Two of Germany’s finest out of the fray! I know Willi will return but what of poor Ziggy? Did he make it? We can only hope.

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

July 17, 1917.

1 Victory confirmed.


I flew as spare on a flight of 5 defensive Patrol. Broke off as we approached NML and spotted Archie banging away so hoped over for a look see. Found a 2 seat accompanied by 4 Scouts,as 2 e/a turned , I attacked the other 2. Closing to 150-75 yards I hosed the last in line a/c then over shot . I managed an awkward scissor
but ended on his tail at 100 trds and fired Taka Taka Taka over 100 rds went in the bloke Fire then smoke . The e/a rolled over on fire and crashed. I put in a claim for both. Landed with 88 rds left in the mg, My flight leader was mad because I left the formation. ( They encountered Nothing ) Spent the rest of the day on Detail Raking the Dirt outside the mess.

The new bus..Squadron finished the job before Willi arrives.

Lederhosen, that is one good looking paint job.

.

I see I've more catching up on your latest stories gents, which I will do most enjoyably later this evening when I get home. I have to run for now but wanted to share Frederick's recent adventure with you all before heading out for the day. It was an intense one for the young lad.

.

15 July 1917
Bapaume, France


“Good Lord”, 2nd Lt. Frederick Abbott remarked as he sat in the Bristol, having just landed at Bapaume.

“You alright there, Freddy?”, Lt. Thomas Yale inquired as he undid his harness.

“Yes, I …” the young airman trailed off for a moment before continuing, “Yes old sport, fine - just - just never saw that many aeroplanes all trying to occupy the same bit of sky before - couldn’t keep up really.”

Thomas laughed. ”Oh I’d say you kept up quite fine Freddy. How many did you knock down, three, four?”

“Not - not sure - lost track – have to sort that out”, Frederick stammered as he began to climb out from the cockpit, suddenly realizing his hands were shaking.

“I got two myself”, Yale remarked, jumping down onto the wet grass.

As Abbott stepped onto the lower wing of his mount his legs gave out beneath him and he went down, sliding off the wing and landing flat on his backside on the ground.

“Ha! Legs all wobbly - nerves got the best of me!” Frederick chuckled anxiously, flashing his toothy smile as Thomas gave him a hand getting back up.

“That’s understandable, Freddy”, his G/O assured. “I’ve got a bit of the jitters myself after that one, it was a real furball!”


A furball indeed, and one that began some twenty minutes earlier when both ‘A’ and ‘B’ flights of 11 Squadron had engaged en masse with no less than thirteen V-strutters east of Bapaume. It was the first sortie of the wet July morning and also the first time young Abbott had been charged with leading the flight. Major MacLean decided that, given how well Frederick had been doing since joining the squadron a month ago, it was time to give him a bit more responsibility and see how he handled it. As it turned out, he handled it incredibly well.

2nd Lt. Abbott was chuffed as he gave the signal and throttled up the Rolls-Royce V-12. He rose into the rainy morning and watched with glee as the other four planes in the flight all formed up on him. “Jolly good!” he said to himself as he continued climbing, turning to the southeast as he did so. ‘A’ Flight, being led by the squadron’s star ace Lt. Andrew McKeever, was already well above them and would be providing top cover for the patrol of the lines down around Mossy Face. As they approached Miraumont the rain stopped and the two groups of Bristols flew on amid broken clouds.

It was on the far side of Bapaume when Frederick spotted them off to the north, two flights of Albatros scouts; one slightly below containing seven V-strutters with blue noses; and the other higher with six more sporting green tails. Young Abbott waggled the wings of his bus then banked towards the enemy, and when he looked up to check on ‘A’ Flight he was pleased to see they were doing the same. Had they not been he would have held off engaging. Much as he was looking forward to the scrape he wasn’t going to go into it with thirteen-to-five odds in the Kaiser’s favour, (he might be slow on the uptake at times but he wasn’t a total idiot). The enemy had been paying attention as well and turned into the oncoming threat. Frederick was a bit surprised at how quickly the opposing groups closed on each other. He was quite overwhelmed when the madness began.

This was the first honest-to-god furball he’d actually been in, and he couldn’t keep up. The sky was alive, there were planes everywhere all jockeying for position. Suddenly the twin Lewis guns of his G/O barked in his right ear causing Frederick to physically jump in his seat. He looked over to see a Blue Nose carving away next to him. Lt. Thomas continued to fire and the Hun ship tumbled down out of control. When Abbott returned his gaze forward there was an Alb in front of him directly in his sights. Without thinking he fired off his Vickers and the V-strutter immediately began trailing smoke and fell into a flat spin from which it did not recover.

The young pilot did his best, tossing the Bristol about amid the chaos, trying to avoid either being shot or colliding with another plane. Yale was rattling off the Lewis guns repeatedly behind him at the myriad targets, fending off would-be attackers from their six. Suddenly another Blue Nose crossed their twelve and again, without thinking, Frederick pushed the trigger and raked the side of the Alb. He saw the Boche sit bolt upright in his seat for a moment then slump forward as the Alb nosed over and streaked down. More twisting and turning and general panic and a Green Tail popped in from nowhere squarely in front of them and Frederick fired again. A wisp of white vapor began trailing from the Alb and it quickly retreated eastward. No time to give chase however when the Hun’s wingman nearly ran into them as he too crossed in front. Abbott laced the entire side of the V-strutter with a deadly volley and watched as it dropped like a stone to the earth below. At the same moment Thomas delivered an identical fate to yet another Green Tail coming up behind them.

By the time the insanity subsided the King’s duo were nearly at treetop level. 2nd Lt Abbott saw that the bulk of his flight mates were landing at Bapaume, likely to assess damages and survey the nearby wrecked Hun scouts. He decided it best to do the same and was about to swing his bus around when he caught sight of a lone V-strutter running eastward just above the ground. He immediately gave chase and as he did so realized that this was the first time throughout the entire battle that he’d actually had time to think about his actions, rather than just react mindlessly to what was happening around him. Frederick closed in on his escaping prey carefully and deliberately, and as the gap between them narrowed he delivered the final coup de grâce with the Vickers gun. As the Green Tail settled onto the grass young Abbott was disappointed to see it suddenly erupt into flames. He was hoping they would have been able to take this trophy intact.

With the sky free of threats at last Frederick swung back around towards Bapaume and landed. After switching off and closing the petrol cocks, the young airman sat for a moment in the stillness. He realized then that he was completely numb. It also began to occur to him what it was that he had just managed to survive.

“Good Lord”, he remarked.

.


2nd Lieutenant Abbott leading ‘B’ Flight off on a rainy morning sortie from La Bellevue.


Approaching the front lines near Bapaume Frederick spots two separate flights of V-strutters heading west.


How can so many planes all be trying to occupy the same bit of sky at one time?!


Lt. Thomas Yale takes down the first Blue Nose.


Then young Abbott fires on one and sends the V-strutter into a spin from which it does not recover.


Another Blue Nose suddenly crosses in front of Frederick’s gun and he knocks that one out as well.


Then it’s the Green Tails who become the next targets.


Abbott laces the entire side of yet another Alb with a deadly volley.


The Green Tail falls like a stone to the earth below.


Yale swiftly delivers the same fate to yet another.


As the King’s duo is about to land at Bapaume to take stock one last Alb is spotted low, making a desperate run for the lines.


Frederick delivers the coup de grâce and as the V-strutter settles onto the grass it erupts in flames.


Landing at the aerodrome at Bapaume with the rest of ‘B’ flight, not only to have their own mounts checked over, but also to inspect their nearby trophies.


.

Tagebuch of Offstv Hans-Dieter Vogel, EK2

Field Hospital No. 76 (St Nicholas Hospital), Courtrai, Belgium

Part 16

17 July 1917.

I am up and about today after being repeatedly ordered back to bed here in the ward. It feels good to be able to put on real clothes, even though I cannot button my shirt cuff on my right hand. The hand is wrapped in a heavy bandage. The doctor will see me soon to replace it with a lighter dressing. I must stay here a little longer to ensure there are no complications or infection. How long will depend on the influx of casualties. My hand and I are low priority here. It is odd how little notice one takes of body parts until they are gone. The knuckle bone for the small finger of my right hand is still intact. I realise that without it writing would be very difficult. As it is, my hand rests differently on the page and I will win no prizes for my penmanship!

With the heavy bandage off I am free to roam about with my arm in a sling and I soon meet to other airmen here. The first man I meet is a slight, mousy little fellow with an easy smile and an offhand manner. But he wears the blue enamel cross of the Orden Pour Le Mérite! Like me, his arm is in a sling. We meet in the garden outside and chat, like any two airmen, about fighting machines and flying. I learn that he is with Jasta 11, the one commanded by the great von Richthofen. I ask what the famous Freiherr is like to work with. He laughs and replies, “Why don’t you ask him for yourself?” Now I learn that our master pilot, Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen, is one floor above me in the same building! He has suffered a light head wound whilst attacking an English two-seater.

“Really? I can meet him here?” I feel like a schoolboy about to meet his great hero. But now I realise that I may insult my new friend. Here am I gushing over from Richthofen and I have not even introduced myself to the man in front of me who wears Germany’s highest medal. I need to retrieve the situation. “But first, let us meet properly. My name is Hans-Dieter Vogel, Jasta 26.” I go to shake hands but realise that I can’t under the current circumstance.

“My name is Kurt Wolff. And I’m the lucky one, it seems. My hole is in my left hand.” Instead of shaking hands with me he slaps me on the shoulder and laughs. “Are you the ones with the black-and-white stripes?” He proceeds to ask me about our squadron and I rattle on at length about Loertzer the Boss and Loertzer the Pastor, Auer, Dannhuber, Blume, and all the others. I mention my recent promotion and my friendship with Steinmesser and the mechanics. He likes that. I ask him about Jasta 11.


Kurt Wolff

“It’s different now than it was. We were a pile of crap until Richthofen arrived. He is a no-nonsense sort of chap. None of that forced aloofness you see so often in new commanders. He is open and friendly but God help you if you shirk your duty. And if you show cowardice you are finished with him. Perhaps if you are lucky he will tell you once what you did wrong. If you do it again you are flying fat pigs to take photographs.” Wolff throws his cigarette under a bush and says to follow him. We go up several flights of stairs to a ward where the sunshine pours onto a row of freshly made beds. About half are occupied. At the far end of the long room lies a man with his head wrapped in bandages. A nursing sister is standing sentinel and sees that we are approaching.

“He’s sleeping,” she says. “You need to leave him alone.”

“Ah, Sister Kate,” says Wolff, “ever the attentive guard dog, aren’t you?” The nurse holds out her arm to block our path and stands firmly ready to stop us. But then Richthofen himself intervenes and calls for us to come over.

“You have woken him. Shame on you!” the nurse protested.

But Richthofen persists and she relents, saying we had five minutes and not a second more. Wolff sits at the end of the bed. “I was out in the garden and look what I dug up – another pilot.”


Richthofen in St Nicholas Hospital, July 1917

“What unit?” asks Richthofen.

“Jasta 26,” I say.

“Loertzer’s boys. How long have you been there?”

“Since May,” I reply. He asks about my previous squadron and is surprised to learn that I was assigned directly to scouts after training.

“So you must be a fancy flyer?” It is clear from his tone that fancy flying is not something he values. I shake my head and explain that I am competent but that’s all. He asks if I have any enemy machines to my credit.

“Eleven,” I reply. He nods and says “Good work.” Then he asks me if I hunt. I laugh and tell him about growing up in the back of a restaurant in Berlin.

“Interesting. The man comes to Belgium to learn how to hunt.”

“He worked in England before the war. Waiting tables in London.” Wolff throws this into the conversation.

Richthofen’s eyes widen. “Really, Bluemchen?" I chuckle to myself at Wolff's nickname: "Little Flower." For a man with the PLM about his neck, he certainly does look harmless. Richthofen continues to ask me questions. "Tell me. What are the English like up close?”

“They have good table manners, I can tell you that much. And they like to laugh more than we do, at least until they make enough money that they stop laughing.” Richthofen smiles broadly and begins to ask another question, but Sister Kate returns to give Wolff and me the bum’s rush. Richthofen raises a hand in farewell and says to come back soon.

As we walk back downstairs Wolff tells me that I had done well with the great ace. Most pilots beg him to let them join his unit, he explains. He asks me why I did not. The question makes me think for a few minutes. Finally it comes to me.

“I want to command my own unit one day. If I serve well in Jasta 26 perhaps I’ll get that chance more quickly. I don’t know why. That’s just the way I feel.”

I think about this answer later. Richthofen has an unusual quality. He makes you feel comfortable and makes it seem safe to open up to him, yet at the same time he never relinquishes his standing as the boss. I admire that. At the same time there is something very solid and Germanic about him. We are a nation of “serious young businessmen.” I had a mathematics teacher who used to state that that should be our ambition unless we were good enough to become officers. The type of English “good sport” I met in London was a rarity in Berlin. If I get to be a commander, what kind of leader will I be?

But such things are for the future, and in war the future is a comic idea.

Lou, tremendous mission by Freddie. His orderly is being kept busy getting the mud off his breeches these days.

Carrick, I hope you have more luck with you to claims than I've had of late I am 2 for 10 last week.

Lederhosen, it will be great to see Willi in the air and with such a good looking machine! It will be good to be free from Herr Hermann.

epower, I am incredibly impressed by your research on 54 Squadron. Discovering that many records at the British National Archives are available for free download during the pandemic was an all-star move! And a very sporting move with "Black 5."

Fullofit, Ziggy was fortunate to get out of that scrap with the three Pups. He really got hammered, poor fellow. Hope to see you back soon.

Raine: the saga continues the story has a nice flow.

RAF Lou: Great pics

Leaderhosen: Wow what a nice looking Kite.

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

July 18, 1917.

1 Victory confirmed.

All my work with the rake gone. Rain all day everything is mud.

Lou, Abbot is really making a name for himself.
Raine, fantastic story of meeting the man himself. Felt like I was there.

Lt. Ainslie Harris
Bruay
July 17, 1917

As Harris walked into the mess the night before he was met with a roar of cheers. “Ah! The Badger has returned! Come and tell us of the lovely nurses Ol’ boy!” Harris accepted the ribbing in the spirit it was given. He was glad to be out of the hospital. He walked with a pronounced limp but otherwise was ok.

He and Mannock both retired early. In the short time he had known the man he liked what he saw despite his first brush with him. He knew his job and did it well. No one could question his bravery and courage but Harris could see, once on the ground, he was haunted. By what he was not sure.
They spent their time discussing tactics which Mannock felt was the key to survival. As they settled in Mannock motioned to the night stand drawer. “You had some mail come in while out.” Harris opened the drawer. There was a letter from his brother. He opened it and lay back on the cot and began to read by candle light. All of a sudden he sat straight up. “Well I’ll be da#$ed!” He exclaimed.
“What’s so astounding?” Mannock asked. Harris folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. “Oh.......Nothin much, just some news from home.”

As he sat in his Nieuport at daybreak, the nervous feeling returned to his stomach. Not only was this his first flight in 10 days, the flights were attacking a Railyard north of Cambrai. No one likes Railyard attacks. As he opened the engine up and bounded down the grass strip the nervousness subsided a bit. It was spotty rain and a lot of cloud. They saw nothing on the way to the target and Harris took a deep breath as he dove on the Railyard full of supples. He made four passes. With each pass bullets from ground fire slammed into his machine but nothing vital was hit. Upon their return to Bruay the Major congratulated them in a job well done. After filing his report Harris made his way to his hut and pulled out the letter from his brother and read it again. Mannock came through the door and Harris folded the paper back up. “Must be something if your reading it twice!” Said Mannock. Harris turned the letter over and over in his hand. He looked at Mannock and asked “Can you keep your trap shut?” Mannock laughed and replied, “if that’s what your asking me to do. Yes. Are we sharing secrets now?” Harris looked at the letter again and shoved it in his pocket. He looked up at Mannock. “Before I came over here, my brother and I had a gold claim outside a little ol town in Colorado. Everyone said the good stuff was played out. Well, after a few months of hard labor, this child had had enough of digging in the dark. I offered to give my half to my brother cause I was headed out. Had enough. He said he would keep working it and I could have 25 percent of anything he dug up.” Harris stood up so he could look Mannock in the eye and continued “Well Pard, cast your eyes on one rich SOB! He done gone and hit pay dirt!”
Mannock chuckled. “It seems all you have to do is live long enough to enjoy it.” Harris sat back down and rubbed his hands together. “Yep, and that there is one mighty big problem.

MFair: There are other problems.

Lederhosen - a superb Rashomon-like write-up of Willi's encounter with Oliver. Brilliant how Willi and Oliver each recall the incident differently. It will be so cool if they both survive and can meet in South Africa after the war. Observer school?! Quite a surprise. Lovely new skin for the *magic bus*

Fullofit - Ach du lieber! What have those Tommies done to Ziggy now? Cliffhanger again. I can't stand this level of imbroglio. Tell us he's ok.

Carrick - I keep saying Zen stone pebbles and everyone ignores me. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills here. Pebbles, man! Impervious to rain, easily raked back into place after Hun bombing raids. These ... "ladies" Fido has recently encountered. They have brothers do they?

Lou - So good to see you taking time from your maniacal schedule of finishing Estree Blanche. Outside...Outside. What resolution do you run for this Outside of which you speak? Is it better than 8K? Freddy had quite a day. Keep this up and the nefarious Gong/Bong Fairy will be visiting. Nice work.

MFair - The Badger is back he's ready to... clip coupons and transfer bearer bonds?! Nice windfall there. Huzzah!

Raine - Here I thought Oliver was the only one currently susceptible to man crush and Vogel goes and hangs out with both Wolff and MVR. A long way from waiting tables in old Blighty. Sounds like Jasta 11 might be a more festive environment but Hans-Dieter must make his own way as he always done. Marvelous plot turn.

An enormous thank you to Maeran, a fellow devotee of 54 Squadron, whose generous gift of time and information, most especially Major Oliver Stewart’s writings, not only expanded my knowledge of 54, but also made these recent Bray Dunes entries far more historically accurate and in-depth. <S>

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 7 of many


23 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

0500 hrs. Balloon strafe 2 miles NE of Lens. I set out with Pope, Mac, Hyde, Ackers and Channing. Foul weather clearing as we climbed above 8000 ft. No Huns in sight. I had a perfect clean run in and made a complete balls of it. Vickers jammed after 5 rounds and I missed badly with the rockets.



Forgot to think of England (again!) Pope followed in after me and sent the gasbag burning to earth.
Channing clipped a tree on final approach and killed himself. Dammit to Hell! Why are these things not cut down?! They’re not 1000 year old oaks, for Pete’s sake. What a senseless and unnecessary death. He was here two days! Such a waste.

1430 hrs. Air Raid! We cleared the field in time. No damage. Nobody hurt. E/A long gone. Bray Dunes and Dunkirk see daily visits from Hun bombers.

“You were foolish to let him go, this Black 5.” said Stewart.
“I hit him hard, Stewpot, after he came back and shot me in the arse, that is. He might be dead or in hospital.”
“And if he’s alive, or worse, unharmed?” he asked. “How many more of ours might he send west?
“How many of his have I sent to the death god since the day he spared me?” I countered. “That was the 1st of May. It must be near twenty, though Wing say fewer. He let me live. I owed him a life. It just wasn’t in me to kill him yesterday. The scales are even now. Next time will be different.”

“You’re an odd one, Ripper.” Stewart tilted his head inquisitively for a moment, then reached for his glass and took a drink of whiskey. “You’re a killer, pure and simple, I’ve seen it firsthand, yet you’re driven on by some atavistic code of your own creation. Not a bright chivalric ideal or sunny, public school nonsense, it’s darker, like something of the old gods.

Stewart finished the remainder of his whiskey then took a long pull on his cigar. Exhaling, he continued,
“God may be on the side of the big battalions, but the Devil, who tends to win battles more often is on the side of the cunning battalions. You know your Homer better than most. Who amongst the great heroes in the Iliad survived? Achilles? Hektor? Telamonian Ajax? Sarpedon? All dead. It was wily Odysseus and that sneaky little pissant, Locrian Ajax, who made it through.

“Diomedes.” I said.

“Son of Tydeus, second only to Achilles. What of him? A mighty warrior, but doesn’t he kill a bound prisoner and murder men in their sleep? Not very sporting, and neither is the vicious art you practice, abusing that poor bag in the hangar day after day. A long way from Queensbury Rules there.

I had no answer for any of it.

“Our game is to sneak in unobserved close behind and shoot a man in the back. You’re a student by nature, Ripper. Naturally curious. To those who study it closely enough, the limitless open sky becomes as good a place to lie in wait for an unsuspecting passer-by as a darkened alley off a sleazy street, and the sudden act of violence, when it comes, can be as deadly.”


24 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

Only the noon job today, escorting 3 Quirks from RFC-10 on a recce of the lines south of Nieuport. My Lord, those barges were slow! I led us in large sweeping S-turns above them dancing all the while on the edge of a stall. Bloody Quirks! At least I wasn’t flying them. No Albs, only a two-seater racing east many thousands of feet above.

A pleasant afternoon. The bag, then a short walk over the dunes for a swim.

I was nearly back to the aerodrome when the afternoon patrol returned, one aircraft trailing a plume of burning oil. It was Ackers. Peeling out of the descending flight he nearly clipped Channing’s tree before settling unsteadily onto the field. His Pup was shot to pieces, probably a write-off. Ackers didn’t move. I felt the icy tightness rising into my chest as I saw the number of bullet holes around and forward of the cockpit. Sgt Atwater and two mechanics lifted him clear. He was alive and amazingly had escaped with a graze to the lower leg. Cpl Fredericks arrived and took charge of getting Ackers in the ambulance then off to No. 12 Stationary Hospital in St. Pol.

Major Horn is returned from hospital, but still walking with a cane. He made a brave show trying to hide his discomfort but he was clearly in some pain.
Uncle was making the rounds before dinner, introducing the new man Goodbehere, who he left in the care of Hudson. Goodbehere looked ridiculously young.
It’s a Children’s Crusade, Uncle. Did he bring his Teddy Bear? He makes ‘Babe’ Hudson look like a Patriarch.”

“So says the war-scarred veteran. What was it like, storming the Khyber pass?" Uncle replied with only a trace of irony. "You’re well wide of the mark, old man, Goodbehere is four years your elder.”

Impossible!


25 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

0545 hrs. Escorting three RE.8s from RFC-6 on a Recce of Menen and environs. I led Mac, Pope and Foster up through heavy clouds. Visibility was awful. Eventually I dropped us down to 5000 ft and continued our search for the Harry Tates. Finally found them after 15 minutes and headed off to Menen. The Huns were uninterested in coming up, all except the single two-seater racing high to the east. Was this the same fellow as yesterday? He was heading toward the three aerodromes near Zerkegem.

1420 hrs. Another escort. This time Harry Tates from RFC-21 on a bombing run west of Roulers. The bombers failed to drop on their first pass and went round again before delivering the goods to Kaiser Bill. No e/a Spotted.
A note from Smokey with a Philadelphia postmark. The old rascal got a berth somewhere.

Carrick, I’ll place my bets on the strippers. That is, if Badger can get past the vagabonds, desperados and highwayman.

EPower, the art of writing a good story is when the writer is able to put a moving picture in the mind of the reader. You have it in spades bud! “Ripper” of a yarn.

.

Epower – So Oliver has squared things with Black 5, eh? This could be building to an epic final showdown. And his statement: “The war happened.” That really says it all across the board. The photo of Percy is toppers. By the way, are you using my Bray Dunes mod?

Carrick – Problems indeed. And of the recent two you’ve shown, the bandits are the least of them.

MFair – I love it, Badger is back in the fight and a gold baron to boot! He just has to survive the war now.

Raine – Sorry to learn of Vogel’s latest wounding, but a fellow can get by without a pinky finger. The hospital episode and your man’s introduction to Wulff and MvR was outstanding!

Lederhosen – It’s great to see Willi back again, and I’m glad he was able to survive that nasty Pup. Being free of Göring has to make your fellow happy, as does that new livery of his. Spiffing!

Fullofit – You and your cliffhangers! Please tell us Ziggy is not a goner, the anticipation is agony.


Wonderful stuff as always folks!

.

Lou - D'Oh! I thought I'd included an aerial pic of your Bray Dunes in the June 17th entry, when 54 transfer north. It fell victim to a dull mind posting at 0230.
Never fear! Bray Dunes pics coming soon to a DID post near you!

RAFLou: I agree,

Lou, that’s incredible! What were all those Huns thinking to just fly in front of Freddy’s guns? They’ve learned a really valuable lesson now. Don’t expect them to repeat that mistake again.
Congrats on that shooting spree. Bong Fairy will visit Abbott pretty soon, I expect. Well done to the entire crew of this Brisfit. Looking forward to more encounters like this one.

Raine, what luck to have been sent to the same hospital as the Great One! Well done on the first impressions. Perhaps MvR will hear more of Vogel’s exploits in the near future and is going to invite him to join? And that sister Kate, what a killljoy!

MFair, dear Lord! Badger is rich! I’m sure he’s already thinking of visiting that pretty prostitute he’d “met” on his 21st birthday. Now he can afford her for more than just one night. There better be a trip to Paris soon.

Epower, and here’s the rub. Has the Black 5 really killed that many pilots, or has he let them go, just like Winningstad? 54 has not shown same chivalry towards the enemy. Stewart is wrong. It is war, but people are still human, at least some. The two aviators are even now. That does not mean they can now simply kill each other in cold blood. Voss, on the other hand, will not be shown the same curtesy.

18 July, 1917

“- You are suffering from profound hemorrhaging. How are you feeling?”
A raspy voice woke Ziggy from a wonderful nap. The question was immediately followed by a dry cough from the speaker. He opened his eyes and closed them instantly. The light was blinding. He knew right away this was not heaven.
“- I feel ... like I’ve lost a lot of blood.” It was the best he could do. His mouth was dry and his lips were sticking together to the point of ripping small chunks of dry skin from the surface.
The dry-cougher cackled. “- I get a lot of that around here. It seems to be a common complaint of my patients. Some of them get over it. Others ... not so much. I wonder which one of these will you be?”
“- Preferably the one with sufficient supply of the red stuff. And I don’t mean wine.” Ziggy liked his odds.
“- Hah! You’ll do just fine! Soon you’ll crave wine and soon after women! Trust me, I know. But first, you’ll need to get your strength back and I have just the ticket. A strict diet of beet soup for the entire week. That will bring your red cell count back up.” Another prolonged fit of dry cough.
“- Now rest. I’ll be back later to take another look at your wound.”
“- Thank you doctor.”
The answer was a lung piercing cough.
Beet soup was better than cabbage soup. At least he wouldn’t get the gas.
He was too weak to think about food anymore. Ziggy drifted off.

.

Praise the gods and goddesses, Ziggy is still with us! Here's to a week's worth of beet soup and a speedy recovery for your fellow, Fullofit. As for the Kaiser's best learning NOT to fly in front of Bristol guns - we shall see. And let's not start tossing around that bong curse again.

.

.

17 July 1917
11 Squadron R.F.C.
La Bellevue, France

2nd Lt. Frederick Abbott, ace pilot of the Royal Flying Corps - it had a splendid ring to it! His newfound status had come about quite unexpectedly during morning tea, when it was learned that three of the five claims he and his G/O filed after the massive furball of the 15th had been confirmed.

“By Jove, that is spiffing news!”, the young flyer beamed. “Me, an ace, and in only a month!”

“This calls for celebration”, Major MacLean commanded. “And seeing as how the dud weather has washed out flying for the rest of today and in all likelihood most of tomorrow, I will have the mess officer prepare for an appropriate binge after dinner. Best have that bottomless purse of yours at the ready, Abbott.”

“We’re going to have to come up with a proper nick for you now, Freddy”, Lt. Yale pronounced. “How about ‘Eagle Eye’ ?”

“That won’t do, McKeever’s already ‘Hawkeye’ you know”, Lieutenant MacAndrew noted.

“Well then Colin, what would you suggest?”

“Just off the top of my head Thomas, how about ‘Jester’, given that grin of his.”

“Hmmm - Jester - possibly.”

Numerous other monikers were offered up over the next several minutes; ‘Longlegs’, ‘Jolly Roger’, and ‘Smiling Jack’ to name a few. However, further debate was cut short when an unfamiliar flying officer suddenly entered the mess. The fellow spotted Major MacLean at the table and made his immediate way to the CO.

“2nd Lieutenant Reginald Harrington reporting in Sir, I stopped by your office and was told to find you here. I’ve just been sent down from the pilot’s pool.”

“Ah, excellent, you’re the replacement for Sykes”, the Major replied as he stood and shook the young man’s hand. “That was quick, we’ve only just lost poor Sykes two days ago.”

(Lt. Phillip Sykes had been the only dark spot for the King’s own during the furball of the 15th. He’d been shot through the thigh during the fighting and by the time he’d managed to land he’d lost over half his blood. He died on the way to the clearing station.)

“Have some tea and the lads here can introduce themselves”, the Major offered.

“Thank you Sir, I look forward to getting to know you all and to do my part for…”, Harrington faded off as he suddenly spotted Frederick seated towards the end of the table, at which point his eyes went wide and he burst out, “My Lord, as I live and breathe. Tiggy-Winkle!”

The entire mess, as one, looked first at the new fellow Harrington, then over at Abbott, and as if by divine revelation every man there suddenly saw it.

“Of course!”, shouted one.

“He does!”, agreed another.

“How could we not have seen it before, he looks precisely like that hedgehog!”, yelled a third.

“Tiggy-Winkle!”, came the resounding cry.


(to be continued)

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