Fullofit - Congrats on Ziggy's promotion and the three confirmed. He's continuing to move up fast. That solo camel was too keeen. How long before Ziggy has a squadron of his own, I wonder?
Brevity. Brevity. If there's ever to be a cliff notes for the tale of Oliver and Eliza, you've got the Gig as ghost writer.
Raine - Nice poach of Ivan there. Is this a first for DID? As for the easily awed Major Zielke, I sense that Steinmesser will be getting some "biographical leverege" on him as events unfold.
Lou - we miss you, Freddy and Thomas.
MFair - Lady luck just served Ivan a double helping. Congrats. Nurse Ratchet is a tough customer but things could be worse, it could be Nurse Diesel! Hope all is ok.
Led - Hope you and Willi can join us soon. The pilot in that pic looks very much like Yul Brynner, btw.
Carrick - I trust Marcel will be back in action soon. Hey, painting supervisor beats raking the zen garden any day.
___________________________________________
The day come round at last. I’ve been waiting a whole two months to make this post...
À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 20 of many25 July 1917(Continued from previous entry)
Still in shock, I read the note many times. What did “for your sake” mean? She’d written “my love,” and spoken it too if that memory were real. She’d never done that before. In all our time together Eliza never uttered any of those words, the ones she forbade me. The first and only time she’d done so was now.
She’d taken me to family, to Aunt Rhea. Was that a test? If it were, I’d passed with flying colors. The old girl loved me, and very nearly wrapped me in one of her crushing hugs on the train platform but eying my bandage she opted instead for a kiss on each cheek.
I wasn’t due back until the 27th but everything about this city reminded me of Eliza. London held nothing for me. I needed my own family now. Home to 54 Squadron.
Headed to RFC HQ at the Hotel Cecil, sans bandage, where an obsequious, stuttering Staff Captain informed me that all documents, including my orders had gone ahead of me to France. He mentioned as an aside that 54 Squadron were now at Leffrinckhouke, 6 miles SW of Bray Dunes. Fortunately, he was able to provide me with orders to the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough where I might ferry an aeroplane back to St. Omer. I hoped it might be a two-seater so I could fit my bag.
The remainder of the morning was a mad dash about the city. Final fitting at Kingsman, then off to buy presents for the mess while the tailors made the changes. Good whiskey was nearly impossible to obtain. I managed one bottle of Oban, another of Glen Livet and one of Laphroaig. I’d give this last one to Mitchell and Johnson. Phonograph records were easier, a Chu Chin Chow to replace the one destroyed during my DSO prize party and several others at random. All musicals. Collected new tunics at Kingsman, also a cravat for Parker and a fine shirt to replace the one I bloodied.
London and Southwestern railway from Waterloo station to Farnborough. I arrived at 4 o’clock and reported immediately. Tomorrow I’d be ferrying one of the new S.E. 5s to St Omer. I wasn’t sure how I’d get my belongings to Leffrinckhouke until I examined the machine and discovered its rear compartment.
A room in town for the evening. Dinner of Shepard’s pie at the pub. I had no desire to be alone and so stayed until closing, drinking but lightly.
26 July 1917Royal Aircraft Establishment
Farnborough, Hampshire
Fog delayed my departure until late morning. I managed to finesse my possessions into the rear compartment of the SE5 by the narrowest of margins. Many out of the bag and loose. The phonograph records and the whiskey I wedged in as well, hoping they would survive the flight.
Sergeant Collins walked me through the SE5’s particulars. I’d not flown and inline-engine plane since training.
After the engine warmed and I prepared to throttle up and taxi, he added,
“One last thing, sir. Don’t run her at full power for any length of time.”
“Why is that, Sergeant?” I asked.
I couldn’t hear his reply over the roar of the engine, but it sounded like he said “fire.”
“Fire?!” I shouted.
He nodded, gave me a thumbs up and stood away. Another triumph for the Royal Aircraft Factory.
Fire. So much for a placid cross channel flight. I made for Folkestone then flew low along the Cliffs of Dover.
Climbing to 7000 ft over Dover Aerodrome, the oil pressure was only 30 psi and the Hispano began to struggle as I continued upwards through 9000’. Still, the revs were steady if a bit low and the oil pressure held, so I set course for France. Low clouds ran up the Channel, opening from time to time to let the sun through.
The French Coast at last! I dropped down to 2000 feet, just under the clouds and headed up the coast to Calais. From there, a course of 135 should have set me right on top of the No.1 Aircraft depot at St. Omer. Either the West wind or a balky compass pushed me east, but after several go rounds with the
Étang de Romelaere the Depot hove into view.
An ebullient Biggins collected me some hours later. I missed tea but made it back just before dinner.
I presented myself to Major Horn on arrival.
“You’re not due until tomorrow, Winningstad.”
“Change of plan, sir,” I said.
“On the run from the Constables, are you?”
“Not today, sir.”
“That’s a relief. Good to have you back. Your early arrival will allow us a proper sendoff.”
“Sendoff, sir?”
“Orders came yesterday. Your Flight’s come through. I’m deeply sorry to see you go. I did everything I could to keep you with us.
Major Horn handed me the authorizing signal from Brigade.
You will report to Estrée Blanche, etc, etc, Flight Commander, etc, No 56 Squadron...I looked at the signal in disbelief. 56! That was Captain Ball’s squadron. Crack pilots every man jack among them, and they flew the new SE.5s.
“I’m not sure how I feel about this, sir,” I said. “It’s an honor to be sure, but 54 is more than just a squadron for me.”
“I know exactly how you feel, Winningstad.”
_________________
Ackers had appropriated one of the better huts for us. He was so pleased with himself that I hated to break the news of my impending departure.
“That’s a right kick in the bollocks, Rippar. I’ve only just gottin’ used to you being about. 56, eh? That’s some rare company there.”
So, how was it with your lady?” He continued.
“Everything I hoped for. It was perfect,” I said. “I nearly asked for her hand. She even took me to meet her Aunt. Then I hurt my head two, no, three days ago and everything changed. It all went to hell. I don’t know how or why. She left me a note.”
“Jaysus! What did she say?”
“Read for yourself.” I said and handed Ackers the folded envelope that I now kept in my pocket.
“Ah no. I’m sorry, boyo," he said, handing the note back to me. "That’s a right kick in the bollocks for you too. There’s more to the story with that one. Maybe she’ll come round.”
After dinner, Stewart was noodling about on the piano and a singsong got started. Goodbehere added his lovely tenor but then would skip verses. He didn’t’ know all the words! This would not do. By now I’d had more than my usual dose of whiskey and headed off to the hut. When I returned a short while later, book in hand, Goodbehere was still humming along to many of the verses.
“All right Goodbehere, enough of that,” I said. “It’s time you put that fine voice of yours to better use. This is one of my spare copies of
Cinquante-Quatre, which you as a proper 54 man will study until you know these songs by heart. Think of it as a test. Learn all these songs, AND survive for three months, until say… the 1st of October and the book’s yours. You can put your name in it. Stewpot will be the judge. Get the chop, the book goes back to the squadron.
***
27 July 191754 Squadron RFC
Leffrinckhouke, France
My last day with 54.
“Shall we empty the bag for transport, sir?” asked Corporal Mitchell.
“No, keep it here so the men can make use of it,” I said. “And here’s something for you two, for the coming Fall nights.”
I handed Johnson the Laphroaig. His eyes lit up. “Thank you, sir. Most kind of you,” he said.
“We’ve made some modifications to A6189, sir” said Corporal Mitchell beaming. “Might you care to have a look?”
He led me to the front of the Pup and opened the cowling. There on the inside painted in bright yellow letters against the blackened metal were the words:
PROPERTY OF CPLs MITCHELL & JOHNSON
KEEP YOUR HANDS OUT!________________
Stewpot only had the morning show today. We sat in the mess and talked all afternoon. Before dinner he gave me a copy of a photo I’d taken my first month with the squadron.
“You’re the new lad, you take it,” they’d all said.
As excited as I was at the chance to fly SE.5s with 56, I felt uneasy, like I was jumping ship. 54 was my home, the only one I’d known in the Flying Corps, and just like Astoria in so many ways. I didn’t want to go, especially now with so most of the old hands gone. So many new faces around the room, men like Goodbehere just out of training. I thought of all the men I’d flown and fought with, no longer with us.
R N Smith WIA
G C T Hadrill POW
F C Kantell POW
H C Duxbury WIA Dow
Mortimer ‘Monty’ Cole WIA
B G Chalmers POW
R G H Pixley KIA
C E Sutcliffe KIA
E J Y Grevelink KIA
C T Felton POW
F N Hudson Missing, presumed dead
M C ‘Mac’ McGregor WIFA
Nobby posted to 46 Squadron, Oxspring to 66, Sutton and Starey to Home Establishment. Strugnell had gone too when I was on leave, posted to HE and then to a Squadron of his own.
Hurrah for the next man who dies!Ackers sorted me out, told me a bit of truth.
“You’re lucky is what you are, boyo. No more flyin’ Pups against those great bloody DVs. Don’t you forget your mates in 54 when you’re up there on Mt Olympus.”
At dinner, many toasts, speeches too; Uncle at his sardonic best and a serious one by Major Horn. Afterwards the party really got going. My last chance to celebrate with 54, I wasn't going to miss out. No point in dwelling on earlier maudlin thoughts. A binge for the ages, oddly with no broken furniture. Much singing however, and many renditions of the
Song of Fifty-Four.Tune - "We've come up form Somerset."
Oh! We came out from Birmingham
To see the great big war –
There was Oxo right chock full of fight,
And Nobby out for gore.
Archie shot at us ‘Gr-r-umph! Umph!’
And blacked the sky so blue,
When right up flew a Halberstadt
And said, ‘And vitch vos you?’
Chorus: Oh we’ve come up from Fifty-Four.
We’re the Sopwith Pups, you know.
And wherever you dirty swine may be
The Sopwith Pups will go.
And if you want a proper scrap,
Don’t chase 2Cs anymore.
For we’ll come up and do the job,
Because we’re FIFTY-FOUR.
A two-seater looked at Oxo
And “Vat vos you?” he said;
And Oxo blushed quire red with rage,
and shot the blighters dead.
The we found some Hun balloonists
Behind old Vendhuille town;
The seemed keen to pull it in,
And so we helped it down.
Chorus – Oh we’ve come, etc.
Then the Hun, he looked down on Peronne,
From which he’d run away,
And Struggy, seeing seven there,
Cried “Splendid! Chaps! Hooray!
Although there’s only four of us,
You’ve got to fight you see.”
And so they went right into them,
By gad! they brought down three!
Oh we’ve come up from Fifty-Four.
We’re the Sopwith Pups, you know.
And wherever you dirty swine may be
The Sopwith Pups will go.
And if you want a proper scrap,
Don’t chase 2Cs anymore.
For we’ll come up and do the job,
Because we’re FIFTY-FOUR!____________________________________
***Lt. Percy Goodbehere survived the war. On October 22, 1917 he collided with squad mate Lt. George Cowie. Cowie was killed. Goodbehere spun down, survived the crash, and was made prisoner. He died in 1967.
How Percy Goodbehere came by his copy of Cinquante-Quatre is open to speculation. What is known is that sometime in October of 1917, Goodbehere wrote his name in the copy of Cinquante-Quatre that I purchased in June. I didn’t know it was his copy until the seller sent me additional pics after I made the purchase. That’s when I saw the inscription. (see pic below) Completely floored.
I’ve started a thread on the main WOFF board for discussion of this copy, so we don’t clutter up the DID thread. All the pics of the book and the Squadron Farewell Banquet program are there.