Wulfe - Great to see Bill Grey back in action and in a shiny new SPAD to boot. Just don't let anyone else fly her, Oliver learned that lesson the hard way. Candy Cane Albatri! Those are very nasty Boche. Bill did well to survive his first encounter unventilated. This Sgt. Messier needs an attitude adjustment. Let's hope young Grey makes it long enough to receive promotion. Great writing.
Carrick - Glad you're enjoying the pics. I had to remap the "take screenshot' button to my throttle as the constant presses were affecting Oliver's gunnery.
Fullofit - Thanks for the link. I figured there was a more Teutonic option. Your comment about Ziggy looking a peacock brought this image unbidden into my head.
Last edited by epower; 12/21/2005:00 PM.
#4549285 - 12/21/2004:57 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: May 2012 Posts: 4,499RAF_Louvert
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
Lou, any relative of your??? The DNA seems right in line if you ask me!!
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#4549346 - 12/21/2010:13 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Lou – Good on Freddy, arranging for Lizzie to see his smiling –er, face – again.
Fullofit – Ziggy deserved a bigger show than the one he got for the Red Eagle. An invitation to Charlottenberg was in order. Perhaps he could fly his new Breguet there!
Carrick – Congratulations on the first confirmed victory for Thorpe. May there be many more!
Epower – I am beginning to get nervous about Oliver's state of mind. I think he should be seen by a nurse.
Wulfe – Good to see you back with another stirring episode. Bill is getting his baptism of fire.
A good couple of days for George…
War Journal of Flight Sub-Lieutenant George Ewan MacAlister, DSC
8 Squadron, RNAS Mont-St-Eloi, France
"Its wings fluttered past me, miraculously avoiding a collision, while the fuselage fell like a flaming dart."
18 December 1917 – clear blue sky with occasional puffy clouds. Were it not for the absolutely frigid weather it would be the perfect flying day. As it was, nothing could keep the chill out. I layered a pair of Cornish fisherman’s socks over my Navy issue woollens and my fug boots over that. My issue trousers gave way to a pair of heavy corduroys worn over my Canadian “long johns” – lovely full-length thermal underclothes (in exchange for which I had forgiven Fowler a gambling debt before he left for England). The label on them announced proudly that they were Stanfield’s Unshrinkables. My Hebridean rollneck sweater was squeezed under my khaki tunic (which would not button). Add a scarf and a fur-lined cap and I was ready to go – all with the exception of my coat. And what a coat! It had arrived yesterday in the post, a Christmas gift from my parents. The box announced that it came from Pettigrew & Stephens of Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow. It was knee length, soft rich reddish-brown leather and it was fastened with four buckles rather than buttons. The collar was deep fox fur, also red-brown in colour. There was a map pocket angled into the chest and two large cargo pockets on the skirt, situated where they would be easily accessible while seated. A thing of beauty and my prize possession. The parcel gave no notice that it was not to be opened immediately upon arrival, and I could not wait for Christmas to wear it. So I strutted out to the hangers like the High King of the Air. Dennett and Jordan gave a whoop and begged me to pirouette like a fashion model, and Jordan insisted on referring to me as your Excellency throughout our pre-flight briefing.
It was a line patrol this morning. Our beat was at 8000 feet north to the Ypres-Menen road and back south to Arras. Visibility was splendid. Some clusters of Huns could be seen far off to the east, but the enemy did not venture over the lines. We flew our route three or four times before spotting a lone Rumpler heading east at 10,000 feet. I gave the signal and climbed at full throttle to intercept. Colton stayed on my wing and the others fell behind in a loose gaggle. My Camel was running beautifully and it seemed like only five minutes before I was snugly behind and below the Hun machine. I began firing from fifty yards and continued in short bursts. The Hun pilot dipped down to give his observer a shot. I jinked from one side of the Rumpler to the other and caught the observer with his gun over the wrong side. From that distance I could not miss. The observer slumped in his seat. I fired another burst and the enemy machine simply shattered. Its wings fluttered past me, miraculously avoiding a collision, while the fuselage fell like a flaming dart. I prayed that the two fellows inside were already gone.
Colton was immediately behind me and there was no doubt about this one. It went up on the chalkboard as number nineteen.
The next morning was, if anything, even more perfect for flight. The sky was painfully clear without a single wisp of cloud in sight. We were ordered for a balloon strafe directly across the lines from Mont-St-Eloi. Balloon strafes were universally unpopular and a tradition had grown up that a balloon strafe was a rite of passage for a new pilot with the squadron. Unfortunately, only Colton and Cumming were new to the game and both were in my flight. I needed two more and asked for volunteers. Price and Johns agreed to join me, after which Dennett and Jordan sheepishly joined in. I told them that it would be a simple show. We would fly over, do the job, and return directly home. There was no point in fooling about in machines that were likely to have been damaged by Archie.
The balloon showed up clearly against the brightly lit ground. I spotted it as soon as we were over our own lines. Some seven minutes later I was diving at it, the Vickers chattering smoothly and my left hand reaching for the toggle switch for the rockets. There was no need. When I was still nearly a hundred yards away, the balloon began to smoke and within seconds was engulfed in flames. I saw the observer jump clear in his parachute. This victory, too, was confirmed and brought my count to an even twenty.
The day clouded over quickly and by tea the snow was blowing thick and drifting across the fields. Squadron Commander Draper called for an officers’ dining-in and we gathered at four-thirty to prepare our own dinner – a lovely and spicy stew full of onions and turnips and rabbit and served with boiled potatoes and plenty of beer. Every man in the squadron had to contribute something to add into the dish. My contribution was the idea of adding a half bottle of sherry to the gravy. I should add that others had similar ideas and that the stew should not have been permitted around open flame. Munday braved the snowdrifts to walk to and from town and returned with loaves of fresh bread and pastries for pudding. The evening degenerated after dinner into a lengthy contest of High Cockalorum, Britons versus Colonials (with the Irish protesting that they were neither and the rest of us thankful for that fact). The Colonials won by cheating, or so we claimed. Cumming skilfully argued that, there being no published rules of the game, employing a frying pan to break the opposing line could not be called a violation of the rules. Draper appealed to his sense of decency and morality, but we reminded the skipper that Cumming was a Canadian and he dropped the matter.
As we broke up the game to tend to our wounds, Draper called the room to silence. He announced that he had one more duty to perform before we retired to independent drunkenness. And with that he presented me with a Distinguished Service Cross. I was only the fourth in the squadron to receive this decoration and was taken completely aback. Moreover, I learned that White was in the know for several days and had stopped at the depot in St-Pol earlier in the week to pick up the ribbon. I was invited to change from my khaki tunic into my monkey jacket with the blue and white ribbon. Also a fixed was the small gold star above the eagle on my cuffs, signifying my appointment as flight commander. Finally, Draper read a telegram of congratulations from the fleet and from RFC headquarters. The evening wound down early and I pulled an armchair up to the stove in the ward room. There I sat for a half-hour, sipping a brandy and feeling very content with my lot in life.
Last edited by Raine; 12/28/2004:59 PM.
#4549407 - 12/22/2002:54 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Still a couple of days behind, but a fortunate spell of bad weather allowed me to do some much-needed catching up!
A Sky Torn Asunder: The Memoirs of William D. Grey
Part 7: Perfect Flying Weather.
I was awoken by the sound of pilots calling out to one another. Blearily, with each shout sending a stabbing pain through my ears, I groggily tuned in. “...How is it, then, Bordage?” Covin was calling from his room at the far end of the barracks.
“Well, give me a chance to look!” the young pilot cried back. “Ah, hurry up, Petit!” came Blanc’s voice. “Don’t call me that! Hang on, I’ll look now”
The door into the mess creaked open, and all fell quiet for a moment.
“...But it’s perfect flying weather!” Bordage eventually called, and there was suddenly a great cheer of happiness. I admit that I wasn’t as thrilled, after yesterday’s events. Davet’s empty cot stood conspicuously in its corner. I elected not to bother with my uniform as I sleepily made my way to the mess, encountering the redheaded young pilot in the hallway. “Morning, Grey. But, why are you up?” he asked me. I looked at him, puzzled. “You said it was perfect flying weather?”. From another room came Chartoire’s voice. “What are you girls gossiping about? Shut up so we can sleep!”. There was a murmur of agreement from the next room along. “Shut up yourself, old bear!” Borgage called back, earning a few chuckles from the other pilots.
In a more hushed tone, Bordage explained to me:
“Mais oui, it’s perfect flying weather. But not the kind that the instructors in the schools hope for! Shh - listen!”. At first I only heard the snores of the pilots that had already drifted back into sleep - but after a moment I made out the distinct pat, pat, pat of raindrops on the barracks roof. “The rain?” I asked, further confused. Borgage broke into a grin. “Perfect flying weather. We won’t have to go up today!”.
It was further explained to me over lunch that, for a pilot who has seen enough action, a perfect day is one so bitterly miserable that there isn’t a single hope of an aircraft being sent up. As I returned to my room, falling back into my cot, I felt some resonance with the idea. Today, there would be no red-nosed Albatros snapping at my heels. I allowed the drumming of rain on the roof to lull me back into sleep.
The next two mornings were met with the identical announcement of “Perfect Flying Weather”, and for most of those two days I made like the other pilots, staying in bed for as long as I could and only leaving my room for meals, or out of sheer boredom. On the afternoon of the 11th I paid Souris a visit in the mechanic’s shed and checked up on my Spad. I was slightly surprised to find him toiling away on the machine. “Good afternoon, Souris” I greeted him, and he nodded to me. “Something up with the machine?” I asked. The young little mechanic scoffed. “Something wrong! With my Coucou! But I’ve never been so insulted. No, there’s nothing wrong with her, but there would be if I didn’t bother checking her each day. By the way, I heard Davet’s missing. You stayed together, no? I’m sorry to hear it”. I sighed. “I didn’t know him too well” I said modestly - although I had felt that Davet was a good sort, and had started to think we were becoming good pals. He’d been declared as missing on the evening of the 9th, and by the 11th the writing was on the wall. That night, Ortoli helped me collect poor Davet’s things and move them out of our room.
The rain poured incessantly for the next week, much to the delight of the pilots of Spad 31, who often slept late into the day. We spent our evenings between the aerodrome and the bars and restaurants of Fere-en-Tardenois, where I had intermittently met some of the pilots of the other Escadrilles in our group. "But, why aren’t you with the Lafayette Escadrille? I thought that was for the American volunteers?” one pilot from Spad 48 had asked me. He was surprised to learn that a great many of my countrymen had volunteered as pilots, and that we could no longer be contained into one Escadrille.
On the morning of the 16th I was terribly startled when, as I slowly roused to wakedness, a face suddenly popped out from underneath the covers on Davet’s bed. The man quickly apologised for startling me.
“Desolé, I didn’t mean to scare you! I arrived last night but you were asleep” the man explained, further emerging from the covers as he raised himself up to sit. He was thin, and looked like he was in his early twenties - maybe a year or two older than me. Like most Frenchmen I had encountered, he sported a thinly-trimmed pencil moustache and neatly cropped jet black hair. The heavy shadows of sleep deprivation under his emerald eyes contradicted his energetic demeanour as he got up to retrieve his uniform which hung on the wall. On its lapel was a set of very brightly polished aviator’s wings.
With the rain still falling, I had plenty of time to get to know my new roommate over the next couple days - and his talkative nature guaranteed that I did so. His name was Gaston Houillon, and, like myself, he had arrived straight from the schools - “And after just two weeks at the G.D.E! That’s no time at all, I’m told!” he had happily exclaimed on more than one occasion. As he also told me, his family owned a successful vineyard on the Southern coast, the popularity of which had allowed him something of a luxurious upbringing. Above all else he was enamoured with aviation, and constantly pressed the pilots for air tactics and battle stories. By the time the rain had stopped fallin, two days after his arrival, most of the pilots had become entirely sick of his puppydog-like enthusiasm.
Gaston was practically buzzing on that morning, as the call from Blanchon declared, bitterly, that there was no rain. Over breakfast we were visited by the Capitane (thankfully without his spiteful little orderly, Messier), and he informed us that we had been ordered to make up for lost time - which meant many of us would be expected to fly at least two sorties a day. The news was not received with enthusiasm. Ortoli, Covin, Portron and I were assigned to the first flight of the day - we had been assigned to protect a flight of Reconnaissance machines from Breguet 209 as they took photos over Sissone. Gaston, to his delight, was assigned to the next flight - a patrol on our side of the lines.
Lifting off into a dense maze of clouds, I slowly regained the feel for flying after Spad 31’s rain-holiday. At first I was slow to catch up to my friends, all of whom had 200 horsepower Spads, but after a short refamiliarization I had settled into my position, and, right on schedule, we spotted the three large, lumbering Breguets through a gap in the cloud. Shortly after meeting with them and taking up our protective position, I spotted two aircraft lazily flying above us through a break in the cloud. For a moment they were lost to view again, and I thought nothing of them, but a minute or so later I spotted them again, now a little bit lower.
As I squinted for a better look, I became puzzled. I could swear that they were…
...my mouth fell open as in the blink of an eye the two Albatroses pitched aggressively down - diving straight towards me. Instinctually I booted the rudder and curved away, which then alerted the rest of the flight. As the two Germans curled back upwards, readying a second attack, I saw their dazzling white tailplanes glinting in the sun. The Albatroses rolled over again, and French and German machines broke outward in all directions. From atop the clouds more Albatroses dived down onto us. The attack was well-timed, with the Germans cleverly using the weather to mask their approach and numbers, but now, at our level, the clouds began to interfere with both them and us, as we weaved disorientingly through them.
At one point a white-tailed Bosche dove straight past me, so close that I was able to see his surprised expression as we passed. A moment later I was forced to swerve violently away as a Breguet suddenly broke through a wall of cloud, his nose pointed straight towards my own. On every side I caught only glimpses of the combat around me - a Spad chasing a white-tailed Albatros in a dive, a Bosche sharply pivoting around and firing his guns at someone unseen, a Breguet diving to the West...
...and then, just as suddenly, I was completely alone.
Cautiously I navigated my way through the clouds, but I could find no trace of any machine, friend or foe. After a few minutes’ searching, I decided that I would try my luck at the front. Perhaps one of the Breguets had continued on. After flying towards the front for a short while I was happy to see Covin appear from behind a cloud, flitting over to join me and wagging his wings to say hello. Together we climbed up towards the front, and not long afterwards we came across Ortoli and Portron escorting one of the Breguets near Soissons. This time, we opted to climb above the clouds - as did our Breguet.
We turned for Sissons, cautiously scanning the skies, but it appeared that all had fallen peaceful again, save for the Flak coming up at us, which was fairly heavy but wholly inaccurate. The Breguet eventually signalled to us that he’d gotten his photos, and we turned for home. However, before we had flown off the Front Ortoli suddenly rocked his wings and dived straight down like a meteor. I followed, suspecting that we were under attack again - but I then caught a glimpse of two Albatroses further below. I couldn't help but grin as I noticed that they were the same white-tailed machines from before. They were for it now!
Keen to get some revenge, I picked out one of the Germans and got after him. Covin soon joined in my attack, and together we chased the Bosche as he fled towards his lines, firing on him one after the other. The German twisted wildly back and forth in his attempts to avoid us, but eventually the ferocity of the German’s evasions ceased, and he fell into a long swooping spiral, crashing heavily just short of his frontline trenches. Satisfied, Covin and I turned for home.
After landing, Covin came up to me with a huge grin. “Man, but we really stitched that Bosche up, eh?” he cried, slapping me on the back. "You must claim him, Grey!". "No, surely it was you that got him," I responded. Covin waved the suggestion away. "Nonsense! I was nowhere near his tail when he fell". Catching our conversation, Portron gave a single, staccato "Ha!". Shaking his head in disbelief, he turned to Ortoli. "Jacques, have you ever seen such courtesy? They're arguing over who didn't get a Bosche!". We all burst into laughter, and for a moment the war felt just like some silly schoolyard game.
Last edited by Wulfe; 12/22/2005:54 PM.
#4549455 - 12/22/2008:11 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Epower, ah yes, The Far Side. Always a good laugh.
Thanks for the link Lou, got to love the proud look on the crock parent faces.
Raine, you are right, those were a couple of good days for George. Once again congrats on DSC and promotion, and the latest claims.
Carrick, debauchery? That seemed like a perfectly civil shindig. I have a feeling Thorpe’s mates will have to show him how it’s done.
Wulfe, Bill lucked out with that perfect flying weather, gave him a chance to catch up. Let’s hope Gaston stays alive for some time so we can get to know him better.
22 December, 1917 09:45 Saint-Loup-en-Champagne, Marne Sector Jasta 19 Oberleutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO RA 102 confirmed kills
Zygmunt was miserable at 3000 meters, circling St-Quentin-le-Petit aerodrome on defensive patrol. It was frigid and he hated it, especially because the enemy didn’t bother to make an appearance. After 20 minutes of this he was glad to return home. He was looking forward to a mug of warm Glühwein mit Schuss.
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."
#4549523 - 12/23/2002:21 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: May 2012 Posts: 4,499RAF_Louvert
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
Fullofit - mmmmm, warm Glühwein mit Schuss, most restorative after a long cold flight. Congrats to Ziggy on once again being an Oberleutnant, let’s hope the rank sticks this time. Congrats too on breaking the century mark, a true achievement in this campaign! To that poster inviting one to buy war bonds, it doesn’t look all that inviting. Maybe that’s why the German Army is short on funds, they need a better PR department. As for sealing the deal, Lizzie and Freddy did that months ago, and more than a few times.
Carrick - Party on, Thorpe!
Wulfe - Another fine catch-up of your man Grey. Those fights in amongst thick clouds are beyond frightening, he did well to avoid a collision. Loved the argument about who didn’t get the Boche. I wonder how long the new man Houillon will keep his over-enthusiasm, or for that matter his life.
Raine - Congrats to MacAlister, not only on his spiffing new gong but on his bump to Flight Commander. Plus he’s hit quadruple ace status in a month! The man’s a marvel.
Epower - Outstanding reports and accompanying screenshots, my two favorites are the sunset and the one where Oliver is close on the yellow tail of that Pfalz. But your man can’t beat himself up over those losses. War is hell and when your number is up there’s nothing that’s going to change that. Personally, I think it’s time for him to take a turn at Home Establishment; he’s more than earned a respite.
17 December 1917 65 Squadron R.F.C. Bailleul, France
Captain Abbott and Nurse Ellison caught up with each other’s doings since July as they walked arm-in-arm from the Asylum to the Rue d’Ypres, then along past the Rue des Sœurs Noires and the Rue de Lille, wending their way into the heart of town. The cold December air pushed them close together as they huddled to keep warm against the icy breeze sweeping along the city streets. They reached their destination on the Rue d’Occident; an inviting little café nestled in the row of buildings along the north side of the avenue. A rush of warm, welcoming air rich with the smell of hot foods and fresh breads washed over them as the couple opened the door and hurried inside, then quickly closed it again against the cold. The Captain, having dined at the establishment on several occasions since arriving at Bailleul, was immediately recognized by the madam who led them to a small table near the kitchen. They’d no sooner gotten seated when the elder woman brought them each a cup of piping hot, black coffee. Freddy, with the help of Lizzie’s stilted French, asked if he might not have a pillow or cushion to sit on, due to his recent, (and somewhat embarrassing), wounding. The woman at first did not understand, but when she finally did she gave a sympathetic smile and assured the young hero that any injury sustained in defence against the Boche was a noble one.
It was a wonderful meal, not as much for the food, (which consisted of roast chicken, potatoes, and carrots accompanied by fresh bread and an apple tart for dessert, and all of which Abbott had accurately described as “fairly decent”), but rather for the shared company. Conversation between the young pilot and nurse was simultaneously lively, comfortable, and intimate, sounding perhaps to those who might have been listening as if the pair had been together for eons. Unfortunately it all ended much too quickly when Freddy suddenly remembered that he had to return to camp for the funeral of 2nd Lieutenant Freyer, and apologized for his forgetfulness. Lizzie assured him she understood. They agreed to meet again the following evening for dinner, with both playfully hinting that perhaps they might also adjourn afterwards to some quaint little room where they could rekindle the more passionate side of their relationship. The two again huddled close as they made their way back to the Asylum, each feeling quite warm and cozy inside. The Captain’s right buttock was throbbing to beat the band but he didn’t care one whit, he would have limped along with Nurse Ellison for the remainder of the afternoon if he could have. Lizzie was aces in his book, and as luck would have it she felt the same way about him.
#4549576 - 12/24/2012:24 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Joined: Nov 2014 Posts: 3,269Fullofit
Lou, despite having sealed the deal months ago, I am certain Lizzie wouldn’t mind sealing the deal again ... and again ... A very heartwarming story.
23 December, 1917 08:45 Saint-Loup-en-Champagne, Marne Sector Jasta 19 Oberleutnant Zygmunt Dolf Hahn EK2 EK1 HHO PLM AO RA 102 confirmed kills
Today Ziggy was sent to patrol enemy front lines south of Guignicourt. They found nothing, despite an extended circuit further west. After the mission Zygmunt approached Jastaführer about requesting escort duty of some two-seaters. Either bombers or reconnaissance machines would suit him just fine. Ernst Hess, the C.O. of Jasta 19 was curious why anyone would want to babysit the slow moving targets. Ziggy explained he wanted to attract the reluctant enemy scouts by using the two-seaters as bait. He was sure the enemy scouts would be on them like flies on Scheiße and Hahn would get his chance to shoot some down. Otherwise they’d be sent again to freeze their balls off circling over some forsaken aerodrome. Hess was reluctant but put in a call to HQ to request escort duty. Ziggy was giddy like the soldiers and sailors in the posters receiving their Liebesgaben for Christmas.
The Kaiser and the people thank the Army and Navy - Christmas 1917
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."
#4549586 - 12/24/2003:02 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
I got back this morning and was posted to an Offensive Patrol of 10 a/c in 2 flights. On our second tour of the area , we spotted a Jasta ( 7 a/c ? ) slightly higher and moving deeper into Hun land. AS we climbed they saw us and scattered with one circling around behind. I got off a drum at a scout ship passing over .but far away. reloaded. and spotted a Hun on one me mates below so did a wing over to catch him for a while it was ring around the Rosie . I didnt turn fast enough he slammed the Se 5 with twin Spandau's then smoke and the SE broke apart. As I closed on the Rotter he did a 45 degree turn for home and I caught him. ! full Lewis drum + 3-4 Bursts of 12-22 rds each from my Vickers. At 200 yards down to 50 yards I did a lot of damage then it was all over., RTB. Score 1 SE destroyed 2 damaged + 1 pilot wnd. for 2 E/a destroyed. Intell thought they were from Jasta 8 of the Red Baron's Flying Circus.
Last edited by carrick58; 12/24/2003:06 AM.
#4549588 - 12/24/2003:22 AMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Merry Christmas to all our intrepid pilots and to those who drop in from time to time. May you have a restful and happy holiday connecting with friends and family in whatever way possible. Stay safe, and see you in the skies soon.
PS: Lou – I always look forward to your Christmas posts!
Last edited by Raine; 12/24/2001:56 PM.
#4549630 - 12/24/2003:27 PMRe: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018)
Good day Gents! Came out of the woods long enough to make sure my wife hasn’t left me and enjoy Christmas. I wish all my DID brothers a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. May your pilots stay safe and have long lives.
Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or a fool from either end. BOC Member since....I can't remember!