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

July 14, 1917.

1 Victory confirmed.

Lt Penland led again on a Line Patrol. The formation of 5 was at 8000 ft when the Leader had us attack a flight of 6 Red Painted Scouts at the same height.. A wild fight down to the deck. My wing-man and I didn't pay attention to where we were chasing some Huns ( Over their own forward AF ) then a Fire Ball exploded near me. Fuel stated leaking, down in the dumps my Spad was rock en with the engine Knock en. I made our lines and Pancaked. My wing-man was posted as missing. The flight claimed 1 e/a.

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 4 of many


11 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

Parker’s voice and touch on my shoulder, which used to pull me away from an Eliza dream, now draws from the melee.



“Odysseus struck him with the spear, in anger for his companion,
in the temple, and the bronze spearhead drove through the other
temple also, so that a mist of darkness clouded both eyes.
He fell, thunderously, and his armor clattered upon him.”

0500 hrs. More ground attacks. This time the Railyard at Athies Junction. The full six this morning with Burr, Stewart, Foster, Hyde, and Ackers. At the lines Burr turned back with a dud engine. Just west of Mossy Face we ran into an enormous gaggle of Albatri. Black tails again!

The Huns kept their altitude advantage most expertly. Some hot moments dodging attacks as I tried to get on top of the scrap. In time the fight spread out and I was able to get in a snapshot or two. Those Black-tailed Albs were incredibly fast! The Hun with the Black snake on his plane flashed by me but that was my only glimpse of him. I finally got the angle on one and he just pointed his nose east and climbed away from me. There was nothing to do but watch him go.


1330 hrs. A second try at Athies Rail junction. This time we made it through to the target with nary a Hun in sight.



Two of the Kaiser’s rail sheds require repair. Hopefully, there was something important stored therein. Just think what we could do with two guns and a high rate of fire. Took the direct route west to the lines and the long way home. I’d just made my turn on final approach at Flez when the Le Rhone started gurgling and clanking. I could barely get 900 revs. Hills and trees below but the engine chugged along, and I made the field. What madman sites an aerodrome requiring a final approach over forested hills? Almost as bad as Chipilly with hills on one side and the Étang on the other.



12 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

It finally happened. Orderly Dog today. I’m amazed I dodged this for so long but here it is. Most Tedious. I’d rather be up hunting.

Grevelink and Sutcliffe are both unofficially reported as dead. Now we know for certain.

More bad news in the latest Comic Cuts. Major Swanson of 66 Squadron has Gone West. An American and the highest scoring ace in the Flying Corps. Almost 90 victories. I wonder what the brass hats thought about that. He was the prototype, the model for the rest of us. I wish I could have met him.

If the Huns can get Ball, Mulberry and now Swanson...



13 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France



“…and Pallas Athene guided the weapon
to the nose next to the eye, and it cut on through the white teeth
and the bronze weariless shore all the way through the tongue’s base
so that the spearhead came out underneath the jawbone.
He dropped then from the chariot and his armor clattered upon him.”

0450 hrs. Defensive Patrol Bapaume and point 5 Miles NW. Ackers and Meissner turned back early with dud engines, leaving me, Nobby and Sutton. Over Bapaume, three Albs came down.

I scored 2 good bursts on one with a striped tail then the Vickers jammed. The Hun fell spinning out of control. After pounding on the handle for a good minute I finally cleared the offending round. I was completely alone. Circling for 5 minutes, I found Nobby and we returned to Flez.

These new DV Albatri completely outclass the Pup especially at lower altitudes. We need new machines and soon.

1300 hrs. Escort RFC-22 and Captain Clement’s FEs on reconnaissance from Gonnelieu to St. Quentin. No e/a sighted.

News this evening of a major Gotha Raid on the city of London. In broad daylight. The brazen Swine! Reports of hundreds wounded, many killed. These Huns are sowing the wind…




14 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

0545 hrs. Barrier Patrol over Vimy Ridge. Halfway there I started losing revs. The le Rhone sounded as it were fuel starved. I turned the patrol over to Sutton and returned to Flez.

1300 hrs. Rain and large dark Nimbus clouds up to 20000 feet. I led Charley, Foster, Hyde and Sutton on an intercept near Tergnier. Over the lines we spotted 3 Albatri 1000 feet below and dove to attack. I put a close-range 20 round burst into one to no effect whatsoever. The Hun, split-arsed and went straight down through the heavy clouds. That was the last I saw of him. An inconclusive combat all around as the others reported the same thing.
Word is that the Messines operation was a great success.

A letter from Father today with a newspaper clipping about two American nurses from Chicago killed May 20th on the USS Mongolia shortly after it sailed for France. A defective shell exploded during a gunnery exercise killing them instantly.

Edith Ayers and Helen Burnett Wood.

.

A new livery; a bullet in the leg; a meeting with the King; bombers colliding; claims denied, (typical); claims awarded, (far less typical); fiery dreams; visits from MvR; an entire jasta shot down; comrades gone west; nurses, (so many nurses); fairies; hookahs; time lost and found, (possibly due to the hookahs); poetry readings; sing songs. What a wonderful catching up, a real two cuppa - thanks gents!

The first half of July has gone by quickly for 2nd Lt. Frederick Abbott. While there have been fewer than expected air Huns about, 11 Squadron has managed to bag their share. Lt. Andrew McKeever is the group’s star turn with eight driven down so far. The team of Abbott and Yale submitted two claims of their own on 8 July after a go-round with several V-strutters, but only one was awarded them. Apart from that they’ve either just seen the Boche from a distance or had them scarper away after a single gun pass. But they continue to survive which is, after all, the true nature of the game.

.

.

Pursuant to Army Order 204, dated 6 July 1916, the following individual is hereby presented the Wounded Stripe:



Your King and Country thank you for your sacrifice and faithful service.

.

Fido Iggy Bedlow

Yea, I got a gong. Gong ?

Raine, I’m surprised but Ziggy got all 3 Camels confirmed. Must be the proof on film. Sorry to hear of Vogel’s woes with his confirmations. Sucks to to make the effort and get nothing for it. I shouldn’t say nothing. That Goering’s old room is not nothing. Well done on new digs. Hans will sleep comfortably from now on. Congrats on the promotion and those six Camels. Vogel is becoming a veritable Camel wrangler.

Epower, carnage is the norm these days.
It’s that Voss again! He is haunting Oliver’s dreams. It’s time for another meeting with Eliza to get those dreams turned around.
Looks like Oliver could really use a better plane. What is he due for? A Camel or an S.E.5?

Robert, I think Vogel must have pulled that fickle finger and here are the results.

Carrick, Fido’s lucky again not to end up in a hospital. Don’t tempt the fate (or pull any of her fingers).

Lou, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a proper report from Abbott. I’m glad he’s doing well. Hopefully he’ll be able to give us more details of his latest exploits.


14 July, 1917 05:45
Ghistelles, Flanders Sector
Jasta 17
Offizierstellvertreter Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2
14 confirmed kills

All 3 Camels from yesterday’s battle have been confirmed. The Nieuport from the day before however went to Shuster - the man with the white lightning on the fuselage.
While patrolling the northern extreme of the No-Man’s Land Ziggy’s flight encountered a bunch of Nieuports escorting a pair of two-seaters. The battle was going well for Zygmunt. He selected one of the enemies, or was it the other way around? He eventually was able to damage his opponent’s mount and knew he nearly had him as the Nieuport began to emit a trail of black smoke. He only “nearly had him” because another Englander came along and attacked from behind. None of Hahn’s wingmen bothered to protect Ziggy. They simply dove after the smoking Nieuport, leaving Zygmunt to fend for himself. It seems they’ve found another way to steal his kills. It was only after a series of turns to avoid the enemy that Leutnant Wendler came to help poor Ziggy. The three of them continued to circle each other with neither able to gain advantage. Zygmunt was getting tired of this tail-chasing and decided to disengage. But his foe always found his way to end up behind his Albatros. Hahn, in his desperation, decided to loop his plane. It was the mistake the enemy was waiting for. As Ziggy pulled his mount to the top of his climb he felt his machine shudder from bullet hits to his wing. He was upside down and falling straight down with the lower starboard wing wobbling dangerously.
“- O kurwa!” Ziggy knew he was in trouble! His Polish curse said it all.
He recovered clumsily from the loop and looked quickly around to orient himself. The enemy was still behind and gaining, momentarily distracted by Zygmunt’s awkward maneuver. Hahn could barely keep his mount level and was in no position to evade. Thankfully two Albatrosen arrived and prevented the skillful enemy from claiming another kill. Ziggy was now clearing the mud and slinking gingerly back to Ghistelles. He didn’t know if the enemy that handed Ziggy his buttocks on a plate survived the Albatros retribution. He hoped that he did. He would very much like to meet him again in a duel. Would he survive a second tilt? Only one way to find out. For now he had to take care and land in one piece. It was then, as he was approaching the airfield, that the engine spewed oil on the windscreen and a enormous plume of black smoke obscured his forward view. Hahn immediately turned the engine off and began his Gleitflug onto the airfield in the wrong direction. His glide path fortunately brought him in the middle of the field. Men, who witnessed his engine trouble, were already running in his direction with buckets of water. There was no need for any of that. Apart from a lame wing and a wonky motor his plane was fine.

YouTube Link

Spads dont seem to be lucky Over AF's

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

July 15, 1917.

1 Victory confirmed.

Its a Squadron Scramble someone was yelling ! A such short notice, we only got up 4 Spads. Climbing thru 8000ft we got into it with a flight of 6 Hun scouts. Being low and slow, our 4 were ripe for the picking. Lost 2 Spads for 1 e/a that morning + mine a forced down. I climbed into the enemy formation Firing my Vickers at a Boche only to Stall out and spin, I recovered only to find a Hun on my tail. He over shot and Zoomed. But smacked me with 12 or 15 hits causing the motor to smoke and loose Power. Cut fuel and engine, Pancaked.

guys, awesome stories here. What about compiling them into short stories of each pilot and making a book of them?

Dryjo - I think some of us have done that so as to have a chronicle of our DID comrades. I know I will when this is all over. Being the new guy here and having missed over a year of the overall campaign there's a ton of backstory I haven't read yet. No time for that now. Oliver needs to catch up!
For me there's something about the day to day unfolding of each man's tale that makes the experience uniquely compelling. Almost like the historical RFC Comic Cuts but daily. We're trying to keep our own man alive but also rooting for all the others too.

Carrick - Close one there. Fido did well to get back to earth in one piece. Fido is going to be the proverbial fille magnet with that wound stripe affixed.

Lou - Hope all goes well. We miss Freddy but are comforted to know that you're grinding away on a new airfield for both Fido and Freddy

Raine - Quite a score getting the Zaftig One's old room. Well done Hans-Dieter.

MFair - And what of Ainsley? Badgering the nurses is he? Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Fullofit - "That's him - Iceman. It's the way he flies, ice cold, no mistakes. He wears you down, you get bored, frustrated, do something stupid and he's got ya..."

Ziggy has a new playmate I see. Any idea who he was? I'm so accustomed to the disgusting castor oil blotches of the dying Le Rhone that I thought WOFF was modelling an acid flashback or a messy form of bird strike. Very cool with the chromatically aberrated oil splotches of the inline engine. As to Camel or SE5 or SPAD or BE(!), the will of the CM is hidden from the minds of mortal men. Funny you should mention an Eliza visit...



À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 5 of many


15 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

0650 hrs. 18 miles over lay the aerodrome at Lieu-St-Amand, our target for this morning’s show. Always nerve wracking that far into Hunland. Ackers, Meissner, Hyde, Charley and Foster filled out B-Flight. Heavy Archie over Marcoing but no sign of any Albatri. In a monumental effort of will, I resisted the temptation to shoot up the Kasino and focused on the Hangars. Controls hit on exit after my second pass. Not much if any damage to the Aerodrome. Returned to Flez.



No afternoon patrol today. Spent two hours with Cpl. Johnson reworking the aileron cabling and getting A7331 just right. Faithful A6215 is out to pasture as a spare for now. Johnson was in his element. We’d talked about these matters previously, and after every flight of course, but this was the first time I’d discussed them in depth. He was like a child on Christmas, showing me how the more arcane aspects of his rigging craft could impact the Pup’s flight and handling. I should have done this with him long ago.

An hour on the bag. I can work on it again without descending into homicidal madness. Off to see Monty later in this afternoon but now a nap!
___________________

I arrived at Peronne la Chapelle to a crowd. The ambulance train was in the station. Orderlies loaded the wounded for transport and nursing Sisters moved about with great purpose and alacrity. I saw no sign of Eliza. Was she still in Rouen? I spoke with Monty for almost an hour. His leg was improving but the force of the bullet had damaged the tissue on his thigh. Gas gangrene was a concern. Some of the others had been up to see him. He knew about Grevelink, Pixley, and Suttcliffe.

Monty was sitting up on his bed. I stood to say goodbye when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Eliza!
“How are you, Lt. Cole,” she asked?
“Very well Sister,” Monty replied. He looked at me, and Eliza, then back at me finally making the connection. His eyes widened briefly then he smiled.
“It’s good of you to come see me, Ripper. Go on, I’ll be fine.”
‘Take your time. I’ll be outside,” Eliza said as she left the ward.

“That’s her?!” said Monty. “I say, Ripper, you’ve set your sights high. Are you sure you’re up to it? Look at you! You’re hopelessly besotted.”
I smiled ruefully, knowing it was true.
“I’ll miss you, Monty. It’s not the same without you.”
We shook hands. I was sad to leave my friend but happy that he’d got a Blighty and nothing worse. Monty was going home.

I found Eliza outside near the reception tent. Orderlies and other personnel scuttled everywhere. She clasped my hand and pecked me on both cheeks.
“Oliver! This is a surprise.”
“I didn’t think you’d be here. I came to say goodbye to Monty.” I continued in a lower voice, “We’re moving in the next few days. North, near the channel coast.”
We wandered to the north end of the camp towards the Sister’s garden. Passing a shed with a broad overhanging roof, I grabbed her hand and raced us toward its cover and concealment. I folded her in my arms and kissed her with all the intensity and longing of a month’s separation. The equal ferocity of her response surprised me and led me forward, but after too brief a time she turned her head away and drew back.

“Oliver we can’t. Not here. I’m on duty and people will be watching.”

“I will lose my mind, Eliza. You do know that. Are there always so many people about? It’s like we’re chaperoned. I keep looking over my shoulder for your meddlesome aunt. Have you a meddlesome aunt?
‘I do. You’d like her.”
We walked then, the picture of respectability. I did my utmost not to think about Corbie, grand and mysterious apartments, or unusually large bathtubs. Eliza had been traveling of late, meeting with the nurses of the American Expeditionary force. She’d seen her old friends in Etaples, where the Chicago unit, largely drawn from Northwestern University, had taken over No.18 General Hospital. Five other American Hospital Units had arrived in France for duty with the British expeditionary Force.

“My father wrote me about the Chicago nurses killed on Mongolia. Were they friends?

“No, but I knew them. They were quite a bit older than me. I met them in school. They worked as instructors at Cook County hospital. My friend Laura Huckleberry told me. Why would your father send you that news? Are we writing our parents about each other now? Did you tell him about me?

“Yes, I made mention of a certain nurse from Chicago.”

“I’m sure I don’t approve. I very much wish you hadn’t done that! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?!"
Her rising voice held an edge I’d not heard before.

You’ve done it again, Oliver.

“I’m sorry, Eliza. I’ll try and do better next time.”
‘Yes, Oliver,” she snapped. “Do better next time.”

The sudden vehemence of her response was like an unexpected slap. Eliza wasn’t having sport with me; she was actually angry. Mentioning her in a letter home seemed innocent enough. I’d no idea what set her off. She let go my arm and now we walked together a pace distant. Some instinct told me to keep quiet.

As we moved in silence the vision of killing Voss came unbidden to my mind as it had so many times since Pixley and Grevelink died.

The hour of your death comes soon enough. Begone!

I tried in vain to banish the image, but it obstinately returned, insistent, demanding, all-consuming.

Eliza stopped and put her hand on my arm.
“I’m sorry I was so cross.”
“It’s of no consequence,” I replied.
You’re far away, Oliver. You’re carrying something, something more than the sting of my sharp words. What’s happened?”

How is it these women read my thoughts as if they were written in plain view on some giant screen?

“The war happened,” I said after a time.
“It’s different than your Iliad, isn’t it?”
“Not so different, oddly enough, except this is now. This is real.”
“Tell me.”
“No. I’d not bring that here, Eliza.”
“Too late. You’ve brought it already,” she said.
“Maybe so, but it’s war and killing. I don’t want to think about such things when I’m with you.”

“You’re going to Rouen, to study with Mr. Grey Turner?” I asked, changing the subject. Eliza paused, considering whether to press the issue further. She let it pass.
“Yes I am, but you knew that already, in Corbie over that wonderful dinner.”
“Corbie. When can we… seize time in that way again?”
“Oh, is that what we were doing?” she asked.
“I believe those were your words. I admit I was distracted at the time.”
She didn’t respond but she took my arm again as we walked into the Sister’s garden. The sun was setting as it was the last time I was here. On impulse I led us to the old rosebush Matron had showed me. Its buds were closed once again but the perfume lingered stronger now with the warmer days.

“She brought you here?” asked Eliza.
“Yes, but I couldn’t remember anything clearly. I still can’t. I wanted to see the thing again for myself.”
“Interesting,” she said pensively.

We stood there, Eliza seemingly lost in thought as I bent down and examined the rosebush. The short base rising a foot above the soil was nearly half a foot thick, gnarled and heavily burled almost like an ancient grapevine. Someone had cared for it over the years and even now it's three main branches, each an inch thick and likely decades old, gave forth to smaller fresh shoots and the season's blossoms. Other than its age I could find nothing remarkable about the plant, yet there was something so familiar there. Memory remained elusive.

“Oliver, we promised each other the truth," said Eliza, breaking my reverie. "There’s something I need to tell you about Lt. Cole.”

Oh no. What’s this?

“Your friend Monty, he is very handsome. I hope you don’t mind me being frank,” she said looking sidelong at me and smiling her Eliza smile.

She’s like a cat toying with prey. Wicked woman!

“Popular with the Sisters, is he? Strapping, athletic fellow. Canonical features and a strong chin… Yes, I suppose he would serve,” I replied. “Have I a rival?”
“Not just yet,” she replied softly.
She squeezed my arm again and then leaned in against me. I loved it when she did that and she knew it. We continued walking around the Sister’s garden.

“Oliver, why does Monty call you Ripper?”
“That’s quite a tale. Full of sound and fury. Huns too.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Tell.”
“And violate the seal of the Squadron mess? That’s asking a lot, Eliza. I’d need a good reason, or at the very least, temptation… of the sort no mortal man could resist.
“Hmmmm. Paris?” she ventured.
I thought about it.
“Not London? I asked. “There’s no hot water in Paris, five days of the week.”
“Oh that’s dreadful. London then.” she said.
“It’s a deal. Meet me there and I’ll tell you the story.”
“When are we going?” she asked, her eyes shining now.
“Soon, unless there’s a big push. I’ve a leave coming, 10 days at least, but I won’t have much warning. Could you get away for a week or two on short notice?
“It’s possible,” she said. Two weeks could be difficult, but it’s possible.”
“If I may ask, how many times has Eliza Ludlow visited London?”
“Three.” she replied.
“It’s settled then. You can show me around town.”
“London. How marvelous!” She held out her crooked pinkie, and I took it in my own.

Fido Bedlow

The commander had a visitor today. A friendly whose pilot was out of juice.

Epower, so that’s what I did wrong! I forgot to deploy the brakes so “Jester” ... erm ... the Englander would fly by, instead of shoot me in the back. No idea who he is.
Ah, finally! Now Oliver seems much more relaxed around Eliza, despite certain parts standing very much at attention. And I’m intrigued. What does Eliza have on Monty? Was he not a gentleman at all times? Did he request additional sponge baths? The fiend! I’m looking forward to that London excursion. Oh, the baths that will be taken ...

Dryo, don’t look at me. I just make videos.

15 July, 1917 05:00
Ghistelles, Flanders Sector
Jasta 17
Offizierstellvertreter Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2
14 confirmed kills

It was an ill-thought out mission. They were to escort 3 DFW’s from Ss-11 to bomb Baizieux aerodrome. Ziggy had to look it up on map. It was 140 kilometers south, near Albert. They were to rendezvous with the bombers over the enemy territory. What sane military commander does that? They would be sitting ducks throughout this time waiting for the others to join them. Hahn would not find out the outcome of this madness. His newly refurbished engine went kaputt over Armentieres. Ziggy was able to turn east, kill the engine and glide all the way across the mud to Houplin aerodrome. The airfield mechanic made a slashing gesture across his throat after taking a look at the impotent motor. Zygmunt was done for the day. His Albatros needed a new engine.

YouTube Link

Lou, good to hear that Abbott is doing well. I think we'll have some more Gong Fairy action in the near future, so I'll PM you soon.

Fullofit, that Nieuport on 14 July was a real pain in the pitoot! Those two Albatros showed up at the right time.

epower, beautifully crafted episode with Eliza. I love the way their relationship hangs in the air. Is there a mystery here? Yes, for sure. No, perhaps not. But then…

Carrick, you're handling this the right way, steady and safe. Good boy, Fido!

Vogel is looking for a way out of his hard, lonely world and sees glory in the air as a possible solution. But it's one step forward into backward for the young waiter...



Tagebuch of Offstv Hans-Dieter Vogel, EK2

Jasta 26, Iseghem (Izegem), Belgium

Part 15

12 July 1917.

A quiet day. Leutnant Loertzer leads us on a patrol of the lines around seven in the morning. We climb to altitude, about 3000 metres, when suddenly he signals that he has a problem and turns for home. This leaves me in command of the flight and the others group more closely around me. It is a bright morning with occasional chubby clouds. It is wonderful to pass close to them and see the shadow of my machine surrounded by a perfect circle of rainbow. My neck throbs from watching around me. I have noticed how much my ability to spot other machines in the air has improved over the past month, but there is nothing up today. We patrol for an hour from the River Lys south to a point beyond Lille. Every time I pass to the west of that smoky city’s star-shaped fortress I check the time – south for five more minutes and then turn about and back up to the Lys. Then it is time for home, for bad coffee and good bread, and for a nap in one of the Kasino’s armchairs. The post arrives and causes much fuss. I find this part of each day painful. It is well known among my comrades that I have never once received a letter. I work hard not to let it get me down. If I can succeed here and if I can live to tell about it, it will be my duty to create a family and a life to be proud of from this point on.

My afternoon flight is a short one. We are to escort some observation machines across the lines north of Ypres to take photographs of British aerodromes. Before we arrive at our turning point above Passchendaele, my engine begins to fail and I must turn back.

The boss’s promotion to Oberleutnant has come through. All the pilots contribute to a dinner we will hold in Ghent at the first opportunity.

13 July 1917.

It is another mad scramble to the Benz. English bombing machines have appeared overhead. By the time we arrive and scramble to our aeroplanes two bombs have already fallen. One has struck the end of the field and the other has landed among the tents behind the sheds. A mechanic is dead. Oberleutnant Loertzer leads us – Dannhuber, Dahm, Loertzer the Pastor, Blume, and me. We climb as steeply as we can but the two-seaters have already begun their trip home. Just as we are about to give up and return to Iseghem we are attacked by a large formation of French scouts. They are mostly Spads with a few Nieuports mixed in. For several minutes I try to stay above the main battle and dive and shoot at any French machine that tries to climb to my level. As always happens, the battle spreads wider and wider like an egg cracked into a frying pan. To the west near Iseghem I see two machines, an Albatros twisting and turning with a silver Nieuport on its tail. The way is clear and I dive for the Nieuport. The Frenchman does not see me until it is too late. The first burst causes his right upper plane to break away. The Nieuport falls close to our own field. It is revenge for our lost mechanic.

Later in the morning we are to patrol far to the north, covering our airfields west of Bruges. It is another fine day and we are well east of the front. I anticipate a pleasant and quiet flight. The enemy, however, has other plans. Shortly after we arrived in the patrol area we are attacked by another group of French Spads and Nieuports. It is a wild fight and we are outnumbered, but our Jasta comrades are the better man. I see a Spad spinning towards the earth and trailing a long stream of black smoke. Two Frenchmen attack me. My machine can outturn them and they make the mistake of trying to stay in a close fight. I should it one and then the other. Eventually one of them leaves while he still can. The other I chase and cripple. Over the lines I catch him and shoot him down. But I am so far from my comrades there is no witness. I report the fall of the Spad. Once again there is no confirmation. Still, I end this day with ten confirmed victories over the enemy and am satisfied with my standing among my colleagues.

14 July 1917.

We lift off behind Oberleutnant Loertzer. The sky is grey and threatening rain. We are to meet a group of two seaters north of here and fly beyond Ypres to Bailleul. No one is comfortable with such a mission in this weather. The enemy can emerge from the gloom in any direction to fall on us, like red Indians lining the canyon walls in a book by Karl May. We are about three kilometres northwest of Ypres when they come – a large group of triplanes. I am getting comfortable in this routine. You shoot at one then check behind. Another is closing on you so you zoom and turn. Now one is approaching head-on. You fire and skid about. Now one passes below on the tail of a comrade. You think to dive but look above. There he is, waiting to fall on you. You turn towards the threat above. He attacks but you slip out of his sights and turn behind him as he passes. You fire and see you around hit. The Englishman spins away. And now this guy is empty.

All of this happens in about five minutes but it passes like a dream. It is time to return to our own lines. There is movement down below. An Albatros is being pursued by a triplane. The English machine is brown like the mud below. I dive on him and he is more distinct. Now I pull up behind and below, edging ever closer. The Spandaus speak. The triplane breaks like a child’s toy. I see it is Dannhuber I have protected. He waves it me and smiles broadly. This one will be confirmed. It is victory number eleven.


"The triplane breaks like a child’s toy."

We now have a hut at the edge of the field. Pilots are assigned duty hours so that there is always a group of five or six machines ready to take to the air. We wait there with our flying gear, magazines, writing paper, a gramophone, and a board for playing Mensch ärgere Dich nicht. We are connected by phone directly to the forward observation posts of the Fourth Army and can respond to an alert in two minutes. The system is good but it makes for long days. Today is wet but warm and I have finally rid myself of the bandages on my feet and legs. I can wear normal boots again. I am chatting with a new man, Leutnant Merkl. He was a printer in Köln before joining the army. The man is funny and irreverent and I am delighted that he is my new roommate. The telephone rings. British machines are crossing the lines near Lille. I lead the way, circling over the river while the others form up. We climb to the south and west to put ourselves between the English intruders and the front lines. But before we are at height we see enemy aircraft approaching – damned triplanes again! As always, the fight begins with defensive probing. I circle about taking jabs at enemy machines that pass by but always watching my own tail. Then the fight begins to spread out. I am looking for Merkl and find him rolling away from a pursuing triplane. There is no one behind me and I move to attack.

That was when the rounds shattered the cockpit and carried away the small finger of my right hand. The English machine pumped more bullets into me as I spun downwards toward Geluwebeek. I felt faint – there was a great deal of blood for a small wound – and turned to meet my assailant. But now he had gone. I put my machine down at Halluin. My hand hurt like the blazes and I needed a bit of assistance to get out. The Werkmeister who helped me called for an ambulance and they carted me off to a hospital in Courtrai. I cursed my luck. Just as I was beginning to get some decent chances to make my mark here I was forced to put on more bandages!

Fullofit - I was thinking more "you get bored, frustrated, do something stupid and he's got ya..." having been guilty of that myself on too many occasions. "Pop the brakes and he'll go right on by," works too. Best of luck next you run into the "Jester."

edit - Raine, Rotten luck for Vogel. He was doing so well. Maybe he can find a more "modern" group of nurses, if you take my meaning.

Raine, Camels, Tripes, it doesn’t matter. Vogel swats them all from the unfriendly skies. It is unfortunate that he had to pay for his success with his pinkie. Will that affect his ability to wait tables? Hopefully not. And if so, he could learn the craft of tending the bar. I expect his hospital stay won’t be too long?

Epower, all I’ll say is: “There was no danger, so I took it.”

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

July 16, 1917.

1 Victory confirmed.

Defensive Patrol: No Contact.

Balloon Defense: No Contact ,but had the C.O. fly with us in a French Loaner a/c.

Fullofit - "You took it. And broke a major rule of engagement. Kanone rules exist for the safety of you and your flieger. Screw up just this much and you'll be flying an Aviatak of rubber Hunde Scheisse out of Gstaad."

Raine - I missed the part about Vogel's pinkie finger going missing. That's not good at all. Hans-Dieter is paying the iron price indeed.

Carrick - The Old Man is flying? Desperate times. Fido must be cautious.



À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 6 of many



16 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Flez, France

0440 hrs. Back to Lieu-St.-Amand Aerodrome. Equipping rockets this time. I led Foster, Charley and Sutton this time. It’s Sutton’s last day with 54 and our last day at Flez. Just when we finished the Mess veranda too! He’s off to Home Establishment, we’ll be heading North as we suspected. Bray Dunes will be our new home.



A more effective strike today. Pounded the maintenance sheds and set two hangars ablaze. I hope we won’t need to return any time soon.

No Afternoon show today. 22 Squadron, our longtime recce partners had us all over for drinks. We’ve been together since Chippilly. They’ll be converting to Bristols in a few weeks. Not soon enough, I’m sure. Over drinks, I spoke with Captain Clement at some length. Stewart was right, he is a true fire-eater. Eight Huns, so far, flying a Fee! An extraordinary man, and I don’t write that lightly, serving as I do in a squadron of extraordinary men. I wish I’d taken the opportunity to know him better.

Sutton is off to England tomorrow. This evening was his farewell party and we gave him one hell of a sendoff. One for the ages, as it should be and as it turned out. What a fellow, Sutton. Not only a brilliant flyer but also an engineer. True genius. I had Corporal Johnson modify my harness as per Sutton’s instructions. Perhaps it will save my life one day.


17 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

Moving north today to Bray Dunes Aerodrome on the Channel coast. Ian Hill clipped a tree on final approach and was killed. What a waste and so unnecessary. Hill of the occult fascination. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn - he was always tweaking Stewart on that score and never failed to get a rise out of him.

We’re under canvas here and the high water table precludes digging. Feeling a bit exposed. Ackers is in the tent with me. I’d been alone in Flez since Grevelink was killed. I was glad for the solitude then but I'm happy to have a tent mate now.

Sutton’s MC has come through. What rotten timing. We could have celebrated his decoration last night as well.

Hadrill is alive! Unofficial word through the Red Cross that he is wounded and prisoner of war. He’s alive!


18 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

1415 hrs. Spent the morning getting settled. Parker is very much out of sorts with the two tents under his care. Got up this morning for an orientation flight. I can smell the salt air. I hadn’t realized until now how much I’ve missed the sea.
Afternoon show was an offensive patrol 6 miles over to Avelin aerodrome. Halfway to the lines the Le Rhone vomited up a huge clot of oil and refused to produce revs. I broke off and made for Ballieul town.



I’d plenty of height so there was no worry except for fire. I shut the engine off and glided toward the field, trailing a long tail of black smoke. Approaching the field, two Harry Tates of RFC-53 escorted me in. I landed with a bit too much speed, shot past the RE-8s and ran across the road into the field beyond. The two pilots and observers dashed across to haul me out of A7331. Fortunately there was no damage to man or machine.
We’d escorted RFC-53 numerous times and when they learned I was from 54 they walked me over to the mess and stood me to the first of many drinks. I’m beginning to understand 54 squadron’s high reputation among the Recce and Bomber chaps. I was thoroughly sozzled by the time Biggins collected me.



19 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

Rain, soft and pelting. The smell of the ocean conjures memories as I sit and write this. Nothing going today. Sandbags will be useful as the water is crossing the threshold of our tent.

A letter from Cox & Co informing me of a successful transfer. The way I wanted to treat Eliza was going to be expensive. I had written my banker in San Francisco to transfer what funds I’d saved to Cox and Co. No point in dying with money in the bank. It was a sizeable sum especially with the Franc plunging in value, but it wasn’t inexhaustible. I would have to plan this carefully, otherwise I would have to track down Sgt Spiv’s infamous traveling Poker game.


20 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

More Rain. Torrential with howling winds. Nobby’s flight came through. He’s off to No 46 Squadron. I’ve no doubt he’ll do well there. Next to Stewart he’s the most tactically savvy member of the squadron. I will miss him greatly. Despite the chaos of the move, the mess was well supplied. A long night of singing, the entirety of Cinquante-Quatre, which Nobby promises to spread throughout the Flying Corps. Thankfully, the Major didn’t brew his lethal concoction this time so I’m only slightly drunk.

21 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

RAIN again. We’ve some sandbags now to keep the water out but the roof is still a thin layer of canvas. Reg Charley and Milford Hyde have build up a tall layer of sandbags and found some galvanized iron sheets to roof over their tent. They’ve covered it with sand as well hoping to make it splinter proof. The Huns have been bombing the field consistently.

Two new men, Channing and Pope in today. They seem younger and younger.


22 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

0450 hrs. Escort DH4s of RNAS-5 on Recce of the lines near Menen. I led Foster, Ackers, Mac and Pope. This would be Pope’s first combat patrol. I was worried. The Navy boys were late at the rendezvous point. B-flight circled for nearly 10 minutes and just when I was about to turn us for home the DH4s hove into view.

Over the Lys black Albatri got in among the DH4s. We dove down to attack.


Is that..?









My God! Black 5!

I was so shocked I stopped firing. I hesitated and he immediately split-arsed and dove away. I lost concentration and thinking he was gone low I circled looking for another target. The barking rip of twin Spandaus snapped me back to reality. Bullets tore into the Pup. Black 5 was back and bearing down.


I flicked the Pup to the right and barreled around him.

We rolled and scissored. I fired off a few snapshots to little effect then hit him hard with a short burst. He dove out in earnest this time and I watched him descend. I did not follow.

Black 5. He’d spared my life the day I’d torn the wing off… the second time. Today I'd let him go. We were square now. Our next meeting would settle the account one way or the other.


Another black Albatros dead ahead. I put the nose down then came over the top and onto him.



He fell thunderously near an Albatros with a striped wing pattern.

I thought to strafe the striped Hun, but the hail of AA fire changed my mind rather quickly.

Following the Menen road west I stumbled onto another black Albatros crossing my line of flight. He never saw me coming. Just north of the river, his life and strength were scattered.

The Wing dispatch rider brought confirmation of both kills. 23 now.

Fullofit, it seems the gods favoured Ziggy with the dud engine!

Carrick, Fido and his crew have been busy. Lots of scraps with the enemy. Congratulations on the wound stripe.

Ace, real life does get in the way of fun but loving your story!

Raine, you are reigning terror on everything that has a roundal painted on it. Sorry for the loss of the pinkie.

EPower, 23 victories! Your on fire! No. Wait! That was Voss.

Lou, glad to know Abbott is doing well.

Harris has a few more days of convalescing. Me on the other hand, is worn out. Been working on a bush hog that self destructed. As my right hand man says, “this is sledge hammer mechanics.” Just got it all back together. Now to cut the grass!

22 Juni 1917
Menen area

The Jasta had a very early morning flight indeed. Forward observers had reported a large formation crossing the lines NW of Lille. Too late ?? How often had the Jasta been called to intercept the enemy only to find a cold and empty space of air. Willi was tired. The cold air didn‘t seem to help this morning either, his concentration was poor. Willi was thinking about Göring and his laud comments in the Kasino every evening.

Up ahead, over Menen, Flak was exploding. Suddenly awake, Willi could make out a formation of large aircraft with escort. The Jasta was higher and Göring was waving to everyone to follow. They all nosed down, full of anger for being forced to get up so early. The large 2-seaters were new to Willi, big and fast. The Jasta Albs went straight for the bombers, ignoring the Pups who were escorting, or trying too at any rate.

Willi lined up a bomber nicely from below its tail, but found that he could not catch him. In fact the monstrous brute was pulling easily away from his sights. A few desperate bursts of MG fire achieved nothing, the rear gunner didn’t even care to return fire. Baffled, Willi just flew straight and level, completely unaware of the little Pup with two big “W”s on its top plain. For just a moment, the whole war seemed to of halted. Two flyers alone and detached from this world. As if by instinct, Willi turned to look backwards, and without thinking, his arm and legs jinked his Albatross to the right and up. His opponent must of been a beginner to allow such a manoeuvrer. Willi fell onto the tail of the pup and started to fire. Both Spandau’s fired a few rounds and jammed. The Pup was turning hard to the right, and Willi knew the Alb would not be able to follow but he could possibly out climb him. But he had to keep his foe from getting behind him. Both men fought for position. No one else seemed to be interested in the two of them.

The Pup had made a mistake at the start but was making up for this quite quickly. Willi was unable to keep the Pup in front of him. As the little aircraft scissored and rolled the two big white “W”s became apparent. Willi knew he’d met this aircraft before, but when ? It didn’t matter now the little gnat was starting to open up with his pop gun. Willi was getting quite desperate. He did his best to keep his Alb moving left to right and away from the MG of his enemy. He began to curse out laud to himself when his right leg was knocked off the rudder bar. Willi thought he’d slipped off but found that his right foot would not return to the bar.

“F---- this can’t be happening!”. In one last do-or-die move, Willi reduced throttle and side slipped, rolled and dived with full throttle away from everyone. The Pup roared past and boomed overhead and off to the left. A near collision for both. Free Willi, I suppose. Free at at last and no sign of the annoying Pup with the W’s on his his wing.

The outcome ended with Willi having to be hospitalized in Karlsruhe. He received word from his friends that Göring was going to have Willi transferred, claiming that he was tired and needed a pause at one of the reserve formations defending the Reich. He didn’t care any more. Perhaps a rest would do him some good.

Carrick, is that an aeroplane envy I detect?

Epower, great news about Hadrill. That should raise Oliver’s spirits.
Well, well! The black 5 is back. I have a feeling Oliver will not have the hart to shoot him down if it ever comes down to this.
Congrats on the two confirmed that Oliver did have the hart to shoot down. Great catch up!

MFair, we’re waiting with anticipation for Badger’s return to duty.

Lederhosen, that was a desperate fight and a desperate maneuver for a desperate situation. Hopefully they can save Willi’s leg.

16 July, 1917 04:45 morning mission
Ghistelles, Flanders Sector
Jasta 17
Offizierstellvertreter Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2
14 confirmed kills

His new Mercedes engine was purring like a kitten. Ziggy adored that sound, that feeling of power, ready to be unleashed with a simple movement of a handle. It made him feel invincible. All the men alongside him reinforced that feeling. Their Schwarm was not to be trifled with. They were all gaining altitude on their way to intercept enemy craft heading for the Thielt airfield.
Through the gaps in the cloud cover he could now see the aerodrome below. They have arrived and so have the Britishers. Camels! Lots and lots of Camels. Hahn and the rest approached the enemy and everything became one. Ziggy realized his throttle had somehow become stuck in fully open position. It didn’t matter he needed all the power he could get from his new motor. He fired at a Englander following one of his mates, then another. Two of them stuck to his tail. He tangled with them but the plane was clumsy with no throttle control and soon they were on his tail and damaging his Albatros. He decided to bring them closer to the main battle. Perhaps he can lose them in the confusion, maybe even cause them to collide. He was nearly there, firing at another hostile when something hit him with the force of a raging bull. He grabbed his left side in agony. The blood was pouring out of the wound. His glove was soaked in blood. The searing pain was unbearable, but at least his throttle was unstuck. He saw the airfield below and dove. Ziggy looked back to see if anyone was following. He was alone and made a quick landing. He turned the engine off even before the wheels touched the ground. He could feel his plane slow down and then he drifted off.

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