Carrick, I still jump in my seat from a close Archie burst!

2nd Lt. Ainslie Harris,
Bruay
June 16, 1917

Ainslie was still a little bleary headed as he downed his second cup of coffee. He was still trying to shake the loss of his friend the day before. Somehow, since he was flight leader, he felt responsible but knew there was nothing about it that was his doings. It was what it was. The food was brought out and beacon, toast and 2 boiled eggs were laid in front of him. He looked down at the meal and back up to the corporal. “Do you know how to fry an egg Corporal?” The Corporal looked puzzled. “Fried, Sir?” Ainslie shook his head, “yes, fried! You obviously have beacon grease!” The Corporal looked bewildered. Ainslie rose from his seat and instructed the Corporal to come with him. In 10 minutes Harris arrived back at his table with 2 fried eggs. Over easy to be exact. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat boiled eggs when you have all the fixin’s to make them proper!” Harris exclaimed to no one in particular.

At 600 hours! B Flight was on its way to patrol friendly lines west of Cambrai. Near Pronville Godfrey dove on a flight of Albatri. Harris damaged one and followed it down to the deck, intent on finishing the job. As Pronville was ahead and he was lower than 1000’ his senses overcame his bloodlust and he pulled into a climb. He could see a wild fight between A and B flights with the original flight of .albatri and others that had joined in. A Nieuport dove out with one on his tail and Harris latched on to him. After several long, telling bursts, Harris had to disengage or ram him. As he turned away he saw Cudmore send him to earth. Another Albatri flashed in front of him and he hit it sending black smoke pouring from the engine. Harris smiled, lining up to make a killing shot. He pressed to fire and was met with silence! He was out of ammunition. He headed straight back over the lines and home. His flight claimed 2 but the squadron lost 2 planes with one pilot severely wounded. The casualties were stacking up for 40 squadron.

At 1800 hours Harris climbed from his Nieuport after the afternoon patrol. They had tangled with the red tailed squadron up near Nieuport. Harris was spent. They were supposed to take out the balloon East of Dicksmuide but the Huns foiled that. At one point in the fight he was down to 1500 ft. and stalled, barely pulling out before crashing into no mans land. 3 times during the melee he had tracers engulf his machine, or so it seemed at the time, but he nor his Nieuport had a single scratch. Once the fight was over he headed to the balloon alone knowing they would have to come back. It was a foolhardy plan. The Germans had hauled down the bag and he was alone behind the lines. “That was real stupid hoss” he thought to himself. “You best get your head right before they put you 6 ft. under.” He made his way back home and was happy to be alive another day.

Note: someone can grow me up on RFC cuisine as I have no idea if fried eggs were in fashion. But, Harris was really in the mood for a fried egg!

MFair: The Flack in WOFF reminds me of the Flash Bangs used by the Police on TV.

16 May 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

I fell asleep to frog song last night and slept like a dead man. This morning I woke to the rain hammering the windows. My hut mates remained oblivious as I dressed and made for the Squadron Office.

“Uncle, I do believe it’s raining. What does the Met Office say?”

“2-3 days." said Uncle. "Spring rains, and what may I ask prompts this sudden meteorological inquiry?”

“What are my chances if I ask Major Horn for a 36-hour pass?”

“Where on earth would you go in 36 hours? he asked. “That’s not nearly enough time for Paris”

I just looked at him. I think he eventually remembered my letter to Eliza.

“Ah, yes. I imagine the Major could find a way for that to happen,” he said.
“You better take this, my boy, if you’re going to be escorting a lady.” He handed me an enormous umbrella.

I caught a transport heading north. Peronne la Chapelle was a hive of activity. Eliza appeared, blood on her smock.

“Look at you, Oliver!" she said, placing her hand over the white and purple ribbon on my left breast. “So soon. How marvelous!” A holding of hands, a kiss on each cheek. “Oliver, I’m sorry but your timing is dreadful. We can have short walk, though.”

“The frogs are singing,” I said, opening the huge umbrella Uncle had given me as we set out from the reception tent. “Met Office says rainy and unflyable thru the 18th.”

“Unflyable? Really?” she asked. “Whatever shall we do?”

““Spend a day with me, Eliza, I’ve got a pass. Can you get away for 24 hours and meet me tomorrow at Noon. The Café Fou in Corbie?

“The mysterious Café Fou?” she replied. “I’ve heard of this place, and yes, I can get away. It’ll be your doing too, well mostly. You charmed Matron.”

“Did I? I thought it was you when I woke in the ward after that Benzocaine tried to kill me.”

“She told me.”

“You talked to her about me? She said something that stuck in my head. I was still a little groggy”.

“Nothing specific," Eliza said quickly, “but Matron sees more deeply than the rest of us.”

“She’s not like I remember from Laconia. You were telling tales on her, Eliza, and having some sport with me. She was lovely, almost supernatural, like something out of history or myth.”

“It sounds like Matron wasn’t the only one charmed. Should I be jealous?” she said, affecting a pout.

“Whatever do you mean, Miss Ludlow?” I said, kissing her hand with a flourish.

‘Eliza, will you think me wicked if I ask you… will you stay with me tomorrow?

“Yes.”

“Err, the wicked part or, staying tomorrow?”

She kissed me on both cheeks and whispered, “both.”
“I have to go.” she said.

I was fairly sure that was a yes.

Rain continued intermittently but the winds picked up in the afternoon. Nobody was flying in these conditions.
My return to Flez found a letter waiting for me.

Shelby Horace Longstreet
Sgt
Esc 84 of CG13
Pierrefonds, Marne

17 Jun 1917.

The Esc was out in force for the Dawn Patrol. The 10 of us only just arrived over NML when a flight of 6 Bosche turned into us. Well shut my mouth, they meant to fight
us. I was briefed to stay high and to shoot at long range. I got shots off at one then he went for the deck . Zooming , I spotted lower down one just cruising along so I dove on him. fired off a bunch of rds, Unseen, a Hun dropped on my tail firing so I ran at full power Home. Landed with 60% fuel, 100 rds and 3 holes in my mount. The Esc claimed 3 Destroyed. Losses were 2 Spads Destroyed , , 1 pilot wnd, 3 spads damaged. My Spad was more damaged during the landing I had to ground loop to avoid the trees that surround the AF.

IWM article on food at the front

From letters, I'd say 'meat and two veg' was the standard. As it was in the UK right up into the 1980s. Theres been a bit of a cuisine revolution since so more variety now. Meat and two veg refers to the portions. One of meat, two of vegetables. Usually one of these is potatoes.

The RFC is part of the British army, so they would have the same basic rations, but seem to have bought in local food supplies themselves.

Fried eggs were definitely common. They are part of the full English breakfast!

Food parcels from home would bring more luxury items like cakes and biscuits (the British sort, like American cookies but there is a lot of variation). Archeaological digs at Beaupre Farm uncovered HP sauce bottles so someone was bringing that brown spicy Ketchup variant over. It goes well with sausages or bacon.

And tea. It's probably being brewed somewhere nearby at any given time when soldiers aren't actually fighting.

MFair, too bad about Mason. If I see a wingman that appears to be capable I sometimes disregard my pilot’s own safety to keep him alive. That’s why I turned the wingman option off. Less distractions. Congrats on the latest kills.
So, fried eggs for breakfast and a Hun omelet for lunch, did I get that order right, Sir?

Epower, you’ve been busy lieutenant Winningstad. Congrats on the promotion. Great job spooking that Hun with your ammo spent. I wonder what they must be thinking when you’re not firing at them? “That’s one chivalrous Tommie” or “I’m so depressed - I’m not worth even one bullet”
They’re definitely not thinking: “he’s out of ammo”.
Now, Oliver better make sure he’s not out of ammo when Eliza comes calling tomorrow at Café Fou. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge!

Raine, that report kept me on the edge of the seat. When you mentioned the date of 13th I expected the worst. I was just waiting for some HE chaps to arrive and spoil the party. Congrats on a successful mission. Did you fly the mission non-stop, or took some ‘apple’ breaks?

Carrick, Shelby seems right at home in that SPAD. Don’t get too comfortable, the Huns are a huntin’.


16 June, 1917 14:50
St-Quentin-le-Petit, Marne Sector
Jasta 17
Feldwebel Zygmunt Dolf Hahn
3 confirmed kills

Strasser led them towards the front on a patrol to Rosnay aerodrome in enemy territory. As they were climbing to altitude, a pair of Caudrons appeared above them. The Schwarmfürher gave the signal to engage and the chase followed. The two Gitterschwänzen were flying so high that any steering column movement resulted in a stall. Strasser was able to take one of the enemy planes out in his D.V, but Ziggy struggled to keep up in the D.III. After a long period, the German pilot was finally able to match the bomber’s altitude and send it down with a shot off wing. Some of his wingmen followed the falling foe in hopes of dealing that final blow and claiming the two-seater for themselves.

YouTube Link



The patrol continued on, across the No-Man’s Land and into the Frogland. Zygmunt was struggling to keep up with the leader and he noticed him go into a shallow dive. He must have spotted enemies ahead. Hahn followed but was hopelessly outdistanced. Instead he encountered a skirmish nearby and below. It looked like one of the wingmen from Schwarm Eins was being chased by a SPAD. Zygmunt swooped down on the unsuspecting Frenchman and opened fire. He noticed a stork painted on the side of the tan aeroplane. Perhaps it was that Fonck fellow? More fire and the SPAD was spiralling towards earth. “Rot in hell!” Ziggy’s rage towards the Storks was fuelled with each new encounter. The young German didn’t linger over enemy airspace. He pointed the nose of his mount north and return to base.

YouTube Link

Shelby Horace Longstreet
Sgt
Esc 84 of CG13
Pierrefonds, Marne

18 June 1917

Returning from morning Patrol in the landing pattern when Bombs fell on our AF. Searched the skies but the e/a got away.

Afternoon line patrol 2nd sections 3 a/c were in a V formation at 15000ft spotted a Melee below us. at about 10000 ft. Going down, I sipped a little Brandy to keep warm
The fight below looked like foxes in the Hen house some British . I latched on to a Black Tailed V strut and during the turn and Burn I he became a sittin duck. I did a chandel and came up on him, but the man's motor wasn't running so let him go and flew home. Not Claim filed..

.

Carrick – Very sorry to see that the Gong Fairy curse has fallen on poor Pistache. Hopefully, Longstreet will have a long and undecorated career.

Fullofit – Oh dear. Zygmunt has three confirmed kills already which puts him that much nearer his first decoration. Let’s hope it won’t be yet another fatal award for our DID pilots.

Maeran – Thanks for the link to that IWM article, most informative, and now bookmarked for future reference. Also, a brilliant episode, again the story crossovers are a great additions. I appreciate you incorporating poor Swany’s demise into your man’s account. First rate stuff.

Epower – Ah, young love. Glad to see Oliver managed some quality time away with Eliza. And a letter from Smokey to thicken that plot twist. Well done, though with 10 victories your man is also approaching “the curse”.

MFair – Condolences on the loss of Anslie’s wingman, it is tough to lose a good one. I agree about favoring fried eggs over boiled ones, in particular at breakfast. But once again I am worried as Anslie too is running up his score ever closer to a new, and possibly deadly, gong.

Raine – Wonderful account of Werner’s long raid on London. I can only imagine what it must have been like to actually have to fly for five hours under those conditions. Kudos to making it back alive.


Thank you all for the touching sendoff of Major Swanson, I sorely miss the man despite him only having a virtual presence among us. Now that the initial shock has passed it is time to move on, there is a war to fight after all. So to that end, here is the introduction to my new fellow. May he survive the madness, (thanks Raine for the interesting, i.e., frightening, squadron assignment)

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14 June 1917
11 Squadron R.F.C.
La Bellevue, France

2nd Lieutenant Frederick Abbott had arrived at his new posting on the afternoon of the 14th and, after unpacking his gear in the corner of the four-man hut he’d been assigned to, took a tour of the camp. That evening at dinner introductions were made, and he was given a hearty welcome by his fellow squad mates.

He’d kicked around the pilot’s pool at St. Omer for three days prior where he’d seen nearly all the mounts the RFC was currently flying, and he was sure he’d be sent off to an SE5 or Pup squadron, or Spads at the very least. When he was told to grab his kit and catch the waiting tender to La Bellevue his excitement rose. His first combat assignment! What would it be?

“11 Squadron, you say. So what scouts are they flying these days?” Frederick asked with a toothy grin.”

“No, you have it wrong chum”, the assigning officer stated flatly. “11 does recce and photo work mainly. Flying the Fees, though I believe they are moving over to the Bristols.”

“Two-seaters!? Fees!?” Frederick was incredulous. “But I’ve been training on scouts for weeks!”

“Welcome to the RFC, mate. It’s Fees for you for now, and I pray for your sake they keep you well away from the front while you’re in ‘em.”

Even before 2nd Lt. Abbott had reached La Bellevue he’d come to terms with his fate. He wasn’t one to dwell too long on the turn a situation might take, but rather would simply do what he was told and get on with it. This approach required considerably less thinking on his part, which suited him well as he was not one prone to great thought. Because of this he was generally a cheery sort of fellow. Not necessarily the sharpest tool in the shed so to speak, but a contented one.


Frederick Heracles Byron Abbott was the youngest of four children, being born to his mother, Orelia Byron Abbott, some ten years after her first three, (a male heir and two girls). Neither she nor his father, Arledge Frederick Abbott, were terribly pleased about the boy’s arrival, and more or less ignored him, placing the burden of his upbringing on various nannies and governesses. Abbott senior was a shrewd businessman and investor who’d done very well for himself and his family. Through his numerous influential connections, and a fine ancestry, (being a direct descendant of the 1st Baron Tenterden, Charles Abbott), he’d amassed a sizable fortune. When his wife was eight months along with Frederick he moved the entire family from their home in London to Biddenden in Kent, some fifty miles southeast, said move being prompted by an investment in some new railways that were being built to serve that area. He purchased Birchley House, one of the oldest and largest estates in the village, and shortly after the new staff was in place and the household set up his fourth and final child was born, on 30 January, 1899.

It became quickly apparent to anyone with even a passing interest that little Frederick was an odd child, and seemingly a bit slow on the uptake. As example, if given a ball to play with and shown repeatedly how to make it roll or bounce, he would simply stare at it. When and if he did pick it up, rather than mimic the actions just shown him, he would hit himself in the eye or the nose or the ear with it, look puzzled for a moment, then give a wide grin and a giggle. Once he began walking, (which took two years), he would regularly run into furniture, doors, and walls while racing about, resulting in him landing hard on his backside where he would sit for a moment looking dazed and befuddled and, again, grin and laugh. As for talking, he did not utter an intelligible word until he was nearly three, at which point he went directly to speaking in full sentences. His nanny at the time was dumbfounded when little Frederick one day out of the blue stated, plainly and clearly, “I would like a biscuit please, Nanny Bryce”. The doctor was immediately called in for an opinion on the startling occurrence. At one point during the examination the doctor held his pocket watch out to the child asking, “Freddy, do you know what this is?” The boy stared at it for a moment with a look of amazement, then snatched the timepiece quick as wink, ripping the chain from the doctor’s vest, proclaiming, “It is my new watch, thank you Doctor Falstaff!” He then turned and ran as fast as his little legs would carry him, directly into a chair that knocked him flat. Frederick got up from the floor, looked about with a now familiar dazed appearance, laughed, and said, “My apologies Madame Chair, I didn’t see you there. What do you think of my new watch?” After retrieving his property the doctor stated that young Master Abbott was somewhat addle-brained and lacked common sense but that he may well grow out of it, and that everyone should be thankful the boy is speaking so well, regardless of how he got there.

In the fall of 1912 young Frederick was sent to Charterhouse School where he was placed in Robinites House. Years earlier his father had gone to Charterhouse as a Verite, which was one of the three original “old” houses. Had the man taken any real interest in his youngest son he might have requested that the lad also be placed as a Verite and thus been given the social advantages that being in an old house in that institution would have provided his son during his time there. However, the man had no such interest, caring only that for the next five years Frederick would be someone else’s concern. Fortunately, due to Frederick’s happy nature, he was not terribly affected by the snub. Truth be told, that very nature tended to endear him to people, despite his other oddities; one such distinct oddity at that time being his looks. Frederick had never been what one would call an attractive child, and by age thirteen things had not improved - far from it. His face was very round; his ears a tad pointed; his nose, though broad at the top, came to a sharpish, slightly upturned end; his dark brown eyes were just a bit too small, while his mouth was far too wide. The overall result was quite homely, and yet when he smiled the whole thing was strangely pleasant. It was also responsible for the name he would live with his entire time at school - Tiggy-Winkle. The moniker was most apropos, for when young Frederick gave a wide grin he looked exactly like the hedgehog from the Beatrix Potter story; and while the other boys at Charterhouse may have originally hung the name on him as a slight, Frederick took it in stride and laughed right along with them. Such willingness to find humor at his own expense, along with his strangely pleasant looks, endeared Frederick to his housemates almost from the start.

Frederick was not an apt student, struggling with nearly every subject. His Latin and Greek were abysmal, mathematics and science eluded him, and his grasp of geography and history were tenuous at best. He did however have a keen interest in paleontology and spent much time learning all he could about it, time that should have been directed towards his other studies. His housemaster, Mr. O.H. Latter, while encouraging Frederick’s particular interest, ordered that the young man focus on his required classes before his own pursuits, not after. He also instructed the young lad to join the junior class of the Officers' Training Corps as the Empire would always be in need of new subalterns, (his last recommendation being made as a way of opening a future to Master Abbott more likely suited to someone of such questionable scholastic abilities).

As an individual who tended to enjoy doing what he was told, OTC was a good fit for young Frederick. Unfortunately he was not much better with learning soldiering than he was with his school studies. While he found it great fun playing the games of reconnoitering, scouting, capturing the flag and such, actual understanding of military tactics were beyond him. And he looked a downright fool in drills, due in large part to a growth spurt he’d suffered when he turned fifteen. He was suddenly this gangly, storkish figure, nearly a head taller than his peers, and because he was not yet accustom to his newfound stature he would flail and bounce about as he tried to march. It was beyond comical to his classmates; their drill sergeant however failed to see the humour. He would call the ungainly cadet out repeatedly and have him parade about independent of the rest of the squad. “Look smart there Abbott! Stop flappin’ about like a goony bird Abbott! Keep those arms by your sides Abbott! Stop bobbin’ up and down like a bleedin’ jack-in-the-box Abbott!” But no amount of shouting or thumps with the baton could bring poor Frederick into line, at least not until he’d actually grown into his young adult body, which would take another two years.

The war had been grinding relentlessly on for those two years, by which time Frederick was fast approaching his eighteenth birthday. He’d managed to advance, with varying degrees of minimal success, through his school classes, and along the way had also become a fairly decent bowler for the Robinites cricket team, his long arms and legs proving an asset in that regard, (once he’d gotten some control over them). His OTC training had also seen spotty progress, though it had been slowed by a broken fibula he’d suffered during the summer exercises of 1916. Shortly before Christmas break of that same year he was called in by his Housemaster who advised him that he should sign on with the Royal Flying Corps as they were in desperate need of pilot trainees. Mr. Latter felt that, given Frederick’s particular skill levels as concerned his military training thus far, the RFC might well prove the better of his available options. Young Abbott thought it a marvelous idea. “What a spiffing adventure it will be, Sir! Giving those filthy air Huns a sound thrashing! Most exciting!” Frederick announced with a toothy smile. He was in fact so excited by the idea that, as he was leaving the Housemaster’s office, he ran squarely into the door-frame. A fairly undignified yet somehow befitting start to what would become the young man’s future in the Royal Flying Corps.

.

Lou,

Welcome to Mr Abbott! I sense that we are all going to have a great deal of fun reading about his adventures. I am waiting for the first old Carthusian to show up at 11 Squadron and rechristen him as Tiggy Winkle! Also, there are some great mysteries to resolve. For one, how did a young man disinterested in modern military tactics and amused by running into solid objects repeatedly miss his calling in the world? He is a natural infantry officer, by God. Perhaps too ugly for the Guards, but there are always colonial troops looking for his type of subaltern.

Does he know he is buying the drinks tonight?

Lou, welcome back. I was starting to worry you’ve had enough.
I’m enjoying Freddy’s introduction and looking forward to his future misadventures. I have a feeling he will get acquainted with nurse Mopsy very quickly. And I do hope out Tiggy-Winkle will not try to fly his Fee engine-first during his premiere.

17 June, 1917 09:00
St-Quentin-le-Petit, Marne Sector
Jasta 17
Feldwebel Zygmunt Dolf Hahn
4 confirmed kills

There was a surprise waiting for Zygmunt this morning. The news of yesterday’s SPAD being confirmed arrived early. Unfortunately the Caudron didn’t go to him. It was hotly contested by Vizefeldwebel Träger, who went after the stricken machine, claiming to have hit it with the final rounds.
“- Never mind that.” Said Wolff when Ziggy went to express his displeasure at the situation. “- Come Junge, we have something to cheer you up.” Jakob grabbed his jacket and led the young pilot to the airfield. “- There is a new plane waiting for you over there. Let’s go take a look.” Hahn’s eyes grew to the size of saucers from surprise. “- Oh boy! A D.V! I’ll finally be able to keep up with the rest of you. Where is it?” Ziggy was confused. All he could see was just another Albatros D.III.
Jakob Wolff put his hand on Zygmunt’s shoulder. “- You’re looking at it. Isn’t she a beauty?”
Ziggy didn’t understand. He was already flying a D.III. “- But you said I’ll be getting a new machine. This isn’t new.” The disappointment in his voice made him sound like a spoiled brat.
“- But it is new.” Wolff assured him. “- Just look at the radiator. It’s located to the side now, so your face will never get scalded by hot water in case of a leak or a puncture. That’s new, ja? They also fixed the wing. It’s stronger now, too.”
Ziggy sighed in resignation. This “new” kite will have to do. At least the tail is painted black now. Hahn’s plane will finally look like it belongs to Jasta 17.
Today’s mission consisted of a patrol in friendly territory over the airfield of Chambry. The flight was uneventful and no enemy planes were spotted. It was rather cloudy so there is little wonder they didn’t spot anything on their patrol.
It could not be said the same about the blasted French. As the Schwarm circled their aerodrome, preparing to land a sneaky SPAD jumped out of a cloud and attacked them. First one of the wingmen in front of Ziggy and then came after the man himself. What cheek! Hahn immediately abandoned his approach and turned towards the interloper. They continued to turn with the Franzmann keeping upper hand, always being able to get on Ziggy’s tail, despite him doing his best to lose the foe. At one point the Frenchman taunted Ziggy by flying upside down. “- He’s toying with me, like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse.” Zygmunt’s blood was boiling. “- This will not stand!” He made another turn and the SPAD followed, but his turn took him further away from the Albatros which gave Ziggy time to reverse and face his enemy. He began spraying and praying for one of his rounds to find the enemy. His prayers were answered. The volley spooked the French pilot, who decided to retreat, but it was too late. Ziggy was now behind him and firing his Spandaus. It was over soon after with the SPAD falling under little to none control. It crashed near the aerodrome. There would be no contesting this victory by anyone. This one was all Hahn’s.

YouTube Link

RAFLou: Glad U R back. I hope to lift the Gong Curse.

Shelby Horace Longstreet
Sgt
Esc 84 of CG13
Pierrefonds, Marne

19 Jun 1917.


Morning Line Patrol: Bit of a mix up with the Huns, My boys did well no one shot down. We had some holes and the Esc claimed one. e/a I got off A few strings but no luck. I damaged my kite, a hard landing cut the power too soon while going too slow. but walked away. I do declare there are just too many Trees in this here Aerodrome.

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Carrick – You never can trust those trees around the aerodrome. They’re just waiting to jump in front of your kite.

Fullofit – That kill stealer Träger has some nerve. Zygmunt needs to have a talk with him, perhaps with a short length of wing strut behind one of the hangars. Ah well, it sounds like number 5 will soon be on your man’s tally sheet.

Raine – To answer your question …

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15 June 1917
11 Squadron R.F.C.
La Bellevue, France

“What ho, chaps!”, 2nd Lt. Abbott hailed as he entered the mess shortly after sunrise. “What a spiffing morning for my first jaunt along the front.”

Through bloodshot and bleary eyes the handful of pilots and observers sitting along the table all looked over at the squadron’s new lad. Each man, with a large cup of coffee, was nursing his respective hangover, some clearly in need of more nursing than others.

Lieutenant MacAndrew was the first to speak. “My god Freddy, how can you be that cheery this early? You drank more than the lot of us last night, how are you not in agony?”

“Haw! Bit of a head there, Colin?” Frederick guffawed. “Can’t really answer your question, old top. Hadn’t really had much experience with alcohol before signing on. It’s an oddity, but so far the few times I’ve gotten sozzled I’ve felt marvelous the next morning. Lucky me, eh?”

Colin took a long sip of the coffee he’d been cupping his hands round before he replied. “Don’t take what I am about to say the wrong way as I do appreciate you standing us all to drinks for the entire evening - most generous of you really - but right now, and I believe I speak for all of us here - I hate you.”

Mutters and grumbles of agreement went round the table with several of the men raising their cups towards their previous evening’s newfound benefactor.

“Haw haw!” Frederick laughed again. “Sorry chaps, I’ll close the purse early next time. Was only trying to fulfill my obligations as the green fellow you know.”

“Well you certainly did that Freddy - you did that in spades.”

“So only coffee before the morning show? 2nd Lt. Abbott inquired with a toothy grin as he took a seat. “Do you chaps not have a bite of breakfast before flying? I’m famished. Wouldn’t mind a couple of nice runny eggs and some buttery toast to sop them up with.”

11 Squadron’s latest addition was suddenly forced to take cover on the floor behind his chair as anything within reach and of throwing size was hurled at him with a vengeance.

After the incoming volley had passed, the young airman sat back down and cleared away the bits and pieces of the bombardment that had landed on the table in front of him. “Black coffee for now it is then.”


(to be continued)

.

Lou, Abbott is certainly going to win the Victoria Cross. The whole concept of incoming rounds is certain to elude him. He's already a favourite!

good show

MFair - We so need Ainslie and Freddie Abbott to meet. The no more ammo thing is most inconvenient. We need a tracer change of some sort to indicate 100 rounds remaining. Glad Ainslie made it home unscathed. Be careful. As for Breakfast, Fried eggs and SPAM over fried rice. That's heaven and a superb hangover cure. Alas, SPAM is 20 years off.

Carrick - Great screenshots especially the black tailed Albatros. Shelby's holding his own. Mind that pesky Gong Fairy though.

Fullofit - Ziggy's disappointment is understandable. Tough sledding having to fly a new machine... Stable, solid and dives like a stone. He'll be fine. Do Jasta 17 get Triplanes? That would be terrifying. Well done dodging the B/Z tactics of that annoying Franzmann and congrats on the kill. Will Ziggy make an Honor Cup for each victory a la the Baron?

Lou - Welcome back. I can only imagine what it was like to lose Swanny. I'm probably gonna find out at some point given the reckless nature of a certain love struck Yank. Fantastic opening story. I've known a couple kids like Freddy. This is gonna be good. If he lives, this one could be truly legendary. He's a British Forrest Gump, I think. Please keep the Gongs away from Oliver. Pretend Wing hates him or something.
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This chapter was a long time in the making. I've been grinding on this for a while. Scores of hours. I don’t know how real authors do it, talent I guess. Fortunately, I’ve still been flying missions so I’m not as far behind as it would appear.

Needing some background info for contemporary fashions of WW1, and remembering the rave reviews, I watched Testament of Youth. Gee, a memoir of the Great War where the heroine loses all her close friends, her fiance and her only brother. Beautifully filmed and I get to look at Alicia Vikander for 2 hours. How hard could this be to watch? Good Lord, it was the emotional equivalent of a Bas Rutten roundhouse kick to the liver. Staggering. Just staggering. If you have any unresolved loss issues, I’d strongly recommend having a grief counselor or therapist on an open line when you watch.


Note: During the Great War, British surgeons were addressed as “Mr.” instead of “Dr.” hence Mr. George Grey Turner mentioned in the episode below. A relic of the messy class history of the British medical establishment.
More info here for those interested: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1119265/
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18 May 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

A whirlwind 36 hours. Still trying to come to grips with all that happened.

I made it to Corbie and the café at 1130 on the 17th bringing with me another letter to Madame de Rochefort from her ‘cher Roman.’ Her reaction was just as effusive as the last time. I took a seat by the window and ordered coffee. By 1500 I’d fought a series of pitched battles with an unquiet mind. My initial excitement of having an entire day with Eliza turned briefly to worry then to an ever-increasing agitation. Had something happened to her? Did she change her mind? Did we get our signals wrong?

Madame left the café to her daughters and withdrew to rest before dinner.
“You will still dine with us ce soir, Lieutenant?” she asked.
“Oui, Madame. As we discussed, I hope to have a young lady as my dinner companion. She has been detained in some manner.”
“C’est la Guerre,” she said, patting my hand sympathetically.

The Café was on a side street three doors off the Rue Faidherbe. From my spot at the window I could see the stream of traffic coming from the direction of Peronne. On and on came the ambulances and each one continued past. I walked to the intersection, standing under the umbrella and practicing the breathing Smokey taught me. Something must have happened. This was not good. I’d been there five or ten minutes when yet another ambulance approached but unlike the scores who’d taunted me all afternoon, this one slowed and came to a halt at the corner. The driver wore a nursing uniform. She smiled at me and nodded just as Eliza hopped out of the passenger door.

There she was. I hadn’t seen Eliza in civilian clothes since Laconia, almost 10 months ago. The change was breathtaking. The nurse’s veil, cape, smock and apron traded for a blue wool jacket open at the throat showing a white V-necked blouse. The jacket was cut long with large buttons down the front. It fell over a skirt of similar style all held together by a wool sash belt joined with a metal clasp. Her hair was up underneath blue wool cloche hat.

She ran over to the shelter of my umbrella and threw her arms around my neck. One hand on the umbrella and the other around her waist I picked her up as momentum carried her. Eliza’s eyes flashed right though me for a second before refocusing.

“I am so sorry, Oliver. We had wounded come just after you left. It’s been quiet lately and most of the staff are up north, closer to the fighting. We were short-handed so I was in surgery for the last 18 hours. It was an endless rush. Surgeons usually deal with the deep life-threatening internal wounds and surgical nurses the external wounds, suturing, putting in drains, that sort of thing, but today was different. Oliver, there was one man with an abdominal wound, we were removing bits of shrapnel when he started hemorrhaging and then everything slowed down. It was incredible. Almost like we were in a dance, just me and Mr. Grey-Turner tracking down the bleeds – find, clamp, suture. He was on one side, I was on the other, both of us doing the work of surgeons! When he was halfway done sewing the abdomen closed, he turned to me and asked me if I would finish closing. I’ve been studying and I’ve sewn thousands of sutures on skin wounds these past months, but this was the first time he let me close. He watched but didn’t say anything. Just nodded approvingly when I was done.

“It was incredible, Oliver! Did I say that already?”

Her voice held a fevered cadence and her eyes shone with the animation and clarity of someone come through intense and transformative experience. I knew that feeling all too well. Her blood was up, her face still flushed with the electricity and excitement of all she’d just done. Amazing after all this time, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

“I’m babbling. I’m so sorry I’m late,” she repeated. “This the famous Café Fou?”
“Yes. Are you hungry?”
“Not at all. Let’s walk.” she said. “I need to move, and I’ve never seen Corbie.”
Eliza, stepped away from me, spun on her toe, arms out like a ballerina, letting the rain fall on her face, then slipped gracefully back to my side and took my arm.



As we moved down the Rue de Faidherbe poking into a shop here and there, her arm grew heavier on mine. She was done in.

“Come on. Let me show you something.” I said.
We walked back toward the café and around the corner to the tall gate. Her eyes widened as we crossed the courtyard and entered L’Hotel.

“What have you done, Oliver?”

We stopped before the door to the 3rd floor apartment. “Close your eyes,” I said, then opened the door, took her hand, and led her inside. “You can look now.”

She wandered on ahead gazing in astonishment. “It’s spectacular! But where will you sleep?” she asked.
Eliza turned, saw the look on my face, and smiled her mischievous smile.

“Give me your coat. Come see the rest of it,” I said.
“Oliver, this must have cost you a fortune.”
“I wanted it to be special.”

“How marvelous!” she said with look of wonder and spun on her toe again.
I caught her on the second turn, and we danced about the room for a minute, laughing. She was still giddy. We plunked down on the couch opposite the window next to the fireplace. Eliza undid her shoes, tucked her feet to one side and curled up against me like a cat, arm across my stomach, and her ear on my chest. Her hair kept tickling my nose as I held her and listened to the rain. In a minute she was fast asleep.

It’s ok there’s time.

Twilight’s dark glow lit the clouds and the failing light filtered through the tall windows. My arm was painfully asleep, but I dared not move for fear of waking her. The unceasing toil of the nursing sisters always astounded me. Day after day, long shifts and then little to no rest at all when a big show was on. They lived rough too, under canvas year-round with just a tiny stove for heat. My happy hut was a palace by comparison and excepting the 5 hours a day when I might be shot to death or burnt alive by Huns, my war was an easy job.

In the end it was my growling stomach that woke her.
“That was lovely,” she said woozily. “You’re extremely comfortable.”
She stretched languorously and then sat up, fully awake. “I’m starving,” she said, “and by the sound of it, so are you.”
_____________________________

Eliza spoke perfect French (of course she did), and most courteously greeted Madame de Rochefort in her native tongue. I lost the track of their fast-paced conversation rather quickly, but it didn’t continue for long before Madame had hold of Eliza’s hand and they were chatting like old pals.

I’d spoken to Madame about dinner when I was waiting for Eliza. I knew almost nothing about French wine, so I left everything to her.

The binge lunch I’d enjoyed with 54 was an extravagantly gluttonous parade of food catered to drunken fellows looking for something different than meat and two veg. That said, it was one of the better meals I’d ever tasted. What Madame cooked for us was a more nuanced affair with all ingredients masterfully balanced in each fully realized dish. Simple, elegantly prepared, and spaced to satisfy our hunger without overwhelming. It didn’t take more than a few bites for the both of us to realize this was something truly out of the ordinary. I never even looked at the label on the wine. Whatever it was it was perfect.

Eliza was by no means a finicky eater. Uncontained joy would be the best description of her reactions, along with an occasional eye roll of ecstatic wonderment as Madame’s creations revealed themselves to the palette.

“You’ve no idea what a treat this is, Oliver. Just to get away from the war, if only for a day. One week blends into another at a Clearing Station and nursing sisters don’t get out very often.

“I have some news. I’ve been training at the base hospital in Rouen with Mr. Grey-Turner. That’s why I was gone for so many days. All manner of surgeries, I learned so much.

“Oliver, you won’t believe it, one patient had a bullet in his heart for 18 days. He was shielding his eyes from the sun when he was shot from distance, so the bullet passed through his wrist first then his notebook. That’s why it didn’t kill him instantly. You could see it on the radiograph, the bullet lodged in the septum with the tip poking around in the left ventricle, swirling with the heartbeat. Mr Grey-Turner opened his left chest and tried to remove it. I’ve never seen anything like it. No one touches the heart; it just isn’t done. He couldn’t get at the bullet. We poked with a needle, tried everything, then he turned the heart over, and it stopped entirely. It gave us all a fright. Mr. Grey Turner started palpating the heart but couldn’t fit both his hands in the incision, so I did it. Oliver, I held that man’s lifeless heart in my hands, and when I squeezed, it started beating again. Just like that! It was…I just don’t have the words. Is it horrible of me to say how exhilarating, how fascinating, how thrilling that was?”

“Will he live?”

“Yes, I think so. After the heart started again Mr. Grey Turner sewed up the entry wound in the pericardium and beat a hasty retreat.” The man had already had the bullet in there for 18 days so if it doesn’t infect, he should be fine.” [1]

A man’s living heart in her hand. Extraordinary

“Oliver, I’m good at this. Very good. I’ve studied and practiced, that’s true, but everything just comes naturally, almost without thought. I see what I want to do with instruments, and my hands make it happen. I have an opportunity. Mr. Grey Turner is willing to take me on as his surgical assistant at the base hospitals in Rouen.”

“But…”

“The AEF is coming too. There’s talk of promotion if I transfer, nothing specific yet.”

“Wasn’t doctoring your path before the war? What do you want, Eliza?”

“Why are you smiling like that?” she asked.

“When you talk about doing surgery you know who you sound like? Me, when I talk about aeroplanes and flying.”

She said nothing, just took a sip of her wine.

The rain had stopped so we took the long way back to L'Hotel.

This could be our one night together, for all I knew. I took extra care to go slowly. Eliza unbuckled the Sam Browne, her eyes never leaving mine. I did the same with the buttons of her blouse, one, then another then another interrupted with a kiss, a touch, as we each slowly undressed the other in a delicate back and forth, like the slow mating ritual of wild things.

I’d dreamed about this moment so many times but when we stood naked, kissing each other with the violent hunger of our thwarted passions it was no longer fantasy. We were lovers entwined and that was all.
____________________________________________

“It’s too much! It hurts. I can’t… Ow!!”

“Breathe Eliza, try to relax.”

“Gently Oliver,” she gasped. “Go slowly!

“Better?”

“Oh yes! Right there. Oh that’s marvelous!”

We sat at opposite ends of the enormous tub as the scalding water worked its magic. I had hold of Eliza’s right foot working out a knot in her instep. She wore a grin of relaxed contentment on her face, like a lioness dozing, but I kept a weather eye out for any change of expression that might augur violence. At present, her left foot meandered affectionately along my hip and thigh but it’s reflexive kick had nearly cracked a rib not long ago, when I’d pressed her too strongly, so I was taking no chances.

Hours unnumbered on her feet had taken their toll these past 9 months. Nine months, and three of those were the second half of the Somme battle. I’d been a mere 6 weeks at the front. I smoothed my palm up the long muscles below the calf. Her eyes flew open, brows furrowing in a triangle of pained outrage.

“Sorry! Too much?” I said, bracing for the kick that never came. “Those heeled boot things you wear aren’t helping, you know. They look like something for binding the feet of Imperial concubines.”

“Oliver, you’ll never understand. Even in war, a girl needs her shoes. Are you acquainted with Imperial concubines?

“No, but one hears things.”

“Oh I see. It’s one of those ‘things.’ Like sailors having a girl in every port. Did you leave a trail of broken hearts across the Pacific? Hmmmm, now that I think about it that doesn’t sound like you.
“I wonder,” she continued, “did some lovely break yours?”

Oh, how that happened.

My 18th birthday present from Smokey. It didn’t turn out quite the way he’d planned, and he felt bad about it afterwards.
“I thought you knew. It’s my fault, I should’ve told you up front. It was supposed to be a few days and nights of fun. I never thought you’d get feelings for her. I’m sorry, kid. Take it for what it was, then. Remember her and what she taught you.”
As if I could ever forget.

Now was not the time for that tale. Her crooked pinkie would be my undoing, so I held out both my hands. She reached forward and taking them, pulled herself forward to my end of the tub. I sat up to meet her with a soft kiss. Time stopped again, then she turned round and settled back against me. I gathered her up and pulled her to me. She closed her right hand over mine and placed it on her heart. I could feel the rise and fall of her chest and smell the lavender in her hair. Our heartbeats slowed and we sat in the piping hot water, drifting in its warm embrace, and listening to the frogs calling the rain.

“You make me very happy, Oliver.”

Let this last forever

The night drifted on and in time the water started cooling.
“I wish we could stay here,” she said at last.
“We can come here again, so long as I remain in Madame’s good graces, that is. The enigmatic Monsieur du Guesclin waxed ominous about the fickle nature of a lady’s favor.”

“As well he should.” she replied, “And how exactly did you obtain Madame’s grace?”

“I don’t know. It’s all rather dumbfounding. It must have been Ackers putting in a good word for me since he and Madame are lovers. I can think of no other reason.”

“This house seems rather grand, yet it’s tucked away, almost like it was deliberately hidden here behind the courtyard. Do you think Madame de Rochefort was someone’s mistress, long ago? Like in the story, maybe her lover was some star-crossed count, or a general. This was the place he built for them, and then fate intervened, they parted, or he died tragically. She married ultimately, had the four girls, then Monsieur de Rochefort died in the war. That's so sad. Don’t you feel a sense of melancholy from Madame?”

I did. I also remembered the fear in her countenance when I’d come to give her Ackers first letter and she thought something had happened to her ‘Cher Roman.’
“Is the scandalously modern Eliza Ludlow a romantic after all?”

“Why can’t I be both? she replied. “The water’s going cold and my fingers are wrinkly. Should we add more hot?”

“Let’s get out,” I replied, “but I’m wide awake now and I don’t want to sleep. Do you know this is the most time I’ve ever spent with you, Eliza? We’ve only had seven hours before today. The walk around Laconia, then the two times we met at Grovetown. You’re 8 miles up the road, yet I can never see you. I may run mad, you know.”

“This will be the way for us, Oliver. We’ll seize moments from the war and live in that stolen time.”
“And I’m not tired either. Whatever shall we do if we stay up all night?” she asked coyly.

“We could hold hands and think about the King, or President Wilson.” I said.

“And after that?”

“I have an idea.”
________________________________________

I’d catch my own transport back to Flez. Eliza tried to convince me to ride with her on the ambulance, but I didn’t want tongues wagging.
The Ambulance slowed as it drove past us then stopped 10 yards up the road. We strolled arm in arm toward the Crossley that would take her from me. As I walked her to the passenger door my heart was pounding in my chest and I could hear the pulse beat in my ears.

She turned to me and touched my cheek. “Thank you for this, Oliver.”

I had to say something. I took her hand in mine and kissed it.

“Eliza, there’s something I need to tell you.”
My mind went completely blank. Words fled.

Please not now. Why always in these moments? What do I say?

“For never before has love for any goddess or woman
so melted about the heart inside me, broken it to submission,
as now…”

Do not quote Zeus to her, you moron. Just tell her!

“Oliver, you’re trembling.” she said.

Say it! Say it now!

“Eliza…I…” she put her fingers to my lips and stilled them.

“I know, Oliver. You don’t need to say it. Please...”

“Let me speak the words in life, Eliza, and not in a letter you read when I’m killed. I couldn’t tell you last night because it would have sounded like pillow talk. I’ve known for a while now. Yes, it’s all rather sudden but that doesn’t change the truth of it.”

“I know, Oliver. How could I not?”

Her eyes implored me to silence. Brown eyes suddenly full of pain and pleading, slowly brimmed with tears. She kept trying to wipe them away with the palms of her hands. I handed her my handkerchief.

“Eliza, what’s wrong?”

Her fingers covered my lips again then she hugged me fiercely. I could feel her tears running on my neck. I just held her against me there as her sobs fled in sharp, tiny gasps, growing ever smaller as she eventually mastered herself. Our lips met again, my hand lingered on her face as she backed away, then she was on the lorry and gone.
___________________________________

I made it back the squadron in good time. The bottle of wine I’d bought helped overcome any qualms the supply boys had about having an officer along for the ride.

What a glorious time it was with her, yet all I could think on now was our parting. I would give her my heart with warm, living hands, and not in some death letter. Why would she stop me like that? I’d never forget the look on her face when she thought I might say it anyway. This was an old wound of hers, unhealed.

A glorious day, an unforgettable night. Eliza was no nervous virgin, that was for sure. How she acquired such facility in the arts of love I could only guess, and for once in my fool life had the good sense not to ask. For her to give herself so completely, so unreservedly was humbling, electric, magical. For the first time, I knew the clouds and rain with a woman I truly loved. All the others, all save one, were just so many playful couplings, swept into irrelevance by the winds that blew now.
____________________________

1. The patient survived at least another 23 years and was living when George Grey Turner reported his findings in the Lancet, October 19, 1940.

Epower- A masterpiece! Boris Pasternak eat your heart out. Maurice Jarre is already working on "Eliza's Theme."

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Epower - I agree with Raine, truly a brilliantly written masterpiece.

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Epower, all of your hard work was certainly worth it! Your latest effort is a masterpiece, without a single mention of combat. Although I became somewhat concerned at one point your story was about to turn decidedly blue...


For a moment, I thought Oliver was about to introduce Eliza to his 12 inch pianist.

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15 June 1917
11 Squadron R.F.C.
La Bellevue, France

A short while after the early morning breakfast discourse, 2nd Lieutenant Frederick Abbott and his G/O, Lieutenant Thomas Yale, were walking together across the field towards the waiting line of aeroplanes that were warming up in anticipation of the day’s first outing. Major C T MacLean, the squadron’s CO, had purposely paired up his newest pilot with one of his most seasoned gunner/obs officers in order to give Frederick the best chance of learning his job quickly and properly, and hopefully improving his odds of survival. The Major made it crystal clear that Yale was in charge and that Abbott was to do precisely what the man told him to do, (which Frederick was heartily in favour of). He also ordered that, on this his first sortie, young Abbott was to lag behind the rest of the flight five minutes and fly only as far east as the lines, then turn around and come straight back to camp. And if there was any sign of trouble before then, return immediately. For him this was to be a familiarization jaunt only.

As the two men strolled past the row of buses, Frederick marveled at the looks of the new Bristols, a pair of which were heading up the flight. They were a wonderfully nasty looking bit of hardware, all sleek and shiny, with guns for both the G/O and the pilot. “Spiffing!” Abbott remarked as he passed them. He couldn’t wait to have one of his own, but he’d already been told it would be at least another week before the full complement would arrive and as he was the new man he would be the last to receive one. Ah well, all things in their time. The bus he would be flying until then came into view, parked at the very end of the line. It was one of the squadron’s remaining FE.2bs, and a war weary one to be sure. While still quite serviceable, it was showing its age in the numerous scars and patches and repairs it sported. The cowling had been bent and dented and hammered back out myriad times; the wheels did not match; the elevator and one of the flaps were a lighter shade of brown from the rest of the machine; and there appeared to be a difference of opinion among the A.M.s on whether the wing struts should be painted or varnished.

“I say”, Frederick chuckled as he sized up the bus. “She’s homelier than I am!”

While the young pilot had flown a fair number of different mounts during his training at the Central Flying School, the Fee was not one of them. This was going to be a learn-as-you-go affair, with the first order of business being how to get into the pilot’s office. Abbott stood for a moment, staring at the problem in front of him.

“Are you waiting for her to invite you up, Freddy?” His G/O smirked.

“No, no Thomas, old scout, merely sizing up the situation”, Frederick replied.

After a brief study he began by placing himself between the portside of the fuselage and a pair of bracing wires that ran diagonally from the nose back to the wings. He then put his left foot onto the stirrup that hung just below the control horn that stuck out beyond the canvas. Grabbing the bottom of the side gun socket with his left hand he hoisted himself up so that he now stood on the stirrup. Easy peasy. Frederick then planted his free right foot on the leading edge of the lower wing and began to reach for the forward cabane strut with his right hand while at the same time attempting to remove his left foot from the stirrup. It was at this point that the whole operation went south as his boot hooked the aforementioned control horn causing him to simultaneously lose both his balance and his grip. Frederick fell backwards against the pair of control wires which in turn flung him back against the fuselage, and from there he slid down and landed flat on his arse on the ground. The young fellow sat for a brief moment in the grass with a slightly dazed look, then flashed his toothy grin.

“Haw! By Jove, I don’t believe she wants me to get inside her.”

“I have a lady friend back home that suffers from the same aversion”, Thomas chuckled.

After the laughter amongst the two officers and the Ack Emmas had subsided, Frederick had another go at it, his second try proving successful, (with a bit of helpful direction from Lieutenant Yale). Young Abbott gave his office a once over while Thomas got himself settled in the front. Several minutes later, after the bulk of ‘A’ Flight had lifted off, Frederick was given the signal and eased the throttle forward. The mismatched wheels of the old bus bumped and rumbled along the ground as the Fee slowly began building up speed. A bit faster - faster - faster still - it seemed to take forever. Then all at once the rumbling stopped, and they were free of the earth, up into a wonderfully blue sky of a June morning.

“Marvelous!” Frederick shouted.


(to be continued)

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