Lou - Good to see Freddy surviving the strong encounter, albeit with ventilated aircraft. Sounds like Tiggy Winkle will be an even more formidable foe now that he is roused to fury by the damage inflicted on his "lady."
Fullofit - Ziggy's back without missing, dare I say it, a beet. No lightning bolt Albs amongst his kills. Biding his time I see.
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Apologies for the long chapter. I'd prefer to dole this out in smaller chunks since there's much going on, but London is Calling, so is 3rd Ypres. There is not a moment to be lost! Take notes if you have to.À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 11 of many6 July 191754 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France
0445 hrs. Blinding headache. I can’t keep drinking like this. Dawn show was an escort of two Strutters from Naval 2 on their recce of the lines between the ruins of Dadizele and the Lys. Stewart, Pope, Charley, Goodbehere and Hyde. I had Stewart look after Goodbehere.
No e/a to be found in our patrol area but on our 3rd loop the Archie gunners rolled out of their bunks and gave us a shellacking. We returned to Bray Dunes with ringing ears, raw nerves, and perforated canvas.
A quick breakfast then an hour on the bag. My headache faded but Acker’s words remained. The morning was already warm, and I headed over the Dunes for a swim. The cold worked wonders on tired muscles and the salt water helped work loose the irritating scab from my latest brush with Herr Spandau.
Ackers was just waking when I returned.
“What day is it?” he croaked then groaned as the light hit his eyes. “I drank from the wrong bottle last night. What did we talk about? I don’t remember.”
“You sent over a good bit of sh#te and nonsense, a real Hurricane Bombardment. Some truth too,” I replied.
“Aye, I thought as much. Apologies.”
“Not to worry. I’ve been accosted by drunks before, but few have been so charming.”
“Now you’re talking out your arse, Rippar,” he said. “An Irishman is never drunk as long as he can hold on to a single blade of grass, and not fly off the face of the Earth.”
“I never knew that. I stand corrected.”
1500 hrs. Defensive Patrol between Steenvoorde and Bailleul town. B-Flight unchanged from the morning. Goodbehere flew Hyde’s wing. Only friendly aircraft spotted. No Huns to spoil a beautiful afternoon flight.
I pulled Goodbehere aside as we walked to the squadron office.
“What did you see, Goodbehere?”
“I saw the Harry Tate’s near Ballieul. Beastly looking things!”
“Anything else?”
Goodbehere was silent, searching his memory. The smiling, childlike expression which he normally presented to the world vanished under brows furrowed in concentration then reappeared as he exclaimed, “Oh yes! There were 4 underneath us near the end of the patrol. I think they were SPADs!”
“They were.”
“I knew I saw more than just the Harry Tates!”
“Did you see the Nieuports 4000 feet above over Steenvoorde?”
“No,” he said crestfallen.
“Those are the ones who will kill you.”
I showed him the search technique Stewart had taught me.
“Don’t worry about shooting Huns right now, just keep them from shooting you. Come home alive, Goodbehere, and a little bit smarter every day”
The office cleared. I looked at the leave rotation posted on the wall. My name was at the top. I asked Major Horn if he had any idea when I might go, and if there would be any advance warning.
“A few days at best. That’s how the system works. What provokes this inquiry?”
“There's a lady involved, sir." I said.
"I see.
“A most interesting conversation you had with His Majesty the King, yesterday. Rather novel. You won’t be the last man to lose the use of his reason in the royal presence, but as an officer you must learn to ‘walk with kings nor lose the common touch.’ You’re promoted Captain, Winningstad. You walk on a larger stage now. No more hiding in the wings. A Captain must combine the fire of the Subaltern with the discretion of the Field-Officer. Officers and men alike will look to you as an example. Make certain you set the right one.”
7 July 191754 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France
0545 hrs. Escort two Harry Tates from 42 Squadron on a bombing mission 3 miles east of Lens. No e/a sighted.
A note from Eliza! Monty is transferred to No. 2 Base Hospital in Abbeville. She’s still with 55 CCS for now but will move to No. 2 Red Cross Hospital in Rouen at the end of the month, there to join Mr. Grey Turner’s team.
1300 hrs. Another escort mission, this time 3 RE.8s from No. 6 squadron on a recce of the lines between Menen and Passchendaele. Stewart, Pope, Ackers with Foster and Goodbehere flying together. A-Flight would sweep above.
North of Menen, A-Flight shot well ahead and mixed up with a flight of Albatri.
The fight scattered widely and by the time B-flight made contact there were only two Huns remaining at our altitude. Red Tails! Jasta 11 again.
I got behind one and fired three short bursts. My heavy trigger finger had no doubt contributed to all the recent stoppages. The Hun refused to dive out and I sprayed lead all over the sky before I finally connected with a solid volley.
He fell thunderously, clawing the dust in his fingers.After collecting the flight we followed the Harry Tates back over the lines, shadowed by a single Albatros some two thousand feet above. Nearing the lines, the madman came down and attacked us! Ackers got on him first and when he broke off, I attacked and put almost 100 rounds into him to no effect. I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn today. I moved in closer and waited for the right moment. I had him, twenty yards away. The Vickers barked for 3 rounds and fell silent. Empty! The Hun split-arsed then and dove straight down at full power. Nothing to be done but return to Bray Dunes.
Wing denied my claim. The Hun must have spontaneously combusted.
8 July 191754 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France
0600 hrs. We were to conduct a defensive patrol when the word came of an incoming Hun raid. As usual we cleared the field in time but saw no enemy aircraft.
Another Gotha Raid on London yesterday. Twenty-two aircraft in all. The Times showed a photograph of the raid, described by witnesses as a flock of birds.
Dirty weather rolled in after lunch. The afternoon show was another slog through stinging raindrops and poor visibility. Balloon strafe 3 miles south of Loos. At least the Huns would have trouble seeing our approach. Another clean run in and an excellent set-up. Buckingham danced all over the gasbag and my rocket salvo slammed home. Thinking of England!
A splendid fireball lit the grey skies.Uncle was on the phone with Wing for nearly 30 minutes. They kept insisting the balloon was still up. This time Uncle lost the argument. Claim rejected.
9 July 191754 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France
I stood on the palace wall outside the royal apartments. Night had fallen but the festival of Athene continued throughout the City of Priam. The warm Summer breeze floated in from the Aegean. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was she. The oil lamps in our sleeping quarters shone behind her. Their light cut through the gossamer silk of her dress, illuminating the strong lines and delicate curves of her body in a golden glow.
“Come to me, beloved. Love me,” she whispered, pulling me toward her. A distant voice spoke, growing ever louder. “Sir…" The ancient city receded and vanished.
No Parker, not now. Go away…Oh hell, it’s gone. “It’s 6’oclock, sir. Raining cats and dogs. Morning patrols washed out.”
“Thank you, Parker.”
Rain all day with high winds. Time to sleep in, hammer the bag, and catch up on correspondence.
A letter from Father today.
I remembered the butcher’s daughter. Pretty little thing, always serious at school. I couldn’t recall her name. Like father like son.
10 July 191754 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France
0700 hrs. Balloon strafe, this time north of Lens. The usual crew in B-Flight today: Pope, Ackers, Foster, Charley and Hyde. As before, there were no Huns up to oppose our run in to the balloon. I changed course a mile out and ran down the long axis of the dirigible. Thinking of England I let fly with the rockets, the Buckingham having proceeded them.
Pope is dead. Bane of Two-seaters which he attacked with such reckless abandon. Completely fearless in that regard. Some sort of engine failure just as he turned on final approach. He went into the trees short of the field and was killed.
There was no afternoon show today. I didn’t want to drink, not yet anyway. I tried working out my anger on the bag, but my thoughts ran into darkness almost immediately. I walked to the beach, soaked now but not even the sea provided any solace. Dammit to Hell! Why must men die from these entirely avoidable flying accidents?
I toasted Pope in the mess but then retired early, mind whirring. His death didn’t sting as much as the others’ had. Nothing like Pixley and Grevelink, or even Hill, Duxbury and Sutcliffe, who I barely knew. I was growing accustomed to it. I didn’t like that at all.
11 July 191754 Squadron RFC
Bray Dunes, France
I rose at 0400, an hour before Parker was scheduled to wake me. A low mist hung on the field as the dawn crawled over the eastern horizon, over Hunland. The morning show would be a line patrol from Loos to Lens.
0600 hrs. A full six this morning: Ackers, Goodbehere, Hyde, Charley and Foster. Milford took Goodbehere as his wingman.
High Albs attacked us over the lines.
After the initial bounce, the fight spread out. I got the angle on an all-red Albatros and shot him through from close range. He went down out of control, crashing north of Lens.
Heading west over the lines, 2 high Pups in view. Archie puffs dead ahead. A lone Albatros on our side of the lines! He never saw me and fell just east of Neuve-Chapelle.
Circling to gather B-Flight, I found another Hun down low. I reversed and dove to attack. The Albatros was entirely black, with a red dragon painted on the fuselage. I held my fire until I couldn’t miss. The Hun fell off sharply to the left and crashed not far his comrade. There his life and strength were scattered.
1345 hrs. Line Patrol again, this time on our side of the mud. Lens to Athies. Only five this afternoon. Foster went with A-Flight.
On our second circuit of the patrol area, a DFW tried to slip past.
My first pass put some lead into the Hun but the DFW flew on. I rolled away then came back up from underneath. As I fired the Hun skidded to the right, giving his Observer a clear line of fire. I broke hard but not before the Hun put an ungodly number of bullets through 6189. Something burned across the top of my right forearm. Instruments shattered. The compass exploded, blinding me with its liquid. I tried wiping the goggles clean with my glove, but it was useless. I ripped them down around my neck, squinting against the blast of the slipstream.
Controls were barely responsive. The elevator worked as normal but 6189 wanted to roll right in the worst way. Taking no chances, I stayed high over the trees coming down to land at Bray Dunes, fighting all the while to keep her level. My landing was more of a controlled crash. I hadn’t bounced that high since my first solo. The undercarriage held and I rolled to a stop at the far end of the landing ground.
My arm hurt but all my fingers still worked. I looked at the wreckage of my windscreen and instruments wondering how I was still alive.
Cpl. Fredericks pulled a few tiny splinters of instrument glass out of my jaw. A bright red weal ran across my forearm just below the elbow crease. Another graze, another inconsequential flesh wound. Right thigh, upper back, left shoulder, left calf and now my right arm. I was running out of convenient places to be shot.
I’d made my report and returned to the tent. Ackers was off somewhere. I got the howling wind up, shuddering at the memory of today’s close shave.
I went back to Hangar 2 to check on Mitchell and Johnson. Incredibly, they were nearly halfway through replacing A6189’s shattered instruments. Mitchell was trueing the new compass before setting into the panel.
Johnson, paintbrush in hand, repaired the ‘OAW’ monogram so rudely shredded by the Hun Observer.
“How is she?” I asked.
“Minor damage, sir, other than the instruments. They’ve had it. The usual ripped canvas, already patched, sir. That brass makers plate stopped the bullet from hitting the petrol tank. Went in on an angle and lodged in the plywood. Close one there, sir.”
Was that the bullet that hit me?“A6189 should bear your names as well.” I said. “She’s as much your Pup as mine.”
“Oh sir, that wouldn’t be right,” said Johnson, looking shocked.
“I'm not suggesting foot high letters on the top plane, Corporal, that would be excessive. Something understated and not in plain view. ‘Property of Corporals Mitchell and Johnson… or words to that effect.’ I’ll leave it to your discretion.”
“Very good, sir. We can manage that,” said Corporal Mitchell hiding a grin.
The dispatch rider brought some good news. Ackers’ kill of the DFW confirmed. That was 5 for him. He was an ace!! Hudson scored his 6th victory leading A-Flight on the dawn show. My balloon from yesterday and the three Albs from the morning, confirmed as well. 30 Huns now. A raucous mess with much singing and celebration. Goodbehere we learned has quite the singing voice. A gorgeous tenor but he doesn’t know the songs yet. More homework for him! This was Ackers’ night most of all, and I didn’t want to cast a shadow on it. When I left at 11 the party was still going. I walked the aerodrome in a gloomy mood, that d@mn Eton Boating Song stuck in my head again, along with Pixley’s words, “there will be a test, later.”