MFair: Ya might get lucky with Packin a Big Iron against the Bandito's or the Outlaw "Texas Red " . However, Keeping your gold against a triple threat of three women, ya dont stand a chance in " E'LL "

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

July 19, 1917.

1 Victory confirmed.

The C.O. said Still no word about my claims so off ya go on a defensive Patrol of 4 a/c. Used a spare a/c since mine was U/S do to the motor conk-in out. Lt Penland led. Found a 2 seat and 2 Scouts over NML. I missed my approach on the 2 seat so cut into a Scout got off 80 rds then he rolled. Penland and his wingman were after the 2 seat when I spotted the # 3 a/c in a sticky mess so went down to help. The e/a turned into me I shot pass and Sgt Thacker ( #3) was able to nail him.. I confirmed the crash of the flamer. The Lt claimed the 2 seat, shared the kill with wingman The other E/a ?

.

Carrick, you'd think the powers-that-be would be quicker about getting back to a fellow on his claims, after he's gone to all the trouble of shooting down the enemy and turning in the proper paperwork. Typical. Here's hoping they are all approved for Fido.

.

.

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

(continued)


2nd Lt. Reginald Harrington, as fate would have it, had been a classmate of Frederick’s at Charterhouse School. His impeccable timing at providing the perfect nickname for Abbott, unintentional as it was, had made him an immediate hit with the flyers of 11 Squadron. And that night during the celebrations he continued that success by sharing stories of young Tiggy-Winkle’s school days.

“Has he told you about how he broke his leg during summer exercises?” Harrington asked while quaffing a beer treated him by the very fellow he was now lampooning.

“No, tell us!”, the men shouted.

“Oh it’s a corker!” Reggie chuckled as he launched into the tale. “So there we are down in East Sussex, the junior OTCs from the various schools all competing and such, jolly good fun really, and we’re about to run the obstacle circuit for the first time. Poor Tiggy has pulled lead position, and there he is at the head of the queue looking totally lost – I’m sure you all know the look by now.”

A round of agreement rose from the men while Frederick flashed his endearing, toothy grin and shook his head.

“Right! So off we go, with the drill sergeants stationed at the tricky spots along the course to give us the direction and encouragement as only their kind can, and it all starts out fairly well.

‘Scramble up over that rock pile and be quick about it!’, and up and over goes our Tiggy.

‘On your belly and crawl under the wire PDQ, and keep your arse down!', and Tiggy does just that.

Then we reach the bit where the sergeant tells us to run like hell and jump. The thing was, on this particular course, where the ditch was that we were to jump across, just off to the side of it, there was also a bit of a cliff.”

“Oh God no, tell us he didn’t!”

“Oh yes, he did!” Reggie laughed.

“Yes, yes I did”, Frederick agreed heartily as he downed a shot of scotch.

The room erupted into gales of laughter.

Harrington waited for things to quiet back down and continued. “Our good old Tiggy here, ever ready to do as he’s told, and failing completely to notice the trampled grass leading off towards the ditch, stares at the edge of that damned cliff twenty-some feet in front of him, and he hesitates. The sergeant yells, ‘I said run and jump it, ya great lump, or do ya need a prod!’. So he screws up his courage and off he goes, fast as those long legs of his will carry him, straight at the abyss. By the time the now-terrified sergeant is screaming ‘Christ lad, the ditch, not the bloody cliff!’, it’s too late, Tiggy’s already off the edge.”

Harrington pauses to toss back the shot that has just been brought him and while he does so Frederick interjects, “I should mention, for those of you who may not know, I’ve a keen interest in paleontology – fossils, dinosaurs – that sort of thing. I note this as it will become relevant in a moment when Reggie continues his ragging of me. Carry on old top.”

“Thank you, old top”, Harrington smiled as he slapped Frederick’s shoulder. “Yes, right, so off he goes, and we’re all thinking the worst as we run to the edge to see. But the gods smiled on old Tiggy that day, it was only about fifteen feet to the bottom, and on the way down he’d passed through a bramble which slowed his descent. So there he was, laying at the bottom, battered and bruised, with bits of bramble sticking out of him, and the sergeant, who is now looking far more angry than terrified, yells down, ‘You alright, Abbott?’ And Tiggy here, who’s fumbling about with some rocks he’s found next to him, shouts back up, ‘Some lovely trilobites down here, they’ll be a spiffing addition to my collection’. And the sergeant is now hopping mad, face red as a beet, and he shouts ‘What the hell you on about, Abbott, did you crack your bleedin’ skull?!’ And our Tiggy here looks up at the fellow peering over the edge at him and says, ‘No Sergeant, I believe it’s my leg, the left one has a bit of an extra bend it didn’t have when I was up there.’ We all nearly fell off the edge ourselves from the laughter. The sergeant never did find the humour in it though, did he Tiggy.”

“No Reggie, he never did”, Frederick smiled as he handed his old Carthusian chum yet another shot.

By this point every man in the mess was in stitches, some were literally holding their sides from the aching, others were laughing so hard they were in tears. It would prove to be an epically marvelous evening, and a very, very squiffy one.

.

RAF; The powers that be seem to making Fido " Beg " for information

Lou, great news! Congrats of Freddy reaching the acedom status. His purse will undoubtedly be lightened standing those drinks. Good thing becoming an ace occurs only once, but then there are all those other awards the Bong Fairy is getting ready for him. He will have to fly and fight just to afford all those drinks. Poor Tiggy-Winkle. The nickname caught up with him and I’m afraid the bitterness of the war would have to change the man dramatically to cause him gaining another name. And I’m afraid not for the better.
Tiggy was a good sport letting Harrison entertain the rest with the embarrassing stories about him. But then again Abbott is that way and probably doesn’t realize they’re embarrassing at all.

Lou, a marvelous little write up! Well done!

Lou - A spiffing nickname for good old Freddy and a hilarious and well-crafted backstory for same. Brilliant! Any word from Wing on all those Huns?

Carrick - I'm liking the new 6 pic protocol you've adopted. Excellent shots. Fido might need to drop a tenner in with the claims at this rate, or get some "biographical" leverage on a claims officer. Perhaps those saloon women are available for a secret mission.

Fullofit - Ziggy's only hemorrhaging profoundly? Excellent news! I was getting worried there for a moment. After a week on the Uber Beet diet, Ziggy will be back with the vigor of 10 men. Listen to Herr Doktor Hack.
"You know, wine and women, is all I crave..." or the Deutsch equivalent thereof.

MFair - apparently I was cognitively impaired when I replied to Carrick's Naughty Ladies/ Bandito post. How then to get the $ across the pond. I have visions of Badger on leave, renting some Manor house and throwing the Mother of All Parties. See Peter the Great's trip to England and Sayes Court for hints.

Epower, hemorrhage is a common side effect of being shot. Happens all the time and is no cause for concern. It does make Ziggy lightheaded however and I wouldn’t recommend any negative G maneuvers in this state.

.

Fullofit, Frederick does not embarrass easily, if at all.

Epower, you perhaps missed the first part of Reggie's arrival. That explained that three of Frederick's claims had been confirmed making him an ace.

Robert, nice to see you dropping by. Stay a bit, have a drink.

Carrick, does begging work for Fido?

.

A longer catch up in this part. Fair warning.

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 8 of many


26 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

0630 hrs. Line Patrol from the Lys to a point just north of Loos. The full six again, with Pope, Meissner, Foster, Mac and Hyde. Finally some decent flying weather.

Heading toward the lines we spotted a DFW, low heading toward Ypres. Trying to perfect Stewpot’s high astern method I once again buggered it up and got too flat. Fortunately I was fast and closed rapidly so I wasn’t hanging there for the Observer. One high speed pass and some strong bursts landed near the forward cockpit. Hyde followed in after me.



The Hun rolled to the right and began a long spiraling descent. I could see the observer firing away. No sign of the pilot. The DFW crashed 3 miles south of Ypres.

Gathering the flight we headed to the lines and the completion of our patrol time without further disturbance.

I had no idea if I’d hit the pilot and neither did Hyde. In the end we filed our two claims for the DFW and let Wing decide.


1420 hrs. The daily Air Raid! We scrambled and catching sight of the Huns gave chase, grabbing for all we were worth. We crossed the lines at 10000 ft still chasing. We wouldn’t catch them, but I led B flight 3 miles over to determine where the Huns were going. As I suspected they were heading for the “Zerkegem Triangle.” Ghistelles, Jabbeke and Aertrykcke, the three aerodromes arrayed around Zerkegem. There was a pattern here. We’d never catch the Huns after a raid, but knowing where they based gave me ideas about setting an ambush.

Wing rejected both our claims on the DFW. We’d be watching for any staff cars driving out of Wing HQ just up the road. Neither Hyde nor I had done any contour chasing lately but that was going to change. These Staff Wallahs needed a little excitement in their dreary, claim-denying lives.



27 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France


0645 hrs. More hate for the Roulers Rail junction. A gorgeous morning, barely a cloud in the sky. My complaints about coastal weather may have been premature. With Pope, Mac and Charley we gave the rail yard a sound thrashing.



1230 hrs. Just sitting down to lunch when the klaxon sounded. Air Raid!! This was becoming a daily occurrence here on the coast. No damage. Couldn’t even see the Hun bombers. We'd need some additional sandbagging around our tent, in case they returned at night.

Major Horn is going on convalescent leave. I don’t think the surgery worked as desired. It must be killing him to be grounded like this. Strugnell has the squadron for now.

Ackers is back from Hospital. Something felt off these past few days with him gone. I must admit I’ve gotten used to Ackers’ friendly presence as a tentmate, and not just because he doesn’t snore. I needled him relentlessly about flirting with the nurses when he has the divine Madame waiting in Corbie.

A new man, Bennett arrived today.

All France is aflame with the news. The American Expeditionary Force is here! General Pershing and 14,000 men landed at St. Nazaire yesterday.






28 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France


0700 hrs. Line Patrol between Menen and the Lys with Foster, Pope, and Ackers.

Over the river Lys a low DFW! I led the attack but again, after 20 rounds the Vickers jammed! Something was wrong. I felt slow, like my reactions were at half speed.


Everything happened so quickly. I didn’t understand why.

Pope roared past and blew the Hun to pieces. The madman! I barely avoided a collision with the bits of aeroplane littering the sky.

I didn’t think I drank that much last night. What was going on, I had no idea.

1530 hrs. Defensive Patrol over Teteghem aerodrome. No e/a sighted.


29 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France


0600 hrs. Offensive Patrol over Houplin aerodrome, south of Loos. A grey, rainy, windswept morning. No e/a sighted in the patrol area, so we took the long way home, heading due north and hoping to catch Hun observation machines returning to the Zerkegem aerodromes. Empty skies this morning.

1450 hrs. Heading out on another Line Patrol of Menen and points south, the Le Rhone spewed two huge clots of oil and started shaking violently. I had enough altitude to shut off the engine and glide back to Bray Dunes.



Mac is in hospital with a shattered jaw. Going up at lunch for a gun test, he broke a tappet rod on take off and went straight in from 40 feet.

A new pilot in today, M. E. Gonne. Another young one, not yet 19 years of age.





30 June 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

0445 hrs. Balloon strafe on the northern outskirts of Lens. Goodbehere’s first combat patrol, along with Foster, Hyde and Charley. I had Goodbehere fly as Hyde’s wingman to keep him out of trouble.

Another bout of filthy weather. Rain stinging the face as we flew higher. I went in first followed by Charley. Vickers spewed Buckingham all the way down and this time I remembered to think of England! The balloon lit beautifully.


Charley’s rocket salvo flew right through the fireball.

All returned safe and sound to Bray Dunes. Goodbehere’s landing was better than I expected. A good sign.

1530 hrs Line Patrol Menen to Loos. 15 miles of the lines to cover. A tall order. I was on edge this afternoon. Both Gonne and Goodbehere were with B-flight and we were almost certain to run into Huns. Gonne turned back with a dud engine shortly after takeoff. I was relieved. That left Ackers, Hyde, Charley and Pope to look after each other and Goodbehere.

Our patrol passed without incident or e/a sighted.

Wing, with some prodding from the forward observers confirmed the balloon. Twenty-four.




1 July 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France

One year ago today, the balloon went up on the Somme. Milford and Uncle were there with the infantry, Strugnell with No. 1 Squadron.

0545 hrs. I could feel the glass rising. The weather, still heavy would clear soon. The morning show was a Line Patrol from Dadizale, or what was left of it, to the river Lys. I was itching for a fight, alas the patrol area was clear of Huns. After our allotted time we took the long way home again and sat high above the Zerkegem triangle. Not a Hun to be found. Very frustrating.

1530 hrs. An afternoon visit to Bisseghem aerodrome, there to knock the Huns about. B-flight was Pope, Ackers, Goodbehere and Foster. We never reached the airfield.


Over the De Blankaart eight candy cane-striped Albs came down.



One with a red spinner caught me with a deflection shot. I couldn’t see any tracers but I heard the deadly ripping patter of his bullets holing canvas. We began a rolling scissors. These were new Albatri, incredibly fast and frighteningly well flown. I managed a few snapshots but couldn’t keep him in the sight long enough to do much of anything.



After a minute or two of inconclusive maneuvering, the Hun dove away, like a child abandoning a toy and moving on to a new one. He vanished through the clouds. I stayed high looking for the rest of B-flight to no avail. Found Pope on the return to Bray Dunes. The others all returned safely. Goodbehere had some holes in his top planes but had otherwise emerged unscathed. He’d fired his gun and was all smiles having survived his first encounter with the Hun. I still don’t believe he’s four years older than me.

I hadn’t done enough for Channing, Kantell or Chalmers. They were dead. Goodbehere would be different. I’d take a more active role in his training and see if I could keep him alive.



2 July 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France


0645 hrs. Off to finish the job on Bisseghem aerodrome after yesterday’s distraction. Charley, Goodbehere, Ackers and Foster. The Huns were fully awake and threw up a curtain of anti-aircraft fire as B-flight rolled in on target.

A sharp clank forward and a painful blow to my left calf arrived together. I couldn’t flex my foot and worked the left turn to the lines pulling the rudder bar with the strap over my right. My tank was holed. Looking back, the stream of petrol and oil corkscrewed their way into a long grey tail behind me. I’d never make the lines if I shut off the engine now.

You might burn if you don’t, Oliver.

I took the chance and kept the Le Rhone running, grabbing height. I could see the fuel descending in the glass. It wouldn’t be long.



When the tank ran dry and the engine quit, I was a thousand feet higher and a mile closer to the lines. Was it enough? There was a sea of mud between me and safety.

Kaiser Bill’s Varsity manned the guns this morning. Archied mercilessly, I could hear the splinters ripping through 7331. Descending now over the blood-churned ground, I couldn’t make out the lines exactly. I thought I was clear of NML and safely home when more bullets tore through the Pup. Our own PBI were shooting at me!



Time to land. How are there still trees here?!

I felt for the D-Ring release on Sutton’s harness, reminding my hands of its location. If the Pup caught fire on landing, I’d need to get out fast. The ground was craters and trees and … there, a flat spot, strangely untouched by shells. I’d done this before, that day behind the Hindenburg Line.



Holding the Pup level on the edge of a stall I waited until the last minute, then released her down to land on the smooth mud. My hand was on the D-ring in a trice and I was over the side and in the mud before I realized I’d forgotten the clock. The Tommies were shouting at me to get clear. Their language did not improve as I clambered back into the cockpit to pry the clock from its case. Stupid thing to do! Prize in hand, I limped my way to the nearby support trench, scooting over the edge on my backside. Not very dignified, but I kept my feet as I landed on my good leg. The infantry frog-marched me into a dugout as the shells started falling on poor A7331.

epower: An epic adventure

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

July 19, 1917.

2 Victory's confirmed.
1 Unconfirmed

Hq awarded me one of my 2 claims. The PBI reported a fire in the sky at time and place. Zero on the other. Afternoon Escort Mission of 3 Harry Tate's to drop some Lt Bombs on the other side. We were like chained Dogs on close Escort of 6 fighters and the 3 RE 6's. As we crossed the lines we got from on High by 6 or 8 yellow elevator with a black stripe. Wild Melee shot and shot at. I claimed one as a force down because he started leaking fuel ? However we were over and enemy AF( right where I didnt want to be ) so I climbed . I must have shot at 4 e/a's One had a Yellow Band a Pesky Bloke who kept turning on my tail til I dove out of it. B flight lost 1 Spad last seen being chased towards Hun land. and a Re 8 who shed a wing.

Carrick - Those Jasta 28 stripe tails can be a big pain. Oliver has run into them, but never the fellow with the yellow band. Who he? Congrats on the Confirmed Kill

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 9 of many



3 July 1917
54 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France


The wound, if you could call it that, wasn’t serious but it was sore as the devil. Another curveball on the outside corner. Another annoying graze from a nearly spent shard of yesterday’s hate, painfully treated by Corporal Fredericks, and unworthy of a wound stripe. I finally got some use out of my absurd officer’s cane. I still don’t understand the purpose of this thing. A Centurion's vine staff, certainly, but watching a group of strapping young fellows all standing together leaning on canes beggars belief. I’d never hear the end of it from Smokey if he ever saw such a thing. I have great affection for the British, but they can be a strange people.

0645 hrs. Line patrol from Menen to the Lys. Flying A6189 today and she’s the spitting image of my recently departed No. 11, complete with the large ‘W’ painted on each top plane. Corporals Mitchell and Johnson likely stayed up all night getting her ready, bless them. Weather unsettled this morning. I led Pope, Foster Charley, and Hyde. Pope, the impertinent scoundrel, was in Major Horn’s red-nosed machine!

We’d just reached the lines when Pope pulled alongside, waggled his wings and pointed downward excitedly. There, 2000 ft below, a single DFW flew across the background of cloud. I led B-Flight circling down on top of the Hun then attacked. Wretched Vickers jammed again! I pulled up to the side and cleared the breech just as Pope got in on the DFW.


Pope, flying the Old Man’s Pup!



Pope finished his firing pass and broke away. I was well above now and attacked from height, riding the tracers all the way down. The Hun was finished. The Observer sprawled over the side. Small wisps of flame gathered in the lower engine cowling, then began their malevolent crawl upward and aft.


I shot past and zoomed straight up. It was then I heard the explosion.



Trailing a long tail of black smoke, he crashed near the Bisseghem aerodrome. I hope death took him before the flames.


1200 hrs. Escort 3 RE.8s from RFC-42 on reconnaissance of enemy lines Lille to Loos with Foster, Charley and Hyde

At the rendezvous point 3 Albatri with prison-striped black and white tails charged in at the Harry Tates. I attacked their leader. Hyde got onto another, while Charley and Foster chased the third Hun as he raced home to the East.



I had my Hun right where I wanted him when the man Hyde was chasing sprayed me with a crossing shot from range and holed my petrol tank.

#%&*$# #%&*$# #%&*$# !



“Milford, get your arse over here and help me!”

Alas, Hyde had his own Hun to deal with. We scissored now. The sight glass fell like a siphon. I had mere moments of petrol remaining and knew the Alb would kill me if I tried to break off. Nothing for it but to brass it out and work for a shot.


He was in my sights and I was firing as the Le Rhone gave up the ghost.



I glided down after him but there was no need for further action.


“Northwest of Ypres he fell…and over his eyes was mantled the covering mist of darkness.”

Turning to avoid the tree line I found a nearby field, yet unplowed, and set A6189 down. Hyde, having seen his Hun off to the lines returned for me. I waved. He waggled his wings then headed north to Bray Dunes.

I’d landed only a few miles east of Proven aerodrome. The smoking pyre of the Albatros lay not a mile distant. I had no desire to see it or claim a trophy. Within an hour a salvage train of Crossleys from Proven appeared in the field and transported me back to their aerodrome. Biggins collected me soon thereafter and had me back to Bray Dunes in time for a swim before dinner.

Once again two fateful portions of death, which lays men prostrate, balanced on the golden scales, and the Hun’s death day proved the heavier.

The squadron was incredulous until Milford sorted them out. I ended up buying the first two rounds.
A fortunate victory. The nearest run thing… Wing did not share my view. The dispatch rider brought the news after dinner. The morning’s DFW confirmed, the afternoon’s Albatros rejected. Twenty-Five.

.

Attention!



His Majesty King George V hereby confers the following honour:



A grateful people thank you for your service and loyalty.

.

Thank you Lou, for the lovely Gong! A very nice note from the King, too. Many thanks to all involved.

Epower, you are tireless in your quest to find the lost time. Almost there!
I hate those days like on the 28th when you can’t keep up with the action. It makes you feel old. Then you realize it’s not you going too slowly. It’s everybody else going too fast.
I really hope Gonne will stay.
That pic of the candy cane Albs looks very unpleasant. Not a situation I’d like to find myself flying an old crate. Speaking of, poor A7331. Met it’s end in the mud, not the clear skies as it should have. You’d think you’d be eligible for a better kite, but no - stick to what you know. Oh well. Congrats on number 25. That is some accomplishment and worthy of the new bling. Now we wait for the curse, as if Oliver wasn’t cursed enough with the dud engines, punctured petrol tanks, sweethearts with shady pasts.

20 July, 1917

“- Breathe in ... and out. In ... and out. Good!” The old doctor put away his stethoscope. He then lifted the dressing on Ziggy’s side and examined the wound. “- It looks like there is no infection and the wound is closing up nicely. Now put your hand on it like this.” He placed Zygmunt’s hand on the dressing and reached into his bag. He took out a syringe and filled it with a clear liquid drawn from an ampule. “- This will help you sleep.” He jabbed it in Ziggy’s arm.
“- Who did you have to duel to get such an ugly injury?”
“- It wasn’t from a duel ... well, not exactly.” Ziggy wasn’t making much sense.
“- So, was it a duel or not?” The doctor was intrigued.
“- No, it was a fight, but it was an aerial duel.”
“- Ah, a Flieger!” The Doctor was impressed.
“- I was shot by a Britisher from behind.”
“- I think not.” The doc was packing his instrument back into his back.
“- I was there.” Hahn has offended. How could the doctor think Zygmunt was lying?
“- Oh, you have been shot. I have no doubt of that. But not from the rear. I’ve seen this countless times. The exit wound is on your back. The bullet came from ahead, not behind. I have to leave. Busy schedule, you know. Auf wiedersehen!” He picked up his bag and walked out, leaving Zygmunt stumped.
What sort of crackpot theory was that? There was no one in front of him to fire at him. Ziggy dismissed doctor’s wild speculations. For now he was due for his artificial sun bath treatment. Its inventor Dr. Hugo Bach from Elster called it Artificial Mountain Sun. The theory is that the sun on the mountain tops is the best recipe for quick recovery. The beams of sun in the mountains are allowed to act more freely than down below. The lamps are manufactured by the Quartz Lamp Company, Ltd. in Hanau-on-Main and are said to act absolutely like sunshine to the extent that they can even cause sunburns, which is an unmistakable symptom of a successful cure.

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

July 21, 1917.

2 Victory's confirmed.
2 Unconfirmed

Another flight another claim. The Sqn dispatched 9 a/c for Line Patrol, but 2 turned back due to motor trouble. As the 7 machines turned on the IP for the East run we over flew a flight of scouts, Myself and my manning stayed high as the rest dove , Then kick the rudder and down we went followed by the Rovers. Fired off 20 tds as the gun bared then zoomed right over another Flight ( same Colors }. The Melee was a messy one but My wing-man got the one off me so I could chase one down to the deck towards my side the a 180 and he ran for his side, In the meantime I was banging at his Kazoo. Down to 83 rds , he smoked then rolled over diving into the hard earth below in a sort of haft turn. RTB.

Carrick - Fido sends Willi's ex-Jasta mate Black Null to Hades?! Well done, sir. Well done.

Fullofit - Glad Ziggy is on the mend, and getting some extra Vitamin D in the process. What's this Richthofenesque magic bullet situation? Did one of Ziggy mates fire on him? Is Tars Tarkus sniping for the Kaiser? Quite mysterious.
As for the "bludgeonings of chance," I'd say Oliver is still ahead there, gun jams etc. notwithstanding (see: May 1. 1917, Hindenburg Line, and the numerous small bites from the Spandaus)
Shady? Ah, you meant that literally, as in cloaked in obscuring mist and shadow.

Gonne has a lady friend I hear.

You do realize that A7331 meeting its end in the air, while romantic, is a bit like the penalty for fraud on Deneb Five.

"Do you know what the penalty for fraud is on Deneb Five?"
"The guilty party has his choice. Death by electrocution, death by gas, death by phaser, death by hanging–"
"The key word in your entire peroration, Mr. Spock, was– 'death'. Barbarians!"