Epower, I have no idea what’s gotten into them flying so close. Too close. KanoneKönig? That’s so British. Zygmunt prefers Kanone ... <Dr. Evil pinkie to corner of mouth, eyes shifting from side to side, evil laugh> ... Kaiser!
This was an exquisite episode, Sir! I am now beginning to hate Eliza. Turns out she’s the snake to Clarissa’s dragon. It’s too bad Oliver is destined to drown in venom or be burned to a crisp by fiery breath. It is probably much more honest fate to die fighting in the air against the enemy you know.
Excellent description of the meeting with the King. I don’t think His Majesty usually gets characters like Oliver to bestow England’s highest award on. Well done. And Smokey? With a name like that, no wonder he joined the Marines.
P.S.
Oliver should introduce He Who Strikes from Afar to Clarissa and watch the fireworks.

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

3 out of the last 5 claims have been confirmed.
Balloon defence east of Reims.
By the time they’ve arrived the observation balloon they were supposed to protect was already smouldering on the ground and the enemy planes responsible for downing it were long gone. Could they have gotten here earlier and prevent its demise? Difficult to predict. With nothing to do, Zygmunt turned his flight around and returned home.

Epower, wonderful episode to have with my breakfast this morning! Poor Oliver is experiencing what some would call exquisite pain. I wholeheartedly agree that you should introduce He Who Strikes from Afar to Clarissa. You could put a cage over it and put it on pay-per-view. I have grown very fond of Aunt Rhea and the General. And good job working Grafton Galleries into the story! Now we just have to wait for Oliver to make his plan to win Eliza back. But first, the war…

Fullofit, Ziggy had three out of five claims confirmed! Life is so unfair. He is disappearing over the horizon and Vogel is being relegated to a B division in our little competition. Still, Vogel gets to enjoy life at Phalempin – a lovely field. Are you flying the D.III OAW or the D.V? How are you finding it these days?

Raine, good food, great digs and no trouble from women trump high score. Enjoy Phalempin while you can. Ziggy is flying the D.V and it is not too bad. Not as fast as a SPAD and not as maneuverable as a Nieuport, so not too bad, but a little birdie is whispering in his ear that they’re due for an upgrade in a month’s time. Oh, the anticipation!

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 42 of many



21 October 1917
Royal Automobile Club
London, England

Head splitting, I woke to a ghastly sound. Smokey singing...



On the first verse of “Shave his belly with a rusty razor,” he thumped me on the stomach and continued with the shanty. Any hope of returning to sleep died then.

“Almost noon,” he declared. “Let’s go burn off last night’s drink.”

On the way to the gymnasium I stopped at the front desk. Two messages awaited. The first was from Ambassador Page requesting a meeting tomorrow at 3.00. The second was from Clarissa.

“Murray's. 11.00. – CCC”

I handed Smokey Clarissa’s note.

“Smokey, how do they know. Women. How do they always know when we want nothing to do with them? Have they some preternatural sense of a man’s vulnerability? They seek us out at our weakest, most defenseless moments, like a predator stalking a wounded animal.”
“Quite the come hither,” he observed drily. “This is the one from the other night? The one who sent you packing? Beware the siren sweetly singing.”

‘My friend Freddy knows her. He warned me that ‘Here be Dragons.’ She’s a nice tumble through. Rather wild, in fact. I’ve never been with anyone like her.”

“This Freddy told you some truth. You don’t know your own mind right now, not after Eliza broke things off. And since when have you ever been after just a quick tumble. You’ve always given your heart easily, Young Bull, to your friends and most especially to women. You can’t help yourself, it’s your nature. Sail carefully.”

Smokey led me through a brutal regimen at the conclusion of which I was sober and free of the painful effects of last night’s revels. We sat in the steam of the Turkish bath.
“I was fortunate to see you get your medal. That passage was not without price, so I speak as messenger now. The higher ups want you in the new American Air Service. Your VC will only increase their ardor. I am ordered to convince you what a golden opportunity this would be to serve your country. I’m sure that’s what Ambassador Page wants to discuss with you tomorrow.”

“Am I still an American, then?” I asked.

“You did swear an oath to old Georgie, so I’d say there’s some doubt. If they covet you this badly, that detail won’t matter. I’m sure Ambassador Page could be of help.”

“How could I refuse, since you present this with such enthusiasm...” I said.

“I’ve met some officers of this new Signal Corps as they call it,” Smokey continued. “Ring Knockers every man jack among them. You know the type – careerists of the worst kind. Some few are good men, no doubt, but of the ones I’ve met, I’d not trust any of them. Keep a weather eye out when the time comes.”
____________________________

I saw Smokey off at Victoria. He’d catch a military packet boat at Folkestone in the morning. Walking up the palace road in the gloaming I cut through St. James Park lost in thought. Clarissa’s invitation, or summons rather, weighed heavily. In a brief fit of self-delusion I actually considered letting the opportunity pass.

Begins again the dance – The dance of the Hunger of Kaa...

Arriving promptly at 11.00 Murray’s was in full swing. I visited with a few men I recognized from my last visit, some of Freddy’s crew, all the while keeping an eye out for Clarissa. By 12.00 I wondered if she were coming at all.

By 12.30 I relented and accepted a dance partner. Halfway through the number I finally saw Clarissa. How long had she been here? She was engaged in an animated conversation with an older man, a conversation that looked increasingly like a confrontation. As I maneuvered my partner back toward where our crowd gathered, I lost sight of the two briefly. Making my apologies to the lady, I left her in the company of one of my newfound companions and made my way hastily though the crowd toward Clarissa.

The man appeared in his 30s, though it was difficult to say for certain as his hair was jet black. He wore a thinner mustache than was fashionable under his classic Greek nose. Judging by the red face, and the narrowed beetle eyes he was in some state of agitation.

“... I see you for the slattern you are.” were the first sounds I heard. Clarissa’s slap across his face coincided with my arrival. Eyes wild with fury, the man puffed up as if inflating himself for his next outburst.

“You sir, were about to apologize.” I said, drawing up next to Clarissa.

I thought for a moment he might lose control, but he restrained himself.

“This isn’t over, Clarissa, I’ll not be subjected to this kind of behavior!” he spat, then without acknowledging me in the least, turned and stormed off toward the exit.

“Hello, Oliver,” she said, taking my arm.
“Making friends, were you? Who was that jackass?” I asked.
‘No one of consequence” she replied. “Shall we dance?”

Like the night at the embassy, we moved in our own insular world and once again I was falling into those eyes.

“I liked your note,” she said.
“Clarissa, about the other night...”
“Don’t be a bore, Oliver. I’m sure I have no idea what you’re speaking about.”

Some dances later she asked me about flying, what was it like up so high.
“It’s terribly cold, more so this time of year. We’re bundled up in our flying sheepskin suits and fleece helmets, face mask, and goggles. My face goes numb after a short while, so I don’t feel it as much. The worst is the ears. Even with the fleece helmet and the silken under caps we wear, the ears still freeze.”

“I can think of a better way to keep your ears warm,” she said. “Shall we go?”

______________________________________________

“Arthur Street, Chelsea,” said Clarissa.

The cab clop-clopped along.

“Stop here please.” she said suddenly. I paid the cab driver. I didn’t know Chelsea at all and hadn’t been paying attention to our route being otherwise diverted in the cab.

“Let’s walk,” she said. “It’s not far.

All the houses were dark, their owners fled to the countryside to escape the German raids.

“Home is it?” I asked. “I don’t recognize these streets.”
“Lost your way? I didn’t think so distractable, Captain Winningstad. Take care lest some dreadful Hun come stalking up unseen behind you.”

Even with her wrap she shivered in the chill air. I removed my trench coat and set it over her shoulders.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

A car slowed behind us, then drove past pulling to a stop thirty yards ahead. A man exited. Looking behind, I saw another emerging from the shadows on the opposite side of the street, trailing 20 yards behind. It wasn’t my imagination this time.

“Oliver do you...”
“I see him. One behind also. Walk on the other side of me, Clarissa.”

Mental alarm bells chimed like Big Ben. The all too familiar electric tingle of apprehension spread outward from my solar plexus.

Be the trouble or run from the trouble. I can’t run.

It all happened with a detached alacrity. The two closed the distance with astonishing pace, timing their arrival perfectly.

I steered us to the doorway of a darkened townhouse. Clarissa moved up the steps to the landing. The low wrought iron fences and a single lamppost bounded an entryway 6 feet wide. Not an ideal spot, and certainly not the Hot Gates but it would have to do. They’d have a harder time getting around me here so would need to go through me to reach Clarissa, but I’d no room for maneuver. If they rushed me together, I’d be in trouble. Desperate ground.


“On hemmed-in ground, resort to stratagem. On desperate ground, fight.”

Shuffling slowly forward I tried to make myself appear smaller while avoiding eye contact. Neither man looked to be holding a weapon and their hands were in plain view. They stood together in the street a pace shy of the curb.

“Let’s take care of ‘im then we’ll have the bird, eh?” said Mr. Left

“Look there, e’s got the Victoria Cross, ‘ow bout that? Should we let ‘im run away, then?” said Mr. Right, turning to his partner.

“Are they all bloody imbeciles in your family?” replied Mr. Left. “If he’s wearin’ a Victoria Cross, he ain’t gonna be runnin’ is he?”

Mr. Right tilted his head in a strangely canine fashion considering this last point.

Now! Be quick!

I flashed forward pushing off the lowest step as I moved. landing before Mr. Right I raised my right knee as if to threaten his groin. He instinctively looked down. My right boot scraped down his shin and stomped atop his left foot. Mr right palm exploded straight up in a chin jab as my left arm hooked over his right. I could hear his teeth make a thick hollow clomping sound as the blow smashed the mandible directly upwards. His head snapped back, rattling the brain. My right hand folded then like a claw over the center of his face. I jabbed my index and ring fingers into his eyes as I grabbed below his right sleeve with my left hand. I pulled him around toward his partner. He buckled and threatened to pull me down.

Stay on your feet!

I held him up with my left as I hammered his exposed throat twice with the hard edge of my right hand. I tried to push him into his comrade but met empty air. Mr. Right bounced off the lamp post and fell semi-conscious against the wrought iron fence.

I’d left it too late. I was out in the street now, well beyond the curb. Mr. Left sidestepped to avoid the collision and now stood between me and Clarissa. In a low crouch he crabbed toward me. Suddenly he snapped his head back with a grimace. I saw the small blade flash in Clarissa’s hand as she followed through the slash across the back of Mr. Left’s head. The move stemmed his attack. As I regained my position he kicked backward, driving the bundled trench coat Clarissa used as a shield into her midriff. She staggered backward up the steps then plopped on the landing with an audible woof.

It was the opening I needed. His weight was almost entirely on his front foot. My rounding outside kick landed on his planted leg just above the knee. All the hours on the bag proved their worth. His face contorting in pain, Mr. Left tried to keep weight on the leg and failed. He dropped to one knee and my straight kick drove into his face, knocking him onto his back. I leapt as high as I could, landing with both feet together, extending my legs on impact and driving the bronco kick, heels together, into the lower edge of his rib cage. As he contorted into a ball, a stomp across the jaw smacked his head against the lowest step and a second laid him out cold.

The chin-jabbed Mr. Right sagged pathetically against the iron fence. His jacket caught on the arrowed metal spike and held him fast. His arms protruded from the sleeves of his jacket. From his mouth came labored gurgling sounds, a sure sign of a cracked throat.

Clarissa regained her feet on the steps, eyes glaring, and lips drawn back like an animal baring its fangs for combat. She held the knife easily in the fingers of her left hand. My trench coat she’d rolled once again over her right arm.

“Clarissa, are you all right?”
She nodded.

I knelt to examine Mr. Right. On the inside of his wrist was a small triangular tattoo, a geometric design I’d never seen before. The unconscious Mr. Left bore an identical mark.
The entire fight hadn’t lasted more than 20 seconds.

“We should call the police for these two,” I said.
“No! Leave them. No Police!” she cried. “We have to get out of here!”

Ignoring me she dashed past, turning left up the street following our original line of travel. I ran to catch up. Clarissa led us on an evasive, stair stepping path back to the Kings Road, ran two blocks, then finally turned left into a cul de sac. Halfway down the block she leapt up the steps of a townhouse. Fumbling briefly with her keys she found the right one and unlocked the door. We dashed into a darkened foyer. She quickly threw the bolts behind us.

We stood there facing each other with wild eyes and struggling to catch our breath.
“Let no man ever accuse you of being a dull date,” I said.
Her laugh broke the tension.

“I could use a drink.” she said, turning on the lights and walking into a well-appointed sitting room.

She opened a mahogany cabinet and prepared two glasses. “Only 8-year old this time,” she said handing one to me.

Clarissa plunked down in one of the large chairs, her arms splayed across the heavy leather-covered rests. Her glass clattered as she set it on the side table.

The run through the streets did nothing to dispel the emotions from the fight. Like a volcano the energy lay pent up, just below the surface. I sat down on the ottoman next to her chair trying to control my agitation. I drank again, deeply this time. Loosening my tie, I held the whiskey glass in both my hands to hide their shaking. Calming breaths stilled their trembling soon enough. Only once before had I faced the terror of fighting for my life like that – in Shanghai, two years ago. The scrawny Hun I’d overpowered in the trench didn’t signify. He was a training exercise by comparison and was unconscious but undamaged as I set him gently down. Shooting Huns, even from 10 or 15 yards seemed almost remote by comparison.

Clarissa leaned forward and hugged me from behind. She kissed me by my ear.

“You saved me, Oliver.” she said quietly. “Those men were going to hurt me, and you stopped them.”

“We saved each other,” I said, putting a hand on her arm. “I stayed too long on the first man I attacked. I was vulnerable. His partner might have had me if you hadn’t slashed him as you did. That was neatly done. Lower on the neck would have ended him. You’ll notice I haven’t asked about the knife yet, or the way your rolled my coat over your right arm like you did.

“We girls do have our secrets,” she replied coyly.
Her voice hardened as she continued, “and I was aiming for his neck. He crouched down as I slashed.”

Gods below! Who are you?

“Why were those men following us? In this neighborhood? Those two weren’t common footpads come to rob. They came to take you, Clarissa, to a rape or worse. This wasn’t random. You were being hunted.”

Were they hunting me too? Part of it seemed surreal. Why would they stop to talk like that? They were overconfident and paid the price.

“I don’t know,” she said softly then moved around in front of me and drawing up her dress Clarissa settled onto my lap, facing me. White silk stockings sheathed the legs which soon coiled around my waist and hips. She took my face in both her hands, staring at me with her golden eyes. It was Clarissa who spoke next, just Clarissa. Both the dragon and Games Mistress were absent, as were any thoughts of Eliza. It was just the two of us at last.

We kissed, tenderly at first, then with hungry, all-consuming urgency.

Her trapped emotion and nervous energy from the combat found it’s escape in the kisses she rained down upon me with such needy and wild abandon. Her breath caught and I thought she might break down but she just threw her arms around me then, pulling me to her breast and neck as if she couldn’t get close enough to me, before finally laying her head next to mine and simply holding on.

“We be of one blood, you and I,” she whispered in my ear.

Impossible!

The whiskey only postponed the aftermath from the terror of fighting, and truthfully, she needed no Master Word to compel me, no mention of the Sack of the Fields of Bhurtphore. She didn’t even need to say “follow.” We were past that. With her arms around me and her legs still tightly locked around my waist I stood up.

“Which way to the bedroom?”
“Upstairs, of course,” she answered.
“I was afraid of that,” I said walking us both in the direction of the staircase.

I made it halfway up the stairs with her tightly clasping me before I missed a step and almost fell. She squealed in shock and surprise, before putting a hand to the railing to steady us. The other she kept wrapped around my neck as I carried her to the top of the steep stairway.

“Which way?” I gasped.

“Left,” she said, planting another kiss on me and obscuring my vision.

I turned, my legs were burning now and my heart pounding from the effort.

“No, the other left, Oliver,” she cried. I staggered finally to our destination and collapsed us both on the bed amid her shrieks of laughter.

“Chapter the second?” I said.
“Chapter the second,” she replied, caressing my face.

_______________________

Dawn came. Clarissa slept peacefully as I stood staring out the window, my mind making full revs as I cycled through the events of last night. The image of Mr. Right hanging piteously against the iron returned over and over. I’d killed at least one if not both of those men. They’d clearly come for Clarissa but why? Over and over like a moving picture I conjured the scene. As the red light of morning painted the clouds from below, I felt a large soft blanket draped about my shoulders. Clarissa was there at my side, putting her arm around my waist.

“You’re freezing,” she said, hugging me closer. “Come back to bed. It’s far too early for such brooding.”

When I didn’t respond she moved around looking up at me. I wrapped my blanketed arms around her.
“My word, such large thoughts we’re contemplating this morning. I can practically hear the gears turning. Tell me then,” she said.

“I was thinking about those two men I killed with my hands. I’ve never done that before.”

“You’ve killed scores of Huns, surely. How many?”

It was a question I’d never considered.

“Eighty confirmed. Some would have survived the crashes. If we count the 33 unconfirmed, maybe that’s a hundred men, give or take. But it’s different in the air, we fight the machine as much as the man, at least it seems that way to me. Even at 10 or 15 yards, right on a Hun’s tail, there’s some level of detachment, a thin impersonal separation. I’ve never killed like that, up close, intimate, so intensely personal.

“You were magnificent. Fighting with such ruthless ferocity,” she said. “you didn’t learn that kind of practiced viciousness in the Flying Corps.”

“No, my friend Smokey trained me. Also his teacher, Sergeant Fairbairn of the Shanghai Municipal Police. I'll bet you didn’t learn to use a knife and shield your off arm with a coat like that at the ballet, or your fancy Swiss Finishing School.”

“True, but as I said, we girls have our secrets” she replied. “How do you know those men are dead?”

“You were under my protection, Clarissa, I didn’t hold back. I know I cracked that first one’s throat. His windpipe would swell in 15 or 20 minutes and strangle him. I stove in the second man’s ribcage, punctured his lungs, or his liver and likely fractured his skull against the steps. Whatever the damage you did with your slash, he’d likely drown in his own blood though it would take him longer. I’d be stunned if they survived for long after the fight. Why did you run away like that? Why not summon the police?”

“Think it through, Oliver,” she said quietly as one might when instructing a slower pupil. “ ‘Minister’s daughter and Flying Corps hero at gruesome scene.’ The newspapers would run riot. You’re a public figure now, my dear guileless Oliver. Be on your guard, always.”

“Even here with you, Clarissa?”

She didn’t speak at once, the golden dragon eyes considered me in silence.

“Were you any other man, the truth would be ‘especially here with me,’” she said finally. “But no, you’re safe here, Oliver. You saved my life. We share the same blood, remember?”

“Always,” I said, kissing those lips which demanded such attention. “Now, about Chapter the third...”

Ripping yarn, Epower! And the mysterious older man at Murray's. And why Clarissa stopped the cab at exactly the wrong place, and, and…

Excellent stuff. I can't wait for the next instalment. It's like the R rated version of Boy's Own Paper!

Raine - I must check out this Boy's Own Paper at some point. Not sure if you caught me mid-edit and read this before I added the last section. Check just to be sure. So who you betting on in the Apollo v Clarissa cage match now?

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders

Victorys: 3
Claims: 1

Defensive Patrol : No Contact

Escort Mission: Bagged a Tommy. Our High cover during an Escort of bombers attacked a a flight of Camels, I turned back to help our 3 a/c. What a twisting fight the Tommy's were slick and crafty. I dropped on mine when the e/a went level chasing a wing mate, My Spandua's spoke in long staccato voice of lead. My long bursts of 42 rds Hosed the little fighter then it Spun into the earth below. My team mate s saw the victory in addition it crashed below near a fighter forward field on our side.

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders


In the mess, I noticed a picture on the Hauptmann's desk along with the map briefcase that I had brought over from the neighboring Jasta.

Tagebuch of Oblt. der Res. Hans-Dieter Vogel

Jasta 12
Phelempin, France

Part 55

17 November 1917

We are nicely settled in at Phalempin. Our billets are sorted and I have a comfortable room in the postmaster’s house, a three-minute stroll from the field. Leutnant Blumenbach has the room across the hall. The postmaster, a great and stout fellow named Vautour, does not feign pleasure at our company, but neither does he show disdain. He is a diplomatic man.

We had a long day of work yesterday getting everything organised. I have no idea how long we are here for, and have told Steinmesser to leave the animals with Brother Bernard. It will be nice to be properly settled down. At the end of yesterday’s labours, Oberleutnant Bethge invited all our pilots to dinner at the Château d’Ermitage. This fine château is a short motor from the field and is situated amongst beautiful forest land. He laid on a fine meal of roast duck and potatoes, surrounded by roasted vegetables. We felt like kings!

I have neglected to record that we lost Schobinger just before our move to Phalempin. He suffered a fairly serious leg wound two days ago and has been shipped off to hospital. We hear he will likely not return for several months.

At nine this morning we patrol south towards Cambrai. We spend half an hour circling about and climbing up to 4000 metres. We are about to head home when a group of six SEs appear from the west. They have seen us and move directly to the attack. These English seem to be a crack squadron and we have a real fight on our hands. I see an Albatros spiralling to earth and trailing smoke. It is Adam, gone from us after only a week. I fight one of the enemy machines down to 1500 metres before setting it aflame. By this time we are over the lines and I have no time to watch it fall. I catch another which is trying to head home. I fire at it twice and its propeller begins to windmill. I last see it down low over the lines. We are now short of fuel and have to regroup and head home, our formation smaller than when we left. Neither of my English machines is confirmed.


"I fight one of the enemy machines down to 1500 metres before setting it aflame." This is the claim credited to ground fire!

Late in the afternoon we head across the lines to attack a new British balloon south of Armentières. The sun is low and red in the west and we must fly beyond the balloon line and turn back so we can see our target illuminated pink against the darkening ground below. I jump out in front and make a long, straight dive at the balloon. Suddenly there is a blinding light – I am caught in the beam of a searchlight. But there is no stopping the attack and I continue firing. The balloon smokes and then ignites well before I reach it. There is no mistaking this victory, my sixty-eighth.


"The balloon smokes and then ignites well before I reach it."


18 November 1917

North to Menen in a defensive patrol. This time we meet a large French formation. They bear the stork symbol of the French crack escadrilles on their fuselages, and they are flying the newest twin-gun Spads. It is a very technical struggle. The secret is to maintain your speed even while turning, and even while the enemy uses their greater speed to climb and then dive on you. Eventually you might gain an altitude advantage and then your Frenchman must climb and bleed off his speed. You have only one good chance and must do damage. If you fail, the Spad jockey puts his nose down and disappears. That is what happens to me this morning. There are six of us, including a new man I have not met yet. We did not expect this to be a patrol with such a fight. The new man does not return.


19 November 1917

We are to meet a pair of observation machines and nursemaid them over the lines to bomb a British forward aerodrome near Arras. But as soon as we lift off from Phalempin, a very large group of Sopwith Camels descends on our little flight. They outnumber us greatly and we struggle, usually with two or even three Englishman jostling each other for a position on our tail. My poor Albatros is punched full of bullet holes. Still, I manage to get one of the Camels in my sights and send him down to crash just west of our own aerodrome.

Then I see a lone English machine a little higher. As soon as my first Camel falls, this second one heads for home with no thought of revenge. I see that he is a novice and clearly frightened. It does not take long to catch him and I fire about fifty rounds from close range. The Sopwith does not seem to be badly affected and snaps about in a tight turn. For several minutes we circle about and then the Englishman heads west again. I give chase. Then I notice a faint plume of smoke trailing behind the Sopwith. His propeller is barely turning over. The Englishman puts down in a large field and I circle about and land beside him. We are scarcely more than a kilometre west of Phalempin.


"The Englishman puts down in a large field and I circle about and land beside him."

I land beside the Camel and call out to the pilot in English, “You look like you could do with a cup of tea.” The fellow was leaning forward with his forehead against the butt of his guns. My voice startles him. “I said, do you want to join me for a cup of tea?”

The Englishman puts up his goggles and stares at me vacantly. He nods.

“Then don’t try to burn your machine, because if you do, I shall have to do shoot you and then drink your tea.” At this I dismount and motion for him to do the same.

“Bring the watch from your machine. I collect them,” I say. I introduce myself. He tells me his name is Thomas Arnold. He has a fresh schoolboy’s face. I ask how long he has been at the front and he tells me five days. He wants to know what happens to him next.

“I have to phone our army staff to send an intelligence officer to question you and take you away to an officers’ prison camp. But first, you must join us for dinner and drinks. Unfortunately, we do not have overnight accommodation so you will have to leave us after dinner.”

Arnold and I walk to the nearest road where I flag down a dispatch rider and direct him to our aerodrome. Scarcely thirty minutes later, Mueller arrives with the Benz and two men to guard the Sopwith, driving himself. I bid farewell to Arnold as I will fly my Albatros home myself.

Arnold is entertained by others in the Kasino. I must fly again in the afternoon and leave him after tea and a light lunch. Four of us take off shortly after three o’clock – Becker, Koch, Hickmann (another new arrival), and me. It is a line patrol north towards Ypres. This time I do something I have not done for a while. I lead the patrol a little over the English lines, coming up to our assigned area by flying over the west of the town. Poor Ypres – its beautiful ancient buildings have crumbled into the streets. It is a small city of naked walls and sagging roofs.

Three enemy scouts approach from the north. They are the little Sopwith Pups, slow and obsolescent. We are four and they are three. This should not be a contest, yet it is. The English machines are exceptionally well handled. In addition, we are at 4000 metres and they are higher. The Pups are light and their wings are broad. They handle well at high altitudes when our Albatrosen wallow about gasping for air. The enemy pilots use this to their advantage, teasing us until we stall and then diving to shoot as full of holes. On one such attack, three rounds pass close over my shoulder and smash into the panel in front of me. A piece of my fur collar is torn away!

It cannot last forever. One of my assailants makes a mistake and I catch him before he can climb back to altitude. Now we spiral downward and I continue to pump bullets at the little Sopwith. It falls out of control south of Poperinghe. I do not see it hit the ground and cannot get it confirmed. Further, staff informs us that my first Camel of the morning has been credited to a machine gun position on the ground. They tell Mueller they are investigating my other claimed Camel. Mueller suggests they come for dinner and meet Second Lieutenant Arnold of the Royal Flying Corps. That seems to convince them, and I at least receive credit for the second Camel – number sixty-nine.

Wow, another Epic.

.

Raine - Vogel has wasted no time setting up shop in his new digs. And an intact Camel and captured pilot to his credit as well. Despite HQ’s best efforts to deny him his claims your man continues to drive up his score. Outstanding!

Carrick - Rupert has added to his tally too I see, if he keeps it up he should be seeing his first gong in the not-too-distant future. That flight line shot of the Albs is super.

Epower - Brilliant episodes to wrap up Oliver’s investiture adventure. The fight scene was gripping stuff! And what’s this? Clarissa appears to have softened towards our young VC hero. Could she actually allow one of her conquests into her heart to become an equal, rather than just another notch on the bedpost? And will Oliver resign his commission in the RFC to sign on with his Uncle Sam? And will the mysterious Mr. Zedzed be making another appearance? Only time will tell.

Fullofit - My my, still our Ziggy raises the bar, with three of his last five claims confirmed. Well done! Too bad about showing up after-the-fact on that balloon protection outing, but hey, gasbags are fairly cheap.

.

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Some representative entries to cover Freddy's November thus far.


1 November: Captain Frederick Abbott is late to the party east of Messines, with ‘A’ Flight having all the fun.


4 November: The lads of 65 Squadron say “goodbye” to La Lovie after only a week’s stay.


5 November: The first day at Bailleul Asylum ends with a dud engine and a deadstick landing for Freddy.


7 November: Abbott catches a Pfalz D.III in the rain over Roubaix and removes the Hun’s top starboard wing. The claim is denied.


10 November: ‘B’ Flight tangles with six white tailed V-strutters directly over the Asylum. Freddy crashes three and forces a third one down intact. Three of his four claims are eventually awarded.


Abbott pulling up alongside his prize, which came to rest against a fence just north of the Asylum. This is one of the Captain’s claims that day that was approved - imagine that!


12 November: Freddy fired a full volley of rockets that actually found their mark, and as he circles around for a gun pass he sees the Hun balloon go from smoking to full blaze. And it was confirmed shortly after he returned to camp.


14 November: Passing over a hellish barrage east of Ypres. How can anything survive that?


16 November: Home again home again, jiggity jog. No air Boche to be found today.


17 November: Captain Abbott waiting for the rest of 'B' Flight to arrive after an uneventful outing, cut short for him by engine trouble.


18 November: A most satisfying attack on the railyard at Loos. The Cooper bombs lit up the warehouses quite nicely.


19 November: Freddy sets a Hun gasbag ablaze north of Old Mossy Face. After turning in a claim for it he now waits to see if it will be credited him.


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Epower, looks like Oliver is in the deep end now and Clarissa is the one dragging him all the way to the bottom. He doesn’t even know how far down he’s going. It will take a bit more persuading for her to give this information up. That’s if Oliver really wants to know.
A bit of good news if he transfer to AAS. He and Ziggy might one day lock horns somewhere over Marne. Will have to wait and see. Another exemplary episode.

Raine, Vogel is on his way. Dropping camels left and right. Poor Thomas Arnold, he thought he was invited to eat children for lunch. That’s what the Huns do, right?
Too bad about all the personnel recently lost. At this rate Vogel will be flying alone in no time. Congrats on number 69. Let’s hope number 70 won’t take as long as number 80 did for Ziggy.

Lou, it’s not the gasbag that’s expensive, it’s the gas!
As for Abbott, that was a few busy days. Congrats on all the claims, credited or not. What’s with the engine trouble? Is he getting one of those disgruntled Ack-Emmas still waiting to be gifted his own bottle of Scotch?

19 November, 1917 09:45
Saint-Loup-en-Champagne, Marne Sector
Jasta 19
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO
86 confirmed kills

Jasta 19 aeroplanes were scrambled to intercept enemy machines heading for factories at Warmerville. After reaching the patrol area, they tussled with two SPADs of a larger flight which arrived over the factories. Zygmunt had one nearly eliminated when both of his guns jammed. Both at the same time! Was the synchronizer failing? He beat the breeches of the Spandaus furiously. He was defenceless with two French machines on his tail. Finally the jam was cleared and Zygmunt charged ahead. By this time it appeared he was only left with one opponent to deal with. Perhaps the other one had to withdraw due to damage Ziggy inflicted upon him earlier.
It only took a few more minutes to maul the SPAD and watch it crash below. The skies appeared to be clear and Hahn was anxious to get down and have his Spandaus looked at.

YouTube Link

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders

Nov 19, 1917. The General s Aid de Camp show up with Orders for 3 pilots on Temp duty with Bosta 3 at Ghistelles in Flanders. The Aid explained that it was for a Air strike against England to show that we still had the means and the will to win the war, but we are a few pilots short to get 9 a/c for the Strike Code Name " Flalke Tag " The mission goes on the 21st. My Jasta Commandant Drafted me and 2 others non Aces and Low Rank Pilots for the Honor.

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders

Nov 20th 1917.

Flew a Gotha for the 1st time today after being shown the taps , as my English friends say , and survived. I figured it would fold up in a turn, but it held together

Wait, you flew a Gotha? Man, that's something I've never even thought to try! Well done!

Mr. R awlings: I didnt go very high and only made two very wide and soft turns easy stuff ,but scary. Its a Monster. !

Carrick, a Gotha! Looks like Rupert is on Himmelfahrtskommando. Try not to dogfight too much in it.

20 November, 1917 08:45
Saint-Loup-en-Champagne, Marne Sector
Jasta 19
Leutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO
86 confirmed kills
Awaiting one claim confirmation

Schwarm Zwei was ordered to eliminate the gasbag located west of Reims.
They barely formed up when they were jumped by a gaggle of SPADs. Fighting was intense. With numerous enemy scouts on Ziggy’s tail. He nearly had one of those French devils, but his wingmen did good work in preventing him from finishing the job. All SPADs retreated as one back to their side in similar fashion to their arrival.

YouTube Link



Normally Zygmunt wouldn’t follow them, but he made an exception this time. The Franzosen were running away in the same direction his target was located. He was going their way anyway. The Schwarm found the SPADs circling their own airfield, but as soon as the German machines approached the French scouts abandoned their landing procedures and attacked. This time it was different. This time the Albatrosen didn’t have to chase them, the French pilots had nowhere to run and soon one by one began to fall out of the sky. Three of them were claimed by Ziggy. After the battle Hahn could not get back to base fast enough. He had no ammunition left in his guns. If he’d encountered another enemy patrol, he’d be done for. Thankfully the return trip was uneventful.

YouTube Link

fullofit: It wants to stall all the time Turning is difficult to say the least and a Seagull climbs faster. ( according to some history books that I have read . the a/c liked to fall apart on landing ) Yikes !

Rupert Harkonen
Underofficer
Jasta 33
Wynghene, Flanders

Victorys: 3
Claims: 1


Nov 21, 1917. The Kaiser's Day of Day Bomb um England

My kette of 3 was to bomb Ashford inland from the Coast. The others were to bomb Canterbury. The Operation is Kaput. My monster of a flying machine ground looped on takeoff due to excessive torque which made the wing go into the Fence line ripping fabric and breaking a Spar. The others didn't fair better only 2 made England and unloaded on the beaches of Dover that left 6 of which 2 became lost and crashed in France and 4 that ran into a strong headwind so turned back