Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders
Nov 7, 1917.

Another cover the AF s Patrol . No contact. Got a post from my Uncle The Baron . He lost one of his blockade Runners the Padishah Emperor to a French Cru- zair now hes crying in his Champagne.

RL has most inconveniently taken time away from my full time pursuit of the DID campaign. I'll have a longer catch-up on everyone's adventures later this evening but wanted to get the latest chapter out.

Carrick - my condolences about poor Marcel. Best of luck with Rupert.

_________________________________________


À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 37 of many


(continued from previous entry)


17 October 1917
Royal Automobile Club
London, England

Major Blomfield was correct about a VC opening doors. A room at the RAC is always a tricky proposition but I barely broke stride between entering the building and being shown to one of their most luxurious rooms.

An afternoon of exercise. Found two Sherwood Foresters practicing Jiu Jitsu. Worked on the 1 vs 2 tactics Mr. Fairbairn had introduced during my last visit to Shanghai. The trick being to dispatch one early and to keep circling to keep them in a line

A long swim then an hour in the Turkish bath. The Frigidarium proved less rejuvenating than in the past.
Memories of Eliza and our time here in London remain painful. I’ll not be stepping in the same river, or place, twice if I can help it, hence the R.A.C.

At the Savoy bar I met the famous Jimmy, about whom I’d heard so much. But for the nightly toast to His Majesty’s health, I’ve drunk little these past two months, Captain Clement’s farewell excepted. The first whiskey went straight to my head. Half the RFC men in London were there. I knew none of them personally but recognized some names. So many of those I trained with are dead. Everyone recognized my name which I found most unnerving. Squadron life is akin to a cloister, at least for me and these past 10 weeks have been about training new men and killing Huns. I’ve not strayed far from that insular world since I came to 56 in late July. Celebrity, if that’s what this is will take some getting used to. Try as I did to pay my way, the VC ribbon counterfeited my money. I’m London’s guest for the time being. The bar stayed open 6-8pm. I declined the many invitations to carouse, settling instead for a quiet dinner at the Savoy Grill and then to bed. The events of the last weeks caught up to me. Returned to RAC exhausted.



 
18 October 1917
Royal Automobile Club
London, England

What sleep in a proper bed! I woke a new man.

Dropped into RFC HQ at the Hotel Cecil, collected my 3 guest passes for the Investiture as well as instructions for same. There was also an invitation to lunch with Major Baring tomorrow.

No word from Aunt Rhea, Smokey or the General yet. My telegrams left the RAC as my contact address.

Went to Kingsman for some new slacks. I’ve grown weary of the Jodhpurs and high boots especially with Winter approaching. Mr. Pendergon greeted me warmly. Seeing the two new sleeve stripes, he was horrified to learn of my wounding in late July and insisted on me sending my flying tunic over for refurbishment. Not sure if it was damage to me or the tunic which caused him greater concern.

Returned to RAC to find an invitation to dine at the US Embassy. It looked like Ambassador Page wrote it personally.

Afternoon training in the gymnasium then a lengthy Turkish bath.

I was apprehensive about this dinner at the Embassy. What use did the Ambassador have for a Captain of the Royal Flying Corps? Had my VC turned me into a pawn in the larger game? Arriving at the Embassy my worst fears were confirmed when Ambassador Page, seeing me enter the room, immediately broke off his conversation and walked directly over to greet me.

“Our guest of honor. Welcome, Captain Winningstad.”

Anything but this...

Ambassador Page and his military attaché Captain Chapman introduced me to various assembled guests.
I then met Hubert Covington-Chandos, fresh in from a two-year posting in Hong Kong and new minister sans portfolio to His Majesty’s Ambassador to the United States, Sir Cecil Spring Rice. Mr. Covington-Chandos would take ship for Washington DC within the week. I never did quite get the story of his official title. Something to do with economic affairs.

My interest in His Majesty’s Minister evaporated on being introduced to his daughter Clarissa.

She was tall, nearly 5’7” or 5’8. Fair, very fair but not with the greenish indoor pallor of the English aristocrat. The light of foreign lands and sun-splashed climes shone under the white of her unblemished skin. Blonde hair, more a warm yellow gold than the cold arctic hue of the Scandinavian races, framed an oval, high cheekboned face. While differing from the diamond-shaped face of Eliza, Clarissa’s shared that same beautiful symmetry. Yet, there was something of the exotic in her features which suggested an ancestor unmentioned in the polite society of the English upper class. Full lips demanded attention. Darker brows statuesquely arched and angled swept around her eyes. Those eyes! So like Eliza’s they were, the identical light brown almost golden hue, with the same flash of impending misbehavior.

“Captain Winningstad,” she said, extending her hand. Almost Received Pronunciation but not quite, there was an accent on the loose which I couldn’t place.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Covington-Chandos,” I replied and without thinking kissed her hand. I’d never done anything like that before.
She smiled back at me and everything else stopped. I recovered quickly, or hoped I did.

Captain Chapman swept me along to another group of diplomats and their wives, underlings, chattels, pets, childhood nannies... So many names. Time passed as a blur.
Pleasantries exchanged I made good my escape and sought out the Minister’s daughter.

“How did you find Hong Kong, Miss Covington-Chandos?” I inquired.
“Extremely diverting but I much preferred Shanghai.” she answered.
“I agree with you about Shanghai," I said. "I have spent time in both places, though I suspect we experienced them from rather different points of reference.”
“Tell me,” she said.

I launched into my travels on Astoria and she related the details of her life in the Far East. She was enthralled by my tales of the sordid Shanghai docks as I was by her stories of the byzantine world of the Taipans. Her father had by no means sheltered her from his dealings and the deeper she went into her story, the more I wondered if the good Minister might be with the intelligence services. Our conversation was getting along very nicely when the announcement of dinner separated us. Regrettably, our seats at table were so far removed as to prevent conversation.

I was getting more comfortable with the small talk necessary during these formal gatherings. Inevitably the talk would turn to flying and I could wax on about that for hours. People were always curious. Unfortunately discussion of the war was unavoidable.
Sir Evelyn held forth at length on the need to accept casualties but not in the way I’d heard others describe attrition. His thinking was that should the Fall offensive fail to end the war, the situation in the East would deteriorate to the point of collapse, thus knocking Russia out of the war and freeing a million additional Huns to attack the West.

“Mark my words,” he said. "They’ll stake it all on one pitch and toss in the Spring. Let them come, I say! Get them out of the Hindenburg Line and make them pay 2-1 in lives for each mile of ground. Stretch their supply chain and let the Flying Corps rampage behind the lines, what? Just imagine the targets such an opportunity might present.”

This peculiar form of attrition he insisted was the best way to break the German war effort. Create conditions for “La Grand Mort,” he said by way of explanation. Let the Kaiser’s army punch itself out. Unorthodox and quite cold-blooded. Risky too. One of those German haymakers might connect. If the Germans took Paris the French would certainly sue for peace. Would it work?

Dinner’s conclusion brought with it the inevitable toasts at the end of which all attention focused on me. The worst followed shortly after.
Ambassador Page stood, glass in hand.
“I must speak now of our guest whom we honor tonight, and whom the King shall honor two days hence.”

Oh, no.

“Only the second American in British service to be awarded the Victoria Cross, ladies and gentlemen, Captain Winningstad and his deeds,” he said. The entire company rose echoing his words as one:

“Captain Winningstad and his deeds.”

Disguising my horrified reaction, I managed to keep a poker face, barely. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Clarissa studying me. My torment finally ended as the dinner broke up and dancing commenced. The ensemble played a lively if traditional program.

Clarissa moved with the balletic grace of the athlete and such was her skill that she made me look like an accomplished dancer.

“What did you think about dear old Sir Evelyn’s theories?” she asked.

“It’s a novel idea,” I answered. “A bit ruthless don’t you think? I keep thinking about the ‘1’ to the Kaiser’s ‘2’ in his calculus and losses among the Flying Corps in his scenario would be extreme. La Grand Mort to be sure.”

“I’ve always found ‘la Petite Mort’ to be more satisfying. Wouldn’t you agree, Captain Winningstad?”

“My French is barely conversational, Miss Covington-Chandos, and lacks idiom. Does that expression mean what I think it means?” I asked, eyebrow raised.

“I’m sure I’ve no idea to what you refer, Captain Winningstad, but we must further your education in the use of the French tongue, n’est pas?”

“Miss Covington-Chandos, I believe you to be trouble.”

She smiled beatifically as we whirled around the room, her eyes bright with mischief.

We only managed three dances together before Captain Chapman spirited me away to speak with Ambassador Page who bent my ear at length about nascent United States Air Service and my potential role therein.

Unsurprisingly, Clarissa was a popular dance partner, but I managed to cut back in afterwards, the VC ribbon granting me a social carte blanche.


As the evening ended, I accompanied her down the stairs to a waiting car.

“You didn’t like that toast, did you?” she asked. “Such a pained look on your face which you struggled so valiantly to hide. Were you truly vexed or simply embarrassed by the accolade?”

Gods below. Another one who sees right through me.

“I don’t care for all this fuss and celebration, about the medal or the man.”

“So deliciously guileless, my dear Captain. You really have no idea what’s about to happen, do you? How interesting.”

Flee, Oliver! Save yourself! Escape while you still can.

“I’d like to see you again, Miss Covington-Chandos,” I said taking her hand in mine. “We never did finish our stories. Would you dine with me tomorrow?”

“That would be agreeable. You intrigue me, Captain Winningstad.” she said, a smile lighting her impenetrable expression.
“Shall we say Gow’s at 8 o’clock, away from prying eyes?” I proposed.

“Shall we say Rules at 9 o’clock in full view?” she countered playfully.

“As you wish. Dancing at Murray’s afterwards?” I offered.

“We’ll see. I’ll meet you at Rules. Until then, Captain, goodnight.” She withdrew her hand and stepped into the car.

What the hell just happened?

I stood by the curb wondering what had hit me. I’d no objection to some female attention or even horizontal recreation but why couldn’t she be some vapid trophy hunter out for a night or two of meaningless fun. Why did this madness have to happen now, fresh on the heels of Eliza’s crushing blow?

How the Gods do enjoy their amusements.

Clarissa was exactly what I’d seek in a woman were I looking. Beyond her obvious physical charms, she was well-travelled and worldly. We’d shared of our adventures in the Orient and she’d hinted at even broader travels before Captain Chapman interrupted. Beautiful, mysterious, witty, intelligent, and just a little off color too. She had an edge to her, like a jungle cat or a serpent stalking prey. And those eyes! I could lose myself forever in her eyes. When the badinage and coquettish play ceased and all became still, when it was just the two of us dancing, Clarissa looked at me as though I were the most important thing in her world. Was there something of the predator there as well? The Tale of Kaa’s Hunting sprang unbidden from my memory.


"The moon sets," Kaa said. "Is there yet light enough to see?"
From the walls came a moan like the wind in the tree-tops-- "We see, O Kaa."
"Good. Begins now the dance--the Dance of the Hunger of Kaa. Sit still and watch."

Clarissa felt a little dangerous and if I were honest that was part of the attraction. She was T.r.o.u.b.l.e. and the last thing on Earth I needed right now. I was hopelessly entranced.

thanks e power, the game kept posting DDLs and errors about waypoints However the other units run fine What happen ?

Ace, good luck with real life. I hear it’s overrated. Come back soon!

Epower, sorry to see you fall behind again. You were all caught up. Hopefully you can do that trick of catching up again.
Interesting this Miss Covington-Chandos. Adventurous, not unlike certain Miss Ludlow (it took me half an hour to search all the posts to remember her family name - does that mean I’m over her?) Oliver has the best of luck meeting remarkable women and these women have an uncanny knack for getting Oliver into trouble, as well as breaking his hart. Beware! Futile warning, I know. Women have this mystical power over men and they know it, and they abuse it. Anxious to find out how this plays out. Will Winningstad have a choice to make? Will it be the right one? Will I shut up?

Carrick, poor Baron. I hear salty champagne sucks.

7 November, 1917 09:00
Ceurne, Flanders Sector
Jasta 36
Hauptmann Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO
78 confirmed kills

Jasta 36 returned back to Ceurne after a tedious patrol of friendly front lines near Menen. They had no luck encountering any enemy machines during their patrol. Frustrated Hahn was dismounting his Albatros when Müller arrived with a wicked smile on his face.
“- We have a spy!” He exclaimed.
“- Oh? Why such a grin then?” Ziggy was intrigued.
“- Because I know who it is!” Müller was beside himself.
Zygmunt put his arm around Müller’s shoulder. “- It isn’t you?”
Müller’s face went pale. “- No! Of course not!”
“- Relax! I know it’s not you. Too obvious.” Hahn slapped Müller on the back.
“- Well, if you’re done with horsing around I have the real suspect. It’s Nadette!” Müller was beaming.
Ziggy stopped for a moment, looked at Müller and burst out laughing. “- Nadette. Our Nadette?” He couldn’t believe it.
“- Well, you said it yourself. It had to be someone who knew what the orders were for next day. You have them on your board in your office and who, besides you, is in your office every day?” Müller was waiting for the news to sink in.
Zygmunt paused again. He was about to say something, but he stopped himself. Finally he admitted defeat. It was a logical deduction, but he still didn’t want to believe it.
“- So, do we just go and arrest her?” Zygmunt looked to Müller for answers.
“- Nah, we need proof and I have a plan.” Müller was whispering now. “- We’ll put a fake mission up on the board and see if tomorrow you’ll encounter any enemy planes. If you do we have our man, ... err woman.”
“- What if we don’t?” Zygmunt was playing the devil’s advocate.
“- Let’s stay positive.” Müller assured him.
Hahn thought for a moment. “- Do it!”

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders

Victorys: 1
Claims:

Nov 8, 1917.

Bagged a Sopwith while on Balloon Defence today. Kette supplied 4 machines and we spotted and attacked 3 Sopwiths. I got the only one the other two broke for home.

Carrick, congrats on Rupert’s first victory. Let’s hope it’s the first of many.

8 November, 1917 09:00
Ceurne, Flanders Sector
Jasta 36
Hauptmann Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO
78 confirmed kills

The mission on the blackboard in Zygmunt’s office said line patrol south of Lille. Their actual orders which they were following was airfield defence over Rumbeke. Müller’s subterfuge had worked. They’ve finally found the enemy. A flight of Camels was escorting a Strutter near Rumbeke. Zygmunt’s flight occupied themselves with the escort, while Ziggy himself took care of the observation machine. G/O returned fire and put a few holes in Hahn’s machine, but nothing critical. He continued to fire until the very end when the Strutter hit the mud on the German side, just south of the aerodrome.
When Hahn’s Schwarm returned, Ziggy was first out of his Albatros. He approached Müller and gave him the order: “- You know what to do.”

YouTube Link

nice shoot down

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders

Victorys: 1
Claims:

Nov 9, 1917.

Barrage Patrol: Ran in to a flight of camels almost at the same altitude I stayed on the outside as the flights fought saw one Tommy go down ,but we lost a machine too. On the second flight over AF s My albatross lost power over the trenches so landed at a forward base.

The Mother of all catch-ups is upon me so I finally started individual Word docs for all your pilots. Should have done that some time ago but better late...


Raine - Marenke sounds decidedly stable. I'm very worried. Love the new victory celebration although the Oberwerkmeister Grier may not see it that way. Again with the bad luck in Claims. It's just not fun on the East side of the lines. Unbelievable.

60 at last! H & B! Rewarded the next day with a dozen Camels. Some hot work there. Nicely done to drop one. Love the pics. That horrible sensation when the controls fail to answer. Vogel keeps getting jumped by Camels like this and I begin to worry.
Sorry to hear about the losses. The Butcher's Bill is high on both sides of the lines.
Congrats on 65 victories. As always a most engaging and well-crafted tale.

Fullofit - Gott Im Himmel! Hahn has inadvertently gone #metoo on poor Nadette. Not a Fraulein to be trifled with it would appear. I hope Ziggy is not suffering a repeated brain injury. The follow on blow to the concussed brain does huge damage. Sunset pic was an all-time classic, btw. 80 remains just out of reach still, but the promotion to Herr Hauptmann must be nice. Make sure those Prussians salute properly! I'm worried Ziggy has an itchy neck again. Remember what happened to that Voss fellow - Huevos writing checks the flying can't cash...and now the lovely Nadette may be a spy?! A cruel twist of fate.
As for Oliver, yes he does seem to find himself waaaaaay over his head with the ladies. A worthy opponent is one thing but between Eliza and now Clarissa he's really in the deep ocean.

Ace - Great to see you back at it. Excellent writing as always with superb pics. There's something about a new start, like a low level D& D character that's immensely compelling. Sorry to hear that pesky RL is interfering just when you're back in the lists. Hope you can return soon. Loving the tale of Friedrich so far.
I'm not sure why, but when I read the backstory, I did so with Dr. Evil's voice from group therapy in my head. "Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons...a Zoroastrian named Wilmer..."
The characterization of Friedrich's mates seems spot on. The Luftstreitkräfte made up for inferior numbers by flying 4 patrols per day and having their ground crew go practically without sleep. Then there's that Flu thing going on. Yikes.
First kill so quickly. H & B!

MFair - very sorry again about poor Ivan. Happy Hunting, Brother and we'll await your return come February. Do check in and don't be a stranger.

Carrick - Horrid way to lose a pilot. Not sure what's up with the game doing that. Rupert is off to a good start though. 2 guns makes a world of difference, no? Congrats ont he kill. Stay frosty and keep upt he good work.

Lou - Amazing work on the various Aerodromes. Hope to see Freddy back at it soon.

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 38 of many



19 October 1917
Royal Automobile Club
London, England

Woke to splendid news! Telegram from Smokey confirming attendance. Instructions to leave Investiture pass at US Embassy.

Lunch with Major Baring at the Hotel Cecil. We conversed on a wide range of topics, the Major being a rather famous author and foreign correspondent before the war. He'd lived some year in Russia and been in the thick of it around Port Arthur during the Russo-Japanese War. When I mentioned my visits to Vladivostok, he regaled me with an account of his time there. Our lunch was not entirely social, however, and the Major, as gently as possible, steered our discussion toward the expectations of me as Captain Oliver Winningstad VC.

“Your life is no longer entirely yours, Winningstad. You wear the medal in trust for other men and your actions from this moment forward, for good or ill, for honor or dishonor, reflect not only on all who wear the Victoria Cross but also on His Majesty the King who will invest you with the decoration. As an American serving in British uniform, you carry an additional responsibility representing both the King, and the United States of America. Your conduct to date has been impeccable. I have every confidence in you keeping your end up, as does General Trenchard.

“Thank you, sir. You assume here that I'm still an American citizen,” I replied. "There appears to be an element of ambiguity on that score."

“I wouldn’t worry about that were I you. Things will work out.
“Tomorrow morning we’ll be sending a car round for you at 9.30. It wouldn’t do for you to oversleep and miss the Investiture.

“Has that really happened, sir?”

“You’d be surprised, my dear Winningstad. You’d be surprised.”

I’ve no idea why but I always feel uplifted after being around Maurice Baring and today was no exception despite the weighty topic. I left the Hotel Cecil ready to take on the entire Luftstreitkräfte single handed.

_____________________________________

One block North of The Cecil was Maiden Lane and Rules Restaurant. The manager was not optimistic about a table for the evening until I opened my trench coast enough to expose the VC ribbon. Inquiring again as to my name, which he now affected to recognize, his attitude changed dramatically. I explained my needs for the evening, and he pointed out an inset banquette table at the far end which sat under a seascape and a large clock. It seemed a bit close to the surrounding tables so in the end I opted for a more private booth which would keep fellow diners and well-wishers at bay while still providing Clarissa with her requested seat in full view.

Starting off to the US Embassy, which lay on Grosvenor Square, I walked up Duke Street chancing upon a small tobacco shop.



After speaking with the Proprietor, Mr. Dunhill, I ended buying a set of two pipes for Smokey and a silver cigarette case for myself. Mr. Dunhill very kindly provided me with a supply of his custom blended cigarettes as well as his “special blend” of pipe tobacco at no charge. I rarely smoke but an officer should have cigarettes to offer and I never liked the smell of those foul Murads. These Dunhill smokes have a much more pleasant aroma.

A telegram from Aunt Rhea awaited me on my return to the RAC. I’m not sure what she meant by ‘serendipitous reunion,' but both she and General Aubrey would arrive tomorrow morning for the Investiture. They planned to take rooms at Savoy. Normal afternoon routine of training, swim, Turkish bath and frigidarium followed by a nap.
____________________________________

Leaving the passes for the General and Aunt Rhea with the Savoy Concierge, I was heading toward the staircase leading to the Thames Foyer when from the corner of my eye I thought I saw Butler from 22 Squadron, but the man disappeared into the crowd before I could be certain. Turning back toward the stairs I had no time to react as a sprawling shape in khaki plunged headlong down and caught me square in the chest. I flew on my back across the marble floor, my trench coat gliding easily on the immaculately polished stone. I slid to a stop and reflexes took over. Within a second, I’d rolled to one side and levered myself into a fighting crouch as Mr. Fairbairn had taught me. I stood up straight then and surveyed my ‘assailant,’ an RFC officer who lay limbs akimbo on the floor some yards away.



I walked over as he was collecting himself.

“You’ve bowled me for a Golden Duck, Captain,” I said extending a hand to help him up.

“Haw!” he said with a grin, taking my hand and pulling himself upright somewhat unsteadily.

The young man before me was of lean, rangy build, perhaps 6’2” and possessed of the most enormous feet I’d ever seen on a man his size. On a large head two black eyebrows sought each other desperately, but like the lovers on Keats’ Grecian urn, they were never quite destined to touch. His smile revealed teeth that stood like a disorganized shield wall in his head, largely straight but not exactly in a dressed line and with some gaps. One ear lay as normal on his head, but his right flared distinctly. The ribbons of the Military Cross, the DSO and the Croix de Guerre adorned his tunic.

“My name’s Winningstad, Oliver Winningstad,” I said keeping hold of his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Frederick Abbott, and I’m fine”, the young man replied as he regained some dignity and let go my grip, “but what of you? Awfully sorry about the collision, old top - was turning to smile at that redhead going up the stairs you see and - well she’s gone now - anyway, feet got ahead of me and down I flew, with you ending up as my unintended landing spot.”

“Abbott. 11 Squadron? Brisfits? You brought down that Gotha. I thought I recognized the name.”

“I did, and the French were most appreciative of it”, he replied cheerily, tapping the green-and-red-striped ribbon above his left breast pocket, “and call me Freddy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Freddy. Call me Oliver.”

His eyes tracked to my flying tunic and the ribbons there. His face lit in recognition as if he suddenly realized whom he was addressing
“Hold on - Winningstad - you’re that American chap who’s our leading ace at the moment. I say! What is it with you Yanks topping our tally boards? There was that Swanson fellow ahead of you who did the same before he went west - poor chap.” Freddy adjusted his uniform as he further studied me, then flashed a toothy grin and added, “must be the cowboy in your lot, eh what? Six-guns blazing and all that?”

I couldn’t help but smile. Freddy Abbott had an infectious joy about him. I liked him immediately.

“That must be it. I will tell you that there are still parts of San Francisco where you’d be wise to go armed. I was heading to the bar. Might you care to join me?”

“Certainly would, and it’s my treat start to finish Winnie old sport, so you just keep your purse in your pocket. Least I can do after landing on you so ingloriously”, he said, still grinning as he went on.
“So - Golden Duck - you’re a cricketer then? Didn’t know you Americans had even heard of the game, much less played it. I’m a bowler myself, but then you've already discovered that. You?”

“I can’t claim to be a cricketer. I’d be sailing under false colors if I did. I saw a match once, on my first day in England. A fellow traveler endeavored to explain the game, in excruciating detail I might add, but I still find it confusing. We play baseball in America; round bat, 4 bases, beer instead of tea, but I think the games are related. What passes for my cricket was a night of bowling Mills bombs to some skulking Huns in No Man’s Land. That's where I learned about the Golden Duck.”

“Baseball? Haw! That’s just your colonists take on our game of rounders,” Abbott chided. “You Yanks do love to appropriate things from us and claim them as your own. Countries, as further example.” He gave a broad, proud grin at his own last statement, then continued, “But bowling the filthy Hun with Mills bombs you say? Now that’s a twist on one of our games that I can fully endorse - well done old chap!”

“Well, we can’t let our Britannic cousins have all the fun,” I said returning his same broad grin. “As for my bowling, I had a good teacher among the Gloucesters. Are you in London long, Freddy?"

“Just long enough for the King to hang the DSO on me, then it’s back to camp post haste. My new outfit is being sent across soon. Just joined them myself as one of their flight commanders, working in the Camels. Can’t wait to take it to the Hun rotters in that mount! Will miss having a G/O though. Must watch my own six now - Haw!”

“My congratulations on your promotion, and the DSO! We both have a date at the Palace tomorrow. As for watching your own six, it comes with the territory I’m afraid. Camels is it?! That’s a bit of good luck. I’ve not flown one yet. I hear they’re great fun; temperamental, sensitive, and deadly in the right hands, to friend and foe alike. Sounds like that redhead who just introduced us. Which squadron, btw?”

“65. And it’s I who should congratulate you on your VC! Now then, to that auburn beauty I passed on the stairs I couldn’t say; the Camel however is most certainly a temperamental lady to bring to the dance, but I’m sorting her out. She goes to the right faster than you can begin to think about her doing so, which should prove most handy in getting round on the Hun’s six. But by Jove you must treat her with respect. No rough and tumble handling or she will slap you down - hard.”

Clarissa might slap me down hard in any case.

The Savoy bar was packed with RFC types as per usual. Jimmy moved about with his typical friendly efficiency, chatting all the while. Word was that Jimmy applied to join the RFC but some defect in his vision kept him out. Now he does everything he can as a civilian to help the Flying Corps and he knows everything that’s going on in London. Freddy, true to his word rebuffed any of my attempts to buy a round. It wouldn’t have done any good. Jimmy would have refused anyway; the VC ribbon still rendered my money into foreign currency.

Butler was there ahead of us. It was he I’d seen in the crowd. Taking full advantage of this head start he’d opened a considerable lead by the time we arrived. By all appearances he’d set full canvas up to the topsails was working on the t’gallants. Butler left his friends and weaved his way over to where we were drinking.

“Ripper!” he cried in a voice that carried above the low roar of drinking men. “I heard about your VC. Well done, old man!”
“Butler of 22, meet Frederick Abbott, late of 11 Squadron,” I said.
“A Bristol man!” said Butler. “Good show!”
“Butler - pleasure to meet you”, Freddy greeted. “And Bristols are a good show! But ‘Ripper’?” He cast a sideways glance at me, then back at Butler. “Elaborate, old sport.”

“He didn’t tell you about his nickname?” said Butler with a hooting laugh. “Well, there’s a tale. Our friend Ripper here was a little rough on the Pups when he first came out to 54. Tossing them all over the sky he was. We were together at Chippilly then, early May wasn’t it? I was only a week with 22 myself.
“One day, young Ripper here gets a bit excited with Huns about and pulls the lower right wing clean off his Pup, then lands the machine neat as you please. Fancied the thrill so much he did it again the next day! The bally cheek, what?”

“Indeed!”, Abbott agreed heartily. “Bally lucky too, and…” He trailed off as his attention was suddenly drawn towards the bar. “I say, there’s that redhead again. You gents need more drinks, yes? Of course you do!” He was off like a shot, making a beeline for his intended target under the guise of fetching another round.

“Shame about Bush and Chapman,” said Butler.
“What happened?” I replied, dreading the answer.
“Gone West. Last week. Thought you knew.”

How did I not know that? We shared the same Aerodrome. How did I not know that?!

“Oh Hell. I’m sorry Butler, I didn’t know. Dammit all! This bloody October can’t end soon enough.”
“Old Comrades,” he said. We drained our glasses.

“Here we are gents", Abbott announced triumphantly as he returned with more drinks. "May have to wring some of it from my cuffs after maneuvering through this crowd.”

“Thank you, Freddy. How did it go with that auburn beauty? She’s one to show you around London by the look of her.”
“Haw! She’ll be showing someone round London, but it won’t be the man who wears my shoes. She’s waiting for her escort to arrive, a Lieutenant Colonel apparently and, to quote her: One who would not be pleased to find a fellow of my ilk accosting his lady.”

“What a thing to say to a fighting man!” I exclaimed. “Plain rude and isn’t she putting on airs. Maybe you dodged a bullet there if she’s so infected with Brass Fever.”

“C’est la vie, there’ll be others”, he smiled, tossing back his scotch. “So, anyone getting hungry? I’m famished! What say we go for a reconnoiter and find ourselves somewhere to eat - my treat.”

“You’re most kind, Freddy, but we must do it another time. Tonight I’m taking a very temperamental lady to dinner. She’s deadlier even than your Camel, I think, but much prettier and far more enticing. ‘She walks in beauty like the night...’ Will you be at Murray’s later? We could meet there, and the drinks will be on me. I insist.”

“Murray’s it is then Winnie old sport - no, sorry - Ripper - and we’ll let that VC of yours buy us drinks for the remainder of the night, eh what? Best of luck with your rendezvous and remember to watch your six.” Freddy beamed, then turned to Butler who was still cracking on. He’d now set royals, skysails, and a moonraker - far too much sail for his current trim - and was threatening at any moment to go over. “Haw, Butler old top, I’ll say again it was a pleasure to meet you but I’ve a hunch you may not remember our encounter tomorrow.”

We closed the Savoy bar at 8 o’clock and said our farewells. I made sure Butler was in the care of his companions. He was thoroughly blasted, and I didn’t want him coming to grief. He’d done the same for me, dragging me back from the abyss the night Steve Clement was killed. I’d see Freddy later or failing that, tomorrow at the Investiture. I felt a kinship with him. We were as different as two people could be, but I recognized in him a fellow ‘odd duck.’

The intervening hour before my dinner with Clarissa I put to good use. Rules was a mere three blocks away from the Savoy, but a brisk walk down the embankment with a loop around Big Ben and Parliament set me right. The exercise and chill October air sobered me up nicely.




(to be continued)

Epower, splendid episodes in London! I particularly loved the way you wove Freddie into the story. And Clarissa – captivating. We must wait to see where this is leading us!

Fullofit, poor Nadette seems destined for the Mata Hari treatment! Steinmesser hates to lose employees that way.

Carrick, congratulations on Rupert's first victory!

Ace Medic, real life is so annoying. We are all enjoying your writing so please hurry back.

Epower, Ziggy’s conquest of that elusive 80 will take much longer than expected, as you will now see.
Geez, does Major Baring think Oliver is getting married to that medal? For good or ill - that is something one would say to Clarissa at the altar. Major also needs to find a hobby, he still remembers that unfortunate incident with the missed investiture. But what do I see? Freddy is joining Oliver at the ceremony? There might be an incident there after all. Great crossover between the two fliers and I can’t wait to find out what happens next. The new lady definitely smells of adventure. Hopefully Oliver is ready for what awaits him. Great collage of the Savoy.

Raine, I knew it! I knew Steinmesser had something to do with it.

9 November, 1917
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO
78 confirmed kills

After Nadette’s arrest yesterday, everything moved quickly. It was soon discovered that her father owned homing pigeons that made regular trips across the Front carrying sensitive information to the enemy. The intelligence which had been gathered by Nadette came directly from the mission board in Hahn’s office. Zygmunt’s hearing was today. He was found negligent by repeatedly allowing a spy to obtain sensitive material. He was demoted to the rank of Lieutenant and stripped of his command. In addition he was ordered to immediately transfer to another unit, somewhere far and out of the way.
He was now sitting in a train compartment overflowing with soldiers heading south-east towards Marne sector. In a way he was coming back home. It was there he’d started his career in Jasta 17. It was there he had his first victory. It was befitting that he would finish his career there as well.
His Strutter claim has also been denied. He had a distinct feeling the HQ continued to punish him.

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders

Victorys: 1
Claims:
Nov 10, 1917

Took a 24 hr pass to go into the village to celebrate

10 November, 1917 08:45
Saint-Loup-en-Champagne, Marne Sector
Jasta 19
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO
78 confirmed kills

Jasta 19 C.O. Ltn Ernst Hess entered the tent to brief his men on the upcoming mission. Everyone knew this man’s story. He scored his first kill on 5 January 1916 - same day as Boelcke, who were both stationed at KEK Douai.
“- Meine Herren, today we welcome a new member to our illustrious Jasta. You may recognize him from the pictures in the newspapers. He is the disgraced Fürher of Jasta 36.” A few fake jeers went up. Zygmunt raised both of his hands in surrender.
“- Please make him welcome and assure him that each and every one of you fine gentlemen would divulge all state secrets for a piece of tail.” The tent erupted in laughter, more jeers and hoots.
“- We’ll take it easy on him this morning. You will all show him the nearby sights. The orders are to patrol behind friendly front lines from Sissone, down south to the frontlines and back. To your machines, Gentlemen.”
The weather was atrocious, although when they got up to altitude and over the clouds the situation improved somewhat. They were now on their first leg of patrol, south of Sissone, when a large group of aeroplanes appeared overhead. The group split into two flights and initiated their pincer maneuver, with Ziggy’s flight right in the middle. He tried to keep track of as many of the attacking aeroplanes as he could, but in the end one of them he wasn’t tracking put a few holes in his plane. Zygmunt could see now these were Nieuports, but not the silver sort. These had the brown and green camouflage all over. They were also armed with a Lewis machine gun on the top wing. The French pilots were flying circles around the heavy Albatrosen, but Ziggy managed to stick with one and follow. At some point another Nieuport crossed his sights and Hahn took the opportunity to place a few rounds in that machine as well, but ultimately he remained with his original target. At one point the French scout nearly got away, when Zygmunt’s Albatros stalled mid-climb, but he was able to catch up with his prey and fill it full of holes. The nimble Nieuport disintegrated mid-air after Hahn’s last salvo and the carcass of the machine tumbled down towards the Prouvais Woods below.

YouTube Link



Zygmunt was now on his own trying to find the rest of his flight. Instead he chanced upon one of the remaining French machines making its way back south. He followed him and was able to bring it down just inside enemy territory south of Guignicourt. He was certain he wouldn’t have any witnesses for this claim, but as he was turning around to return north he spotted Ltn Tybelsky pulling alongside to form up. He could see the white of his wingmate’s teeth. His grin signified he saw the kill. It was a short hop back to base.

YouTube Link



(Epilepsy warning: the videos contain a fair amount of violent cloud flickering)

Carrick, I need to get the address of that beer hall. There is nothing like that were my guy's stationed.

Fullofit, glad to see that Ziggy's move to the Marne has not affected his rate of production. As you'll see below, Vogel has not had a great couple of days.

Tagebuch of Oblt. der Res. Hans-Dieter Vogel

Jasta 12
Erkegem, Belgium


Part 53


7 November 1917

Life at Erkegem is looking up a little. This morning we take possession of a large house belonging to the former station master in nearby Oostkamp. My room is not nearly as large as the one I enjoyed at Roucourt, but there is a proper bed and wash basin, and the place is warm. We have room for Mueller and five pilots. Two other houses nearby are now billets for the remainder of our pilots and non-commissioned officers. We have requested pioneers to construct huts at the airfield for our mechanics and other troops, who are still under canvas.

Is the war done now for the winter? That is the question everyone is asking. Steinmesser does not want to move our animals from the monastery until we are confident that there will be no further major battle requiring us to move again. Two or three weeks from now we should be safe to make a decision.

Shortly before nine we take off on a mostly clear but cold morning for a patrol of the lines. We can see the coast once we climb a little. And to the north-west we see the flooded land at the mouth of the River Yser. We form up and had south-west told Ypres. The autumn fighting there has staggered to a conclusion. After heavy losses to both sides, Passchendaele has fallen to the Canadians. They are welcome to it. The land in this sector looks like a mediaeval painting of hell, only wetter.

Schobinger has dashed in front and waggled his wings. We follow him in a shallow dive. A single two-seater lies below – an RE8. Schobinger is first to attack, followed by Becker. I hold back a little and watch for Adam, a new pilot who has just joined us. The Englishman is weaving about and giving his gunner a good chance to shoot back. I dip and dodge to keep out of his sights and under his tail. Now I close in and fire fifty rounds. The English machine rolls to the left and his observer hits me with a couple of rounds.

Just my luck! I smell petrol and see a wisp of vapour behind my Albatros. We are nearly over the enemy lines and I must immediately turn away. My engine dies about a minute later and I glide ever lower as I cross the front. Our aerodrome at Halluin is visible ahead through the cloud. In five minutes I am on the ground, done for the day. I do not return to Erkegem until nearly dinner time.

I find a new letter from Marenke. There is no sketch inside. Instead, she entertains me with the small details of her life. She describes the pastor at her church and the challenge of staying awake during the service. She describes the noises her father makes when he eats and the way her mother chides him. Then she takes me on a walk through her small town and we stop at a bakery to buy apple tarts. And she has so many questions about flying, about the life at the Jasta, about victory and fear. It is like a long talk with an old friend. I begin a reply but soon put down my pen as tiredness overtakes me.


8 November 1917

Off again on a line patrol, this time with Ewers, Becker, Schobinger, Neckel, and the new man Adam. We climb to altitude south of Bruges before heading south-west to the front. Once over the trenches, we fly south toward Ypres. We are at 3000 metres. I see a large formation of enemy scouts far ahead but they are much higher. We begin to climb, although there is little chance of catching them. They are light in colour – probably Nieuports.

Another formation approaches from the south, still higher than us but not by much. They are heading north-east. There are two observation machines up at 4000 metres and four or five scouts closer to our own altitude. I give the signal and we turn to the east, climbing to put ourselves between them and the sun. There is no point. The enemy has seen us. The observation machines turn west while the scouts come directly at us. I am unconcerned. We are six and they are no more than five. But with the first head on pass, I realise these Frenchmen – for that is what they are – will be no easy prey. They are flying Spads, but of a newer type with twin synchronised machine guns. And fast! They flash past us and zoom into climbing turns. All morning I have been cursing my Albatros. It is not giving full revs and now it wallows about in the thin air as I try to bring it around. One of the Spads has singled me out. His bullets splatter across my machine as he flashes past. I struggle to bring my machine around again. It threatens to fall out of the sky even in a shallow turn. Now the Spad is on me again. More rounds rip through my crate.

It gets even worse. My Frenchman has a friend with him next time and the two Spads pump more bullets into my poor machine. I begin to spin downwards and hope they will think I am done for. Five or six seconds pass and I begin to ease my Albatros out of its dive. There is a terrible crack. To my horror, the right V strut has begun to separate from the lower wing. I completely switch off and glide eastward. It is impossible to hold the machine level and it wants to fall into a steeper sideslip. That will certainly cause the damaged wing to fail. I struggle with the control column pressed hard against my right leg. With full right rudder I can keep the machine from diving, but now it wants to turn away from the path toward home. Every few seconds I must let the machine begin a slip in order to point it eastwards again. Down and down I go. I glance over my shoulder every few seconds expecting the Spads to fall on me like a pair of vultures. Some cloud cover above is probably saving me.

The ground comes up. I have no idea on what side of the line I will come down. The machine hits and bounces. The undercarriage catches some wire and the Albatros snaps about, shattering its wings and tail as it slams to the ground and sinks backwards into a shell crater. I unbuckle and clamber out in a panic. The mud clings like wet plaster to my flying boots. I am terrified of sinking and grab a strand of barbed wire.
For perhaps fifteen minutes I lie in the mud while mortar rounds fall all about. No wine or whistle – just a blast that sickens your stomach. Then I hear German shells passing overhead toward the enemy lines. I try fruitlessly to gain my feet. Just when I am ready to collapse in exhaustion, two Fusslappenindianer [1] drop into my shell crater, sling their rifles over their shoulders and grab me by the arms. My feet barely touch the ground as we run across a twenty-metre stretch of open ground before dropping into a deep and well-built trench.

I gasp my gratitude to the two burly privates. They have seen the pretty blue metal around my neck. If for a moment I thought it might bring deference to higher rank and status, that idea quickly disappears.

“We figured you’d get out of that contraption but get bogged down,” says the taller of the two soldiers. “A man can drown in this mud. Ernst here said to hell with you, but I figured we’d rescue you since you were probably an officer and had cigarettes.”

Their names are Ernst and Guenter and their unit is a reserve battalion from Württemberg. I learn that they are due to be rotated to the rear tonight and they expect I can go along with them. I give them all my cigarettes except two and we chat for quite a while before they lead me through a maze of deep muddy passageways to their company commander’s bunker. There a Leutnant meets me and questions me at some length while I stand shivering in the trench above the bunker entrance. His questions show that the idiot is concerned I am French or English. At length some choice swear words convince him I am a true citizen of the Kaiserreich. He leads me down the steps through two heavy curtains and into a large and well-revetted room. There are tables and desks and typewriters and kerosene lanterns, and even genuine beds and storage cabinets. In one corner stands an ornate painted chest of drawers with the mirror and a floral ceramic shaving bowl. A muddy black terrier yips about my feet. It seems to know the sheep my boots were made from
.
The company commander is Hauptmann Fassner. I like him immediately. His home is Karlsruhe and he has been fighting since 1914. Best of all, he has a bottle of good Rudesheimer brandy to share. We talk for an hour. Fassner wants to know about the air war. He is not without criticism of our efforts. In his view, too much of our work is done well inside our own territory and not enough over the heads of the army. I try to explain our strategy, but as I sit there with the English shells falling overhead and shaking dirt from the ceiling, I have to concede that living under the perpetual watch of enemy observation machines entitles him to his view.

In any event, I am not there for long. As soon as night comes we begin our march out of the lines. It is more of a stumble, actually. The British flying boots are not made for long walks!


9 November 1917

Most of this day is spent sitting under trees by the edge of a field watching soldiers curse and joke and clean their weapons. At noon the Goulaschkanone [2] arrives with tall insulated cans filled with thick soup, baskets of black bread, and apples. I wait patiently for all the men and NCOs to go through the line before joining in at the back of the company officers. The meal is certainly bracing.

Ernst comes to see me in the afternoon. He offers me two of his issue cigarettes. He is convinced that if God met man to fly, He would have given us wings. I tell him that if God meant men to screw, He would have made us all handsome. He is a farmer’s son with the farmer’s instinct for things mechanical. He insists that I explain in detail how machine guns are synchronised to fire through a propeller.

The Benz does not arrive until seven at night. It is driven by the orderly, Hartigen. He has been thoughtful enough to bring a change of clothes and some real shoes. Changing quickly, I load my muddy gear into the back and climb aboard. Neither of us has had dinner and we stop at Roulers for the night. There we find a small hotel and room with two beds and stroll through town until we find a restaurant. Hartigen is uneasy because staff officers at another table are staring at us. Finally, a Hauptmann approaches and demands to know why I am fraternising with other ranks in an officers’ restaurant.

I have had enough. I stare at the man, take a sip of wine, refill my glass and Hartigen’s, and say, “Because I am hungry and my driver here is hungry and I need to get back to my squadron tonight and I don’t have time to fart about looking for separate restaurants just to please the society ladies in Army staff.”

Flustered, the fellow says he must report this higher. I ask the waiter for a pencil and paper. On it I write my name, rank, and number. I explain to the Hauptmann that it is important when reporting things higher to get the facts right. “Oh, and report one more thing. Tell them I told you…” I finish the sentence with the suggestion that the Hauptmann perform a physically impossible and ultimately narcissistic act.
I then turn back and clink glasses with Hartigen, who feels much safer now.


10 November 1917

Over to the Flugpark at Ghent to pick up a new machine. Hartigen has my kit looking brand-new this afternoon. As soon the mechanics are finished giving this Albatros a once over, I will take it up for a flip.


NOTES

[1] "Foot wrap Indians" – a jokingly derogatory term for infantry soldiers, who were issued with foot wraps instead of socks.

[2] "Goulash cannon" – the company quartermaster sergeant's field kitchen wagon.

Carrick - Your men do have a way of finding the hot spots. And the Keg with H&B on it couldn't be more fortuitous. An omen perhaps.

Fullofit - Oh such perfidy! Tangled web of lies doesn't even come close. That Steinmesser is utterly nefarious. Condolences about the loss of command, general disgrace, overall humilation and transfer to the unfashionable Marne district. On the bright side Ziggy's new CO does appear to have a sense of humor. How very non-Teutonic. If it's any consolation, the French are significantly less aggressive than the Lime sucking Krumpet-eaters at this point in the war. I had such high hopes for a romantic interlude avec Mlle Nadette. C'est la guerre. 79 though. Looking good!

Raine - Another outstanding episode, rich with historical detail. Verdammt golden BB again! Tedious. Very Tedious. Good to see Vogel safely down and of course, taking care of his non-comms. Way to put that tight-arsed Hauptman in his place. I hope Vogel told him to kiss his PLM. Not optimistic about Steinmesser's animal husbandry plans. Time will tell.

I must acknowledge Lou's outstanding and timely contribution to these recent crossovers. As I said in a grotesquely mixed metaphor, he's provided Fresh Legs for my Dull Brain. Freddy's words are Lou's own and the Freddy-Oliver episodes are significantly richer for Lou's efforts.

__________________________________________



À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 39 of many


(Continued from previous entry)


Clarissa was late. As I waited a thickly set, white-bearded man in a large brimmed hat exited Rules and acknowledging me with a nod continued on his way. I caught a glimpse of the hawk nose and hooded eyes but the rest of his face lay cloaked in shadow.



Fifteen minutes past the hour a bright blue Rolls of more recent design than the silver machine from last night pulled to a halt. Clarissa emerged wearing a low-cut blue dress under a dark grey coat lined with fur at the neck. The look was more Russian than English. We were immediately escorted to our booth.



Oliver, don’t you wish to sit next to me and survey the scene? You and your fellow VCs are the kings of London now.”

“Not particularly. I like the view from here where I can look at you without distraction,” I replied.
The remark appeared to please her. Facing the marble bust on the far wall had the added advantage of cloaking the VC ribbon which drew so much interest.
The waiter handed me the single menu and departed. I scanned it for a moment.

“Care to have a look?” I asked.

‘Oh I wouldn’t dream of denying you your big night. I’m in your heroically capable hands, Captain Winningstad.”

Our waiter returned with a bottle of champagne I hadn’t ordered. “With the compliments and gratitude of Mr. Zed,” he announced.
“Mr Zed?” I inquired. “I should like to thank him.”
"One of our most distinguished patrons. He has unfortunately departed this evening,” he said as he popped the cork and filled our two flutes.

“I believe you’re enjoying my predicament,” I said, as I continued my frenetic study of the menu.

“Very much so, my dear Captain. I am most entertained,” she said, smiling into her champagne.

“May I suggest the oysters, sir. Fresh in from Mersea,” interjected the waiter.
“Why not.” I replied. The waiter departed.

“I hope that choice meets with your approval, Miss Covington-Chandos.”

“If we’re going to have oysters, Oliver, you’d best call me Clarissa.”



In the end I opted for the lamb saddle for two. The only red wine I recognized on the list was Petrus, which I remembered from that day in March when the ferry pilots had come into St. Omer. Sheer dumb luck that it was a perfect accompaniment to the lamb.

Over dinner we continued our tales of Shanghai and Hong Kong. The exact details of Clarissa’s far-traveling life were revealed with some difficulty as without my realizing it she seamlessly deflected the conversation back to my own travels. I did manage to work out a rough chronology: five years in Paris from age 9-14, followed by two at a Swiss boarding school after which she joined her father for his two-year posting in St. Petersburg. She’d returned from Asia only recently.

“So how many languages have you then?” I asked.
“Let me see,” she said, tilting her head thought. “Un, zwei, три, أربعة, 五, six."
“Was that Arabic? When did that happen?”
“We were six months in Cairo on the way to Hong Kong,” she replied. “I can bargain in the bazaar but I’m far from fluent.”

“I envy you your voyaging. Such things you must have seen. Which springs to mind as the most memorable?” I queried.

“So many. The White Nights in Petrograd. And the Bolshoi. I do so love the ballet. What about you?”

“The Pacific at night under a canopy of billions and billions of stars. Storming down the face of mountainous typhoon seas not knowing if we’d rise to the light again. Ancient cities of the East, thousands of years old. California was barely settled by white men 70 years ago.”

“I feel the need to dance, Oliver. Shall we go?”



Despite the relatively early hour of 11.00, Murray’s was crowded but the VC ribbon did its work and we found ourselves whisked to one of the reserved tables. I saw Freddy standing nearby with a mixed group of RFC officers and their ladies and waved him over.

“Who are you waving to?” she asked.

“A new friend. We met this very afternoon.” I replied.

“Champagne?” I inquired.

“That goes without saying,” she answered.
The waiter departed as Freddy and his troupe came over.

“Ripper, old top! You made it after all.”

“Clarissa, may I introduce...”

“Freddy!” she exclaimed. “All grown up. A pilot and an officer now. A highly decorated one too I see. Bravo!”

“Good Lord! Clarissa!” Freddy shouted, then gave a toothy grin as he continued, “Yes, look at me now, eh. But look at you, haven’t you blossomed into the exotic thing. Two years in the Orient have clearly agreed with you, despite your protests to being shuttled off there at the time. And how is your Father, and your Mother and St. John for that matter? I’ve not talked with any of them since shortly before you left.”

“Thank you, Freddy. The Far East was most exhilarating and quite to my liking. Mother and St. John are well. Daddy is too, though he’s rather pressed now that he’s been assigned as Minister to the United States. He and Mother are off to America within the week.”

“Haw! He’ll get a chance to see the wild west then, Cowboys and Indians and all that. Where this fine fellow calls home!” Freddy gave me a hearty slap on the back. The two were clearly acquaintances of long standing. Clarissa, seeing my confused look, set course to allay my befuddlement.

“Oliver, my father Hubert, and Freddy’s father Arledge were at Charterhouse together a thousand years ago. They’ve been friends for years and occasional business associates. Freddy and I have known each other since we were quite young.”

Clarissa’s older brother St. John, whose name she pronounced ‘Sin-jin’, was also a Carthusian. He currently served in the Royal Navy. Freddy’s parents were often away. Over the years he’d spent several school holidays and the odd Christmas with Clarissa’s family.

Freddy made introductions to the members of his troupe and their female companions. I signaled the waiter for additional Champagne. “My treat Freddy. Fair’s fair.”
As we awaited alcoholic reinforcements to find their way forward, the ladies decamped en masse to the powder room. No sooner had they cleared earshot when Freddy spoke up.

“You lads give Ripper and I a moment if you would, I’ve a surveillance report to share with him, hush-hush and all that.”

The men in the group responded with an assortment of nods and smiles, and a lone “oooooh” thrown in for good measure as Freddy laughed them off, then turned towards me with a serious look which seemed much at odds with the happy go lucky fellow I’d imagined him to be.

“Listen up old sport, unless I’m entirely off about the wind direction here, you’ve some designs on our Clarissa, yes?”

I smiled and chided, “Why do you ask? Am I sailing into your territorial waters?”

“Haw! God no!” Freddy laughed, his face back to more familiar form. “I adore her, but as the caring sister I never had. No, I ask because if you are setting your sights on her you should know, she will…” He stopped for a moment, clearly searching for something. “What is it you sailors warn when one is sailing off the edge of the map?”

“A lee shore?... or do you mean ‘Here be Dragons’?”

“Yes by Jove, that’s it, here be dragons! A lovely, beguiling, enticing dragon but a dragon all the same, cunning and devious.”

I laughed, “well, her eyes rather suggest that...but you’re not serious, are you?”

“I’m quite serious, Ripper old top. Do you know what we lads at Charterhouse called her? Of course you don’t, how could you, maybe I have had too much to drink. ‘The Games Mistress’. We called her the ‘Games Mistress’.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She would choose a boy as her victim and in no time at all the poor sod would be wrapped round one of her lovely little fingers, doing whatever she asked. And all the while that fellow would think that each and every move he made in the contest was his idea, and his alone. In the game of love our dear Clarissa is a Grand Master, always a dozen moves ahead of whomever she is playing with.”

“This sounds rather ominous.”

“It is. You’re a top-hole sort, and I like you Ripper, I like you a lot, and I don’t want you to become another of the vanquished ones.” Freddy leaned in close as if to drive his last point home. “Just be sure that where it is you wish to go with her is really where YOU wish to go.”

Freddy downed the glass of champagne that had just been delivered by the passing waiter while quickly grabbing a second as he did so, then directed a final thought towards me.

“Clarissa’s a wonderful woman, she truly is. But men to her are conquests, pure and simple. Mountain climbers don’t stay on the summit once they’ve conquered it, do they? No, they leave, and she will too.”

Dancing continued with great enthusiasm with barely a visit back to our table for refreshment. My head cleared of the wine but soon became clouded with other matters. Clarissa was stunningly beautiful and like the previous night, she made me look a far better dance partner than my skills might normally allow. Just before midnight a tremendous report sounded, shaking the building, and rattling the windows so violently I thought they would burst. Even indoors I could feel the passing of the pressure wave. A bomb! A huge bomb and close by. No Gotha could carry ordnance that heavy. Zeppelins!

Clarissa visibly jumped at the blast. Her face betrayed startlement and concern but no fear. Screams rose and a surge of patrons pushed toward the exit. I kept my right hand firmly around the small of Clarissa’s back.

“Keep dancing my dear. We don’t want to contribute to a panic. It’s safer inside if the Huns drop any more bombs.”

The thought also occurred that the sight of a VC man scuttling for the door wouldn’t do. It was obvious Clarissa wanted to leave but she gamely continued with me around the dance floor. I guided us away from the windows. We danced in silence for a few minutes until the music started once again. Soon everything was back to normal at Murray’s. The bomb fell to the south from the sound of things. I hoped it hadn’t struck Piccadilly or some other crowded area. D*mn these Huns to the darkest pit of Tartarus!

“Clarissa, have I mentioned how beautiful you look this evening?”
“You have not, Captain Winningstad. I believe you over late in making that observation.”
“How may I atone for such an egregious breach of manners, Miss Covington-Chandos?”
“You may escort me home. I suddenly find myself rather exhausted.”

We returned to our group of companions and made our farewells.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the Palace, Freddy.”

“Of course Ripper old sport, tomorrow then,” he smiled, despite the obvious concern that furrowed his bushy brow. He redirected his attention.
“Clarissa, it was spiffing to see you again! Now that you’re home we must get together when the war allows. Give my regards to your Father and Mother before they toddle off to America, and to St. John as well when next you see him.”

Freddy placed a hand on Clarissa’s shoulder while simultaneously giving her a peck on the cheek. He turned again and faced me directly, grabbed my hand and gave it a firm shake, then flashed his toothy grin as he offered a farewell reminder.

“Edge of the map Ripper old man, edge of the map.”

With that Freddy was away, shouting to the lads to see their ladies safely home or into cabs, then rejoin him at Piccadilly Circus as that was where the bomb was reported to have landed.
“They’re going to need hands there to help after what those filthy cowardly Hun rotters did! King and Country lads, King and Country!”

As Freddy rallied the men like a knight of old, I couldn’t help but think of Thomas Prewett. Freddy was the same sort of smiling, relentlessly upbeat personality, and like Sgt. Prewett, an inexorable force of nature.

__________________________________________


“Chester Row, Belgravia,” said Clarissa to the driver.

Searchlights continued their frenzied circles on the low cloud layer. They would detect nothing. The Zeppelins were thousands of feet higher if they weren’t already back across the Channel. As the cab drove on, Clarissa’s hand came to rest on my thigh. I could feel her subtly leaning against me. I took her hand in mine and kissed it, my lips lingering on her delicate flesh. No words were needed.

The cab dropped us somewhere in Belgravia. We then walked several blocks in right-left fashion through the quiet, deserted streets of blackout darkened London. I could see but not far. I imagined I could make out shapes following in the darkness, but they disappeared as we turned around yet another very fashionable block on our stair stepping course.

Arriving at our destination at last, I positioned myself to steal a kiss anticipating the unwelcome end to our evening. My maneuverings did not go unnoticed.

“Oh do come in, Oliver. The least I can do is offer you a drink after squiring me so gallantly tonight.”

The house at 163 Eaton Place was deserted and had only recently been reopened for habitation. As Clarissa led up the main staircase, I could see the drop cloths covering the first-floor furniture.
“This is your home?” I asked.
“Temporary lodgings. It belongs to one of Daddy’s friends,” she said.

“You live here alone? I’m surprised. I imagined you a girl requiring staff,” I ventured.

“Obviously. But they won’t arrive until tomorrow, so I’m roughing it. Mother’s fled to Hampshire and Daddy stays at his Club when he’s in London, so you needn’t worry about scandalizing the household. I can't speak for the Bellamys next door.
“Help yourself to whatever you’d like. The one on the right is the last of the 25-year old,” she continued, indicating a stand of decanters. “I won’t be long.”

I looked around the mahogany-paneled room. Dark wing back club chairs sat next to the fireplace. A row of pipes stood to attention in a rack on the mantle. The large desk set at angle fronted two walls of leather-bound volumes. A mounted boar’s head stared down from the wall above the doorway, smooth yellow tusks gleaming in the soft light. Odd that Clarissa would choose this room to be opened first.

Pouring myself a good two fingers of the amber nectar I took a healthy sip. Like a wave approaching in the open sea whose true size is lost in distance, so the whiskey rolled toward the palate gradually, with wisps of citrus and sherry. Higher and higher it rose until, in the full majesty of its ancient might, it landed with unimaginable weight, rich with dried fruits, wood smoke and spice. Closing my eyes and abandoning myself to the finish, the wave passed over me. I swam back to the light.

Clarissa stood there in a red and gold silk robe, carelessly sashed and revealing long legs, elegantly muscled. Even in her silken slippers she stood 5’7”. The lamplight lent it’s golden hue to her pale skin and accentuated the color of her eyes. Her womanly curves were not those of the voluptuous Parisian dancer but rather the leaner form of the athlete.

“Artemis, delighting in arrows,
...of lovely shape like none of the heavenly gods”

My heart leapt. Before me stood the Goddess of the Hunt as I imagined, but not of chastity in her present form.

She opened a cigarette box on the table, examined one which, failing to meet her standards, she returned to the box with a pouty hmmff.
“Try one of these,” I said, opening my new cigarette case. Clarissa selected one which I lit with my trench lighter.
“This is very good,” she said. “You’re an odd one, carrying cigarettes of such quality, yet you don’t smoke. I’m not sure you like that I do.”

I didn’t but now was hardly the time for that conversation.

“I carry them to offer to the men and on rare special occasions, a lady, but for myself I find them terribly destructive to the wind. The frozen air at 18,000 feet is desperately thin. Changing a drum at that height, pushing the Lewis Gun back into position, it takes all my effort. I’m gasping for breath and exhausted afterwards. Some of the fellows can’t manage it up that high and descend several thousand feet to reload. Even a thousand feet can mean the difference between life and death if Huns are lurking.

“There’s another reason,” I said.

“Which is...?”

“When I kiss you, Clarissa, I want taste you and not the cigarette.”

She extinguished the Dunhill and taking the whiskey glass from my hand she took a deep swallow, savoring the magic before setting the glass down.

“And when will that be?” she asked archly.

Soft lips and ravenous mouth, jousting tongues, a frenzied undressing as Clarissa tore at my uniform. Her agile hands shed the Sam Browne and uniform tunic. I swam out of my braces while she unbuttoned my shirt. When I kissed her neck, she gasped and threw back her head in a giggle. My hands ran down the line of her back. I went to open her robe but her palm against my chest pushed me backwards.

“Stay still. Let me see you,” she said, stepping back to appraise me as one might inspect horseflesh or a prize bull.

This was something different. Amused, I complied and stood before her hands-on-hips.

“What have we here?” she said in a low sultry voice as she had my shirt off. Her eyes tracked to the scar across my chest. Her fingers danced along the silvery purple line of the healed wound. The smell of jasmine in her hair carried to my nostrils. Caressing my scarred left shoulder, she continued around me anti-clockwise, her left hand never breaking contact. I turned my head to follow her as I might track a hostile aircraft. I felt a warm hand up along my neck, then a wet kiss on my back where the splinter lodged. Around to my right side her fingers explored the round scars of Ackland’s bullet before appearing once again in front of me.

“I wonder what you look like completely sans uniform,” she said.

“I have other scars, Clarissa.”

“Come then...” she said and walked toward the door.

Begins now the dance--the Dance of the Hunger of Kaa

Transfixed, I drained the glass and followed.

Sorcery, something artful, transporting in its intensity. Entwined as creatures of air and fire, we soared through other realms. Other voices cried out in the passion of our fierce union.

Clarissa’s legs wrapped tightly around me, drawing me closer still. Her breathing increased, hidden muscles tightened in arcane fashion as her nails raked my back. The look on her face was one of worried concentration giving way to what almost looked like anger. Her golden eyes arced with fire.

...I returned from wherever it was I’d gone.

“Oliver, enough. Oliver!” she hissed.

Shocked, I stopped immediately. “Clarissa?”

“I didn’t think you so cruel,” she said, looking up at me with soft, wide eyes.

“Clarissa, I ... did I hurt you?”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Oliver, she replied. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
Her legs locked again around my waist and rolled me to one side. She sat up.
“First times can be awkward. I prefer to get them out of the way and so anticipate subsequent engagements.
“None of my arts succeeded though,” she continued in grudging acknowledgment. “The Apis Bull just kept on.”

“Clarissa, this is mortifying. I don’t know what to say.”

She drew a cigarette from a silver case on the bedside table. Lighting it, she took a long drag and exhaled slowly. The trail of smoke spiraled at angle toward the ceiling, coiling like a dragons tail.

“Who is she?” she asked in a low, velvety voice. A sudden wisp of menace swirled along with the meandering smoke. “Do tell.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. When your mind went away, who were you making love to these past...” she looked at the clock and did the calculation “...these past 40 minutes? It was me at first, then it was someone else.”

I said nothing. In my silence and on my face, she read the truth of her accusation. Her visage darkened and the dragon’s eyes returned. I saw the rage behind them, and the hurt too. In her voice sounded the barest chord of petulance, as if our sex were a kind of contest and she’d lost the match. Crying off as she did only made things worse for her. Here was the Games Mistress, revealed at last.

“You don’t approve of me do you, Oliver?” Her voice was low and held an acid tone. “Or shall I call you Ripper? Yes, I think I shall. You conceive me frivolous or wicked; an insipid naïf bedazzled by your medals and scars and your tales of adventure. I honor you with the gift of my body, yet you DARE bring another woman with you into my bed. Am I your whore to be used thus?”

“Gods no, Clarissa! Of course not. I would never judge you so. Why do you say such a thing?”

Silence. The only sound was the crinkling immolation of the cigarette paper as she drew the smoke deep into her lungs.

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll assume you’re not casting your net for compliments.” Her attention remained on the ceiling. “Look at me,” I said too strongly. My hand was on her chin turning her face to me.

“I think you extraordinary, Clarissa. You’re brilliant and fierce, and lovely beyond the dreams of mortal men. There’s something of the ancient world about you, a glorious, intoxicating splendor, like that of a Bronze Age Princess. I find you mysterious, and wonderfully fascinating.”

Fool! You did not just say that, Oliver.

“Do you?” Her mouth bent in the tiniest of smiles, but the hard eyes remained.
“Time for you to go, Ripper,” she said, turning away and stubbing out the cigarette. She rose, donned her robe, and glided with silent grace out of the room.
“You can see yourself out,” she said without looking back. The door closed behind her.

It was a cold walk from Eaton Place back to the RAC. What started so beautifully had quite exploded in the end. I kept trying to think of where it suddenly went wrong. Clarissa was lovely and at times a little daunting. I liked her. I liked her very much indeed. Why did this have to happen now? It was all so confusing. Apis Bull called me. I approved the comparison before recalling the typical fate of that ancient beast. Freddy’s warning sounded again in my head as did the words of the dashing and enigmatic Monsieur Du Guesclin.

“One would be wise to recall that both fortune and a lady’s favor can be capricious.”

.

Epower - I will say it again, it was great fun collaborating with you on the Oliver / Freddy episodes, great fun indeed! Maybe we should write an entire book together. Until now I’d not been privy to what would follow - outstanding stuff! Poor Oliver, Freddy did his best to warn him.

Fullofit - What a strange and unfortunate turn of events for our Ziggy, yet another of our brave lads undone by a woman! I do wonder though if Ziggy is not somewhat relieved not to have to run the show anymore but can simply focus on what he does best, knocking down the enemy and running up his score. Here’s wishing he can make the best of his punishment.

Raine - Moving day to Erkegem was a disaster for Vogel and his men, four losses before they even reached they’re new digs and his own machine beat to hell?! And I wonder how sharing the AO with Buckler and Jasta 17 is going to affect Vogel’s efforts to top the tally boards. Ah, but another letter from Marenke, so a bright spot there, that is until he was forced down god-knows-where! At least he made it back to camp - eventually. Let’s hope the fresh new mount changes our hero’s luck for the better.

Carrick - Sooooo, where is this bierstube exactly? Seems to be a popular spot for the Kaiser’s men to gather. Map coordinates would be appreciated so that the King’s airmen can pay them all a friendly visit. No really, friendly.

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Raine and RAF Lou: There is also the smell of BBQ in the air.

https://giphy.com/gifs/3o6fITccHWWFH8iPi8/fullscreen

Raine, Donnerwetter! What rotten luck! Getting your butt shot from under you in quick succession is not doing any good for poor Vogel’s self esteem. Good thing Imperial Army grunts are starved for cigarettes, otherwise Hans would be stuck in that mud hole. And that scene in the restaurant, I thought it would come to fisticuffs and poor Vogel would also be demoted and sent to Marne sector

Epower, it is for the better. Marne is a sector my computer can still handle.
Oh good, Clarissa has been discovered! Oliver is lucky it ended this quickly. He should send a case of champagne to Freddy for warning him in time of this ... this cunning linguist. He’s probably better off like this. I’m surprised she’s only discovered “the other woman” this late. Not so smart after all. It will be a difficult period for Oliver. He will wonder if there is indeed something wrong with him, but it will pass. It will make him stronger. It will make him immune to the snake venom. Concentrate Oliver, the investiture is tomorrow.

Lou, Ziggy is definitely better off. As you say, he can now concentrate on his score, without any breast-toting distractions. Now, to actually find the enemy in this backwater ...

11 November, 1917 09:45
Saint-Loup-en-Champagne, Marne Sector
Jasta 19
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO
78 confirmed kills
Awaiting two claim confirmations

Schwarm Zwei received their orders: intercept enemy machines approaching airfield at Saint-Remy-le-Petit. They were met by a flight of SPADs over the airfield. Ziggy was lucky to get one for himself. They fought for some time, but Zygmunt inflicted enough damage to force his foe to retreat. As he followed with little hope of catching up, he noticed the enemy plane begin to wobble. After a while the wobble turned into a bank and a dive. The dive seemed terminal with a little corkscrew added to the trajectory. Hahn watched his target hit the ground near Aisne, south of the aerodrome. He looked around for a witness and immediately found his wingmate Leutnant Tybelsky. Today he would be Hahn’s witness again.

YouTube Link

So many great stories and masters of story-telling. Keep writing and I will keep reading!