Nigel Farnsworth Philby
2Lt , Rfc
1 Rfc Sqn
Flanders
4 unconfirmed
1 victory
Bell Asylum, Flanders

11 may 1917.


I got my tail feathers chewed off by a Hun 2 seat today. My Lewis jammed after4-9 rds then the enemy gunner put a lot of holes in the elevator and almost ripped apart my tail so landed at nearest AF.

Tagebuch of VzFw Hans-Dieter Vogel, Jasta 26, formerly of 5th Reserve Infantry Regiment

Part one



8 May 1917.

It was a short journey from Valenciennes to Bohain-en-Vermandois. The lorry let me off on a muddy road at the edge of the field. There were a few scattered huts further down the road beneath a row of poplars and some sort of evergreen. At the edge of the field proper stood a line of canvas hangers. I could see several Albatros scouts outside, their tails propped up on wooden saw-horses and their cockpits covered with tarpaulins against the drizzle. I slung my valise over my shoulder and made my way to the nearest hangar. A bored-looking corporal looked up at me as though I were a gypsy come begging for bread and soup. I asked where I could find the Staffelfuehrer. He told me to walk back towards the village where I should see a large and fancy house with two stone lions by the gate. “Don’t forget to wipe your shoes,” he shouted after me.

The walk was a better part of a kilometre and I had to make good use of the iron boot-scrape at the top of the steps. I stepped inside, dripping. A tall Leutnant, bareheaded with the cigar, looked me up and down as I snapped to attention and asked for the squadron office. He nodded his head over his right shoulder down the hall and I dropped my valise by the front door and headed there. A Feldwebel met me and took my papers and name. He told me to wait.

After what seemed like ten minutes, he returned and brought me to the Staffelfuehrer’s office. Leutnant Loerzer remained seated as I once again came to attention and saluted. “Vizefeldwebel Hans-Dieter Vogel reporting for duty, sir,” I said. He looked me up and down with a well-practised sternness. In the long silence I could hear the ticking of the tall clock that stood in the hallway outside. “So, tell me who you are. I want to know your history. And I want to know how a Vizefeldwebel arrives in a fighting squadron on his first posting to the front.” He motioned for me to sit and remove my hat. It seemed he wanted me to tell the complete tale, but I knew he also wanted me to be brief.

I explained that I had been raised by my father in Berlin, where he owned a small restaurant and served as its head chef. My mother had died when I was born. As my father was a heavy drinker and a brutal man, I left home at fifteen and worked my passage to England. There I worked as a dishwasher and later a waiter in several London restaurants. At the outbreak of the war, I joined a number of my fellow Germans in catching the first ship to Holland. I did not go home. Instead I volunteered for the infantry. I served two years with the 5th Reserve Infantry Regiment and fought in the great battles of the East. The regiment discovered that I could shoot well and made me a sharpshooter. By late 1915 the Russians were pushed back and the war became mainly about living in holes in the ground. I applied for transfer to the Fliegertruppen and my company commander supported me. I trained to fly observation machines but when we had a shooting competition, my Feldwebel entered my name. I was the only NCO in the competition and I won the trophy. The commander made a deal with me. He gave the trophy to an officer and sent me to Valenciennes to train on Jagdmaschinen. And now, I explained, I am here.

Leutnant Loerzer lit his cigarette, stared at me a moment, and smiled. “An unusual man,” he said. “Your restaurants in London… were they good restaurants?” I said they were. “Good. Then at least you won’t spill soup on the tablecloth in the Kasino.” He explained that all pilots eat together and that I was welcome in the Kasino for an hour before and an hour after every meal. NCOs below the rank of Offizierstellvertreter are billeted together in tents near the field. I was told that barrack huts were to be built next month, provided the Jasta is still here.

That night I appeared at the Kasino. Everyone there outranked me and I played the wallflower. I spoke briefly with an officer named Auer and with a big-boned one named Goering. The latter seemed very tight with the Staffelfuehrer. I was introduced to a Leutnant named Fritz Loerzer – he was the boss’s brother. I was told they called him the Flying Pastor as he was a theology student. Questions were asked. I responded that I was in the restaurant business. Shortly after dinner I left and walked the kilometre back to the field. I shared a tent with an Unteroffizier mechanic named Steinmesser. He told me that there was not enough money in the world to get him up in an aeroplane.

9 May 1917.

Leutnant Loerzer, the less religious one, took me up on the second patrol of the morning along with his brother, Goering, and a Feldwebel pilot named Wissmann. He said it was a simple barrier patrol on our side of the lines. The morning was reasonably clear and within a minute of lifting off in my Albatros, I could see the dark and pockmarked scar of the front. It was nothing like the Polish front. This was a darker face of war. I worked very hard to maintain my position in formation – I was on the far left and behind the others. I search the sky as I had been taught but most of all I watched Goering’s machine, just ahead of me and to the right. It didn’t matter if I was shot down in flames as long as I did not lose this formation!

Fortunately we saw nothing and returned to Bohain ninety minutes later. We lounged about the field the rest of the morning. The quartermaster brought us sandwiches for lunch.

In the afternoon we were up again, this time just Goering, Auer, and me. There had been a phone call about enemy machines northwest of here. We climbed to three thousand metres and were up no more than thirty minutes when Goering waggled his wings and dived. My heart pounded and I searched for the enemy. I did not see them until I heard the machine guns from the other two Albatroses. Then I noticed a group of silver machines with French markings. I remembered my lessons well. Silver ones were usually Nieuports. I chased flashing apparitions about the sky without success for several minutes. Once, someone put a few rounds through my wings. Then everyone disappeared. I circled while searching the sky. Several black puffs appeared below and to the west. I dived in that direction and after a minute made out a silver Nieuport, alone, low down, and running for home. He did not see me coming and I closed to within one hundred metres before firing. The Frenchman zoomed up and then stalled, falling into a spin. I turned about and watched him go down, closer and closer to the earth. And then I lost him. On my return I reported the combat and said that I might have shot down a French machine. The Staffelfuehrer made it clear that I needed to confirm the crash and its location to claim a kill. He said he would make a telephone call to the aerodrome at Mont-St-Martin, but that the French pilot had probably pulled out of his spin and gone home for dinner. And that was the way my claim remained. Feldwebel Wissmann was shot down and killed. It struck me how casually the other pilots took this news.

10 May 1917.

Up twice again this day. In the morning we flew south towards St-Quentin to stand guard over our balloon line. A few English Nieuports showed up and made a half-hearted dash for the balloon. Goering claimed one.

I chased another Nieuport all the way to the lines and once again fired until he tumbled downward, apparently out of control. I tried to follow him but was perhaps too timid, having heard so many stories about pilots ripping the wings from their new model Albatros scouts. I mentioned the falling Englishman; it remained unconfirmed.

We were up again at midday, Goering, Auer, and me. This time it was a rush to our machines as approaching enemy aircraft had been spotted. I was the first to take off and climbed directly up through a low cloud layer. This was the first time I had flown through a complete layer of cloud. A machine above the layer could see the ground only through a few small gaps in the cloud. Even above the layer there were giant cumulus clouds reaching up to two thousand metres. All alone, I skirted around these clouds and hunted for any sign of an enemy machine. After fifteen minutes, seeing neither friend nor enemy, it seemed like time to go home. That was when I saw two quick-falling objects a few hundred metres away. It took a moment to register that they were bombs. I looked straight up. There, a thousand metres above me, a lone two-seater machine was circling lazily. It was everything one could do not to stall the Albatros in the ensuing full-throttle climb! At length, I could level out just below the English machine – a BE2. This was an old and outdated machine, so it took little time to catch it. I fired until I nearly collided with its tail and then turned away and came back it again and again. The English gunner got a few rounds away at me but nothing effective as I closed, fired, and looped back. Still the enemy machine kept heading west. To make matters worse, our own Flak opened up and soon the crack and woof of exploding shells provided me an escort. But the propeller on the enemy machine had begun to windmill. I closed in one more time and fired a very long burst until my guns jammed. As I pulled away to clear the jam I looked back and saw that the English machine was on fire and beginning a long and final dive.


"As I pulled away to clear the jam I looked back and saw that the English machine was on fire and beginning a long and final dive."

This time I had no hesitation about the claim. The BE2 fell very close to our aerodrome at Mont-St-Martin. On only my second day I had a victory.

MFair, welcome to Sgt Harris. I loved his introduction. Your "yank" has made a strong first impression!

Fullofit, lots of drama with Nurse Unibrow! And an escape in drag… I hear Toby does a mean version of "Three Little Maids from School are We."

Lederhosen, congratulations on the Pup and sorry to hear your squadron is down on its luck.

Carrick, Nigel's had rough luck with claims but great luck escaping from some nasty scrapes. The important thing is to keep him going!

Raine, a solid start for Hans. A confirmed kill on his second day. A military career not unlike that of a certain Baron. Let’s hope Hans can also follow in his footsteps when it comes to aerial victories. It certainly seems like it so far. And hopefully he will not get influenced by the big-boned one. Welcome to the Front!
As to Toby, he only knows Yum-Yum’s lines.

Carrick, that was close. Few more like that and Nigel will have nothing to sit on.

.

MFair - I hope Ainslie will last a good long time, I like him already! He has a certain Frederick Libby quality about him.

Fullofit - I am anxiously waiting to see if our RNAS hero makes it back across to the friendly side of the mud. Wonderful tale so far. Also, not so much a fan of Ru, more a faintly interested follower.

Lederhosen - Someone needs to whip that Jasta into shape. Looks like a job for Willi.

Carrick - Nigel's back in the fight I see, and had a close shave almost immediately. But he made it through, yet again. He's such a trooper.

Raine - Welcome VzFw Vogel. The Kaiser's sharpshooter is off to a fine start. Best of luck to him.

.

Captain Swanson, after a week of serving as Duty Officer, was cleared to get back into the cockpit today and immediately went out and shot down a Hun gasbag southeast of Arras. After lunch, during second patrol, he also got into a go-round with a V-strutter and sent the Boche running back across the lines trailing black smoke. But upon landing Swany realized that his recent wound was aching to beat the band, so much so that he had to put his left arm back in a sling for the evening. He's hopeful a good night's rest will make it right enough so he can get back out tomorrow.

.

"Pin my medals upon my chest
Tell my mom I done my best."

I stop posting for 10 days and pilots start dropping. Yikes. I don't know if I want any gongs for Oliver now after this carnage.

MFair - another collision. Mein Gott! So very sorry to hear about Ganz. Four in a day. He was on top of the world. I so wanted to see a screen cap of him wearing his Blue Max. I like your Ainsle Harris. He reminds me of someone I know. Tough, stand up guy with a girl's name.

Fullofit - The Toby cliffhanger was waaaaay too close for comfort. Thank goodness he was at low altitude when he got hit. Filling out that brassiere/ bro naturally will come in handy once he makes his dash across the lines. He did remember his razor and toothbrush I hope.

Lederhosen - Congrats on bagging your first Ace. A tough situation but I'm sure Willi will get the Jasta flieger into fighting shape in short order.

Carrick - Nigel's had some fortnight. Is he fully recovered? That grape stomping Mademoiselle front left looked rather jacked.

Lou - Swanny getting some well-earned if painful rest. I'm assuming he'll resume his deadly ways with renewed vigor. Not sure I like the more subdued paint job. Is this part of a longer game with General Boom?

Raine - Not Mac too!! It seems like he should have made it. An MC then Last Post. Brutal. The last letter motif brought the loss home with even greater impact. Just when the Bishop story was unfolding. Hans-Dieter is off to a good start. I'm sure his low birth won't be an issue for long. Watch out for that Goering fellow. I hear he's a bit of a chowhound.

17 April 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Chipilly, France

News from Wing. We will move soon, probably in the next 3 or 4 days. Flez aerodrome southeast of Peronne will be our new home. Quite a bit closer to the action. Yesterday’s Albatros was rejected. C’est la guerre.

Chipilly was a bog. Standing water all over the field. Last night the rain swollen Étang came up and swamped the eastern end. Nobody was flying from here today.

Corporal Biggins approached looking furtively in all directions. What on earth was he doing?
“Message for you, sir.” He handed me a small envelope. “Top secret. Most hush-hush. I was told to await a reply, sir.”

It was from Eliza:


Messenger? What’s this? Biggins drawn into her nefarious plot. How? Ah, now I understood. He’d gone to see McElheny and Rogers and was there ensorcelled.
“I believe you were driving to Grovetown this afternoon, Corporal? 1500 was it?”
“Right you are, sir.”

Grovetown was at sixes and sevens. Orderlies and workmen bustled everywhere dismantling the camp. A six-car locomotive marked with white-squared red crosses sat in the station. Only the critical cases remained. I thought to visit McElhenny and Rogers, but they’d been evacuated already. I was glad they were still alive. Orderlies stretchered the remaining wounded onto the ambulance train which would depart soon to rear-area hospitals taking the medical staff with them. 34 CCS were moving, but where? Somewhere up forward most likely. It made sense. During the Somme battles they were barely 3 miles behind the lines, now the front lay 22 miles East.

Storm clouds, in open defiance of the Met Office, withheld their showers and ushered in the afternoon sun. I was soon boiling hot under my trench coat. Entering the reception tent an orderly kindly took my coat and sent for Eliza. As I waited, I walked the grounds of the now overgrown station garden where I’d seen Eliza arm-in-arm with He Who Strikes from Afar. I wonder if he’s up with the PBI or safely feasting on ambrosia back at Brigade.

Eliza entered the garden, face alight. “Oliver!” We moved quickly toward each other. Taking my hands as she always did, she kissed me once on each cheek in the French manner. This was new, but then we were very much in public. She looked at my left sleeve, and the wound stripe there. Her eyes flew wide in shock and her mouth formed the perfect circle of a silent O. In that instant of slow-time the many-layered armor, wrought so carefully and tempered by the Somme’s wounded thousands slid away. For a second, I thought she was going to cry. Then, as if lowering the visor of some invisible helm, Eliza’s visage shifted and the compassionate, imperturbable countenance of Nursing Sister Ludlow gazed back at me.

I thought back to her January letter. How many men in her care had she watched die, powerless to save them?

“You were wounded.”
“Just a graze on my thigh. It’s fine. I was lucky. Not like those poor devils on that train.”
“Oliver, an open wound like that can be tricky. Are you keeping it clean?
“Oh yes, Corporal Fredericks, Medical Orderly and apprentice torturer treats me four times daily. Debriding and irrigating, debriding, and irrigating. Something I look forward to after jousting with Huns.”
“You’re still flying? All that heavy clothing. Maybe we should have a look.”
That won’t be necessary. It’s healing fine.”
“Based on your expert opinion in such matters.”
“Miss Ludlow, you do realize I’d need to remove my trousers. Such an enterprise would be sans-culottes as it were.
She straightened right away, and her face became a complete mask. Oh no, Too far. You’ve done it again, Oliver. Always saying the wrong thing. In a cold clinical voice that brooked no refusal she said, “Lieutenant Winningstad, gangrene is not to be trifled with. Come with me. A King’s Officer deserves the best. We’ll have Matron give you a full examination. You’ll find her a bit rough I’m afraid but she’s extremely thorough.”

Mother of God! Is she serious?

Then her eyes lit up again and she started laughing. “You should see the look on your face, Oliver.” Same old Eliza. Such a sport. She persisted, however, and what followed was a 5-minute interrogation on all aspects of my wound and its treatment.
“Let’s have a doctor see you. Please.” There was something in her voice that was more than professional concern.
She set up a partition in one of the wards and left me.
“Wait for me where we met last time. You remember the place, don’t you?"

Doctor Greenford gave me clean bill of health. “Your MO’s done a first-rate job, Lieutenant. I know how you RFC chaps like to be warm all the time but flight clothing causing you to sweat is a concern. Wear it only when necessary. Your dressing must be changed morning, evening and after every patrol, regardless of circumstance.”

I retrieved my coat then walked over the small rise toward the wood. I paused by the Oak where we’d said goodbye last time, where I’d tried to kiss her. I couldn’t find the path into the grove. It was here, I know it. I walked about for a good 10 minutes, growing impatient, then irritated. Be still Oliver. I closed my eyes and thought back to Eliza holding my hand and walking through the trees. There! It was right in front of me all along. How odd. I followed the narrow path to the little clearing. It was exactly as I remembered. The bench, a thick plank of wood about 4 feet long, rested on two square-dressed stones, its edge brushing against a wide, ancient oak. Green shoots and tiny mushrooms poked through the dry mattress of leaves and needles on the forest floor.

I leaned back against the tree, recalling our last visit here. How excited we were, friends reunited after months apart. Wrapped in my trench coat, the filtering sun’s warmth made me drowsy. I listened to the frogs singing and my mind wandered the borderlands of sleep. Something warm touched my cheek. A gentle rocking. I woke to her looking down at me, hand on my shoulder. Eliza's head was uncovered, and the afternoon sunlight gave her brown hair a sheen of bronze. Despite the impending rain she wore no coat, only a shawl about her shoulders.

“How long have I ...?”

“A little while. You looked so peaceful napping there. Look, I’ve brought us tea and the last of your Fortnum & Mason treats.”
I stood and held the small basket while she unfolded a blanket on the bench. Eliza poured tea from a thermos and set the F&M tin between us.
“I was hoping you could get away. I heard the frogs singing and knew they would bring the rain.
The tea was lukewarm. She’d been watching me doze for longer than she’d let on.
“Did you set this bench here?”
“No. I found it last Fall, just as you see it. This was someone’s special place once, but no one else comes here now.

We were both moving. 55 CCS would relocate east to Peronne-la-Chapelle, only 8 miles northwest of Flez. She and the remaining medical staff would return there in 10 days’ time. Another stroke of luck! Our conversation then steered a wandering path through family, childhood, education, to the war and back again.
“And what do the Ludlows talk about at home?”
“Art, literature, science, the latest scandal, the usual things, but mostly we talk about politics. It’s our family trade.”
Her father was a successful lawyer and a leading progressive. Her mother moved at all levels of society and was deeply engaged in the movement that secured women the vote in 1913. A suffragette. I knew it! The Ludlow home was a salon for political, literary, and artistic minds. I could see how Eliza would thrive in that environment. What she must have learned there. It explained a lot about her. Law, while a means to an end, held no fascination, much to her father’s disappointment. We have something in common there.

“I thought I’d become a doctor but when the war didn’t end in 1914 and America stood idly by, I knew I had to do something. I had to be involved, so I started nursing school during my second year at Northwestern.”
“But enough of that, tell me about life on Astoria, of your travels in the Far East. Will you go back when the war ends?”

I’d not thought that far ahead until now, but the answer was clear.
“No. I won't be going back. Astoria was an escape from the farm, and from a world grown small. All I knew came from books. A lot of books, to be sure, but I’d never even left northern California. Not like you, touring around Europe twice as a teenager. So I ran away to sea and found adventure and a second family. I became a man there. Astoria will always be part of me, but it’s not my future, not anymore.

“When I saw that aeroplane in New York everything changed, and now, flying them in war, it’s thrilling beyond anything I imagined.
“I want to travel the world. I want to keep flying. There’s something about being up there piloting an aeroplane, riding the edge of cloud like it’s a wave, or turning off the engine and gliding in silence. I feel connected to the machine like it's part of me but also to something larger. I’d make a hash of it if I tried to explain. I’ll take you up one day and you’ll see for yourself.”

“Oh, I’d love that.”

“Doctoring. That surprised me. I never envisioned that.”
“Really. What then?” She seemed genuinely intrigued.
“I imagined you in more domestic role. Keeping house. Cooking, cleaning, perhaps managing a maid,” her expression now crossed out of shock, and marched at the double quick toward unbridled fury. I continued, “but with a husband to take care of the more complicated things for you…” I could restrain my laugh no longer and my straight face crumbled.
“If you could see look on your face now, Eliza.”
“You’re terrible!” With a laugh she then delivered a short crisp punch to the front of my left shoulder, at the junction where it joins the chest. Even through the uniform jacket it stung. I’d probably have a bruise there tomorrow.
“Striking an officer, Miss Ludlow! Outrageous!”
She said nothing, just sat there with a smirk, looking mischievous.

“So why leave college for nursing?”
Eliza picked the empty tin and the teacups off the blanket and placed them in the basket. She looked past my shoulder as if considering her answer.
“Oliver, I wasn’t entirely honest with you when we first met. I didn’t leave early. I graduated in 3 years.”
“What a brain you have, Miss Ludlow!” I said, feigning shock and surprise. She looked as though she might punch me again.
“College in three years! Eliza, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“We were having such a lovely time and I didn’t want to put you off. Men can be so sensitive about these things.”
“Some men.”
“Oh Oliver, I know that now. I know you’re not bothered or threatened or scandalized. You don’t care. It’s marvelous that you don’t care. I love that about you, but you’re…” she paused, “different than most men.”
An odd duck. I’ll bet she was thinking ‘odd duck.’ She wouldn’t be the first. I nearly laughed but my poker face held.

“You were teasing me, Oliver, but can you imagine what it’s really like to dim your light, to hide some bright part of yourself in shadow so you don’t frighten people or make them feel small?”
Is that what it's like for her? That would be hell. Absolute hell.
“A little, but I’m not in your league as far as that goes. Truth from now on?”
“Truth,” she said and held out a crooked pinkie to mine.

“Eliza, have you ever met someone for the first time and felt a kind of recognition; a familiarity, like you were greeting an old friend? Because I have and now the thought of her invades my every idle moment.”
“Someone like me, Leftenant?” She batted her eyelashes melodramatically. “Brilliant, witty, mysteriously beautiful?”
“Yes. Exactly like that. Except you left out, stubborn, independent, scandalously modern, bewitching…a Kalypso, 'shining among goddesses.’ ”
Her pretense vanished and she was silent. Was she blushing?
I took her hand. “When I woke and saw you smiling down at me, I knew then why your “poor boys” wrote you all those letters. I’m sure they loved this place too”
“I never brought anyone here. Only you, Oliver.”

I kissed her then, drawing her face to mine as in my dreams. Those full lips, slightly open, parted willingly. Her soft fierce tongue greeted mine. She tasted of orange peel and the flowers from the tea. I brushed my lips against her ear and kissed the soft skin below. She tasted salty. I smelled a hint of lavender. With a gasp, she grabbed my head in both hands as my kisses descended her neck, where at last the starched glacis of her uniform collar deflected any further exploration. Blast this thing! It's like mating in armor. Our mouths met again, tongues abandoning their soft skirmish and committing all reserves to the main assault. My hand wandered down the small of her back and climbed the rising slope of that delightfully rounded bottom. She was no slip of a thing. There was strength here. I could feel the smooth muscles in her back and in her thighs as I gathered up a handful of her dress bunching it higher. I forget what dark whispered desires escaped me then.

Hands still holding my face, she drew back slightly.
“I know Oliver, I know. I want that too. I do. But not here, not like this. Not in my boots and dirty smock, stinking of work. Let me give myself to you the way I want to. There will be time.”
Time?! What time? NOW! Now is the time! We’re in the middle of a war. You’re moving tomorrow. I could die! Why is this happening?!
“Kiss me Oliver, and then we go or neither of us will be able to stop.”

We strolled back towards the camp, arm in arm. I loved the feeling of her leaning against me, but the dread anticipation of our goodbye was hard to ignore. We’d spent so little time together. Brief scenes scribbled in the margins of a play. Behind the oak tree at the base of the hill, I kissed her again. When our mouths finally parted, we stood there, foreheads touching. I put my hands in the pockets of my trench coat and wrapped it around her. She snuggled close, arms tight around my waist, her ear against my chest and the full length of her body pressed to mine. Her hair smelled of lavender. We held each other there and listened to the frogs calling the rain.

My Effel, registering a Force 12 hurricane, angled roughly up my trousers. Things Sgt. Major Mulvaney never mentioned about the Sam Browne. I was sure she could feel it, but neither of us moved away. Not now, dammit! Didn’t you hear her? All flights cancelled!!
“Is it terribly uncomfortable?” she asked, peering up at me with an impish grin.
“Why whatever do you mean, Miss Ludlow?”
“Poor dear. Abide here and recover yourself. Right now it proceeds you by a quarter of an hour.”
She kissed me then. A short hard kiss, hungry and full of promises. I tasted blood on my lip. She whispered in my ear, “Come back to me, Oliver. Please come back to me.” Then she walked down to the tents.

epower – beautifully written episode! As they always say about good writing, don't tell me how your character feels, make me feel it. You nailed that one. Now you just have to keep Oliver alive long enough to get a competitive machine.

Lou – I've missed Swanson's episodes of late and am looking forward to your next instalment.

Fullofit – I'm still looking forward to seeing Toby's wanted poster. It will look like a bad Frida Kahlo painting.

Meanwhile, Hans-Dieter Vogel's good start at Jasta 26 continues…

Tagebuch of VzFw Hans-Dieter Vogel, Jasta 26

Part 2

11 May 1917.

The lovely French country manor that was home to the Staffel office, officers’ quarters, and Kasino was too far from my tent to bother heading there for an early breakfast. Steinmesser, my tent mate, was already up when I awoke. I washed quickly and walked to the hangar, where I found him changing the plugs on the Mercedes engine of my Albatros. He had not mentioned being assigned to my machine and I was delighted. He pointed in the direction of one of the work benches. There I found a hot plate with an enamel kettle full of real coffee, black and sweet. I returned to my machine and thanked him profusely. He introduced me to the rest of the crew: Kuhl the mechanic, Witmer the rigger, Zeiss the armourer. They all seemed genuinely pleased that I’d had a victory confirmed already. We chatted about life before the war. Kuhl had raced motorcycles, Witmer was a postman, and Zeiss was a farm labourer. They asked me about my time in London and what I thought of the English. I told them I thought they were a thoroughly decent race but could be quite snotty if one declared war on them.

The sun was well up by five-thirty when Loerzer the Chief and Loerzer the Pastor showed up to lead me on the morning patrol. We were to escort a pair of two-seaters to take photographs of the English lines near Bapaume. It was an uneventful flight, except that we climbed to 4500 m, higher than I had ever flown. The Albatros wallowed in the thin air and any exertion left one exhausted and gasping for breath. We saw nothing and were back on the ground before eight. This time I made the walk to the Kasino and enjoyed a proper breakfast of eggs and toast. The Kasino coffee was not nearly as good as Steinmesser’s.

My second flight was more interesting. We were to fly a defensive patrol near our aerodrome at Mont-St-Martin, but as soon as my wheels left the ground, Leutnant Auer’s machine turned hard left and began to climb. I followed him and immediately saw what he was after. About two thousand metres up, four lattice-tails were passing over, heading north-west. I climbed as steeply as I could after them. A couple of minutes later I checked over my shoulder for Auer. Behind and below, a silver Nieuport was climbing up under me and nearly in range! Auer was on his tail. Whether I could catch the lattice-tails was iffy, so I turned back to give a hand with the Nieuport. The machine bore French markings and its pilot was pretty good. He and I circled about for nearly five minutes with neither of us gaining an advantage. From time to time, Auer would dive into our midst and try to get a burst away. Finally, I saw that the Frenchman momentarily appeared to break his turn, intending to go after Auer’s Albatros. I rolled and dived down, then zoomed up under the Nieuport. My first burst must have damaged the French machine. The enemy pilot put his nose down and tried to dive away. It was too late. I closed to about ten or fifteen metres’ distance and fired again before the Flying Pastor (who had joined us and who was directly behind me) could claim the glory. The Nieuport shuddered and fell, streaming grey smoke or steam. It crashed less than three kilometers to the west of our field at Bohain. Fritz Loerzer was my witness so there was no question about this one. On day three with the Jasta I had my second kill.


"I closed to about ten or fifteen metres’ distance and fired again before the Flying Pastor (who had joined us and who was directly behind me) could claim the glory."

That night we had a party. Two local women were hired to do the cooking and a whole young pig was roasted in the garden. The officers had a fine dinner with champagne and the other ranks were invited to join us in the garden outside after dinner. The boss had sprung for a barrel of beer. I took great pain not to drink too much or talk too much. Goering, the big-boned one, gave me a slap on the back and told me I was all right. We sang a few rude songs and Leutnant Kemper did an imitation of the general commanding the air service (whose name I forget) inspecting the squadron. Around ten o’clock, Steinmesser confided that he had some Schnapps in the tent and the two of us made our way back to the field. During the evening I had heard the Staffelfuehrer say that he would try to get a billet in town for the NCO pilots. I was beginning to hope that he’d put that idea off, at least until the end of summer.

Well done stories Lads.

Commander
1 Rfc Sqn
Flanders
Bell Asylum, Flanders POW POW POW


12 may 1917.

Attention to Orders: 2 Lt Nigel Philby 2nd Victory a balloon has been confirmed A last, he did not return from this mission. Red Cross has Reported that he is a POW and is being transported to Coditz Castle for internment.

You is in big poo doo!

How wude!

Lou, here’s hoping Swany isn’t getting the dreaded aviator’s elbow. That is one nasty chronic condition!

Epower, no razor for Toby. That item is not allowed in the carry-on.
So, here we have the answer concerning He Who Strikes from Afar and Eliza. Score one for Oliver. BTW, that must have been the most opportune wound to be examined by nurse Ludlow. Alas, all flights have been cancelled.
When it comes to odd ducks, Oliver is a lucky dog. Well written tale. I hope you spent a lot of time “researching”.

Raine, there is nothing wrong with Frida. Selma Hayek pulled it of pretty well, why not someone else?
Now, how about that Hans? Second kill in as many days. He should start notching his spar, or he’ll soon lose count of his victories. Well done indeed.
And to top it all off, there is a chance he won’t have to walk a whole kilometer to the mess. Best news ever!

Carrick, oh dear, oh dear. Nigel is now knee deep, but not in grapes. It will be sauerkraut for some time, then.

Raine - major score having a tent mate who can procure real coffee. That blockade is taking a bite I hear. Nice work with victory number zwei That was quick thinking by Hans-Dieter (or is it just Hans?) to get in there before the Flying Kill Stealer Pastor could get involved. Nice development of the class and rank divide in your tale, although a commission won't be far off if Hans (-Dieter?) keeps blasting Tommies out of the sky.

Fullofit - yes, this round to Oliver, although the Major will no doubt make an appearance in due time. I looked back on the language and it is a bit ambiguous. My intention was that Oliver was undressing in private for a Dr. Exam, but I can see why it might read differently. Works either way. And yes, Oliver is one lucky dog/duck or cat maybe given how he's burning through his 9 lives. More on that later. Good timing for "research," this last week being nicely situated between her birthday and our anniversary.

Carrick - Oh this is not good. Colditz is a tough nut to crack as far as escapes go. Maybe he can build a glider.

Raine, your man is wasting no time making a name for himself!
Carrick, not you too. Hope you make it back soon.
Epower, I second Raine. Stellar story ol boy!

Epower, you are one of the good ones.

Francois Gaston Pistache
Chevalier de France
Sergant, Esc 90
Mix N-23 and N-24 Bis
Toul, Verdun.


May 12, 1917.

Reported in after short leave at home in Tours. Introduced and given orientation of area. My squad-mates seem to be a solemn bunch. They say that 1 man is lost every 2 days and we have 11 pilots so I can count the days.

Francois Gaston Pistache
Chevalier de France
Sergant, Esc 90
Mix N-23 and N-24 Bis
Toul, Verdun.


May 13, 1917.

Dawn Patrol: My flight Leader knocked down a 2 Seat, I had a ring side seat.

Afternoon: I was part of a 5 a/c flight and spotted Archie and a Melee of a/c so broke off to attack. As the low and slow a/c , I was able to get in a few shots before being chased then my squad mates came in and did Zee chasing. Soon two e/a broke off and headed home , I fell on the last e/a and fired off 150 rds, Fire and smoke then he nosed over and Boom he fell apart. A Good day One 2 seat and a Scout for 3 N-24's damaged. I sent my valet into the Town for Brandy to celebrate with the Esc.

Sorry about Nigel, Carrick. I thought he'd be able to escape.
Francois certainly has some substance as well as panache. He went Kraus Von Espe on that Alb