Raine, that I’ll not stand! 4 claims denied. I feel someone is trying to hold you back!

Lou, another stellar performance from young Abbot. Beautiful screenshots.
Carry, I would e a bit dizzy me self!

Lou, those dawn patrols are very atmospheric. Kinda makes your face be glued due east and admiring those sunrises instead of looking out for dots.
Speaking of Blue Max, what if Ziggy’s been a really, really good boy. What would he get next from the Gong Fairy? A totally new medal, or a Blue Max with sprinkles? You know, with oak leaves and swords and diamonds? Oh my!
BTW, congrats on another two victims.

Lou, two more for Freddie! It seems that his observer, Yale, is a first-rate follow too. I especially loved that shot of the Bristol charging into such a large group of Albatri.

Fullofit, if the Gong Fairy is up for it, perhaps we can take a crack at some of the decorations and orders given out by the various German kingdoms and principalities. With Ziggy's background, he could be in line for the coveted Order of the Golden Pierogi.

I'm heading to a friend's place for dinner tomorrow night so I have played one day ahead.


Tagebuch of Oblt. der Res. Hans-Dieter Vogel, PLM. HHO, EK1, EK2

Jasta 12, Roucourt, France

Part 30

26 August 1917

Clear day with scattered cloud. We take off before five in the morning with the sun barely over the horizon. There are four Albatrosen: Joerke, Schobinger, Hochstetter, and me. We are heading for the south where we will cross the lines and remove a British observation balloon. As soon as we are in the air I turn to the south and begin to climb. The others must use full throttle to catch up. In this way we can arrive at lower altitude with the sun directly at our backs.

Twenty minutes later I see the tangled and torn remains of Havrincourt Wood through a gap in the cloud. I turn west and begin a long dive. When we emerge below the local cloud cover, the balloon is only three or four kilometres away. It is caught in a ray of sun that has broken through and shines bright orange for us. My young wolves are hungry but I am greedy this morning and charge with the throttle fully open until I am several hundred metres ahead of the others. I begin to fire when 300 or 400 metres from the target and continue to fire in short bursts as I close in. First one and then another column of smoke rise from the balloon. I must break away. And as soon as I zoom up and to the left, the balloon erupts in flame.


"And as soon as I zoom up and to the left, the balloon erupts in flame."

We return to Roucourt. The others confirm my destroyed balloon, which is recorded as my thirty-sixth victory. I head up to my room to wash before enjoying a late breakfast. Breakfast has been simple of late. Everything is about bread now. Bread has even replaced potatoes in many of our meals. I expect no more than tea or ersatz coffee, toast, and a dab of margarine that is mostly lard. So I am shocked when the orderly brings me a plate with two sausages, two eggs, and to boiled potatoes. The pilots who were not with me this morning begin to clap. It is clear that they have had their own good breakfast. And that is when Steinmesser appears from the kitchen.

“How?” I asked. Steinmesser sits down across from me and looks about the room. The others take this cue and move into the front parlour.

Steinmesser leans forward with a grin and speaks softly in a conspiratorial tone. “If I tell you, we both get shot.” I nod at him, my mouth full of potato and sausage and grease running down my chin. He informs me that the Jasta has acquired an extra horse-drawn cart, the same type the infantry battalions use. Each battalion sends a cart to the station in Douai once or twice a week when the supply trains come in. And each cart driver must produce a manifest to draw rations. Steinmesser shows me a document. It is the manifest for the 1. Battalion of the Koenigliche Bayerisches 7. Infanterie-Regiment “Prinz Leopold.”

“Bavarian units are the best,” Steinmesser explains. “They tend to get a supply of beer.” The forged manifest, he explains, was produced by a mechanic who had, shall we say, an interesting career before the war. The Bavarian supply NCO who provided the original had a very good evening two nights ago but remembers little of it. Steinmesser’s haul includes several kilograms of meat, forty loaves of bread, some turnip, a case of tinned mixed vegetables, and two small barrels of beer. But his most important acquisition is four pounds of real butter. Just the idea of real butter makes my mouth water.

“Not so fast, boss,” Steinmesser warns. “Were not getting any of it this time. The stuff is gold in Belgium and I will be making an excuse to return to Iseghem tomorrow. My coffee contact there will pay handsomely for the butter and I can turn it into cigarettes, pipe tobacco, razor blades, playing cards, and other such things for our Staffel canteen.”

“We have a canteen?” I ask.

“We will tomorrow,” he replies. “Niemann will be running it. We should raise enough cash to acquire a few pigs. I also have a line on a Karambol billiard table for the Kasino.”

I am thinking about the poor Bavarians in the trenches. Steinmesser assures me that he did not draw all their rations. He told the senior NCO at the station that a second cart was coming but had broken down and he left some items for them. He suggests that we acquired only what the fat officers would have eaten.

“We still have to draw our own rations through the Luftstreitkraefte Commissary. I need to work out how we will deal with the major that runs that show.” He watches with pride while I finish my breakfast.

In the afternoon, we are high over Cambrai where we circle about in defence of our nearby aerodromes. Vizefeldwebel Joerke spots a lone French two-seater heading west over Marcoing. We dive at it and Joerke presses home his attack furiously. It is too dangerous to try to manoeuvre around Joerke for a shot and I leave him to his work. He shoots down the French machine for his sixth victory. He is quickly becoming a star.

Raine - The Gods giveth and then they don't. Good thing that balloon broke the streak. Lovely screenshot. Your description made me realize I'm starving at 0130, now I need a snack. Sausages would be great if only we had some. Looks like Vogel has found Minderbinder's doppel in Steinmesser.

Fullofit - Golden Pierogi. Is it worth the risk? Verdammt Flak types. Truly they are swines. Now shake it off and go kill something. BTW, did Ziggy wear his PLM in bed for the first few days?

Lou - Nice work getting Freddy back into the game. You really don't need to worry about an overshoot in that Bristol. Congrats of the brace of Albatri. I do like those dawn pics.

Carrick - Marcel needs a heavy bag like Oliver's if he's going to put up les ducs over claims rights. Nice pic of Marcel above the clouds

_________________________________________________________________________

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 18 of many



22 July 1917
Pepperell Cottage, Berkshire

Over breakfast this morning, a messenger arrived with an invitation to dine at Aldermaston manor. Aunt Rhea sorted out my confusion about her neighbor the General, who it turned out was not a Keyser at all. Aldermaston Park was in fact owned by the General’s cousin, Charles Keyser, who’d made his fortune in the stock exchanges. General Aubrey, a widower, had lived at Aldermaston manor for the past 5 years and acted as Seigneur in residence during his cousin Charles’ extended absences.



Aunt Rhea offered us the Daimler for the day, which we gratefully accepted along with a picnic basket packed with goodies. It was a magnificent day for a outing.

“Would you care to drive, Oliver?” Eliza inquired.

“Eliza, I can pilot a flying machine and conn a ship, I took my turn at Astoria’s helm often enough, once in a typhoon, but I don’t know how to drive a motorcar.”

“How can that be?” She asked in astonishment.

“My family didn’t own an automobile until last year, long after I’d left the farm. I was at sea for three years before I took ship for England. When would I learn? Not to worry, my dear. I’ll pretend I’m a Brass Hat, or someone of real importance, chauffeured as I am by a beautiful woman.”

Eliza drove us into Newbury at speeds only slightly less than her erstwhile Aunt. There we obtained permits for 35 gallons of fuel for Aunt Rhea. Both of us were entitled to a ration of petrol when on leave and this would serve as a thank you gift. I had no doubt as to the poor endurance of the Prince Henry given Rhea’s heavy foot.
______________________________

South of Newbury lay Sydmonton Park set near a series of hills, or downs as they were known. We spoke to a shepherd directing 20 of his flock across the road. He told us of tumuli and an iron age hill fort up the near down. It was a steep climb, nearly 300 feet, but Eliza was game as ever. She berthed the Daimler near the Shepard’s cottage. I grabbed the picnic basket and we set off. Climbing the western slope of the Down we moved through a veritable Hindenburg Line of rabbit warrens. The creatures dashed about everywhere.



The view alone was worth the effort. The air was dry and crisp, and we could see for miles. We explored the ridge top. A quarter mile east on the far hill was a circular mound with a ring of trees. This was no doubt the ruins of the hill fort, buried now for two millennia or more. We sat here near the trees and sampled the basket of treats. Aunt Rhea had provided well, even a cold bottle of white wine and two glasses to accompany the smoked fish, scotch eggs and various sandwiches.

“I haven’t asked but I see you’ve been keeping busy,” said Eliza, touching my uniform where the ribbons lay. “The Distinguished Service Order now. Your card is barely printed and it’s out of date. When did this come?”

“Two weeks ago. The King himself pinned it on me when he came to Bray Dunes. Seems a nice fellow, and fortunately for me, he has a sense of humor.”

“Oliver! Why would you keep this from me? I can understand your birthday, but this was the King! I think I’m rather offended, and maybe a little hurt.”

“I'm sorry Eliza. I was embarrassed. I rather lost my head and made a fool of myself. There was one Major with a monocle who seemed to think it was funny, but the other brass hats were not amused. I'm sure one of them was General Trenchard. I hope he doesn’t hold grudges.”

“Did you really? Tell,” she said, sitting up on her heels and fixing me in her mischievous gaze. “Tell also how Ripper got his name? Such is the reason for our trip, after all. Have I not provided you with temptation?”

“You have, it’s true, but I think might need more to sustain me through such demanding oratory,” I replied.

Eliza harrumphed theatrically but let the matter pass. We talked little, just lay in comfortable silence, side by side in the warm grass. Our hands intertwined in a slow ballet as we pointed out shapes in the dancing clouds.

Returning to the Daimler Eliza plotted the route to our next destination, a surprise she said.
I asked Eliza the name of the place we’d just climbed but she didn’t know. She handed me the map and pulled the Daimler back onto the road.



Eliza remained impervious to my questioning and took the map away from me to boot. Her small revenge for my denying her the tale of the investiture. We turned up a small country lane where a low rise lay off to the left. Another ruin!





The Roman settlement of Calleva Atrebatum, less than 3 miles from Pepperell Cottage! First excavated in the 1860s, the most recent dig in 1909 revealed the Forum proper, part of a temple and the general layout of the town but there was much additional work to be done. An overgrown Amphitheater was just outside the inner wall.

I had goosebumps. Could Caesar himself have walked here? What else lay undisturbed under the earth?

“I knew you’d like this place,” she said as we explored.

___________________________________________________


Aldermaston Manor had, to quote the Bard, a pleasant seat. Surrounded by a medieval hunting preserve dating from the Conqueror, the house sat amidst 800 year old oaks. We approached at twilight.



The evening was the usual formal affair but more intimate, there being just the six of us. The General had included his friends, Vicar and Mrs Henderson. The dinner consisted of a seemingly endless number of courses. The conversation was mostly questions to Eliza and me about our lives in America. There was little talk of the war, with one significant exception.

The Vicar and Mrs. Henderson had been in London during the Gotha raid of July 7th.
“It was the strangest thing,” she said. Everyone went out into the streets to look at them. They looked like birds. Then the bombs fell. It was terrifying. Much worse than the Zeppelins. Captain Winningstad, have you seen any Zeppelins?””

"No, Mrs. Henderson, the nearest thing we see on patrol are observation balloons,” I replied.

“Gasbags, eh?” said the Vicar. How does one deal with a gasbag?”

“How indeed?” said Aunt Rhea casting a glance at the Vicar. “Do tell us please, as long as it’s not too violent. Are the gasbags swollen with elemental hydrogen or do they retain a flaccid character?”

“They look like sausages,” I said.

“Oh do tell us, please, Captain Winningstad,” said the Vicar.

“As you wish. This is how it was taught to me. The trick is the approach, slightly above down the long shaft, or axis rather, of the balloon. Here, the Observer will leap from his basket and parachute to safety. At 400 yards one fires incendiary. At 100 yards, as I squeeze the trigger for the rockets, I close my eyes and think of England.”

A short silence followed.

“Oh my word!” said Mrs. Henderson on my right, proceeding to fan herself with an open hand.
“I beg your pardon, sir!” cried the Vicar.
The General raised both eyebrows, “I say,” he intoned, sounding more amused than shocked.

My reply caught Eliza mid-swallow. She snorted her wine and collapsed into a fit of mirthful coughing, turning increasingly red in the face. Aunt Rhea’s short, high pitched “Beh, HEH! was like a gunshot. She paused briefly, reloading a lungful of air, then unleashed the full might of her musical laughter.
“Never fear my dear Captain Winningstad,” said Aunt Rhea desperately trying to regain control of herself. “Cousins we may be, though it appears,” she interrupted herself, seized with another fit of hilarity, “we remain two peoples separated by a common language.” The last bit broke the final bonds of self-mastery and she burst into unrestrained merriment, her multi-tonal contralto echoing about the room.

Dinner concluded the ladies decamped to their parlor, the gentlemen to the library.

"Come, sit next to me Captain Winningstad," said the General, pouring me a glass of fine port. “I want to hear more about your adventures. How does a man from the West coast of America end up in the Flying Corps?”

“Well sir, I was at sea when the war started...”
So began my tale of life on Astoria, travels in the Far East and the subsequent journey across the USA and Atlantic. The General found the story of the Seattle poker game and it’s aftermath particularly enthralling, whereas the Vicar’s interest focused on flying.

“Captain, you’ve shot down some Huns by the look of things,” said the Vicar.

“I’ve put the wind up a few, anyway.” I replied.

“You’ve done more than that, I think,” he said looking at the two ribbons on my uniform. “How many then?”
“My dear Vicar,” said the General, “gentlemen do not parade their military achievements.”
‘Of course,” said the Vicar.

“Captain, perhaps you’d care to join the Vicar, myself and some others for a bit of shooting tomorrow,” said the General.
“I’m honored by the invitation, sir,” I replied, “but I haven’t hunted in years.”
For a moment there was a look for genuine disappointment on the old man’s face.
“I understand. One must render unto the fair sex, eh?” said the General jovially.

Did he just wink?

You mean you don’t hunt at all? sniffed the Vicar.
“Huns, Vicar. I replied. “Only Huns now.”

The awkward silence lingered but briefly.

“Quite right,” said the General. “More port, Captain?”
“Thank you, sir.”

The General refreshed my glass then continued, “You’re from California. Practically the Wild West from all reports, eh? Gold rush and all that. Sit a horse, do you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good show. Why not come riding tomorrow? The horses don’t get nearly the work they should what with the war. All of Tennyson’s went with the cavalry. I should warn you; Miss Ludlow was quite the equestrienne last she was here. Caused a bit of a stir, with her penchant for riding à la Zouave, what?

“I’ll try and keep up, sir.”

“That’s the spirit, man. So tell me, what is it like in France? For the men, I mean. My generation are every one of them dead, retired or miles behind the lines. Is it as bad as they say?”

“For the infantry? I’m not expert in these matters, sir, flying above as I do. I only experienced a small part when I was shot down behind the lines, and that was most unpleasant. Mud, rats, unburied dead, trench raids, to say nothing of going over during an attack. It looked an exceedingly difficult situation for the men. I admire every one of them. Ironic thing is that the infantry said the same thing about my flying aeroplanes. They said I was...’barmy.’ That was the word.”

“Shot down you say,” said the Vicar, incredulous.
“It happens, Vicar. Ground fire in my case.”
“And behind the lines, but you escaped. How?”
“Luck mostly, but in the end, it was the Gloucesters who saved me, one man in particular.”

Thomas Prewett. I wonder if he’s still alive.

“The Gloucesters!” exclaimed the General. They were on my right at Paardeberg. The General trailed off, lost in memory, then stood up and walked toward the fireplace wall where a large map of South Africa hung. I’d not noticed it before. He jabbed it with his finger.



“There! Paardeberg! Vicar, have I ever told you about Paardeberg?”

“Several times, General, perhaps we should rejoin the ladies...”

“Nasty business,” said the General without missing a beat. He returned to his chair and swept clear the small table. “You remember the positions. Here was Cronjé in a laager with his 5000 men.” he said, setting an ashtray at one end of the table. “Guns, Guns, Guns!”
“On the right, completely exposed, the low rising Kopje.” Dipping his finger into his port he drew a wet circle indicating the hill.
“There was the Commander in Chief,” he continued, placed a snuffbox at the opposite end,
“and here was I, at the head of the Buffs,” he said, seizing the large decanter and setting it to the right of the snuffbox.

“I realized the positions in a flash!” cried the General. “Seize the Kopje, turn the flank, then Commander-in-chief could bombard Cronjé to kingdom come!”

“What happened then, General?!” asked the Vicar in growing excitement.

“That Nincompoop Kitchener is what happened!” the General growled. “He arrived late, took command, and ordered a frontal assault. Straight into the guns! Not a man got within 100 yards of the Boers. 300 killed, almost 1000 wounded. Never a care to secure the Kopje on the right. I begged him, begged him I tell you! Wouldn’t hear it, didn’t care. That night the Boer devil De Wet stormed the Kopje and turned it into a Gibraltar. We never could push him off. Threatened the entire division. The men called it “Kitchener’s Kopje” after that.
Next day Kitchener ordered the same frontal attack. Madness!”

“Good heavens General, what did you do?!” cried the Vicar, completely engrossed in the tale.

“As senior officers we had to act,” said the General nonchalantly. “We told Kitchener what he could do with his frontal assault. Went with the original plan and shelled Cronjé in his laager. Boers surrendered after 5 days. Canadians saw to them in the end.”

“A splendid rebuff,” gushed the Vicar.

“Quite,” the General replied.
___________________

On the ride home, Eliza and Aunt Rhea saw to my further education in British English, as I descended to heretofore uncharted depths of mortification. Neither could stop cackling. I feared Aunt Rhea might drive us into a ditch, overcome as she was.

“And you really didn’t know what that expression meant?” asked Eliza, before losing herself to another paroxysm of laughter. “How marvelous! The look on the Vicar’s face. I shall never forget it.”

First innings to the Reginalds – Charley and poor old Pixley. They had gulled the unsuspecting American with considerable success.

Aunt Rhea retired and a short while later Eliza and I followed suit. I lingered with Eliza outside her room.

“About that temptation, Eliza...” I whispered, my hand around the small of her back.
“Tomorrow, Young Bull,” she answered softly, all the while running her hand gently down my neck and on to my chest. “Tomorrow, Eu-RO-pa will tempt you as never before. Sweet dreams.”

A brief kiss then she was gone, the door closed behind her.

.

Epower - Another outstanding episode, so rich in historic reference and imagery, I felt as if I was right there with your characters, (though to be fair, I have been to Calleva Atrebatum and the surrounding area, so that did help a tad). And two peoples separated by a common language indeed – poor Oliver. Loved the character of the General, masterfully written. My fav though from the whole tale:
“Gasbags, eh?” said the Vicar. How does one deal with a gasbag?”
“How indeed?” said Aunt Rhea casting a glance at the Vicar.

Raine - Steinmesser is worth his weight in gold, or perhaps fresh butter. He strikes me as the WWI German version of Milo Minderbinder, or am I wrong about that. Brilliant screenshot by the way. And the Order of the Golden Pierogi? Could be quite tasty.

Fullofit - A Blue Max with Sprinkles? Sounds like a DQ treat-of-the-month.

MFair - Thanks! And when will be hearing from your man again?


I should mention gents that only one of Freddy’s claims was confirmed from yesterday, so he now stands at twelve victories.

.

27 August 1917
11 Squadron R.F.C.
La Bellevue, France

Mid-morning tea in the officers’ mess; ‘A’ and ‘B’ Flights had already been out and returned from their dawn sorties, while ‘C’ Flight was preparing for their first outing of the day. Men were coming and going, as was typical at this time. Some enjoying a cuppa’ and a late breakfast before filling out their reports; some, having done the paperwork first, lingering at the table and chatting, or reading an out-of-date paper or periodical; others quickly gobbling a slice of toast washed down with a gulp of tea before dashing off to their waiting planes. Lieutenant Frederick Abbott was one of the lingering on this particular morning, sipping at a fresh hot cup and thumbing blissfully through a month-old copy of the London Illustrated Times. His G/O, Lieutenant Thomas Yale, who had stopped by their Nissen before coming to the mess, arrived some fifteen minutes later.

“Tiggy, a goodly sized box from England just arrived for you and is now occupying the floor in front of your bed, Thomas announced as he entered. “It claims to be from the Temperance Society, which smacks of intrigue to me.”

“Haw! That is spiffing, and perfect timing too!” Frederick flashed his signature toothy smile at the news as he tossed the paper aside, then leaned across the table and continued in a hushed tone. “But keep it down Tommy old man, it’s meant to be a surprise for the chaps here and for the lads in the hangars as well.”

“What are you up to then?” Yale inquired at similar volume.

“Come with me back to our digs and you shall see”, Freddy chuckled as he rose from his chair and headed excitedly out the door.

“But I’ve only just arrived, and I’ve not yet had my tea.”

“Tea can wait old scout, trust me.”

“Easy for you to say, you’ve had yours”, Thomas chided.

A quick walk later and the two airmen were in the hut, the crate standing there to greet them. It was roughly two feet square and not quite three feet tall. Arrows stenciled on two of the opposing sides told which end was up, and accompanying these were the words “A Gift from the Temperance Society”. Grabbing the small shovel and poker from the stove the two men set to work prying off the lid.

“A portable Decca? I put off tea for this? Very nice, but we already have a gramophone”, Thomas remarked after the box was opened and the first layer of excelsior removed, a distinct touch of irritation in his voice.

“This isn’t for us, it’s for the boys in the hangars. They do such a top hole job of keeping our kites in order I thought they deserved a reward. However, it’s what’s further down that’s the truly important bit of this shipment.” Frederick gave a sly look as he lifted up the new player and set it aside, wads of the packing spilling everywhere as he did so. He next pulled out a square of thin plywood resting on a pair of interior cleats that had served as a divider, and then removed another layer of the spaghetti-thin wood curls, to reveal the contents beneath.

“Aah, records. Yes, those would be important when one has a gramophone”, Yale snidely smirked.

“Steady on old man, no need for that, we’re not there yet”, Abbott admonished as he removed the stack of records and the next tangle of excelsior and plywood square to unearth the real hidden treasure below.

Yale let out an audible gasp when he caught sight of the final contents resting at the bottom of the crate. “Is that?”

“It is indeed”, Abbott smiled triumphantly, “an entire case of honest-to-god, properly aged scotch, located and sent to me by Mr. Pearson.”

“Who is Mr. Pearson and how might I get one?” Yale asked, still fairly stunned by the revelation.

“Our butler back at Birchley House. A fine fellow if ever there was one, and a man who, for whatever reason, always had a soft spot for me when I was growing up.” Frederick replied in a most happy tone. “And he is a true wizard when it comes to keeping the wine racks and liquor cabinets full, no matter the circumstances.”

“He has a sense of humour as well, judging by the label on the box”, Thomas laughed as he sat down on the edge of his bed, his face beaming at the very thought of the fine drinking that lay ahead. “This must have cost you a king’s ransom, Freddy.”

“And what if it did, it’s only money, and I’ve more than enough of that to see me through this madness. Besides, I imagine everyone is getting tired of the barbed wire whisky we’ve been dousing ourselves with since arriving here. Time for some proper liquor, don’t you think?” Frederick held up one of the bottles, admiring it as he read the label, “Glenfiddich, Finest Malt Scotch Whisky, laid down in 1905 - spiffing! Of course not being a connoisseur of hard drink I don’t know that I could tell you what separates good scotch from bad, but Mr. Pearson assures me this will be something a fellow can truly appreciate and enjoy as it caresses the tongue and teases the throat - his words not mine.”

“You are generous to a fault my fine friend.”

(Truth be told, young Abbott had never been mean with his wealth, willing rather to spend his share and then some in social situations. As a Robinite at Charterhouse he had always been quick to treat his classmates to tuck at the school shop which, along with his amiable nature, had stood him in good stead with the other boys.)

“So when will you be unveiling this magnificent surprise?” Thomas asked in a most appreciative tone.

“Tonight after dinner, as a kick-off to the celebration for our latest team victories”, Freddy beamed. “But before that I’m going over to the Major’s office and ask his permission and advice on how best to present the gramophone and records to the men. I may also see about bringing them a few gallons of that watery brew the locals pass off as ale. What do you think, Thomas old top?”

“I think you will be as a god in their eyes, bringing such gifts!” Yale exclaimed.

“Haw! Me a god, there’s a frightening thought”, Abbott laughed. “Honestly though, the men deserve something, don’t you think?”

“No argument from me”, Thomas agreed. “While we sleep snuggly in our beds, they work through the dark hours to put our mounts right just so we can go out the next day and get them shot to hell - again and again.”

“Exactly so, and by Jove but they should have our appreciation for it. And, as Father says: Keep the help contented and remind them on occasion that they matter and things will run like a Swiss watch.”

Abbott finished unpacking and inspecting the remaining bottles, grinning from ear to ear the entire time. He couldn’t wait to share the liquid wealth with the rest of the squadron, rationed out carefully and thoughtfully over time of course - wouldn’t do to have such marvelous and rare elixir swilled down in a single bash.

.

Epower – another absolutely first-rate episode! I'm sitting here, supposed to continue work on a project for a client, and instead I made the fatal error of checking in to the DID campaign. Now I have lost a good half hour musing on how I would cast the scenes at Aldermaston. Maggie Smith as Aunt Rhea is too obvious. Penelope Wilton? How about Andrea Riseborough as Eliza? And speaking of rabbit holes, I see you paid a visit to Watership Down. Layer upon layer…

Lou, Tiggy is a prince among men! What a wonderful gift for the mechanics and an even more wonderful gift for the mess. Congratulations on bagging number twelve.

Raine- I do hope you're continuing to bill said client during your casting of Oliver's tale. As for Aunt Rhea, Maggie Smith will forever be Poor Charlotte or the Dowager Countess. Wilton is too frail. I was thinking a fusion of Judi Densch in The Importance of being Earnest, and the late Elizabeth Spriggs, (Mrs. Jennings from Sense and Sensibility.) I was unfamiliar with Andrea Riseborough. She's in the ballpark and very nice to look at, but she's not our Eliza. I have someone in mind for Eliza now that I can finally envision her face, but I'll keep that under wraps for now.

Lou- Superb episode. Congrats on #12. Bravo Freddy, coming through for the men like that. Being in with well-connected people like Pearson is always a good thing. Imagine if Pearson, Steinmesser and Parker ever teamed up! I'm enjoying the developing friendship between Freddy and Thomas. Did Glenfiddich have the triangular bottle in those days? So easy to forget the Roman influence in Britain. Amazing what you find on old ordnance survey maps. Through a random series of events I choose Aldermaston, then zoomed out and voila. Who knew? Writing blind has it's advantages sometimes. The General is an homage to one of my favorite stories of all time.

Marcel Jules Gilbare
ESC. 15 GC 13
Senard, Verdun
1 Victory
1 Unconfirmed
27 August 1917.


Only bad luck tody. Blew part of the motor shortly after take off Then a rough landing. Added to that , I took the Motorcycle into town for a night cap and forgot my key to the Chateau . I had a hard time getting in.

https://giphy.com/gifs/peter-sellers-gKGtkA3G596Vc95j7k/fullscreen .

Raine, order of the Golden Pierogi - as Lou noticed already, that’s a tasty award to be sure. I’ll take mine with sauerkraut and mushrooms. Next one up would be the Greasy Cabbage Roll Medal.
I can’t help but marvel at Steinmesser’s ingenuity. That man is a gem. Congrats on the gasbag. I’ve resolved not to claim any. They’re just too easy.

Epower, there is no risk big enough for the Golden Pierogi. As to his PLM, he definitely didn’t take it of the first night. That night was simply not long enough to undress, which was evident in his flying. He nearly flew straight into that first DH.5.
What do you mean you have “no sausages”? That’s like saying I have no pizza!
I’ll just have to agree with the others, that it was a brilliant episode. Thoroughly enjoyed the General. Now, where is that lion that stole that leg last night?

Lou, let me guess. The one that came down in one piece was denied. Am I right? Oh, the irony. Looks like Abbott is setting himself up to be the favourite pilot of the squadron. Hopefully the men will still work on the planes instead of sitting around, drinking and listening to the records. That could be great news for us flying the Albatros.

27 August, 1917
Ghistelles, Flanders Sector
Jasta 17
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM
28 confirmed kills

The weather is still not suitable for flying.
The orders came through for Jagdstaffel to relocate south to Wasquehal on NE outskirts of Lille and SE of Roubaix. The move had to be made by train and by road. By the end of the day most of the equipment was already relocated. The weather also seemed to have improved. Regular flying should start tomorrow morning.

.

Fullofit - I hope Ziggy enjoys his new digs at Wasquehal. So does the move put him closer to the front or further away? Now, to which claims of Freddy’s were awarded, one of them actually was the D.Va he forced down intact. Imagine that, eh. And I don’t believe the boys in the hangars are going to shirk their duties because of Abbott’s generosity, they seem a reliable lot.

Carrick - Marcel needs a longer pole, or better still, a trebuchet! That form of castle entry worked well for Yosemite Sam as I recall - or did it?

Epower - It finally came to me this morning. That pic of the General you posted and the scene of him describing past battles at the table was niggling at me all day yesterday while I was doing yard-work. The Four Feathers! Now I must sit down and watch it as I’ve not seen it in decades.

Raine - Not sure Tiggy’s a prince. A Viscount maybe, or perhaps an Earl if one’s being generous.

.

Four Feathers! Yes! Thanks, Lou. Now to rewatch it, but I still want to get a copy of The Man Who Would Be King.

Lou - War was war in those days and men were men! No room for weaklings! Take Balaclava for instance...

Raine - Prime Video is your Huckleberry

.

Take balaclava? Oh indeed I do Epower! It’s with me everywhere I go come November as you never know when the winter weather is going to turn nasty here in Minnesota. Of course, being the hearty Scandinavian type I don’t need to actually wear it until the wind chill hits -30F or more, but it’s always best to be prepared and it just occurred to me that you were probably referring to the Battle of Balaclava and not the winter face covering. "Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death…" To be fair, sometimes it feels precisely that way going out when it’s winter here.

.

Lou, to answer your question, Wasquehal is at least half the distance from the Front than Ghistelles, but what’s more important is that the enemy can now approach from all directions. Previously they were sheltered from most approaches from the north by the Channel.

28 August, 1917 04:45
Wasquehal, Flanders Sector
Jasta 17
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM
28 confirmed kills

They were off at dawn. There were reports of enemy planes crossing the lines this early. On their way to protect an observation balloon near Vimy Ziggy noticed low flying aeroplanes that were about to cross the lines. That could only mean enemy machines after an attack. Ziggy gave the signal and the Schwarm followed. Schwarm Eins would take care of babysitting of the gasbag. They’ve crossed the mud and were nearing La Gorgue aerodrome. Zygmunt had to take his target out before he reached the safety of the airfield artillery. He fired. Nothing. The enemy pilot didn’t even notice. He fired again and again same result. He then realized he was still aiming like he used to in the D.III. He corrected his aim and fired. That salvo was effective. The machine in front lurched and dove straight into the ground. Hahn was about to turn back when he noticed two fat two-seaters on an approach and ready to land. He went after. They separated which made his job even easier. His initial attack was botched but he soon calmed down and approached again. He fired until the rear gunner had him zeroed in and he could feel return fire slap the wings of his plane. He had to turn back. He didn’t need to find out his petrol tank had been punctured this deep into enemy territory. As he disengaged he noticed smoke coming from the two-seater. The next moment the machine was diving and smashing into the ground. His job done, Zygmunt gathered the rest of his Fliegers and turned back for home.

YouTube Link

.

Fullofit - Ziggy really had that two-seater’s number. He kept the poor G/O completely jammed up until the very end of the engagement. Good bye Harry Tate.

.

29 August 1917

Dud weather had settled in over La Bellevue and the surrounding area and curtailed flying for 11 Squadron for the second day in a row. Despite the wind and rain Major C T MacLean, the unit’s CO, was in a particularly good mood this morning as he sat at the desk in his office, the cause of said mood unknown but possibly due to the fact that Lt. Frederick Abbott had presented him his very own bottle of the twelve-year-old Glenfiddich during the celebrations of the 27th. Whatever the reason, at this moment it was Frederick whom the Major’s high spirits were directed towards as the airman stood across from him.

“Abbott my fine young man, I am giving you the day off to run up to St. Omer. You will take Lt. Yale along as well and he can drive the tender back since you will be flying home with our replacement mount, weather permitting. Surprised it only took them a week to find us one. The pair of you can have the day and evening there if you like, but be back by morning tea tomorrow. Of course, if you have to wait out the weather before flying back the Bristol, so be it.”

“Thank you Sir, that will be spiffing!” Freddy beamed. “T’is a shame about Benning and Hodgeson losing that bus, but at least their alive.”

“Yes, thankfully. But now the enemy has two of our own as prisoners and one of the King’s Bristols as well. Unfortunate that they weren’t able to torch it before being captured.”

“A bit of squaring up then when Tommy and I brought that Alb of the Kaiser’s down intact, eh what Major?” Freddy stated proudly with a toothy grin.

“Ouite”, the CO smiled. “Speaking of that, you might look in on it while you’re at St. Omer. I’m told they’ve been testing it out in the air to see how much of an improvement it really is over the older V-strutters. You can talk with them about what they’ve learned.”

“Right-O, Sir!” Frederick paused a moment, then asked, “Major, would you mind if Reggie tagged along too - sorry - 2nd Lt. Harrington?”

“Yes, that would be fine - you and he going to regale Lt. Yale with more of your old school exploits?” the CO chuckled.

“We just might Major, you never can tell when Reggie’s involved.”


Two hours and several very humorous Charterhouse stories later the three happy airmen bounced up in the Crossley at the southwest gate of the massive airpark at St. Omer. The wind and rain had subsided midway along the trip, however the low hanging gray clouds persisted, thwarting the late August sun’s best efforts to break through. The guard at the gate directed the trio to the other end of the facility, to the assembly and repair hangars, where they would find the new Bristol earmarked for them. Moments later the tender was rumbling along the edge of the old racetrack that surrounded the landing fields and as it passed the collection of maintenance sheds and repair shops at the eastern end of the track Lieutenant Abbott gave a loud shout.

“By Jove, look at that, they’ve dressed our Alb in a new livery!”

He was right. There, parked in front of one of the wooden hangars, sat the pristine D.Va Abbott had brought down several days before, now sporting British roundels over the Maltese crosses, with large letters on the sides and wings clearly proclaiming “RFC”. Blue, white, and red bands now covered the vertical stabilizer and rudder, and the remaining gypsy wagon red-and-white stripes that had adorned the tail feathers was also painted over with blue, as were the bright red wheel spats, (for whatever reason the red prop spinner remained). The kite was now looking considerably more sedate but still as sleek and shark-like as ever.

“I say chaps, you don’t suppose they might let me take her up for a turn, do you?”, Frederick pondered, giddy at the very thought of it.

“Well they certainly should”, Thomas piped back. “They wouldn’t have it to play with at all if it weren’t for you.”

“Agreed!” Reggie enjoined. “You just ask them politely and give them that silly grin of yours, old top. No one can refuse you when you turn on the Tiggy charm.”

“Then I shall do just that!”, Freddy laughed. “By Jove, but that would be a spiffing thing to fly!”


(to be continued)




.

Fullofit - Nicely done Ziggy with that 2 seater. Amazing the Observer was still firing after all that damage. My eyes were also drawn to the huge gaggle of AC high above.

Lou - My goodness, what have we brewing here? Freddy in the Albatros, oh boy. Nice work on the skin, btw.

Carrick - Would Marcel's batman be named Kato by chance?



À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 19 of many



23 July 1917
Pepperell Cottage, Berkshire

I was perfectly happy to ride in my uniform tunic, but neither Aunt Rhea nor Eliza would hear of it. Aunt Rhea found me a grey linen riding jacket of her youngest son which fit perfectly, as well as a brighter tie. Given the warming weather, I was happy with the new sartorial arrangements. The only hat that fit was one of Mr. Tennyson’s. A panama with a narrow brim. Not quite the cowboy hat of my farm days but it suited me fine.

“There,” Eliza said, making one final adjustment to my tie. She smoothed it carefully resting her hand there, then raising her eyes to mine, she kissed me with unexpected tenderness. It was a scene I’d witnessed so many times between Mother and Father, an everyday domestic touch, commonplace yet intensely intimate. No woman had ever done such a thing for me. That it was Eliza, set my heart racing.

“You look quite the country squire, Oliver.”
“A temporary gentleman, at any rate,” I replied.

Four horses remained in Aldermaston’s stable. Eliza took the fiery black hunter, Alastor, and I the sturdy looking bay, Hyperion, who perked up considerably when I fed him the carrot I’d brought. The stableman, Henry, nodded approvingly.

“He’s not the match of Alastor for speed, sir, but he’ll not cross you. Steady as they come, old Hyperion is, and there’s nothing he don’t know about the jumping of walls.”

“Will you be riding astride today, Miss?” he asked Eliza.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied.

Henry said nothing as he finished saddling Alastor. I’m not sure if he was more surprised by Eliza riding à la Zouave or the fact that she was wearing trousers; golden olive linen trousers of a distinctly closer fit than was usual for Jodhpurs. In addition to her dark green riding jacket , she sported a low top hat of older style, complete with feathers.

We had Aldermaston Park to ourselves. The Shooting Party were down by the Pheasantry and smaller fishponds in the secluded southwestern corner of the grounds. The constant reports of their shotguns sounded throughout the park, an unpleasant reminder of our impending return to the war. Raised in the West, I ridden an English saddle infrequently, however after a short while it all came back. What I’d not done with any regularity was jump a horse. The stockier built western quarter horses like Felix were bred for working cattle and not for jumping. In addition, the fences in California were barbed wire not wood or low stone. Eliza was a good teacher and Hyperion, true to Henry’s praise, was an old campaigner when it came to clearing walls. Within half an hour I was following Eliza and Alastor around with supreme confidence.

“Oliver, come up here and ride next to me,” said Eliza.
“I rather like the view from astern, Eliza, especially when you rise out of the saddle before a jump and those trousers draw tight.” I said as I pulled alongside.
“As well you should,” she answered pertly, “but you jump well enough with Hyperion now, so you can admire my bottom some other time.”

Back through Pepperell farm we went then swung around north and through the village of Aldermaston. Coming upon two older women out for a walk, I tipped my hat in greeting. Eliza favored them with a nod. They made no effort to hide their look of disapproval. As we continued the word “hussy,” offered up in a hiss, chased us down the lane. Eliza turned her head to regard them as they receded into the distance. I thought for a moment she might go back. Her face was a mask of fury.

“Was it the trousers or that I’m astride? They’re accomplices in their own oppression, those two, that’s what they are!” she seethed. “The Amazons were riding thus against Achilles a thousand years before Christ!

“It just sets my teeth on edge. It’s the same crusty thinking that keeps the boot of history on women’s necks. Such prudish nonsense! Just like our country. Western women ride astride, but the farther East one goes the worse it gets. A true lady rides aside. Pernicious twaddle! My God! If we uncross our legs our ovaries might fall out! Who knows what mischief our hysterical female minds will get up to?! We might start thinking for ourselves and forming our own opinions, managing our own finances, or holding skilled occupations. This could lead to the fall of civilization, maybe even voting or equality before the law!! Horror!

“Your good friend the King isn’t helping matters any when he follows the Kaiser’s lead and refuses to witness exhibitions of women riding astride. The hour’s a bit late for protecting the Royal Hymen!”

Eliza was making full revolutions and more. I’d never seen her this angry. It took all my resolve to hold a poker face.

“How dare she judge me!” she snapped. “Ghastly old hag! It might do her some good if something swept the cobwebs from between her....
“Steady, old girl,” I interjected. “Steady.” Try as I might, I couldn’t keep from grinning.

Eliza glared at me, then the spell broke and we both started laughing.

Back into one of the many entrances to Aldermaston, we trotted through a veritable honor guard of enormous oak trees, each ten to twelve feet in diameter. Walking the horses through the trees, I leaned over and kissed Eliza. It was a perfect day.



We cantered down the lane and into the fields, gliding over walls and racing across the grass. Eliza checked Alastor’s pace, allowing Hyperion to catch up.
“Young Bull,” said Eliza in sultry voice, “catch me and you may have me tonight.”

She dashed off and led me quite the chase. I nearly caught her in the middle of a pasture, but it was clear she’d pulled up to wait for me. Before I could draw too close, she shot forward again. Alastor cleared the tall stone wall effortlessly, leaving me behind. Hyperion galloped in pursuit as Eliza headed around the wood.

I saw a line directly through the ancient trees that might cut the corner and catch her. Urging Hyperion forward we raced along the manicured grass. The Panama hat flew off, swept away by low hanging greenery. No matter, I would collect it in triumph later. The opening lay ahead, branches of two vast oaks intertwining like a gothic arch. I could see Eliza crossing from my right. She would be mine! Almost there. There was just enough headroom. I never saw the small fallen branch between the trees that required Hyperion to make the slightest of jumps...

I ducked; it was almost enough. Light flashed behind my eyes as the cut end of a branch troughed a furrow in my scalp. The blow fell as a hammer striking and echoed through my skull. Knocked backward in the saddle, I flopped across Hyperion’s rump, as a knight unhorsed by an opponent’s lance. Joust á outrance. Through to the green field, faithful Hyperion slowed to a trot. My feet slid from the stirrups and I fell hard. How long I lay stunned I do not know.

Dimly, I heard a woman’s voice.

“Oh God, no! No! NO!” A voice pitched with fear. “Tommy! Stay with me, Tommy! Don’t go! Please! Please don’t go! Come back to me, Tommy!”

I heard a woman screaming. Screams, one after the other, torn raw and bloody from her throat.

Blood sheeted over my eyes. It stung. I couldn’t breathe. I could feel hands holding my head steady as my perception receded into a dark grey tunnel, then oblivion.

Faint echoes.

“Come back to me, Tommy. Please come back to me.”

As under a red sea, crimson sunlight, then out of my blood-dimmed vision I saw Eliza’s face. I kept trying to reach for my head and wipe my eyes.
“Oliver, be still, let me see. Let me see your head,” she said in the calm, reassuring voice of a Nursing Sister. “Where else are you hurt?”
I couldn’t speak. I fought to breathe. More blood ran into my left eye. I felt her press something to my scalp. She took my left hand and placed it on the folded cloth.

“Oliver, look at me. Look at me. Can you hold this here? Just like that, I won’t be a second.”

Eliza tore the silk banding off her hat and tied the folded cloth to my head. My head and ribs hurt but I was lucid. Securing the dressing, Eliza ran me through numerous tests before she let me stand. I cleared my eyes as best I could and stood up without any dizziness. Walking wounded.

The hat! The lost Panama belonged to Rhea’s late husband. Ignoring Eliza’s protestations, I left her with the horses, retraced my path back 50 yards into the woods and retrieved the wayward headgear.

We walked the horses back to the Aldermaston stables, then telephoned Aunt Rhea for transport. Back at Pepperell Cottage I sat on a stool in one of the brighter bathrooms, stripped to the waist, as Eliza tended my wound. My reflection in the mirror was a sight. The entire left half of my torso was covered in blood, some of it still sticky. Eliza flushed the wound with a stinging bicarbonate solution of her own making and carefully cleaned the blood from my hair.

“Don’t we need to go to hospital?” I asked.

“Oliver, if I thought for a second you might have a skull fracture, we’d be there already.”

“I do have a thick skull, Eliza, but you knew this. To get sewn up I meant.”

“Don’t be silly, I’ll attend to that,” she said.

“You always travel with sutures and needles, do you?”

“Certainly,” she replied as if the question itself was absurd. She tapped on the glass syringe. “Now be still, this will numb the skin.”

Eliza sutured my scalp. The wound was just above my hairline. I was sore from the fall, and knew tomorrow would be worse, but otherwise I felt fine. Nothing broken. I’d fairly ruined the linen coat, my shirt as well, both were now soaked with blood. Aunt Rhea told me I was a fool for retrieving the hat. “Silly old thing it is,” she’d said, but I could tell she was touched by the gesture. I looked at the discarded bloody dressing. On the corner of the folded linen, not quite obscured by all the blood were my initials. This was the handkerchief I’d given her in Corbie!

My hair rinsed of gore, Eliza sponged the caked blood from my neck and back as the bathtub filled. Silently, with an almost a ceremonial aspect she cleared the blood, rinsing the sponge in the sink as she went. Unlike the playful sensuality of our last bath and the languorous tracing of my many scars, her movements held a melancholy, almost funereal aspect to them. I heard her tiny gasp as she drew breath.
“I’ll leave the rest of it to you,” she said abruptly. “Do not get the sutures wet!
“Tea is at 4 o’clock,” she reminded me as she made her exit.

I cleaned up in the cool water of the bath, wondering at Eliza’s sudden departure. Maybe this was her usual nursing demeanor. Changing into my uniform for tea, I headed downstairs where Eliza dabbed the suture line with honey and wrapped a white gauze bandage around my head. I looked like the fifer in the Spirit of ’76 painting.

General Aubrey came to call, having just heard the news of my mishap. He joined us for tea. Eliza was unusually subdued, barely rising to the General’s playful teasing about her suffragette hair styling.
Leaving, he shook my hand with both of his.
“Good luck to you, my boy,” he said. “When all this is done, I do hope you’ll come see us again. Maybe we’ll get to shooting then, eh? And Balaclava!
“Have I ever told you about my father at Balaclava?” he said with a wink, then stepped into his car.

After a rest, Eliza was back to her old self at dinner, recounting our meeting with the ladies on the road with some additional and very salty comments for the two. Aunt Rhea laughed hysterically at the telling. Without warning the events of the day caught up with me. A small glass of wine went straight to my head and I felt exhausted. I barely made it through the meal.

___________________________




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. I turned; 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. Tell me,” she whispered, pulling me toward her. “Tell me how you love me.”

I woke with a start. I smelled a hint of lavender. Eliza! Had she watched over me while I slept? Moving down the hallway toward her room, the nightingale floor remained silent. Light shone up the stairs from below. I heard voices.

“He’s in love with you, my dear,” said Aunt Rhea. “You love him too. Anyone could see it.”

“Auntie, I can’t do this. It’s too painful. I can’t live through this again. He will be killed. He should be dead already. How long can he continue cheating death, as he has so many times? He will be killed.”
“I saw him die,” Eliza cried as her anguished voice broke. She wept.

“Shadows, fleeting glimpses only,” said Aunt Rhea. “What you see is but a single path, one clouded by your hopes and fears. He may yet win through. When equal portions of death, which lays men prostrate, are set upon the scales, none of us, not even the Gods can know all outcomes.”

Never did I feel more helpless than in that moment. I wanted to go to her, hold her, ease her pain. Wrap her in my arms as if my embrace could shield her from the bludgeoning of life and the cold vagaries of war. I slunk back to my room, following the silent path.



24 July 1917
The International
London, England

Aunt Rhea drove to the station at an almost stately pace. Her eyes glistened as she saw us off, a quavering note added to her musical voice. She held Eliza to her for a long time, speaking softly in her ear. I couldn’t hear her words, but Eliza appeared braced afterwards.

“My dear Captain Winningstad, do take care and come back to us.”
“Thank you for everything, Mrs. Tennyson.” I replied.
“Silly man, it’s Aunt Rhea to you!” she said.

The 3’oclock train was less crowded so we had a first-class compartment to ourselves the entire way to London. Eliza was quiet for the first hour, perhaps ruminating on Aunt Rhea’s parting words.
Her smile looked forced. Shadow encircled her once laughing eyes, now red-ringed from last night’s ordeal.

“Will you tell me a story, Oliver? Tell me how Ripper got his name.”
“Let tell you instead how I made an ass of myself before the King,” I answered.
“You may tell me that too, but first, Ripper’s naming, please.” she said. “You promised.”

“That I did, but I fear to tell you now. Trust me, Eliza, and release me from that promise. Please.”

I could see it in her face. She knew what terror I might reveal but remained in thrall to some compulsion and couldn’t make herself cry off, like one waiting to go over the parapet and face the guns, familiar guns of old and fearful acquaintance.

“Tell. Omit nothing.” she continued. “How did Ripper get his name?”

“So be it,” I said. No sooner did I being the tale then I was reliving the experience, second by second, in a way I’d never experienced before - The cracking rip, the shock of fear, then the desperate, unconscious struggle to control the machine. My elation at having survived. How I did it again the next day, and how Black 5 had let me live.

Eliza read on my face the emotions raging through my mind. Her eyes widened and her lips parted ever so slightly before her face set into a mask, her features ashen. Across the compartment she sat motionless looking out the window, her gaze swept the distance for many minutes before returning to me.

“I should have listened to you, Oliver. I wish you’d never told me. I never realized such a thing could happen, or that you would know your enemies in such a way.”

“Eliza, what did you think it would be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Her voice caught. “Certainly not your aeroplane falling apart like that. I try not to think too closely about what it is you do. There are things I can’t bear to imagine.”

Her eyes filled, then as tiny crystal aeroplanes, the tears dove in perfect line astern. She wiped her eyes angrily, but the tears continued undaunted. I handed her my handkerchief.

“Dammit! So ridiculous. I don’t cry. I don’t cry.” she repeated hoarsely, her tone defiant. “I have no more tears, except when I’m with you.”

Every protective instinct demanded I give her comfort, a hug, a touch, anything, but to do so then would have stripped away the last remnant of the self-control she’d fought so grimly to maintain. Instead I launched into the story of my investiture. How I’d been so nervous, then completely lost the use of my reason and spouted that mad tale of my family putting stick to England, this to England himself! How His Majesty listened with kingly grace and humor and wished me well. Eliza laughed amid her crying when I described the staff Major’s monocle falling out, and again when I imitated General Trenchard’s gruff voice booming, “Make a note of that, Baring.” I thought it cheered her up.

__________________________________________


Our conversation at dinner was lively enough but we discussed nothing of consequence. Eliza didn’t eat with her usual gusto and barely touched her wine. Something was clearly amiss, but she deflected any of my attempts to discuss the topic.

“Don’t worry Oliver, I’m just tired,” she said.

At the International, Eliza went into the bathroom and closed the door. When she failed to return after 20 minutes I knocked.

“I won’t be a minute, Oliver,” she said.

I wasn’t going to fall asleep this time, so sat up reading.

She emerged 10 minutes later, eyes red. In all our nights together, Eliza always wore a light silk nightgown of French design which fell a handspan above her knee. Tonight she’d donned the flannel pajamas she wore when under canvas.

“I was tired of crying alone,” she said with a sniffle, then walked into my outstretched arms.
We stood there in that melting embrace for untold minutes. She wept silently; her head tucked under my chin. I stroked her hair. Lavender! The strong squeeze of her arms around my waist never faltered.

“Eliza, please tell me what’s wrong.” I implored.

“I’m going to miss you, Oliver. I don’t want to go.”

“I know, Eliza. I don’t want you to go either.” I picked her up, set her in the bed and turned out the light. She snuggled her back against me and we lay together like spoons in a drawer.

“Thank you, Oliver,” she said softly then took my hand from her hip, kissed it lightly, and placed it over her heart. She sighed, her breathing slowed, and in no time at all she fell fast asleep.

As I drifted off, I whispered to her sleeping ear the words she’d so long denied me. Eliza might only hear me in her dreams, but I would not go back to war with my love unspoken.

A soft light. Eliza stood over me in the garb of a Nursing Sister. Caressing my cheek, she bent down, and kissing me on the forehead she whispered, “Adieu, my love. Adieu. Sleep now...”





25 July 1917
The International
London, England

Sunlight. Gods, what was the time?! 6 o’clock! Eliza! She was gone! It wasn’t a dream.

Hastily throwing on my uniform, not bothering to shave, I tore out of the International and frantically hailed a taxi. My only hope was that the train might be delayed. Victoria was busy as normal. All platforms held trains; all save one. The boat train was gone, and Eliza with it.

I walked about London in a daze for an hour. Returning to the hotel room, I saw the envelope on the nightstand.




























(to be continued)

Lou, Zygmunt typically tries to avoid these large birds, especially behind lines, but this target was too juicy to pass up.
Oooo, a test drive in the enemy machine. That would really be spiffing. Tiggy better turn his charms all the way to eleven. Can’t wait to find out if Freddy was successful.

Epower, ah, you’ve noticed them. That was another factor why Ziggy didn’t want to hang around.
So, Oliver gets scalped by some old oaks. Eliza gets her panties in a twist because of two old hags. Then a long ride back to London during which Ripper is revealed. A long, wet bath in the hotel and some spooning. Finally, an absent goodbye.
See, this is what it would look like if I wrote what you did. No wonder you’re the pen master. Lovely episode. Now I really want Winningstad to survive this war and find Eliza again in the end.

29 August, 1917 04:00
Wasquehal, Flanders Sector
Jasta 17
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM
28 confirmed kills
Awaiting two claim confirmations

The two claims from yesterday were still being considered. The fact that the enemy planes were shot down on the “wrong” side made the confirmation that much more difficult.
Today Jasta 17 was ordered to intercept enemy planes heading for our airfield at Guesnain near Douai. It was a very early morning mission. The sun was just about to rise. By the time they arrived over the intercept point it was still dark and it was difficult to see anything. Thankfully Flak bursts in the distance were easy to spot and guided Ziggy’s Schwarm towards their intended target. A formation of British Nieuports emerged from the darkness and the battle of silhouettes commenced. The flash from the machine guns was blinding. It was also easier to tell who was firing. Usually it was one Britisher or another clinging to Zygmunt’s tail. The furball devolved into individual fights and the one Hahn was after was now making a run for it.

YouTube Link



It took a while before the Albatros could catch up, thankfully the silver biplane was easier to spot against the dark ground. Zygmunt expended at least half of his ammunition stores before the Englander went down. After watching his opponent crash, Ziggy turned his mount around, gathered his flight mates and returned to base.

YouTube Link

not much flying this month

30 August, 1917 05:00
Wasquehal, Flanders Sector
Jasta 17
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM
31 confirmed kills

It was Ziggy’s lucky day. The two claims behind enemy lines from the day before and the Nieuport from yesterday morning have been all confirmed.
This morning they were ordered to take out enemy observation balloon across from Lens. The gasbag was quickly eliminated by Ltn. Brachwitz without any interference from enemy planes.

Marcel Jules Gilbare
ESC. 15 GC 13
Senard, Verdun
1 Victory
2 Unconfirmed
30 August 1917.

Hours 17.2
missions: 14

End of Month Status; Detailed to Painting supervisor of Chateau's Dance Hall. Due to a Head Cold.