Fido Iggy Bedlow
Sgt Rfc
19 Sqn
Estree-Blanche,
Flanders, France.

1 July 1917


Escort: B flight ( 4 a/c ) had the duty to escort 2 BE's on a photo. Ran into the Boche 5 e/a on the final turn around. A real slug it out but saved the 2 seat's. We lost 2 Spads for 2 V Struts one was mind ,maybe, fired a lot saw some hits but lost sight as the fight was a hot one.

End of June 1917 reports.

Feldwebel Hans-Dieter Vogel, EK2
Jasta 26, Iseghem, Belgium
Albatros DV
25 missions
14.60 hours
14 claims
6 kills

Feldwebel Werner Edmund Wollenberg
Kasta 15 (Englandgeschwader)
Gotha IV
12 missions
35.78 hours
0 claims
0 kills

Fullofit - so sorry that Ziggy's first flight as leader ended in a "blaze of glory."

Maeran -- some terrific photos and description of the area around La Lovie. I'm looking forward to Mr Lindley's continuing story.

Carrick – I really like the photo of your Spad turning in behind the Albatros.

Vogel has had a busy day but the claims gods have not been kind…


Tagebuch of Fw Hans-Dieter Vogel, EK2

Jasta 26, Iseghem (Izegem), Belgium

Part 10

1 July 1917

Another grey day. Our tent is crawling with earwigs and we have to hang our bedding inside a hangar to have any hope of getting the dampness out before nightfall. Gefreiter Binder bumbles in at five o’clock to inform me that I am expected on the flight line at five thirty. He has graciously not allowed me enough time to get over to the Kasino for a slice of bread and cold meat. Steinmesser produces a tin of herring which ensures that I will spend most of the few minutes I have in the latrine.

At the field I meet Staffelfuehrer Loertzer, his brother, and Dannhuber. We are to meet with two reconnaissance machines over Roulers and escort them down the lines almost to Arras. As it was yesterday, the clouds are heavy and we are in and out of them the whole time. Twice I almost come into contact with Dannhuber, but I cannot blame him. Once it was his fault, the other time mine. The flight is long, cold, and without incident. We land back in Iseghem after nearly ninety minutes in the air, freezing and hungry. I change quickly and report to the adjutant and then rush to get a mug of tea (the coffee is vile). We are out of sausage but there are eggs and some good bread. I take a second mug of tea into the garden as the sun makes a brief appearance.

In the afternoon we get a call from the forward observers that enemy aircraft are approaching. I run to the field. Four machines are ready and mine is one of them. We take off without delay, the Staffelfuehrer, his brother, Leutnant Auer, and me. I am first away so Leutnant Loertzer forms on my left side and the others rush to catch up. I am climbing steeply and searching the sky. Suddenly there are flashes and dust clouds on our airfield. There, directly overhead, I see two English machines. I will not catch them. But there are two more a mile or so to the east and they will pass overhead soon. I continue to climb as steeply as I can.

Smoke trails from tracer rounds flash past. An English machine is coming straight at me and I level off and try to get it in my sights. It is a two-seater, handled like a scout. I have seen photos of the new Bristol aircraft but this is different. The pilot and the observer are too far apart. I give it chase and it turns back on me handily. This time I score some hits and the English machine climbs in turns to the left. I close in, firing all the way. The enemy machine rolls on its back and dives under me toward the field. All our gunners are firing at him as I make one more diving attack. The Englishman begins to pull out of his dive but his machine shudders and falls away, crashing into a farmer’s field west of Iseghem. I give out a whoop. My joy, however, is curtailed by the sudden appearance of a large group of silver Nieuports. Our for Albatrosen are whirling about at less than one thousand metres with six or seven English scouts. Two of the Nieuports select me as their prey. I have the advantage of speed but they turn more tightly and climb more quickly. If I turn with them I am lost. So I climb when I can and roll under to intercept them in a turn. I am flying defensively for nearly five minutes and then I catch one of the Nieuports with my rolling trick. It is a difficult shot from a sharp angle yet I do enough damage that the Nieuport dives away. Now I have his partner to deal with and his partner has lost sight of me. I dive on him, close up as much as I dare, and open fire. The Englishman is dead with the first burst and his machine falls between the lines. I am taking hits from heavy ground fire. It seems every machine gun on the Western front is pointed at my Albatros. Finally I climb out of range and head back to Iseghem. As I approach I see several aircraft milling about. The fight is still on! A Nieuport approaches at low level to my left. He is trying to get home but I am above and behind him in an instant. It takes two or three minutes to close the distance and we once again cross the lines. The enemy pilot must be new, for he has not checked behind his back. It is a fatal mistake. My Spandau machine guns tear the Nieuport apart and it falls in pieces over the English trenches. Once again rounds splatter across the wings of my Albatros and once again I throw the machine left and right as I climb away.


"The enemy machine rolls on its back and dives under me..."


"The Englishman is dead with the first burst..."

I have three claims from this flight of less than twenty minutes. The two-seater, I discover, is a new de Havilland machine. Unfortunately our squadron’s ground gunners have claimed him and Leutnant Loertzer tells me that because the machine levelled out and then fell, he believes it is more likely that the ground fire finished off the enemy aircraft. Our “Flying Pastor”, the other Leutnant Loertzer, witnessed the first of my Nieuports but the second was unwitnessed by my comrades and has gone unreported from 6th Army. So I have one confirmed victory to show for my day’s work. It brings my official score to seven. My machine needs only patching and a new elevator, so Steinmesser will be done by the time I am finished dinner. I tell him about the Café Belge and we make plans to go tonight for coffee and brandy together.

Raine - That Auer has nein lives, surviving Oliver's ventilation like that. Unfortunate about the claims Gods but look at the Flying Kill Stealer Pastor backing up Hans Dieter. Perhaps I have misjudged Loertzer. Coffee and chocolate fingers with good friends like Steinmesser, that's what life's about. P.S Loved that slight offset behind the cockpit Pic. Brilliant.

Carrick - Iggy/Fido/ Fenris the great Hound of the Underworld continues the hunt. Nice job surviving the Circus. That's always a rite of passage for any Allied flyer.

Maeran - Lindley is moving up in the world. Nice new digs. I've no doubt the Gods of War will reunite young Lindley and his friend the Badger. C'est La Guerre. Fascinating to see historical Hop cultivation. I live in an area where Hops, even two years ago were a major cash crop. Not so much now, alas. They grew them vertically here.

Fullofit - Gott Im Himmel! Not again!. I can't live with this imbroglio. I do hope young Ziggy is OK and finds a sympathetic nurse to tend his wounds.




29 May 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

0650 hrs. Brutal hangover and little sleep. Not the best preparation for another ground attack. This time the Vimy Rail Junction. I led Charley, Mac and Hyde. Many miles over the lines by the direct route.



We did some damage but on my second attack run the Huns found the range and filled the Pup full of holes. A dull blow landed on my right shoulder followed immediately by a painful burning like there was some hot metal stuck to the skin. When I recoiled the burning eased and when I shook my right arm I could feel something like a hot marble falling down my sleeve. A spent bullet? The fusillade jammed an aileron. It was a major effort to hold the machine level. I took the shortcut due west toward Arras and friendly territory, then the long way home around Bapaume.

My right shoulder was bruised and tender but the bullet hadn’t even broken the skin, just left a small burn where it initially struck. Two in as many days, like a pitcher nipping the outside corners. I tried not to think about the Christy Mathewson fastball straight down the middle.

Forty minutes on the bag and most of the poison was gone from my brain. The Major’s ghastly concoction of liquors was some evil stuff.

Lunch interrupted by the Air Raid klaxon. We dashed to our Pups and chased the Huns but as always, they were long gone.

Late afternoon, several of us caught a ride with Cpl Biggins up to 34 Casualty Clearing Station to see Monty. 34 CCS and 55 CCS share the same facilities at Peronne la Chapelette. Monty was not in a good way. He was barely conscious, and the nurses wouldn’t let us stay long.



The sun was setting as we left the ward. I stopped by the reception tent to leave a note for Eliza, when the Matron appeared.

“Have you been well, Lieutenant?” she asked as she looked at me approvingly. “I see you’ve been busy,” she touched my right shoulder very gently and then the MC ribbon in the same way Eliza had. "Come, walk with me,” she said.

The lorry sounded its horn. I waved them on. I’d find another ride back to Flez.

Matron took my arm and we headed toward the Sister’s Garden at the north end of the camp.

“My friend Monty, will he live?”

“Lt. Cole? He’s dangerously ill, but he’s strong. I believe he’ll pull through. Come and see him in two days, I’m sure it will do him good, one way or the other.”

The sister’s garden was a series of small plantings but at one end stood a gnarled rose bush. Its buds were closed in the cool evening, but their scent lingered just at the edge of perception. Matron bent down and sniffed one of the blossoms. She had a wistful look on her face as if gathering a memory and her green eyes betrayed a sadness for the briefest moment.

“These are very old,” she said. “Amazing they have survived amid such chaos.”

I don’t remember much of our conversation. I write this now and my memory shifts and swirls like the disordered scenes of a dream. Probably the lingering effects of the Major’s brew addling my brain.

Did we talk about Eliza? Why can’t I remember this? I only recall her words in parting.

“There’s something I would ask you, Matron.”

“I know, my dear but I cannot give you the answer you seek. We all have ghosts. You will have your own soon enough. Eliza is still learning how to live with hers.”

epower -- ooh, that mysterious Matron. This episode as my mind racing. Where will it go next?

Lou, congratulations on getting a confirmed victory. I hope it didn’t cost the old boy too much in the mess.

Carrick, beautiful screenshots as usual. Keep Fido on a short leash.

EPower, 2 seaters and ground attacks can be deadly! Be careful.

Fullofit, the gong curse again! Get an award and then barbecued! Hope your pilot is ok.

Ace, two claims in one outing! Outstanding.

Raine, it’s good to see Vogel back and busy. Congratulations on the victorie.

Maeran, I hope Lindley likes his new digs. Great old pictures.


Lt. Ainslie Harris
Bruay
July 2, 1917

Harris was up early for the morning show. Escort 3 RE’s to recon the lines between Loos and Thelus. Nice day for flying. A few miles into the patrol near Loos bullets slam into Harris’s top wing near his head. He skids in the opposite direction then pulls up. It is a single Albatros and 2 of his flight have him. Harris watches as the 2 Nieuports pour led into the diving Albatros. He checks the sky and does not see anything else. “Brave but foolish.” He thinks as he circles for his flight to rejoin. He hears the faint sound of Spandau’s and rolls just in time to see two blue Albatros with red noses coming down on him. His machine was hit again and he can tell it is not 100%but flyable. He finally got a burst in on the two and they disengage. Harris breathes a sigh of relief. “This is getting old. How did I not see them!” He decides to call it a day a heads west. Keen joins him as they cross over NML. In the distance, Harris can see friendly AA and strains to see their target. There are two Albatri coming black across. He maneuvered his Nieuport to intercept and dives on one of the Albatros. One burst and the pilot slumps forward and its over. As Harris sees the blue and red nose he said “take that you b@#tard!” Keen comes alongside and gives the thumbs up. B Flight claims three for the morning.

At 1400 hours, B Flight was called to intercept incoming aircraft. As usual, the bombs were hitting as they got airborne. Harris took the flight straight East climbing as fast as he could. Just over the lines at 10,000’ Harris took the flight in a slow circle. He stained to see anything coming in their direction from the west. “There you are!” He said to himself as he spotted the 2 specs. The flew toward them and passed. Then they turned back and dove. Three of the flight took on one and Harris and Keen the other. Keen made one pass and Harris closed in behind. As he started firing he could see pieces coming off the Rumpler and then the engine caught fire and it tumbled to earth, crashing near Hesdigneul. The outing cost B Flight. 2 machines totaled on landing but the pilots are ok.

Before mess that evening, Harris was called to the Majors office. “At ease Lt.” The Major said as he motioned for Harris to have a seat. “Thank you Sir” Harris said as he eased into the chair. Major Tinley pulled out a bottle and poured himself a drink. “A drink Lt.?” He asked. “No Sir” Harris replied. The Major but the bottle down. “Yes. I have noticed you are not very keen on spirits.” Harris replied, “No Sir. Not in liquid form anyway.” The Major looked puzzled but kept going. “You have done a great job here Lt. It has not gone unnoticed.”
“I’ve done my best Sir” Harris replied with a smile.
“Right” said the Major. “It seems you will be awarded the MC”
Harris was stunned. “Well thank you Sir! That’s mighty fine!”
The Major stood up. “They will make a show of it. Get your uniform in top condition. You will be on your way to St. Omer tomorrow. You will be getting your VC there. It will be presented by none other than the King himself Lt.!”
Harris was shocked. “I don’t rightly know what to say Sir. This is somethin’!”
The Major extended his hand and said, “Represent 40 well Lt. Don’t let me down.”
Harris shook the majors hand. “No Sir! I wouldn’t do that Sir!
As Harris turned to leave the Major said, “I almost forgot Lt.. Your 2 claims today have been confirmed. Congratulations.”

MFair: Making Fido Heel is difficult. Switching gears, It looks like the Major should draw in the " reins " on Harris before " Trotting " out more Trophy's

epower great story

Raine Luv the kill shot of the Newport.

Very enjoyable stories, all! I do believe they are getting better and better!

Fido Iggy Bedlow
Sgt Rfc
19 Sqn
Estree-Blanche,
Flanders, France.

1 Victory confirmed.

2 July 1917

I was Forced down today. albeit, I am sure the 2 seat claimed me as a kill. I couldn't eat breakfast after seeing the Patrol Posted to go to the East sector. The Red Tails had been reported to be out in force. Drank up my Rum Ration and off we went. At the IP for the East leg of the run our 5 a/c almost ran into 2 e/a The 2 seats split directions so did we. The leader and his # 2 made short work of their target and headed for the deck # 3 and 4 hit our target and turned . I bored in firing , got off 2 20 rd strings from my Vickers then bang the motor ran ruff and black smoke came out. Turned off the fuel and cut the engine then pancaked in the french farmland.

Fido Bedlow
Afternoon.

After walking for hours found a farmer who directed me to a house with a phone.

https://giphy.com/gifs/farm-women-pitching-hay-dyoXTVDxsCdmoLrkDT/fullscreen

Sorry for the lateness of the end of month stats:

Flight Sub-Lieutenant Reginald Archibald de Vere Capell
No. 9 Squadron, R.N.A.S
Flez, France
Sopwith Pup
0 Kills
3 Claims
13 missions
15.07 hours

Stand by for an update on the young aristocrat and the outcome of his claims, tonight! On DiD Classic Theater!

Fido Iggy Bedlow
Sgt Rfc
19 Sqn
Estree-Blanche,
Flanders, France.

1 Victory confirmed.

July 3. 1917

Up 2 times to day. B flight went East on Offensive Patrol ram into Black Tailed V Struts. I got off 72 rds then it Jammed. Stuck around trying to draw off e/a's then nosed over for Home. Losses 2 damaged 1 shot down, E/a ?

Scramble : E/a on our side of the lines. Turned out to be 2 flights of two DFW and Rumplers. Tried to stay at long range but wanted a Kill. Instead I took a bullet in the left leg. and the e/a got away. Managed to land at a AF then off to the Hospital Losses: 1 Spad wnd + 1 shot down Claim 1 e/a Rumpler.

Hell over Havrincourt: Separating the men from the boys
The Diary of Flight Sub-Lieutenant Reginald Capell, No. 9 Squadron, R.N.A.S.

July 1
The morning of the 1st was another soggy one. It wasn't enough rain to keep up grounded, and Mott threw a hodge-podge of pilots from different flights for an intercept at 0545. Six of us headed northeast, north of St. Quentin. We looked for signs of any Huns but didn't see a single trace. Mott decided to take us a little over the lines to see if we could catch them over their territory. Somewhere near the north rail yard we were met with a ferocious storm of archie. Thus far, my experiences flying over enemy territory has been met with underwhelming measures. I have seen the occasional puffs of black smoke and heard them beneath me, but never at this magnitude. Several times my Pup shook violently from the force of one near me. We continued our journey south receiving this treatment for what seemed like an eternity, although it was only 15 minutes. Eventually, Mott turned us back home and we arrived back at Flez in one piece (mostly).

While waiting outside HQ, we watched as some of 24 Squadron's DH5's returned from their mission. A small crowd formed and one took extra time to attempt loops and spins, and circled low over their own hangar. Banbury, Hervey and myself returned to chatting and smoking, when we heard the small crowd gasp and holler. I look up just in time to see the DH5 spinning; a somersault of wing tip to wing tip before it collapsed in on itself into a wreck of smoke and fire behind the hangar out of view. From what we gathered, he attempted to turn sharply to his side one last time but nicked his wing on the telegraph poll above 24's HQ. It set a somber mood for the rest of the afternoon. I felt terrible for the men in that squadron.

The drizzle became more scarce, but the cloud cover increased. This didn't hold back another intercept call at 1400. Both Pierce and Mott hopped in their Tripes and had Hervey and myself accompany. The wind was terrible the entire way. I struggled to maintain formation as the others continued to push forward without effort. We hit the lines west of Cambrai, and it wasn't long before Pierce rocked his wings and pointed downwards. Four Albatri were heading northwest. The Tripes descended so fast I couldn't keep up, and to make matters worse a large, dark cumulus cloud blocked my view. I circled around to find no one. Not a single soul; no sign of a furball. I circled for 25 minutes before I returned back. I was there for 20 minutes when the three returned, holed up and talking loud. Mott made eye contact with me as he walked towards the HQ.

"Capell! Get in the CO's office now!" A hard lump formed in my throat and I entered. Mott kicked everyone out.

He interrogated on where I was; where did I go and why I wasn't behind them in the fight. I explained that my Pup just couldn't keep with their descent and that a cloud blocked my view. I reiterated that I stayed in the AO for almost half an hour before returning. He explained to me that I needed to trust the Pup in a dive a bit more, not to take it too easy. That many other pilots had no problems doing so. I made the mistake of stating that the Pup is keeping me out of the formation; it's more of a struggle; surely I must be refitted with a Triplane. Mott calmed down and took a seat. He also took the opportunity to remind me that we were in France, during a war, and that I was a subordinate speaking to a superior officer, and that demands do not work. I was reminded that I am not back at Cassiobury House and can't demand and receive. Once the dust settled Mott stated that the Squadron Commander would be returning from St. Pol in the next two days, and hopefully that there would be news on that.

Before I exited, he called me one last time, "Oh, by the way, the DFW you shot down was confirmed as yours. The infantry saw a Pup bring it down. I'll break it to Boutillier. The Albatros wasn't confirmed. I'm sure that's still a win for you?" He ended with a smirk. I had my first confirmed kill.

That night was a haze. There was a grog of every liquor in the mess, a proud invention by Simpson. I would be lying if I could say I remember anything beyond the first drinks, and the last memory of myself vomiting on the steps of my berth.

July 2
I was shaken awake by one of the air mechanics well after sunlight. Luckily, for the entire squadron, no shows were scheduled at dawn. The weather had broke and it was a beautiful morning. The sun was bright and reminded me of my severe case of dehydration and potential alcohol poisoning. The others laughed as I literally choked down dry toast and tea.

At 0645 we got the call for an intercept over Havrincourt Wood. Pierce told us that reports said that this was a big one. Before I hopped into my Pup I discarded all the contents of my stomach for good measure (on that poor air mechanic's boots) and took off in a hurry north. At 10,000 feet, with me struggling to keep up, Pierce's wings rocked and we began heading down. I couldn't miss the targets. Four Hun two-seaters (most likely DFW's) and seven Albatri. Our flight of six zeroed in. The two-seaters noticed us and dove east in a hurry with no chances of us getting them. The Albatri were circling and prepared for us. The six vs. seven fight began. Iron crosses; roundels; tracers heading in and out; some doing up, some going down. It took a moment to zero in on one and make the solid attempt to get on his tail. He turned too slow and I easily got shots into him. My gun didn't jam this time. He must have been injured because he didn't make any sudden moves, and it wasn't long before his crate was smoking and in a vertical dive. I watched as his wreck created a fireball on the southern edge of the woods.

Hervey gave me a fright as I turned around and saw him on my port side, giving me a thumbs up. We turned back to the remaining Albatros and watched as most of them scattered, our own flight as well. I noticed on Albatros low on my starboard and took Mott's advice and pushed the limits. I touched wood and figured I'd either come out of this alive, or die in the effort to prove to other Pup pilots that the glory is still there. I lined him in my sights and pressed down. This time the pilot was alert and turned hard left. I kept hammering away at him, watching bits and pieces of his wing trickle behind him. He turned sharp right and I did the same. He was taking me low, much lower than I had realized, but eventually I got the best of him. He made the mistake of leveling off and I didn't hesitate. I fired into him until we were both vertical again, and I let go when I saw him wreck in the wood line. Thankfully, Hervey was still above me and providing a security blanket I would never take for granted. We returned back, where I excitedly put in my two claims that Hervey corroborated. The RO informed me he'd let me know when he hears something. I was informed I had only 8 rounds remaining.

The rest of the day I felt elated. I couldn't tell I had been beyond blackout drunk the night before (surely father and mother would be proud of that story).

At 1445, Mott led five of us on a escort mission between Cambrai and St. Quentin. Three RE8's were to photo recon the enemy trenchline. We uncomfortably provided cover at 8,000 feet, dodging more hellish archie as they took their time. Another crate that moves slower than the Pup. I didn't envy those RFC chaps in those recon crates. We returned without any issues, and thankfully without any Hun interference. Some of us had holes about our crates but nothing severe.

As I'm writing this, Pierce knocked on the door to inform me that both Albatri were confirmed from this morning, making my tally 3 in only a few days. Hervey told me he'll let Simpson know to make another batch for this celebration.

I can hear my liver weeping...

Ace, good on ya! Reginaldis making a name for himself

Carrick, I told you to keep him on a short leash! Hope the leg heals soon.

I'm a full month in arrears. Here's the report through May 31, 1917

Lt. Oliver Alden Winningstad
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France
Sopwith Pup
15 Kills
100.65 hours
83 missions

MFair - Badger and the King. Well done. Can't wait to see how that convo goes.

Carrick - Again with the farming femmes. Good for Fido. I hope there was a significant delay between his phone call and the arrival of the Squadron Crossley. Congrats on the first victory!

AceMedic - Great write up. Reggie is settling into the madness of Pups v DVs. Three already. Impressive. Most impressive.



30 May 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

0650 hrs. Escort RFC-22 Fees on Recce of enemy positions near Riencourt. Just over the lines two Albatri came down. I reversed on one and we began a rolling scissors fight.



The Hun flew well and never gave me more than a quick crossing shot. After a minute of this I finally got him with a solid burst. He decided he’d had enough and pointed his machine earthward, diving away at full speed.

I chased him down and got Archied within an inch of my life. Controls barely answered and the Pup wobbled in flight. I broke off and made for the advanced landing ground at Nurlu.

Bad news when I returned to Flez. C-Flight escorted 22 Squadron FEs and ran into 8 Albatri. F W Kantell was seen to go down behind enemy lines east of Hesbécourt. No news if he landed safely or crashed.


1300 hrs. The afternoon show, this time in B7331 was an attack on the Rail junction at Avesnes le Sec. Pixley led with Nobby and Hyde.


No ground fire of any kind as we attacked. We left some vehicles burning. No sign of enemy aircraft.

No further news about Kantell from forward observers.
Grevelink went with A-Flight and both he and Sutcliffe returned having sent a Hun down.





31 May 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

0445 hrs. Escort Capt. Clement and FEs of RFC 22 on Recce of enemy positions near Gonnelieu. No e/a sighted.

1300 hrs. Back to Le Cateau aerodrome. Deep Deep Deep. 20 miles over.



I led Pope, Charley, Grevelink and Foster. Three passes and some solid damage. Nothing burning but we knocked them about some. Two Vickers sure would be a treat. Pope destroyed one of the parked Albatri! I gathered the flight and we headed home. What Archie over the lines! The Hun gunners vented the full weight of their malice on our flight. We all crossed the lines with perforated canvas and frayed nerves.
Two -Seater up high and running home! We chased but couldn’t catch him. I got within firing range and sent some rounds his way. The Observer responded in kind and with appalling accuracy.



Thus chastened and further ventilated I broke off the attack and headed back toward Flez. The low approach with a single Vickers just doesn’t work. I need a new strategy for two-seaters.

Ran up to see Monty at 34 CCS. I was hoping Eliza might be back but no luck. Monty was much recovered. Talkative and seemed in good spirits. He was already flirting with the nurses. I will miss him. The hut’s not the same with him gone but he’s going home with a Blighty wound once he can be moved.

Epower, excellent writeup and fabulous photos to accompany the story. So glad you're surviving in the Pup. I don't know how they did it.

MFair – It sounds like Harris is moving into some pretty ritzy social circles!

Carrick – Forget about the phone. I think that farmer need some help with her hay. As she tried rolling in it?

Ace – Three victories in week number one! Reggie is really one to “Play up, play up, and play the game!”

epower – The combat report from Lieutenant Grevelink was a nice find. I hate those missions that send you twenty miles over the lines. And I certainly would have had second thoughts about chasing a two-seater that far into Hunland. Personally, I’d be more inclined to bid him a good morning and head home for tea.


Here is Vogel's latest story. He will be out of action until Tuesday...



Tagebuch of Fw Hans-Dieter Vogel, EK2

Jasta 26, Iseghem (Izegem), Belgium

Part 11

2 July 1917

A house in the village has been secured for the NCO pilots and I am to move in sometime in the next few days. For now at least, I am enjoying my life under the trees beside the field where Steinmesser and I have set up our tent. He is up before me, working like a navvy to get my machine ready. I have time to wash and shave. The weather is fine and I am used to flying with ordinary shoes on, but today I note that they need mending. I pull my boots from my trunk. I have not worn them in a while. Now I will look like a dashing cavalryman, except for my lack of riding breeches and my hatred of horses.

A car from the Kasino pulls up in front of the hangers as I approach. Leutnant Lipke leads our flight this morning. He is still fairly new here and this will be his first time with the black-and-white streamers on the tail of his machine. Blume, Auer, and I will go with him. It is an easy job this morning. We are going to climb to 2000 metres over Courtrai, then come back to the front near Menen and head south towards our field at Avelin, where we will patrol defensively in that sector. Five minutes later we are in the air.

We are flying west towards the lines when we spot them – a group of seven or eight English triplanes. I am told these are flown by Royal Navy pilots. Both the men and their machines are considered to be among the most challenging enemies we have. These triplanes, built by Sopwith, climb like lifts and can turn tighter than an Albatros. As we engage with them our formation breaks up and it is every man for himself. A triplane attacks me from the front and I skid past him with full rudder, my machine guns hammering away. The Englishman does the same and his rounds flash past my head. Now he turns behind me while I climb and kick my rudder full right. We attack head-on once more, like knights of old in a tournament. Then I see Leutnant Blume’s Albatros diving in front of me – he has a large letter “B” on his fuselage – and there is another triplane behind him. I turn and fire a burst to make the triplane break away. In that second, my own Englishman gets behind me and rounds hit my machine. Again I zoom and turn. Now the enemy triplane banks vertically. I roll and dive beneath the fight, coming up with the Englishman above me, still in his turn. My rounds find his machine. My opponent has had enough and banked sharply in the other direction to dive away. I must catch him before he reaches the lines. Closer and closer – the triplane fills my sight. It has a red nose and wheels. I see the face of its pilot as he looks over his shoulder. He is surprisingly young. Must not think of the man, just the machine. And then I push the trigger. My guns shatter the English machine. The left wings twist and crumple back. I pull up to avoid the debris and what is left of the triplane falls to the ground. I note with satisfaction that it crashes within a few hundred metres of our field at Iseghem. It is easily confirmed as my eighth victory.


"My guns shatter the English machine."

In the afternoon we relax in the garden of the Kasino. I am reminded of a day so long ago, lying on a picnic blanket in the park. My aunt is there, my mother’s sister. Sometimes she takes care of me, especially when my father has been drinking. She is wearing a green skirt with a grey, high-necked blouse and a broad straw sun hat. We are staring at clouds. One looks like a horse, she says. “And that one looks like Papa,” I observe. She laughs. “Yes, and he has his mouth open like usual.” We both giggle hysterically.


A telephone rings far away and I am back in Belgium. The administration officer shouts from a window. “Enemy machines over Houlthurst. Auer, Vogel, Loertzer – move now!” The Loertzer he refers to is Fritz, the “pastor.” We dash through the house to the waiting car on the gravel drive outside. Our other Leutnant Loertzer, the Staffelfuehrer, is already in the front seat. We race to the field where our machines are being warmed up and are airborne in a couple of minutes.

We circle over Houlthurst for several minutes before spotting the enemy – a pair of two-seaters surrounded by a small cloud of triplanes. We mix with the English scouts and, like all our battles with these machines, we fly somewhat defensively and look for opportunities. But today there are none and, after five or ten minutes of acrobatics, the enemy climbs away too quickly to follow.

3 July 1917

We rendezvous with three DFW observation machines over Menen and are bound for a British aerodrome south-west of Armentières. This is more than fifteen kilometres over the lines and in the heart of “Indian territory.” With only five of us to guard the observation machines, we are all nervously scanning the sky. But the fates are with us this morning. The only enemy machines we see are a pair of two-seaters far off to the north. We complete our tasks and recross the lines towards Lille, where we bid farewell to the DFWs. Now it is a simple matter of flying north to Iseghem and a relaxing breakfast. We shed our height as we approach Menen. Leutnant Loertzer signals for me to land first.

I am down to two hundred metres when I smell oil and burning rubber. I immediately switch off the engine. Too late! A blast of flame surrounds my feet. I am banking to line up the field and must keep my right foot on the rudder bar for another three or four seconds, and that is all it takes for the searing pain to shoot up my legs. I struggle to undo my belt as I clumsily level off above the field. The Albatros hits the ground and bounces. On the second bump it begins to roll and I climb up onto my seat as the cockpit fills with flame. I jumped clear of the machine before it stops moving and roll in the grass. My trousers are on fire. In seconds the mechanics are there and smothering the flames with their jackets. They carry me to a hanger and cut my blackened boots off with a pair of large shears. Steinmesser is there. “It smells like Schweinshaxe,” he says. “Let’s pause some beer, boys, and have breakfast.” It hurts like the devil but I am laughing.

So many things to think about. What if the fire had started even one minute earlier when I was high over Menen? What if my shoes were in good repair and I were not wearing boots? What if I could not get the buckle of my seat belt undone? War, I suppose, is a big game of dice.

Fido Bedlow
Sgt, Rfc.

23rd Medical Unit
II Corp Hospital
3rd Army Bungalow 7,
Bed 9
Narbonne, France.

The Docs are working on me. Thank goodness I was assigned a Day Nurse.

Nurse Anita Harris... lovely!