Fullofit, excellent flying Sir! You kept checking your 6, nice short bursts which were on target. You scared me to death in that 1st video when you trimmed the lawn with your wing tip!

Thanks Seb, Its only luck against a Albatross and Luck does run out. I dont hold much hope out for my pilot.

Fullofit: Do my lawn next ! please.

Nigel Fransworth Philby
Sgt, RFC
1 Rfc Sgn.
2 Unconfirmed

March 4, 1917.


8 a/c Defensive Patrol no contact

MFair, thank you for the kind words. I didn’t realize I was getting this low. Must be that target fixation everybody’s talking about.

Carrick, sure! We can do yours next, but I only accept single malt as payment, and as an added bonus I can do this topless.

Seb, I loved the story about the coded letter. You had me searching through my drawers for my Little Orphan Annie decoder ring. And congratulations on receiving the Goldenes Militär-Verdienstkreuz. Now you will have to get your man promoted so that he can begin a new series of gongs! Also, hats off to the fine writing. Your descriptions of flight are truly evocative.

Grishin, congratulations on the first victory. Falkenrath did a splendid job in his next flight, putting his Roland down in the forested hills of the Alsace! That was a tense episode.

MFair, sorry to see Ganz injured again. You will have the medal factories working overtime the way this fellow is going. He was overdue for his EK1. Sorry had such a rough welcome back to the squadron. That was a near miss.

Fullofit, lovely bit of French gongerie you have there. Toby has truly become the ace of aces. He is one to put the “chest” in “chest cabbage.” Your videos are a true lesson in how to fly and survive in Woff. I wish only that you could do a few in a Spad to teach me!

Carrick, that was a terrific picture of the close pass with the Albatros on 3 March 1917. It must have been quite the dogfight.

Last but not least – Lou, I am delighted to hear that Swany will be back soon. Thank you so much for all the work you do on the decorations for the campaign. It adds a great deal of immersion when the decorations arrive at the appropriate time and are spiced with the occasional foreign gong!

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

Part One Hundred Three: In which a question is posed

I read Thérèse’s letter again and again, tracing my fingers over the words “Je t’aime.” It would be at least two months before I could get leave again. Two months to stay alive. Two months to recreate those few hours among the vineyards.

All that stood between me and happiness was the German Flying Corps and the unmitigated evil of the Hispano Suiza, Mark 8A, engine, water-cooled, British pilots, for the murdering of. March began with a beautiful morning tinged with the first earthy scents of spring. The flight was to attack a Hun aerodrome south of Douai, some fifteen miles deep into Hunland. Sgt McGlashan and the Ack Emmas had run it up and all I needed to do is settle in and buckle up. I trundled out onto the field and turned into the wind. Opening the throttle, the Spad lurched eagerly into the air, skimming the treetops as I cocked the Vickers. I passed the village church steeple and turned south-west towards Bertangles. There were open fields there, useful in case of engine failure. And then, scarcely a thousand feet up, there was a bang and a spray of oil across my windscreen. I looked at the fields, ploughed and still frozen. I looked back at the aerodrome. It was a cardinal sin to turn back but the engine was still giving revs. I turned towards the field and gave Major Harvey-Kelly the washout signal. My machine trailed a grey line of vapour. I touched down a bit fast and needed to turn at the end of the field to avoid the trees. It was a quick end to my only flight of the day.


"I touched down a bit fast and needed to turn at the end of the field to avoid the trees."

On the following morning we were assigned a line patrol near Bapaume. It was another clear day and I was anxious to get back into the war. As we passed over Bapaume about eight thousand feet, Reed pulled ahead and waggled his wings. He led the attack, a long shallow dive. There they were – seven Hun scouts. It looked for some time as though we would catch them unawares but when we were still five or six hundred yards off, the enemy formation broke up. There were seven of them against our four, and they were Albatros scouts of mixed types. Some had the broader wings and parallel struts, and some were of the Nieuport type with V struts. And they were no rookies. None of the Huns tried to head home. Within seconds, all four Spads were fighting defensively. The Major was with us, as well as a new pilot on his first trip to the lines, a rather plummy fellow by the name of Berkeley. Left to my own judgement I should not have attacked such a large formation with a new pilot, but here we were. I found myself with two very sound Huns on my tail and no way to protect Berkeley. I tried repeatedly to outdistance the Albatri but could not do so quickly enough to avoid their fire. Round smashed through my machine. Once or twice I turned and sprayed at one Hun or the other wildly and without result. We were low over the town. Every time I turned to engage in Albatros I found one of the Huns above and behind. I opened the throttle fully and dived westward. Despite kicking the rudder bar one way or the other, one of the Huns hit me with two more bursts. I could smell the phosphorus from its rounds. And then I could smell petrol. I switched off immediately, found a convenient field south-west of Bapaume, and landed roughly skidding one way and then the other in an attempt to stop before a rapidly approaching treeline. The machine came to rest amidst a cloud of steam and petrol vapour.


"We were low over the town. Every time I turned to engage in Albatros I found one of the Huns above and behind."

Third of March – by now I was convinced that our machines were outclassed by the latest Albatros scouts. C Flight was ordered to escort two Quirks to photograph German rail works east of Monchy. I managed to get Orlebar and Child to volunteer to join us and we proceeded six strong to marry up with the observation aircraft. It was a crisp, cold day with pale blue skies and thick, puffy clouds between six and eight thousand feet. As always in such flights, we wove a path back and forward above the ponderous two-seaters. Archie followed us for twenty miles over the lines, announcing our presence like a West End theatre marquee. But the Huns were abed and we remained unmolested. For once my Hisso continued to rumble along nicely. We were back for tea and toast by ten thirty.

The Major join me for tea in the dining room of the mess. “Jimmy,” he said when the others had left for the anteroom, “how would you feel about taking command of a squadron?”

This was something I knew would come one day but had not contemplated seriously. “Why?” I asked.

“Nothing particular at this time,” he replied. “Curious minds want to know.”

“It would have to be scouts. I should rather command a mobile bath unit than have to fly the sort of crate we escorted this morning.” The Major nodded and, with the mumble of thanks, returned to the squadron office.

Raine, absolutely beautiful chapter, it’s scary seeing our Albatros from your perspective, 7 against 4 your major is quite a card! Exciting developments in the offing too!
Umm... about promotion: I made a huge mistake in my pilot set up when I started the campaign and made the poor chap a Flieger. I know the rules meant I should have made him a Feldwebel. So in all my reports that’s what I call him. He has been promoted a few times and is now (in game) a Visefeldwebel. I thought I’d keep role playing as Feldwebel until I hit Offiziersellvertreter. I hope that’s ok? So sorry.

MFair, those Tommies are daring devils aren’t they we barely need to go looking for them at the moment, they fly to us! Just wish we had a bit more sky to play with to make the most of our Albatros’s abilities. Glad you made it out safely!

Fullofit, smashing videos, I realise from watching you I am firing from much too far away! You are clinical in your despatching of the poor Hun!


Feldwebel Sebastian von Toombs GMVK, EK1, EK2
Royal Prussian Jagdstaffel 18
Halluin/Rekkem, Flanders
16 victories


Today’s mission was a straight forward patrol over friendly lines. We don’t seem to be very adventurous in our patrols at them moment. Partly, it seems because of the ferocious nature and audacity of the British pilots who daily penetrate deeply over our lines. We took off at 0807 at approximately 0812 at a height of about 300 meters we were ambushed by a squadron of Sopwith Triplanes. I saw the Kommandant break and I followed him. I had one on my tail that I had real trouble dislodging, I had to dive below tree level to shake him, trusting in my fast reflexes and luck not to fly into one of the mighty oaks south of our airfield. It worked. He overshot me and I was able to shoot approximately 200 rounds from varying distances of about 400 meters to 50 meters, At one point I was able to get onto his starboard side and at a rage of 40 meters fire about 60 rounds into him. He slowed down, and after a second pass assisted by Paul Strahle he turned over to the right and span out of control, crashing into the north bank of the river Lys close to the bridge, north west of Halluin from a height of 400 meters. He had the name DORIS written in white paint on his fuselage and the number N5464 on the tail fin.



After seeing the first Triplane crash I noticed a number of others below me. I dived on one and entered a turning dogfight, I was able to get on his tail and shoot about 150 rounds into him after which he was unable to fly straight and was stuck in a right hand bank flying in large circles. Each circuit losing more height. He crashed into the field a few hundred meter of our airfield at Halluin. He had a red vertical strip painted on his fuselage and the word ‘BLYMP’ in large letters under his cockpit and the number N5493 on his tail plane.


There were still Triplanes around so I picked a very colourful one, a red, white and blue zig zags on his rear fuselage and the name MAUD in large white letters. I was able to manoeuvre it to position and fired every round I had left into him, but he seemed impervious to my Spandau guns! After exhusting my ammo, I flew alongside and saluted the brave flier and returned, hoping the Tommy wouldn't take advantage of my retreat. By the time he realised realised my predicament and gave chase I was half way home and able to land.


I landed and put in my two claims for DORIS and BLYMP ... but sadly both were rejected due to lack of visual confirmation. As I walked away, crestfallen from the C.O.s hut Walter appeared beside me and said he'd seen my fight from the ground against MAUD. "Häschen", he said in his kindest tones, "You are much to far away when you shoot." That Tripehound should have been yours. "You are swift, as Paul says, but too Swift! Take your time, get close, let the tommy fill your sights then shoot." I will take this advice to heart and get much closer in future.
To be continued ...

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Seb, your man just keeps on swatting them down, and nimble Tripes no less. And oh, such camaraderie and bonds that war creates between brothers of the air. Wonderful stuff as always, and superb shots of von Toombs’ kette to boot. Also, no issue about your fellow's rank. For historical accuracy I've kept Swany a Captain far longer than the sim ever would.

Raine, those Hissos are a royal pain in the arse. I hope James can survive them and move on to something more trustworthy, for Thérèse’s sake as well as his own.

Fullofit, I agree with Mark, that was a scary close one for our Chesty. Getting a tad too bold, methinks. Great vids, as always.

MFair, speaking of close calls, Gunther is lucky to be on the ground in one piece after his last brouhaha. Talk about a target rich environment.

Harry, Lazlo appears to be falling. And that Tilly, she’s a clever one to be sure. Just remember, a clever woman can be nearly as fatal to a flieger as the enemy on his six.

Carrick, those gun jams always seem to come at the absolute worst possible time. As for HQ being crackers, no news there I’m afraid.

Grishin, sorry to see that Hansjord is taking a turn in hospital. He’s baptized now though. Here’s wishing him a speedy recovery.


Great stories and videos and screenshots everyone! And, after a lengthy absence, here is the catch-up episode for Swany.

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4 March 1917
England

It was a cold, damp, gray winter’s day. The 4-4-0 locomotive of the London and South Western Railway, accompanied by its eight-wheel tender and six carriages, steamed along through the gently rolling countryside of north Hampshire on its way towards Basingstoke, Salisbury, and points beyond. Captain Randolph Swanson, with a fresh edition of the Times tucked under his arm, had boarded the train at Waterloo Station in London, taking a window seat in one of the first-class compartments where he was immediately set upon by an elderly gentleman who wanted to know all about how the young airman had earned his Victoria Cross, (so much for enjoying the newspaper). Thankfully, the conversation was relatively short-lived as the fellow disembarked when the train stopped in Woking. His replacements were a fairly handsome middle-aged woman and her coquettish fifteen-year-old niece who were on their way to Exeter. Swany rose and offered to help the pair place the small travel bags they each carried in the overhead rack next to his own grip, but the matron declined his assistance, choosing instead to set hers down on the vacant seat next to the Captain and instructing her charge to do the same. The young girl did as she was told, and then attempted to take the open spot across from Swany, but her aunt was having none of it. The elder stated in no uncertain terms that the window seat was hers as she had no intention of allowing her niece to sit across from “some strange man, no matter how charming, nor how much the war hero he may appear to be”. The Captain smiled and assured the woman he was a gentleman, after which he attempted to engage them both in light conversation. However, once again the senior lady took command of the situation, stating politely but firmly that she and her ward would be sitting quietly while they enjoyed the passing scenery. Swany gave a deferential “of course, Madam”, then flipped open the paper he’d brought along. He hadn’t read but three lines when he too turned to look out the window as his thoughts wandered back over the last several days.


He’d left Rotterdam late on the morning of February 28th, saying goodbye to his newfound friend of the last two months, American Vice-Consul Gerhard Krogh. Gerhard had booked Swany passage on the Batavier III and saw him away at the Willemsplein with a fine bottle of scotch and fifty pounds sterling tucked in the pocket of his newly-gifted civilian suit. Part of the Captain’s release terms with the Dutch had required him to sign a statement that he would relinquish his commission in the R.F.C. in order to be considered a visiting U.S. civilian, and as such could not travel in uniform, (said uniform and flying kit he carried with him in a large canvas grip also gifted to him by the Vice-Consul). Of course, such a statement of relinquishment would mean nothing to the British brass hats back in England, but it seemed to satisfy the bureaucrats in Holland, enough so that he was given his travel papers. The final thing Gerhard left Swany with before waving him off was a highly confidential bit of information.

“Keep this between you, me and the fencepost”, Krogh spoke quietly, “but I’ve just learned there’s a certain German telegram* that the Brits intercepted and decoded back in January that’s about to be made known to our own President Wilson, and it’s a guarantee it’ll put our country smackdab in the middle of this mess.”

Gerhard went on to say how Germany had, via the encoded telegram, secretly made a promise to the Mexican government that they would help Mexico recover the territory it had ceded to the United States following the Mexican-American War, and in return for this assistance Germany asked for Mexican support in the war against what would now be their common enemy. Given that the U.S. had just broken off diplomatic relations because Germany reneged on its earlier pledge**, and the Imperial Navy had resumed unrestricted submarine attacks on any and all Allied and neutral shipping, this new information would be the nail in the coffin. Swany agreed, not only to keep what he’d just been told to himself, but also that the United States would no doubt have to declare war on Germany, and soon.


“Excuse me Sir, are you the American volunteer pilot, Captain Swanson? I’ve seen your photo and read about you in the papers.” Swany was pulled from his recollections by the cooing voice of the winsome lass seated at the other end of the compartment.

“Elizabeth!” Her elder scolded loudly. “I’ve told you repeatedly NOT to talk with strangers.”

“Sorry Auntie, I was only curious - and he’s soooo dashing.”

“You’ll stop that this instant, you impudent child”, the woman chastised as her niece shrunk into the seat cushion.

Captain Swanson choked back a laugh, then, while auntie was busy scowling at her niece, he caught the young girl’s eye and mouthed silently while nodding his head, “yes, I am Swanson”, to which she immediately giggled. Swany quickly looked back out the window as auntie snapped her accusing glare around at him. Several minutes later, with order somewhat restored, the Captain’s thoughts again drifted back to the previous few days as the woods and meadows slipped by outside.


The North Sea crossing had been rough, the late winter winds whipping up the waves and spray, and driving sleet and rain bringing visibility down to under a thousand yards. Swany found it eerily familiar to the unintentional crossing he’d made two months earlier in his B.E.12. The crewmen said it was just as well, such weather meant there’d be little risk of a German submarine attack, (their sister ship, the Batavier II, had been captured last year by a U-boat and taken to Zeebrugge as a war prize, crew, passengers, and all).

Twenty-eight tedious hours after leaving Rotterdam the Batavier III was safely across and mooring at the Custom House docks in London. Shortly after that Captain Swanson, having changed back into his uniform, was making his way along Thames Street, past Blackfriars Bridge, and on to Adastral House to report in with R.F.C. HQ. Upon arriving he was told that General Henderson had hoped to speak with him, however the General had been called away for the remainder of the week, so a Major Hansworth met with Swanson instead. The Major caught him up on how the situation had changed in his absence and how Home Defence units were now being drawn down. A goodly number of the former HE pilots were being sent across to France due to the desperate need there - Swany would be among those being sent. The Major then advised him to take a room for the night at the Cecil and to come back the following morning as they should have his new assignment sorted out by then, after which he could call on Stow Maries to have his belongings, (which had been in safe keeping there since his unfortunate incident), forwarded along to his new digs.


Swany was suddenly aware of the train slowing. They were coming into Basingstoke. He stood and stretched his legs, excusing himself as he did so, which garnered an annoyed, thin smile from auntie, and a wide grin of infatuation from her niece. Passengers left, others boarded. A portly-looking businessman slid the compartment door open, but upon seeing three occupants, and bags on the only open seat, he chose to move on in hopes of more spacious accommodations. Brief moments later the engine whistle blew and the train chugged away from the station and on down the line. Captain Swanson, having retaken his seat, turned once more to the window, and to letting his thoughts trail back.


On the morning of March 2nd Captain Swanson returned to R.F.C. headquarters as instructed and again met with Major Hansworth. The Major informed him that he was to go immediately along the Embankment over to Adelphi Court at York Buildings and report to Lieutenant-Colonel Palmer for an intelligence debriefing. Swany cringed - Palmer! This was the mind-numbingly annoying chinless wonder he and his good friend Jim Collins had been interrogated by several months ago after the dust-up in the press about VC recipients in the R.F.C. supposedly being pigeon-holed safely away in Home Establishment work. A short walk along the Thames and three flights of stairs later Swany found that, much to his dismay, the fellow hadn’t changed one whit.

“So just how does one get lost over the North Sea and end up in Holland?” Colonel Palmer asked in a thinly veiled sarcastic tone as he tugged at the tip of his yellowing mustache. “Did you overlook your compass?”

“No Sir, I did not”, Captain Swanson fired back. “Unfortunately, my compass had frozen solid in the sub-zero cold and was about as useful to me up there as an intelligence officer would have been.”

“Don’t get smart, Captain, just answer my question.”

“God forbid we should get smart”, Swany muttered under his breath, while the Colonel lit a pipe and took several short puffs before continuing his inquisition. Swanson watched as the smoke rose and curled upwards towards the motionless blades of the ceiling fan hanging above Palmer’s desk. The last time he'd sat in this office the weather had been warm and the fan had been running, drawing the cool air up from the floor. Swany wondered if the motor had broken, or if the man sitting across from him was so dim as to not know you could run the thing in reverse in the cold months to push the warm air back down.

The remainder of the interview went along rather less bumpy than it began, with Swanson doing his best to maintain composure. He answered additional, ridiculous questions about how he managed to end up in Holland. He answered somewhat less ridiculous questions regarding the espionage situation he may have observed in Rotterdam. He answered rather uncomfortable questions about just how it was the Dutch had been convinced to let him return to England. After ninety minutes of such inquiries the Colonel at last seemed satisfied, more or less. Swany, who’d been biting his tongue repeatedly throughout, had reached the point where he was wondering to himself: “If I threw the man out the window, would he bounce when he hit the street?” It was three stories down, Swany decided he likely would.

After leaving the chinless wonder, (hopefully never having to suffer him again), Captain Swanson returned once more to Adastral House where he met a final time with Major Hansworth, who was now able to inform him of his new assignment. Swany was to proceed PDQ to Netheravon where he would report to Major Owen Tudor Boyd, the officer commanding of 66 Squadron. The unit had just been moved from Filton and was now in the process of forming up for departure to France. Captain Swanson was to serve as a much-needed, combat experienced flight leader. Best news of all, 66 Squadron was flying the marvelous little Sopwith Pup, a scout kite he’d heard nothing but high praise for. Swany was elated.


The train was slowing again - Salisbury, the Captain’s stop. Swanson stood and smoothed out his uniform before reaching up to the overhead for his grip and cap, then tucked his nearly unread copy of the London Times back under his arm.

“Goodbye ladies, I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip”, Swany smiled.

“Thank you Captain”, the elder woman replied matter-of-factly. “I hope you’ll be safe.”

Her apparent concern was unexpected and it caught the young ace off guard. It took a moment for him to respond, “Thank you, I’ll be as safe as I can be in these times.”

“What’s it like to fly?”, the young niece suddenly blurted out, her eyes bright with wonder at such a possibility.

“Elizabeth!”

Swany quickly answered before the aunt could go on, “It’s like nothing else in the world, absolutely nothing. The freedom, the limitless horizons, you cannot begin to imagine how it feels to soar among the towering clouds, to be in the realm of gods.”

Upon seeing the scowl that had returned to auntie’s face, Swanson leaned down and looked directly into Elizabeth’s wonder-filled eyes and added, “If you ever have the opportunity to go up, you take it my dear. You take it, and don’t let anyone stop you.”

Then the Captain, in a flash, gave the awestruck lass a kiss on the cheek, and left the compartment before either woman had a chance to say another word.




*The Zimmerman Telegram: On January 19, 1917, British naval intelligence intercepted and decrypted a telegram sent by German Foreign Minister Arthur Zimmermann to the German Ambassador in Mexico City. Its contents, as described above.

**The Sussex Pledge: In May 1916, the German government issued a pledge to the United States that the Imperial Navy would not attack passenger ships and would further allow the crew of merchant ships which carried war material to exit their vessels before they would be sunk.

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Carrick, I think most of us feel it’s only a matter of time.

Raine, Lady Luck seems to be with you! Squadron Commander Collins. It has a nice ring to it.

Seb, you are having way more lick than I with the Tripes!

Lou, boy howdy! Have you been writing this since you got lost! What a yarn. You may want to check the young girls age Sir. She seems a bit too young. I hope Swany has not lost his edge when he gets back in the air.

Raine: Not much of a fight since I was trying to get away. to get the 2 seats. By then I was far enough away to dive and brake off the engagement leaving the Brutes.

MFair: As the sands pass thru an hour glass, so do the days of our pilots life's ( a miss quote from my 2nd wife's favorite T.V. show. ).

Nigel Fransworth Philby
Sgt, RFC
1 Rfc Sgn.
2 Unconfirmed

March 5, 1917.

3 A/c Defensive Patrol: Mixed it up with One Big 2 Seat. Its only 2000ft higher, so full power. My leader got it, but was wnd. My turn came but the prop had stopped and black smoke was pouring out the back loosing altitude. At the time we were around Vimy and the cannon fire started up so I just flew by it and RTB.

Carrick, how are you finding the Nieuport 17? So far, luck seems to be eluding you.

Seb, I think that the von Toombs has done enough to earn promotion to Offizierstellvertreter. I would suggest promoting him in your story fairly soon and then holding him at that rank until the game promotes you to Leutnant. I am really enjoying your excellent storytelling and brilliant photographs. Sometimes I worry that your man has a bit too much of the Albert Ball dash. Please keep him going!

Lou, wonderful accounts to close out your Dutch sojourn! I was particularly tickled by your return visit to our chinless friend. I can't wait to see what Swany manages to accomplish with 66 Squadron.

MFair, thanks for the kind words. I owe you an email soon. Work has kept me going hard since I returned from the UK.

Collins has had a tough week. I believe many of his encounters have been with Jasta 2. The 150 hp Spad has met its match with the 160 hp Albatros. Every mission now seems like a fight for survival.

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

Part One Hundred Four: In which we are outmatched

The Major again decided to join himself to C Flight. Although this felt somewhat constraining – in reality, there was no constraint at all – I welcomed his presence, for it seemed that whenever he was chalked in to join us we avoided the dawn patrol! It was a simple line patrol from Mossy Face Wood south-east to Mont-St-Martin. There were five of us: the Major, Orlebar, Reed, Berkeley, and me. Berkeley had struck me as overconfident. Last night in the mess he had a few drinks and began joking about my living with red Indians and building igloos. The other chaps laughed nervously while glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes. I suggested that Berkeley come to visit me after the war and I would take him to Saskatchewan. I explained how my Cree friends would introduce him to the ways of the West and perhaps even honour him with an Indian name. “Dances with Sheep” would do nicely. That put an end to it and, to his credit, he stood a round out of turn.

There was a light dusting of snow overnight, but by nine forty-five it was already melting into the brown scrub. The Ack Emmas flanked each machine and held the trailing struts against a light cross breeze. When all five machines were ready, we took off in formation and turned east. We climbed past clumps of puffy cloud for twenty minutes, passing to the north of Albert. At Mossy Face we turned south. No sooner had we turned than Harvey-Kelly and Berkeley broke away. The chatter of Spandau guns told me we had been jumped. I broke hard left just in time to avoid a burst from close behind. There were Albatros scouts everywhere – the newer type with the V struts. The next few seconds were a blur, which is perhaps my way of saying that I was flying in a blind panic. Everywhere I turned there was a Hun and every few seconds around two tore through my machine. Turning did no good because my Spad was heavy on the controls and could be easily out turned by any of the Huns. I could not outdistance the newer Albatri. Whether it was the momentum from a dive or the result of a more powerful engine I did not know, but speed – the Spad’s main advantage – had been matched. At one point in the melee I looked above and saw another formation of at least six or seven more Albatri diving to join our little scrap. There was nothing for it but to put my nose down and hope that the Spad would hold together longer than any Albatros in a power dive. I went down from eight thousand feet to five thousand and levelled off, heading for a bank of cloud. Two Huns had followed me. Behind them I could see at least a dozen machines turning about like a cloud of mosquitoes.

I flew on westward for a minute or two. One of the pursuing Huns turned back to the scrap but the other seemed to be gaining on me. This was the first time an enemy machine had equalled the speed of a Spad. I waited until the Hun was a little over two hundred yards away and turned about. My opponent was in one of the older, square winged Albatri, which made his speed a mystery. We turned about each other for several minutes, during which he managed a few full deflection bursts, punching even more holes in my Spad. I simply could not bring my gun to bear on him. By now we were down to a thousand feet over our reserve trenches. I had lost speed and the machine handled like a pig. Whenever I could I pointed it westward and tried to make a run. At long last, my opponent broke off and headed home. I turned to see if I could approach him unawares but could not close the gap between us and was drying far too close to the large group of enemy machines that were re-forming a few thousand feet above. I saw no other British machine and so turned for home.


"By now we were down to a thousand feet over our reserve trenches."

I landed without incident at Fienvillers, the only one of my patrol to do so. I made out my report, certain that I had led my flight into a massacre. I walked to the mess anteroom in my flying year and asked the steward for an eggnog. Captain Watley came in a few minutes later and told me that Reed and the Major had landed at Lechelle. Each of them was claiming a Hun. Shortly after we heard from Orlebar. He had put down at Bellevue. But Berkeley had not called in.

We never did hear from Berkeley. No one saw him fall. There was no message from the Huns, who occasionally would drop a note about our missing pilots. He was simply gone.

After lunch I walked into the village and had a long soak in the public baths. Returning to the field, I visited Sergeant McGlashan and his men in the sheds. My machine had forty-two holes in it, he informed me. That brought the number of rounds that had hit my machine in the last three days to a total of one hundred and twenty-three. I told the sergeant that I did not know how much each round cost, but that I intended to bankrupt the Kaiser before I was done. The mechanics pronounced me a stout fellow. I went to lie on my bed for the afternoon.

Raine, the cabbage is starting to bloom, thank you very much. Toby in a SPAD? That’s all up to the Gods of War. Flying a SPAD is same as flying a Tripe, just larger - turn radii, dive speeds, balls... etc.
Speaking of balls, Captain Collins is growing a huge pair. Getting his own command, a pretty girl of his own, a vineyard of his own. It takes courage. War is just a distraction.
And those faulty H-S’s ... didn’t they pass much more stringent reliability tests, than any French engines? Imagine a SPAD with a Le Rhône in it. Hopefully your luck will improve soon and that pig of a plane gets an engine upgrade. Soon.

Seb, if you decide to get closer to your victims, keep in mind their planes seem to be equipped with brakes. Make sure not to rear ended them.
Well done, fending off all these Tripes. Nicely flown, but yes, you need to get in closer. I find flying too close doesn’t help either. They tend to fly between the guns. You need to find this sweet spot for the convergence. Von Toombs is just sweeping the skies. A true menace!

Lou, Swany’s back and raping minors already! Congrats on the new assignment and getting your sorry behind into a Pup. You will feel at home after spending so much time in a Strutter. Great storytelling. I especially enjoyed the flashback device. Hopefully Swany will not get lost on his way to the Front. Perhaps he will even meet a girl there of appropriate age.

Carrick, looks like you had the opportunity to deal the final blow to that Hun. What happened? Nice screenies.


4 March, 1917
Furnes, Flanders Sector
RNAS-8
SC Tobias Chester Mulberry VC, DSC&Bar, DSO&Bar, L d’H
73 confirmed kills

Two of the Albatrosen from yesterday were confirmed: #6 & #5. No flying today, heavy snowfalls have returned. Toby is enjoying his day off. There is an open bottle of brandy on the table.

Raine and Fullofit:

Couldnt do it. I dont think that it was in the pilot's character. The Hun was going down .Also I didnt want to steal a kill. The N-17, a fun fly but, The drum change every 47 rds cost a lot of time and the a/c should be held Level ( although I try to get it realistic, I end up firing more or less the 47 rds} Its,hard to get hits due torque and Vibs. A good mount in 1916,but outclassed by the Albatross and larger High Altitude 2 Seat a/c. How did U guys find flying it in the game ?

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Carrick, though you did not ask me directly I am assuming your question about the N17 was open to all of us here. I agree with you about it being a good mount in 1916, but by 1917 it is showing its age and weakness. It is hard to get solid hits with it and the small drum is a royal pain in the backside. I’ve always found it kind of “floaty” – fun to fly but hard to aim and keep hits on your intended target.

Raine, 123 bullet holes in three days?! That has to be some kind of record. Also, "Dances with Sheep" - that one made me laugh out loud. I certainly hope James can move on to a better bus when he is given his own squadron to command. Fingers crossed.


Now then, to Swany and the young lady, there was nothing salacious whatsoever going on there and you louts know it full well - filthy buggers! It was a harmless peck on the cheek. Captain Swanson wanted to give the poor child something her overbearing, domineering auntie couldn’t take away from her – a kiss from her crush. I won’t argue that her hero worship may well be misplaced, but the infatuated heart wants what it wants. At least the girl has a memory to call her own, and who knows, perhaps Swany’s words will inspire her to toss off the shackles of her matron and become a pilot herself one day. You never can tell.

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Lazlo's grounded until tomorrow. More snow. I'm beta testing new historical weather files from Buckeye Bob, and there seem to be a few more days on the ground at this time of the year.

Welcome back Swany! Great story and don't worry about the teasing. I'm sure the young lady is still swooning at the memory!

More confirmed victories for Toby Von Richthofen. Well done.

Raine, yes it getting more intense for both sides, I feel. Safety first!

Carrick, how are you managing to stay alive in an N17? Please get a decent mount soon!

Seb, great battle with the Tripes! Sorry you didn't get the victories, and getting closer isn't easy but it will help.

RAF: Floaty is a correct description of the N 17. Perhaps with a Victors the hit rate would be higher

Raine : I sure hope that he was only Dancing with the Sheep ?

Harry: I was thinking of getting a more safer mount

Nigel Fransworth Philby
Sgt, RFC
1 Rfc Sgn.
2 Unconfirmed


Caught a snow flurry so down today. should be passing quickly.

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Snow flurries here too, both in Netheravon 1917 and in Minnesota 2020, must be a pan dimensional weather thingy.




Oh I'm not worried Harry, not one whit.

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Seb, Toby has given you some fine advice. There is a fine line between close and too close. As he said, they seem to have brakes at some point. A little too far away is much better than too close. You may not get the kill but you will live. Ganz has not found that sweet spot yet with the Albatros. He is not getting the hits he should but it will come. If he lives long enough.

Lou, great writing! You are just soooo dashing! And a gentleman to boot, they never kiss and tell!

Carrick58, I like your pilot's character. He’s not one to glory hog, or steal another man’s victory. Another gentleman. ...And I want one of those flying tank things!

Raine, I hope your promotion comes very quickly ... one of those bullets that keep missing you might have your name on it one day ... Collins has got to make it home to his vineyard and lady!

Fullofit, great advice ... I haven’t seen anyone today to try out on though. And am now grounded until the 7th.

MFair, thank you, you are right it’s better to be too far away and live than too close and buying that farm! We’re both still alive and that’s the main thing right now I guess, and with a few more days to recover!

Feldwebel Sebastian von Toombs GMVK, EK1, EK2
Royal Prussian Jagdstaffel 18
Halluin/Rekkem, Flanders
16 victories
4th March 1917


Today was an escort mission for 3 DFWs bombing Bruges. Above the clouds it was a beautiful day, but the air promised snow later on. We saw no one else in the hour and a half we were up. Very straight forward. Even the front seemed quiet today. Just a quick entry. After being his wingman for this mission, and therefore on my best behaviour, the 'Old Man' has given me a 48 pass, and I want to get off before the snow hits. Walter's commandeering (I hope legally) a truck and driving me to Kortrijk Station on a train to Berlin, then on to Königsberg and Kitty!

To be continued ...