His brow furrowed slightly. “Oh, well, I saw the explosion through the clouds, but never saw your ship overhead...sorry, James”.

My other compatriots told similar stories. Masson and Johnson had only seen the first balloon explode at a distance, and De Laage had headed back early with engine trouble. However, I was pleased to receive confirmation of my 16th victory over the Courcelette balloon later that day.


On the morning of the 6th came bad news. Well, I say bad news, but in actuality it was the best word that the Squadron had received in weeks. Bert Hall was being transferred out! None of us listened for long enough to find out where. Despite myself, I offered to help him pack his things into the staff-car that would drive him wherever it was he was going. As he loaded his suitcase into the back, he turned to me, his face surprisingly serious. “I know I never really fit in round here,” he started with his usual sneer, “But, it’s been an honour all the same. Take care of yerselves”. I was taken aback. Briefly we shook hands, and I watched as the little black staff car pulled out into the country roads and disappeared behind a hedgerow, feeling a sudden pang of guilt.

Later, in the afternoon, I was assigned to a patrol of the frontlines. More factory-new Spads greeted me on the aerodrome, their new pilots smirking as I arrived.

“Say, James! When d’you reckon your Spad is gonna come?”.
“Spad? They’ll probably give him his old N.16 back!”

“Shut up, Pavelka” I laughed, punching him on the shoulder. “C’mon, help me with this combination”. As I climbed into my Nieuport, I realised that Pavelka had something of a point. How come it was me that always ended up with the Escadrille’s oldest ship? I decided I’d bring it up with Thenault later.

For now, though, another rainy patrol. We took off with our scarves wrapped over our faces and made for Beaumont-Hamel, only to find nothing but rolling clouds and empty, cold skies. After an hour we were thoroughly fed-up, and turned back for home.

For the next week the rain only fell heavier, and we found ourselves once again grounded by Temps Aeronautique. During this period, Cachy became a horrendous mess of sucking mud, ominous fog, soaked living quarters and miserable cold. Especially good to us were the pilots of N65, another Escadrille of our Groupe de Combat, who assisted us in finally furnishing our living quarters with some food, as well as a much-revered boiler and, finally, some blankets for our cots. The Spad deliveries were concluded, with the last few airframes arriving by truck, only partially assembled.

It appeared my unlucky streak was continuing. Of all the pilots in the Cachy group, only Elmore and myself had retained our Nieuport 17s. “Can you believe it?” I asked him one day as we huddled around the stove. “You’d think the factory could manage two more airframes! Instead I’m stuck listening to Rumsey complainin’ that he keeps overtaking me on patrol”. Elmore chuckled softly and took a long sip from the bottle of pinard he had conjured up. “I can’t complain. The faithful old Nieuport is far superior to my old ship”. I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What did you fly before?”. The corners of his mustache’d mouth turned upwards. “A Siddeley-Deasy Ambulance”.

We rounded out the remainder of the rain-filled week by making other small adjustments to our living quarters, including a small straw-bed for Whiskey. Our poor lion cub had been miserable in the cold, and Luf and I thought it the least we could do for the little devil. When we weren’t in the mess, we were swapping aviation stories with the French pilots in the community bar. The best stories, naturally, came from our friend Nungesser, or Guynemer, France’s most recent rising star and, if you believed the papers, the ‘Next Voscadeaux’.


On the 13th the rain finally cleared enough for us to resume flying, and I was assigned a patrol of the lines at Cappy. Joining my flight was another relative newcomer - Willis Haviland. I asked De Laage to keep an eye on him, and at 7:30 we climbed into our machines and headed East. Although bitterly cold, the day had turned out beautifully, and we amused ourselves by dancing between the low clouds as we sailed towards the front. As the lines came more clearly into view, we began to climb upwards, all joviality and carefreeness diminishing as we began to scan for any signs of Bosches. To my right, Haviland signalled engine trouble and broke away from the flight, giving an apologetic wave as he did so. As it turned out, he didn’t miss much - the skies remained clear of Germans for the length of our patrol. Unfortunately for Haviland, he wouldn’t get another chance at flying for a while - on the 14th the rain had returned.

MFair, sorry to see Ernst joining the Celestial Flying Corps. Sometimes it can be so hard to survive in WOFF. Ernst was developing into a fine character. Better luck with your next pilot!
Raine, the chapter about James getting wounded was written really well. A totally realistic description of how casualties were treated in the Great War, as far as I can tell.
Maeran, excellent chapters! I look forward to reading more about Stanley.
Fullofit, those Roland gunners are absolute beasts! Fortunately Toby seems to have at least nine lives.
Wulfe, another fantastic episode about the Lafayette boys. I wish you could write more often.
carrick, with Rene's successes it's no wonder he seems to attract the attentions of all the pretty ladies of France.

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Outstanding stories and videos and screenshots everyone, wish I could comment on them all but I was allowed just enough time this morning to get caught up on the reading here. Condolences on the losses and congrats on the victories, gents. I hope to post something soon about Swany but it has been very quiet for him in Home Establishment so not much to tell flying-wise.

Cheers everyone, must dash for the day.

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Carrick, congrats on your latest victory. She … seems nice.

Hasse, looks like Julius is handling himself well. Soon he may even challenge the Baron himself for the top spot. Well done!

Wulfe, that is the best twist so far! Bert Hall is gone!
Congrats on the balloon claim and that SPAD is just around the corner. You'll see …

Lou, don't be a stranger. Swany needs a hobby to pass the time.


24 November, 1916 10:00
Vert Galand, Flanders Sector
RNAS-8
SC Tobias Chester Mulberry DSC&Bar, DSO
38 confirmed kills

“- Have you read the latest?” Flight Commander Stanley Goble waved the newspaper at Mulberry as he walked into the mess hall for his breakfast.
“- No, what’s happened?” Toby stretched before sitting down to his soft-boiled eggs and toast.
“- Major Hawker is dead!” Huskisson beat Goble to the punch. Goble made a face and stared at Huskisson with disgust. He hated when people spoiled the surprise.
“- He was killed by that chap Richthofen. Probably revenge for Kirmaier.”
“- Do you know that Richthofen is a Baron?” Huskisson interjected. Goble gave him another stern look not to butt in.
“- Well he is.” Huskisson added quietly.
Toby didn’t know the man but he knew it was a grave loss. The Germans were slaughtering the Entente pilots recently with the help of those new Albatros planes and their tactics. Thankfully he hasn’t encountered any of those new beasts yet, especially now that he’s forced to fly a Bebe.
“- So, who do you think will take over now? I recon it’ll be the Baron.” Goble gave Huskisson a quick glance before the man could speak.
Toby thought hard. “- It’s possible, but I wouldn’t dismiss that Schreck fellow. He’s catching up to the Baron, you know?” He was gesticulating with the spoon in his hand. A piece of the egg came off the spoon and fell on the table.
“- It’s true!” Huskisson chimed in. “- Did you know they call him Panzerschreck?”
“- No they don’t. Why would they call him that?” Goble was curious. “- Is it because he’s so tough?”
“- Donno, maybe he is indestructible?” Huskisson shrugged. “- But I’ve also heard the Germans let the giants fly now.”
“- Giants?” Toby was skeptical.
“- It’s true!” Huskisson leaned forward. “- They call him Big Red and he’s enormous. Even the Germans themselves have problems with his size. He once nearly squeezed the life out of one of the Huns when he gave him a hug.”
“- Perhaps we should hire him to bear hug the German Army for us?” Goble had a hard time believing anything that came out of Huskisson’s mouth.
“- Well, let us hope we don’t run into any of them over Riencourt. We’re scheduled to patrol over their aerodrome soon.” Toby wiped his mouth. “- C’mon, we need to get ready.”
Goble, Simpson and Galbraith in the ‘A’ flight raced ahead, leaving Mulberry, Grange and Huskisson behind. Once over the target Toby saw the ‘A’ flight engage the enemy. One of the Huns slipped by and began to circle the Brayelles aerodrome. Grange and Mulberry took turns in an attempt to shoot him down. Toby checked there were no giants piloting the Fokker biplane. Grange was getting too close to the Fokker and eventually collided with the Hun. He had to turn back and limp home by himself. Mulberry also had a hard time zeroing in on his target. He succeeded in making a few holes in the kite, but wasn’t used to the overwing arrangement of his Lewis gun and couldn’t tell if he was hitting his target or not. The tracers were barely visible this high up above his head. Eventually the Fokker crashed near the airfield and the remainder of the ‘B’ flight turned back home. Toby made his claim when back on the ground but it was promptly denied. He didn’t care. He had bigger problems to deal with. He needed more practice with that Lewis on the upper wing.

YouTube Link

nice vid Keep em flying'

Rene Deassult Lavasure
Anges of l ' amour Rehab
Hospital Cabana 4.
Toulouse, France.

Nov 25, 1916.


Hospital Gossip indicates that the Englander Ace : L. Hawker V.C., D.S.O. has been shot down What a let down for Zee English. Meanwhile my Day Nurse is engaging in the Hospitals new program of Dance Therapy for the patients. Ahh, I feel better already.

https://giphy.com/gifs/cosplay-happy-dance-blink-182-l2RnjtTLRKc0j29rO/fullscreen

Fullofit, that was some pretty gutsy work on the Roland back on 20 November! Good job making it back to your lines. What caused you to have to revert to the Nieuport 16?

MFair, I was really sorry to hear about Ernst. He was off to a good start and some better machines were just around the corner. Best of luck with your new man.

Carrick, Rene is really off to a great start. I can’t wait to see where he’ll do when he finally gets a Nieuport 17.

Harry, great to see Laszlo back. I hope you had as good a break as he did.

Maeran, I absolutely loved the vignette with Lloyd George. I sense a bit of romantic skulduggery in the offing – storytelling worthy of Julian Fellowes. By the way, the village (pop. 800) closest to where I live in New Brunswick, Canada, was the birthplace of Bonar Law. His father was the minister of the local Presbyterian church.

Wulfe, wonderful to see Fullard in the air again. To be honest, the Nieuport 17 is a better Hun-getter then a Spad 7 in most ways. Because of what you wish for!

Lou, hope things are going well for Swany back in England. You’ll have to stay there another couple of months to let Collins get even partly caught up with him!

Here is the latest from Collins. I’ve been on the road with work all last week and will be away all of this week, so his lengthy recovery is really quite timely.

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

Part Eighty-Four: In which I convalesce

It was nearly a week before they sewed up the hole in my leg. Apparently, the doctors like to pump antiseptic solution into the wound until things internal are well on the way to a proper repair. I was accordingly shipped from the CCS by train to a stationary hospital set up on the grounds of a racetrack in Rouen. There, after several days, the plumbing was removed and the incision on my inner thigh stitched up. Then it was a matter of getting up and walking about. I was anxious to get back to the squadron, but the doctors insisted that I remain at least another week for observation.

Most of the patients were in far worse shape than me and were being treated here in preparation for shipment back to Britain. I met a young Irish subaltern named Boyle who had been treated for numerous minor shrapnel wounds he’d picked up at Thiepval, and who had been unlucky enough not to require repatriation. Together we set out to explore the surrounding area. For some reason, I had not realised that the city was located on the river Seine. I was astounded to see the staggering size of the military build-up here. Every nation of the Empire paraded Rouen’s cobbled streets, and horses, lorries, and narrow-gauge trains carried mountains of munitions and supplies to feed the ever-hungry war.

Boyle and I found a tea-room operated by an industrious elderly French matron. This woman, addressed by all with the greatest of respect as Madame Picard, had mastered the art of producing a decent English cuppa. She’d even do up a proper cream tea. Smart lady – she was not going to waste a good war. Now that women were doing so many jobs formerly done by men, Boyle laid odds that in a couple of years she would be the mayor of Rouen!

Boyle described to me his pre-war work as a bank clerk. He was resolved to chuck it all in and move to Canada after the war. “Automobiles,” he said. “They are going to be the real future. In ten years everyone will have one, and I’m going to be the lad who will sell it to you.” I tried to convince him of the size of Canada and the difficulty the country will have in paving roads from one side to the other, but he brushed it off. “Once I’ve sold you a car, you’ll push the politicians for more roads.” Perhaps he was onto something.

I wrote to Dorothy, and she got permission to visit me once I’d been in Rouen a week. It was lovely to see her again. Her Canadian accent was disappearing under a new and chipper English way of speaking. I teased her about this unrelentingly. She had heard from our mother, who was still teetotal but who now thoroughly disapproved of the war like a good Quaker. Apparently Dorothy had been assigned to get me to come to my senses and desert! I got a pass for us to go into the city, but Dorothy was required to push me in a wheelchair so that onlookers would not get the wrong idea. We saw the famous cathedral, but were unable to go for dinner together. We returned to the hospital and had tea together with Boyle. Rather Dorothy and Boyle had tea well I looked on. They took something more than a casual interest in one another, I believe.

On 23 November, the doctor on duty examined my leg and told me that he did not want to send me back for several more days. The weather had turned bitterly cold. The hospital was nearly all under canvas. Despite extra blankets we shivered all night, and in the mornings the water on the bedside tables had frozen over. The front beckoned.

Sous Lt. James B. Fullard,
Esc. N.124 'Americaine'

November 16th, 1916.

By the morning of the 16th, the rain had let off enough for flight to continue. Feeling sorry for myself, I climbed out from under the dampened sheets and blearily made my way to the operations board, trying to iron out the creases in my uniform by hand. This was a pointless exercise - every pilot in the Groupe de Combat de Cachy had similarly unkempt uniforms, as we all slept in ours to keep the cold at bay.

I found my name at the top of the list, assigned to a patrol over Arras, which was to be led by Thenault. Take-off at 0730. Groaning, slumped down at the dining table. “Morn’, Fullard. Coffee?” asked Rumsey behind me. I hadn’t seen him and, to my surprise, his sudden voice made me jump a little in my seat. Slightly embarrassed, we both pretended it hadn’t happened. Enough war flying will make anybody nervous. “Yeah, thanks” I responded, and Rumsey passed me a pot of a muddy dark liquid resembling something like coffee. “We’re on patrol together again,” he noted, as I took a sip and lit a cigarette. I shot him a wary glance. “Don’t say it,” I warned. A cheeky grin appeared on his face. “Reckon you can get your Nieuport to go at least a little faster?”

“Hell with you, Lawrence!” I cried, and we laughed together. After finishing our coffee, we decided to save ourselves some time on the flight line by climbing into our combination suits. Before long, Elmore had emerged from his room to join us, as had the new pilot, Haviland, who was expressing a puppyish excitement at the chance of “Getting at the Hun”. We shook our heads with knowing smiles at his enthusiasm. “Firstly,” I said to him, “It’s les Bosches. The English call them Huns. Second - if we get into a fight, you hang on the fringes and observe. Rushing in headlong will get you a bullet!”.

At ten past Seven Thenault stopped by our barracks to collect us, with a cheery “Good morning, my Americans!”, and off we went towards our machines. As I spotted the machines lined up, I became puzzled. Pulling a mechanician to the side, I asked him “Where’s my ship?”. It was Thenault that answered. “But, Fullard, it’s right there!”. With a grin, he pointed to the second machine on the line - a factory-new Spad VII.

With a keen and critical eye I approached my new machine. Climbing into its cockpit, my first observation was just how big everything was! The fuselage sat nearly twice the width of the Nieuport, and as I leaned left and right I frowned slightly, realising I would not be able to see below me. The windscreen was large, curling around the fuselage sides, and the wings formed something of a roof over my head, blinkering my vision to the high and low 3 and 9 O’Clock. Thenault appeared by the side of my new ship. “Well?” he asked, expectantly. “It’s comfortable,” I replied, “But how do you see out of the damned thing?!”. He laughed aloud, although my question was a rhetorical joke, and sauntered off towards his own ship.

My next experience of the Spad was starting the 150hp motor. I admit, I was incensed by its smooth idle purr, hinting at power yet to be unleashed. Finally, Thenault gave the signal and we roared down the aerodrome at frightening speed, before lifting off into the morning haze.

What the Spad lacked in visibility, it made up for in flyability. The aircraft, although slower than the Nieuport in maneuvers, climbed like a demon, and in what felt like no time at all we were cruising at 3,000 meters, sailing atop the clouds. The next thing I noticed was the surreal speed that the Spad could achieve in level flight - much faster than my old ship. However, I was not able to fully enjoy the sensation of flight, owing to the enclosed cockpit. For the first time since my initial patrols in Escadrille N.31, I felt truly blind. Rocking the wings to and fro, I strained to spot any Bosches in my blind spots, but none made themselves apparent.


As we approached the lines, overflying the vast city of Arras, I suddenly spotted little white puffs between my spars - anti-aircraft fire. Focusing my vision, I spotted three small, needle-like machines emerge from behind a cloud. The trailing machines were dull brown, but the leader glistened in brilliant silver, contrasting the stark black crosses on his wings. German scouts! Thenault had seen them too, and now he directed the flight towards them. I felt my heart begin to race as I strained, leaning left and right in my seat and attempting to keep my sights on the Bosche machines. As we overflew them, Thenault rolled his Spad onto its back and went into a dive at the leader. I copied the manoeuvre, cutting my throttle as I did so - and immediately my machine accelerated to a speed I had never before experienced. Terrified, I pulled upwards, frantically looking over my wings. They were perfectly fine.

There was a yellow flash to my left as a Spad passed sickeningly close, going the opposite direction to me. This is mad! I thought, none of us can see each other! But, as I rolled my Spad onto its side, the brown shape of a German machine appeared below me. Steeling my nerves, I again threw my machine into that intense dive, watching in awe as the German grew rapidly in my sights. I fired a short burst at him, before screaming underneath and pulling back up. To my amazement, the Spad shot back up like a rocket to my original altitude, where I levelled out again. Tilting myself onto a wingtip and peering over the side, I watched the German I had attacked as he tumbled down through the clouds, with a Spad chasing after him. Had I gotten him?



For a moment, I was blind again. On all sides I heard aeroplane motors whirr past, and panic set in for a moment. Get a grip, James, I told myself, before manoeuvring again, trying to catch a glimpse of the other two Germans. For a moment, I saw a Spad and a German looping with each other within a cloud - and then my wing obscured the fight from view. Ahead of me, I saw artillery bursts. I focused my attention on it.

I then saw a second Bosche, lower than myself, flying East in a desperate bid for freedom. Suddenly feeling emboldened, I tentatively pushed the nose down and dove towards this machine, keeping an eye on the airspeed indicator as I did so. Ever-faster the Spad dropped, and faster still, screaming towards the Bosche below me - and then I was upon him! I loosed a one-second burst at the enemy machine, and watched as it slipped, stalled on a wing, and started tumbling down, whipping in and out of control. Circling above, I watched as the machine wallowed and slipped towards the earth, before crashing in a hail of splinters and dust.

My first landing in the Spad was tense. With the large engine cowling and the wide fuselage blocking my view, I held my breath as the machine sailed down to land, before feeling the gratifying bump of a smooth three-point landing. Rolling to a halt, I shakily climbed down from the cockpit of my new machine, feeling equal parts nauseous, afraid, and awestricken. To my side came Rumsey, offering me a cigarette which I gladly took. “So, what do you think of the new ship?” he asked me. “Fantastic,” was my mumbled response.

Later that night I put in two claims, for “ENEMY SCOUT”. Upon receiving them, Thenault informed me of the German type - Halberstadt. He followed up by informing me that both claims were rejected. Sleep came slowly that night, as my mind raced over my thoughts of the new machine. Its visibility was something to get used to. Its speed was astonishing. Earlier I had called it “Fantastic” - but I still didn’t know my true thoughts on the new type.

I would figure it out tomorrow...




November 17th, 1916.

"Que lui est-il arrivé?"

The Poillu leaned on his rifle, his greatcoat pulled over his head to attempt to block the hammering rain. Beside him, his colleague fumbled with a damp cigarette, before cursing and giving up on it. Sighing deeply, he grasped onto the edge of the Spad's cockpit, leaning over and looking in with a judgemental eye.

"Tiré deux fois. Ici...et, ici" he answered, pointing to the two crimson holes in the flight jacket - one in the right shoulder, and one in the centre of the chest. The pilot's head hung lifelessly down, its goggles pointed at the latter wound - almost as if the man had died while inspecting it. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose, dripping into his lap as the rainwater attempted to wash the body clean, to no avail. Sullenly the two men set about their work - for some reason, it seemed the proper thing to do to remove the pilot from the aircraft and lay him flat. This they did, cursing as the rain trickled down their backs.

The Spad itself was in good condition, save for a few bullet holes in the wings and around the cockpit. The Poillu that had inspected the body whistled in grim appreciation - although fatally wounded, this pilot had gotten his machine down safely. A true airman,he thought.

Half to find the man's identity, and half to find a keepsake, the two Poillus turned out the dead aviator's pockets. Inside them were the usual artefacts - a handkerchief (stained red), a family photograph, and a sealed letter, no doubt intended to be sent home at the end of the day. The first Poillu leaned under the wing. He would not stoop so low as to open the envelope, but he would allow himself the pleasure of at least reading the address. As he did so, he noticed something that surprised him.

"Ah!" he murmured to himself. "C'est un Américain!"




And, so ends the tale of James B. Fullard, mortally wounded by the observer of a Roland on November 17th, 1916.....



But, hey! Silver lining - I'm technically all caught up now! The new chap will be making an appearance in the near-future...

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First MFair's Ernst, and now James, Wulfe? So sad. More brave lads gone off to sing with the Choir Invisible.

Raine, glad to see your James is still on the green side of the sod and making a recovery. He needn't be too anxious about returning to the war, it will most certainly be there when he's cleared to go back.

Carrick, dance therapy eh? I'll bet Rene does feel better after that.

Fullofit, Toby will get the hang of that wing mount Lewis in no time, of that I am sure. Terrible news about Hawker. As for Swany getting a hobby, he is still learning German, and of course he always has his Hardanger fiddle to saw away on. He never seems to be at a loss for something to do, and London is just down the road if he really wants choices.

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Wulfe, my sincere condolences. That was a shock. Good luck with the new pilot.

Great stories all. I have to do some catch up. Keep safe.

Poor James had a rather dramatic ending, actually...was flying on patrol through the worst weather I've ever seen in WoFF....pouring rain and clouds so thick you can only see your flight behind you, no sense of up, down, left, right, etc etc....suddenly we were in among a flight of Rolands!!!! Wounded once immediately, peeled away, wounded again on the way out, landed and got the inevitable "YOU HAVE DIED"!!! Quick and random!

Franklin F. Frobisher. Birmingham Alabama has completed his training and is awaiting his posting. Can’t wait to rejoin you folks!

MFair: What does the F stand for ?

Wulfe : Good luck on the next pilot.

RAF Lou: The Dance therapy program has increased the Hospital's Mortally rate . However. the patients all seem to die with a smile on their face.

So much has happened in the past day.
Carrick had his dance lessons. Raine had to chaperone his sister. And Wulfe, poor Wulfe, lost his pilot to a dastardly Roland. Really bad luck. Who still has any doubts that the Roland gunners are crack shots? Sorry to see Fullard go. Toby will be devastated when he learns of his friends demise. They were stationed so close that they were meant to run into each other again. What a shame. (Why does it still say Nieuport 17 on the stats page?)
Lou appears to enjoy his posting far from any clear and present danger. That is probably the best perk of being awarded a VC. We do miss Swany over the mud.
MFair, can’t wait to meet Franklin. Don’t wait too long.

P.S.
Raine, Toby’s loss of his Pup curiously coincided with the squad’s ditching of the Strutters. Only Pups and Bebes remain and for some reason those N11’s go to the highest ranking pilot, in this case Toby. Go figure. I consider it punishment for losing the Pup and now will have to wait for the squad to ditch the N11’s before getting the Pup back.

A shame, to be sure, Fullofit - but, looking on the bright side, I bet the Lafayettes will finally let Chesty have a turn of Fullard's old N17! As for the N17 showing on the page, it's a mystery. There were a lot of strange things going on with Esc LaF....we had N17s when we should have had 11s, SPADs when we should have had 17s, etc.

Now, then, on to the next:

The Tale of Evan C. Easom, part 1: A Disconnected Mood.

November 26th, 1916.

He had become aware of it as he stepped into the hut-shaped tent, which stood tacked onto the end of the row of towering Bessonau Hangars like an afterthought. It was another one of those strange, disconnected moods, in which all colours seemed to be obscured by a veil of sepia, and all sounds dulled and became muffled somewhat - as if he had been swimming underwater and couldn’t clear the liquid from his ears. It was a mood that he had tried, unsuccessfully, to dissect, to put into words that he could convey to another individual. As it stood, his current best explanation was that, in this state, time ceased to have meaning and emotion became as an artefact displayed in a museum cabinet - to be glanced over from without. All and everything was suddenly viewed, through that sepia haze, as an author might read his own work with a critical, editorial eye. In short, the world became unworld. People became unpeople.

From through the opening of the tent he watched the surface of the nearest Bessonau as it rippled in the restless afternoon air, its dull canvas quivering like unsettled waves. From underneath its towering roof, two NCO mechanics emerged and tilted their faces upwards against the crystalline blue of the sky, shielding their eyes from the sun with flattened palms. A sound made itself apparent to him - the drone of aeroplanes. A patrol returning from the East. He watched the mechanics as they scanned the skies, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound with broad grins on their faces. His ears were invaded by words he couldn’t make out, quick machine-gun bursts of laughter, as the mechanics excitedly chattered among themselves. The sudden voice of the Adjutant reclaimed his attention.

“Ah! That’ll be them now,” the Adjutant exclaimed, with a knowing smile on his lips. “A little earlier than I’d expected. Perhaps they’ve had a go-around with the Hun”. Wobbling to his feet, he rounded the edge of his desk and came to the tent’s entrance to watch the aeroplanes as they landed. Figures scuttled onto the aerodrome towards them as they rolled to a stop. A few moments later, the machines’ five pilots crowded into the tent. He became vaguely aware of another droning. Not the engines this time, but the pilots, excitedly and breathlessly recounting the details of their fight with the enemy. Fragments of sentences cut in and out of the swell of muffled noise.

“...and then, did you see? I’m certain his wing began to buckle!”
“...one of his bullets ricocheted right off of my flying wires! I heard the snap…!”
“...I peppered that green and brown fellow, but he managed to give me the slip…”

Once voice sliced through the buzz. No, not sliced. Boomed. Exploded, perhaps. “Say, Lovell, who’s this feller?”. The voice was strong, commanding. It was accented. American? No. Canadian. Even disconnected as he was, he could tell that it had a power of authority within it. It belonged to a tall man, in his late twenties perhaps, with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes, narrowed into violent slits. From within a thick, squared jawline was a semicircular flash of perfectly straight and white teeth, as the man grinned and awaited his answer.

“Ah, Commander,” replied the Adjutant, “this is our new replacement pilot. Flight Sub-Lieutenant Easom. Easom, this is Flight Commander Mulock, your new C.O. '' Silently, stiffly, Easom stood to attention and saluted. The Major promptly returned the salute. “At ease, lad” he said, his cheshire smile broadening. Sizing up his new pilot, the Flight Commander confidently relaxed into himself, leaning with one hand on the edge of the Adjutant’s desk. He turned to the other pilots, who were now regarding the new arrival and sharing hushed expectations and jokes among themselves. “Right, you lot. Go and write up your reports” he instructed. The pilots obliged, returning to their overlapping recounts of their sortie as they filed out of the tent.

“Well, Easom. Welcome to Naval 3. I’m very glad to have you with us”.
“Thank you, sir”.
“You saw our machines coming in?”
“Yes, sir”.
“Sopwith Pups. Best machine on the Front! They handle like a dream and manoeuvre like a devil! We fly Strutters, too. By the way, I’m afraid the Depot neglected to tell me anything about you, save for your name. Have you done much flying, at all?”.
“Twelve hours, sir”.

Mulock betrayed a barely audible sigh, muttering something under his breath just quiet enough to be missed. Easom thought he heard the word ‘Murder’.

Mulock addressed Easom again. “I see. No matter! We’ll soon rectify that. As of tomorrow, you shall be flying with ‘B’ flight. But, for now, I shall introduce you to Porter, your orderly. He’ll show you to your quarters, and you can ask him for anything you need”.


As Mulock said this, a short, thin man, clean-shaven, in his mid-thirties, with a thick-set pair of perfectly rounded spectacles and an aggressively short crew-cut, appeared through the open entrance of the tent. Around his throat hung a small pendant, a crucifix, which shimmered faintly in the light. “Aha!” barked Mulock. “Speak of the devil! Porter, this is Sub-Lieutenant Easom, your new pilot”. Porter gave a well-rehearsed salute. “Very pleased to meet you, sir”. Easom manufactured a smile and nodded once in response. Mulock interjected again. “Well. I gotta dash. Business to attend to! Porter, would you kindly show Easom to his quarters?”. Porter bowed his head slightly, piously, in a nodded response. “Certainly, sir”.

Bidding good-day to the Adjutant and following the bespectacled orderly out onto the airfield, Easom looked lethargically at each detail of the aerodrome. Mechanics tinkered away with aeroplanes from within the safety of their Bessonaux. Four pilots sat beside the Adjutant’s tent in lawn chairs, their midnight-black flying gear dropped clumsily at their feet. Several feet away, four Sopwiths stood in a line, quietly awaiting their masters. Porter indicated to the pilots when the two were out of earshot. “That’s ‘C’ Flight,” he explained, “they’re on alert at the moment. At the top of the hour, ‘A’ flight will take their place. An hour after and it’s ‘B’s turn. The hours rotate weekly”. Easom nodded in understanding. Walking down the dirt path that paralleled the Bessonneau line, they rounded the back of a hangar, arriving at four small clumsily-placed huts. The two walked up the short path leading to the entrance of the nearest of these, and Porter swung the door open, stepping aside to allow Easom through. As he entered he coldly took in his surroundings. The main room, in which he now stood, consisted of a thin space, sparsely furnished with a small central table around which stood five or six simple wooden chairs. At the farmost end was a small fireplace, with three armchairs organised in a semicircle around it. To its left, a door left slightly ajar. Around the edges of the walls were a complex mosaic of water stains. Easom decided that the room was wholly unremarkable.

“This way, Sir” Porter instructed, leading Easom through the leftmost door. It led into a narrow corridor, not unlike that of a cheap hotel, from which several rooms branched off. Porter led Easom past two doors before stopping at the third. Turning the dull brass doorknob, Easom swung the door open to reveal a tiny room, furnished with nought but a wardrobe, two military cots, and a small personal writing desk, complete with an inkwell and a neat stack of blank paper. At the foot of his cot stood Easom’s suitcase, which had been taken from him by an NCO upon his arrival. “This is you, sir. Make yourself comfortable, and let me know if you need anything at all” Porter offered, and Easom muttered a mechanical “Thank you, Corporal” before stepping through the doorframe.

There was a sharp pop - not audible, but clear inside Easom’s head - as his foot fell across the threshold of the door. Colour blinked back into its usual vibrancy. Sounds returned to their usual clarity. And Emotion, emotion had come for him again. Easom faltered, stumbling forwards. Fear crossed his face as he twisted, slightly hunched over, and looked back at Porter, whose eyebrows raised in shock. “Sir! Are you okay?” the Orderly asked concernedly. As his face paled to bone-white, Easom’s eyes flickered uneasily across the room. Christ. It happened again. God. Drawing a shaky breath, he regained his posture. “Whiskey…” he mumbled, “bring me a bottle of Whiskey”.

With a barely detectable frown, Porter reproduced his pious nod and hastened back down the corridor. Left alone, Easom groaned and fell onto the foot of the cot, where he sat with his head buried in his hands. His thoughts must have returned again. The flashes of smoke and fire. But - he wasn’t disconnected anymore. He told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again. He raised his head and stared at the open doorway, desperately awaiting his bottle of whiskey.

Rene Deassult Lavasure
Anges of l ' amour Rehab
Hospital Cabana 4.
Toulouse, France.

Nov 27, 1916.


Another day, They forced me out of Zee rack for Therapy in the Gym. Maxie and Etaine put on the demonstrations then hustled us thru the Physical parts. Exhausting !