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#4558487 - 03/03/21 08:54 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) ***** [Re: Raine]  
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mmmmmmmmmm nothing sweeter then Hot Coffee on a cold wet morning, a puppy or a Woman from anywhere

#4558490 - 03/03/21 09:29 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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MFair, the “pleasure” is all mine since there are no more active German pilots.
JJ had an interesting ride down the airfield with a German bomb making a convenient parking spot for him at the end of it. That must have made his pants heavy from all that excitement. Then that collision with the Dreidecker, probably the only way to bring one of those down. Another heavy pants day. From the look of things Jeremiah is a nice name for a cat and Johnson has just used 3 of his lives. Do be more careful.

Lou, that last SPAD had to be already pretty badly damaged, otherwise a Dreidecker would never catch it. In that case the shiny gauges were most likely splattered red.
I see bad weather has finally caught up with No. 65. Good luck with those snowmen.

Carrick, a puppy or a woman from anywhere? Be careful, you don’t know where that puppy’s been.

3 March, 1918
Toulis, Marne Sector
Jasta 19, JG II
Offizzierstellvertreter Rudolf Emil Fuchs EK1, HHO
36 confirmed kills

Rudi looked out the window with disgust. More snow. He climbed back into his bed and wrapped himself in a blanket.


"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."
#4558511 - 03/03/21 11:47 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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McAlister is on the move again!

War Journal of Flight Commander George Ewan MacAlister, DSO, DSC
8 Squadron, RNAS
Walmer, Kent, England

Part 26


[Linked Image]
"The English coast then came up as a surprise."

Bray Dunes seemed a lovely spot. It was actually two aerodromes in one, both clustered about a farmhouse with substantial outbuildings. One field came under French control and the other was Royal Navy. Scarcely had I touched down there when I spied Semple and Billington waving me toward the second shed in a long row. I taxied to a halt in front of the hangar and asked Semple about the move. It had been a good move – every machine accounted for. All pilots were to gather in A Flight hangar in five minutes.

Squadron Commander Draper was pacing and clapping his hands while he waited for the last few stragglers to arrive. “Hark ye!” he bellowed. “I bring glad tidings of great joy.” The pilots gathered around in a more compact group. Draper continued. “First, there is an accommodation list on the table at the back wall. Find your cabin and drop your personal kit. Heavy kit will not be unloaded. I say again, it will not be unloaded from the lorries. All vehicles and equipment other than one lorry will depart tonight for Dunkirk. Gentlemen, we are drafted to Walmer, near Dover. I don’t know how long for, but we’re going home.” A rowdy cheer arose and I found myself among the loudest of all. The sense of relief surprised me. The place was mayhem and Draper struggled to be heard. “Twelve men and all flying officers will stay back for takeoff in the morning and then depart for Dunkirk and Folkestone. All other ranks will sail tonight on the monitor HMS Terror. Order of departure in the morning is on orders, with copies available at the back table. Dinner will be an all-ranks affair set up in the last hangar at the end of this well. Officers will serve other ranks and senior NCOs. Enjoy your last night in France!”

There was much to do and little time to do it. Our camp beds were still on the lorries so our valises were unrolled on the floor of the cabin. Dog owners scrambled to ensure their animals had caretakers. Pilots met with Ack Emmas to discuss of preparation for a Channel crossing. Letters were written and telegrams prepared to arrange meetings with loved ones. A roster of leaves came out after dinner. As many as possible were being released on leave when we got back to England. Then came dinner – roast chicken and boiled potatoes with gravy. We spooned the food out in great quantity from khaki hayboxes while the watchful jaunty insured that none of the lower deck went back for seconds until enough was put aside for officers and petty officers. Draper laid on two kegs of beer, paid for out of his own pocket. It was a fine farewell.

The original plan had me off at seven in the morning with the first wave, but a faulty spark plug had different ideas. By the time it was isolated and replaced, mine was the last Camel of Naval Eight to leave Bray Dunes. It was a fine morning, the sky a watery blue and scattered puffy clouds at 2000 and at 8000 feet. The Bentley ran smoothly once I took off and I watched Dunkirk slide away under my right wing. I followed the coast west south-west toward Calais, climbing to 8000 feet. At Calais, I headed north-west and climbed to 10,000 feet. I wanted plenty of height in case anything went wrong. Ship traffic was light and I did not relish putting down in the open sea at this time of year. We were issued with cork vests but mine would not fit comfortably over my sidcot, tunic, and two sweaters. I stuffed it behind my seat instead. Given the choice between freezing and drowning I chose to drown.

Ten minutes north-west of Calais I changed direction to west north-west, intending to make landfall between Folkestone and Dover. Once I spotted Dover it would be easy to find Walmer. The thin green line of the French coast faded in the haze and disappeared. For the next ten minutes neither coast was in sight. The English coast then came up as a surprise. I saw Folkestone in the distance and Dover far off to my right. A navigational genius, I was. Me and bloody Magellan!

Then I saw an airfield inland from Dover. Odd. There should be at least two more airfields in sight. That was when I noticed that I was flying due north along the coast rather than north-east. This did not make sense. It took a few minutes to realise how badly off course I was. My Dover was in fact Ramsgate and the lone aerodrome Manston. The wind must have taking me well north of my intended course! I turned about and headed south. Before long I spotted Walmer with Dover in the haze beyond. The airfield at Walmer appeared. I selected an approach free from other aircraft and settled into our new home.

First impressions were lovely. It was a warm morning with the earliest touch of spring in the air. I was directed to a large country home which served as officers’ accommodations. It was a short walk to the field and to the spacious mess where a brandy and coffee was offered to chase away the chill. I was sitting at a table nibbling a bacon sandwich and drinking my second “special” coffee when Bob Compston found me.

“Good to see you settled in,” he said. “We are off on an adventure, you and me.” I asked him what he meant. He informed me that we were heading for an investiture where we would each receive our DSO and I would officially received by MC from the King. The King, it seems, was to visit the fleet at Harwich and would be decorating a few officers and men of the Air Service. Today was Saturday, 2 March. The investiture would be Tuesday. The plan was to leave on Sunday and spend Sunday night in London and then take the train to Harwich on Monday so as to have plenty of time.

We left for London on Sunday morning, catching the train at ten. Compston knew the city much better than I, who had been there only once during my training. He insisted are staying at the Charing Cross Hotel. “Cheaper than the Savoy, but just as close to the bar." We caught the afternoon showing of Maid of the Mountains at Daly’s and dinner at Simpson’s. Compston was set for a night on the town but I left him on the sidewalk and enjoyed a long bath and a good night’s sleep.

Attached Files England.jpg
#4558519 - 03/04/21 02:33 AM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Fullofit: LOL U crack me up.

#4558521 - 03/04/21 03:12 AM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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J.K. Thorpe
2 Lt. Rfc. M.C. MM.
41 Sqn
Lealvillers, Flanders.
4 Victory
5 Unconfirmed

March 4, 1918.

Flying is cnx due to weather, it is just as well since the Mec niks must replace the Head on my kites motor. The Heat warped the Head.
Morning Parade I was promoted to 2nd Lt..

Attached Files DawnPatrol12.png
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#4558573 - 03/04/21 01:14 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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L'Etoile du Nord
.

Carrick - Congrats on Thorpe's promotion. An officer now which means he's also suppose to be a gentleman. There's always a catch.

Raine - Home Defense for Mac? Lucky bugger! London, an Investiture, and the future possibility of bringing down some Gothas over Blighty. What's not to like, eh?

Fullofit - And still the dud weather drags on for Rudi and his kette. The same is true for Freddy and his flight. They tried to make snowmen but the snow was slushy and everything just drooped. The snowwomen were not impressed, but then they had sagging issues of their own.

.

#4558626 - 03/04/21 06:04 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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be a what ?


Snowmen: I once made a snowman with sticks for Arms then brought it into the House next morning I found a two sticks and a Wet spot on the floor. Just goes to show a Good deed does not go Un- punished. I had to clean the mess.

Last edited by carrick58; 03/04/21 06:11 PM.
#4558657 - 03/04/21 10:41 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Raine, the farewell dinner scene felt almost like the end of the war for the boys. They’re on easy street for now.
Good thing MacAlister didn’t “Magellan” his way all the way to Ostend.

Carrick, congrats on the promotion. That should be the end of latrine duty for Thorpe, yes?

Lou, ah yes, droopiness is probably the result of shoddy British engineering. German snowmen all stand at “attention”.

4 March, 1918
Toulis, Marne Sector
Jasta 19, JG II
Offizzierstellvertreter Rudolf Emil Fuchs EK1, HHO
36 confirmed kills

The meteorologische Abteilung reports that improved weather is on the way. Flying may resume as soon as tomorrow. This is the news the entire Jasta 19 was waiting for. Huzzah!


"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."
#4558721 - 03/05/21 03:21 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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War Journal of Flight Commander George Ewan MacAlister, DSO, DSC

8 Squadron, RNAS
Walmer, Kent, England

Part 27


[Linked Image]

We caught the train out of Liverpool station and were in Harwich by noon. From there we took a cab to the naval air station at Felixstowe where the investiture would be held the next day. It took nearly two hours wandering from office to office before we found someone who had the faintest idea what was happening. Our parade was scheduled for 1 PM and we were given a location – a grass parade square near the barracks. We enquired about accommodations but there was no information.

“Bugger this for a lark,” said Compston. “Let’s get out of here. I know a place back in Harwich where we can stay.” We reconnoitred the parade location briefly and caught a cab back to Harwich. There was a stiff wind blowing in off the North Sea with sheets of rain wafting up the narrow streets from the harbour. Compston led me up a side street to a pub called the Alma where we managed to get a pair of rooms, ancient but comfortable. We agreed to eat early before the public rooms filled up and went shopping about town separately. I picked up a new bag for my shaving kit, a Wilkinson safety razor, and a fine blue silk scarf to help keep my neck on a pivot over the lines. I also picked up a box of good stationery and an Osmiroid pen and ink. I retired back to the hotel and wrote letters until dinnertime.

The pub at the Alma was wonderfully warm and clearly popular with the locals. Compston urged me to “have a bash at the bangers and mash” and it was good advice – home-made sausage, gravy, a Yorkshire pudding, and fried onions. Just the stuff for a cold, wet evening. We enjoyed a few pints and chatted with some friendly patrons.

The next morning we gave ourselves plenty of time. The King, it seems, was reviewing the fleet in Harwich and would travel across the way to Felixstowe at noon. At the parade square we found a rumpled Lieutenant Commander who gave us the drill. It was all fairly simple and informal: March up, right turn, salute the King, receive gong, answer question, one pace backward, salute, left turn, exit stage with hautboys and oboes. We had to leave our greatcoats in the barracks and stand about in the cold in our monkey jackets. By the time the King arrived we were chilled through. When my turn came (I was the third DSO issued that day) I turned right but was too far from the King and a senior officer pulled me forward by my elbow so that the king would not have to reach. Old Bleary Eyes said a few kind words and asked me how our machines compared to the Germans. I told him they were better in some respects and not quite as good in others but overall we were holding our own. He replied, “Hmmm.”

On dismissal, there were tea and sandwiches in a marquee tent. Compston suggested that we get to the train station and back to London as quickly as possible. We need not have rushed. The tracks were being held for the Royal train and we did not get away until 6 PM. We phoned Walmer and told them we would be back the following day and secured rooms at the Regency Palace. At Compston’s urging, we had dinner at the Trocadero and set out for Murray’s.

It was not on to be seen dancing in uniform but Murray’s was one of several places that seemed to be an exception. On any given night, half the pilots in London were there. Compston I got a table and he immediately began asking girls to dance. That is something I have not really been good at so I adopted the role of the understudy and watched from a safe distance.

Two tables over sat a pair of stunning brunettes with two RFC officers. One of the officers excused himself and the other took his partner to the dance floor leaving one poor lonely brunette by herself. “Now, George,” I thought. “Or forever hold your peace.” I made my way across and asked the young brunette for a dance and she gave me her gloved hand.

“I am Dorothy,” she said. “My friends call me Dickie.”

The band began playing something vaguely American. “I’m George,” I replied. “My friends call me Mac. It’s short for McAlister. That’s my family name…”

“I normally dance with flyers,” said Dorothy.

“Well, I’m a flyer,” I replied.

“Dickie” looked perplexed. “But you’re wearing a sailor suit.”

“We call it a naval uniform.”

“Have you shot down any Huns?”

“You’re a bloodthirsty one, aren’t you?”

At this point, Compston reappeared and cut in. “Mac, someone needs to allow this lady dance properly. Excuse me.” Then they were gone, swirling into the crowd of couples on the dance floor. I returned to Dorothy’s table. The RFC officer who had excused himself earlier had returned. I asked if I might have a chair and explained I had asked Dorothy for a dance but she had absconded with my friend before I could return her.
“No problem,” said the pilot with an unmistakably American twang. “In fact, I thought you’d never get here. I imagine being stuck with Dickie all night. Fate worse than death.” We were chuckling and I ordered us a bottle of champagne.

“McAlister. George McAlister.”

“Winningsted, Oliver.” I had heard the name and noticed the purple ribbon he wore. Compston was not returning with Dickie any time soon so we settled in to talking about flying. Much safer than women.

Attached Files investiture.jpg
#4558746 - 03/05/21 05:22 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Raine good little yarn on the Light side. The women at the dance not wanting to be stuck with Dickie got a good laugh and the vision of a sailor suit at a dance was fun
fullofit: I am sure that the powers taht be have other jobs for Thorpe.


Attached Files gregory-peck-in-captain-horatio-hornblower-1951--album.jpg
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#4558803 - 03/05/21 10:35 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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So, George meets a girl, George loses a girl, George finds a boy, the boy turns up to be Oliver. This shan’t be uninteresting!

5 March, 1918 09:45
Toulis, Marne Sector
Jasta 19, JG II
Offizzierstellvertreter Rudolf Emil Fuchs EK1, HHO
36 confirmed kills

Rudi saw the enemy formation approaching while his plane was still rolling on the snow covered field and picking up speed. He went directly after them and watched as two machines detached from the formation and came towards him. That was his plan: divide and conquer. The French have not yet learned not to get into a turn fight with a Dreidecker and one of them soon paid the price. Rudi dropped on him like a vulture, firing his Spandaus. First, the SPAD began to smoke and then one of his wings came off from the onslaught and spiralled into the ground. As Fuchs watched his victim crash, he noticed another inverted SPAD follow his mate to his doom and crash nearby.
It didn’t take long to find another target. The tan SPAD was chasing after another Fokker below and it was a simple affair to get on his tail, send a few volleys, avoid a collision and observe the enemy’s plane smash into the frozen ground.
The third machine to catch Rudi’s attention was following along with his mate a Dreidecker above, but they all soon found themselves at similar altitude. Fuchs selected one of the enemy planes as his target and followed. He was surprised how simple it was to get behind the SPAD and damage it. Rudi had to slow down to avoid the collision and the Franzose nearly had gotten away, but the German ace wouldn’t let him run away this easily. He continued to fire at long range and eventually found his mark. The SPAD banked and this was enough to catch up and send the devil back to hell.
The patrol of the frontlines north of Soissons would have to wait for another time. The Schwarm entered landing pattern and descended onto the field.


YouTube Link



"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."
#4558807 - 03/05/21 10:49 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Fullofit, what a snow job!! wink biggrin

The fine writing and yarn spinning continues, by all. Raine, I love the cross-over stories! Happy writing and safe flying!

#4558820 - 03/06/21 01:08 AM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Bob, the only good thing about this prolonged period of bad weather is the snow. It makes all those SPADs visible against the ground. I’m going to miss it.


"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."
#4558846 - 03/06/21 12:45 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Great little fight that!

#4558857 - 03/06/21 03:52 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Thanks Trooper, that Dreidecker is a treat in a furball.

6 March, 1918 09:45
Toulis, Marne Sector
Jasta 19, JG II
Offizzierstellvertreter Rudolf Emil Fuchs EK1, HHO
38 confirmed kills

Two of the enemy SPADs shot down yesterday have been confirmed.
This morning Jasta was ordered to patrol airspace over friendly aerodrome at Saint-Mard. The Schwarm reached its patrol area without any enemy planes around. They continued across the line and stumbled upon a trio of silver Strutters preparing to land near Fismes. The two-seaters noticed the Fokkers and abandoned their landing procedures. Rudi felt like all the guns were trained at him, so he decided to stay away as much as possible and let the rest of his flight take care of the Sopwiths. He was right, the enemy planes were concentrating on him while his mates attacked. Fuchs observed for a while and after seeing the gunners lose interest in him and targeting other planes, he engaged. He fired at one of them and moved away. He repeated this tactic, but this time the rear gunner was ready. His Fokker was hit, but nothing vital was damaged. He continued to carefully approach, take a shot and retreat. Another Albatros and a Dreidecker were after his target as well at this point and the poor rear gunner had his hands full. Finally, after another hit and run attack, the wing of the Strutter separated and the entire machine tumbled towards earth. Rudi was happy with the results and decided to quit while he was ahead. The rest of his Schwarm formed up on him and they all returned back home.

YouTube Link



"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."
#4558878 - 03/06/21 08:43 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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Oliver and George together back home? This should be interesting to see how this plays out.

Carrick, so Thorpe is a proper gentleman now eh?

Fullofit, Rudi is cutting the French and English no slack!

Sgt. Jeremiah Johnson
41 RFC
March 6, 1918

41 had been busy. So had the Huns. They had been in a mad fight the day before. Jeremiah had followed on low over Etrun and found himself out of ammo. Luckily he had made back and vowed never to make that mistake again.

Today, as the squadron made its way over Monchy at 12,000’ they were set upon by Albatri. It was a wild melee of pot shots and avoiding collisions. Jeremiah finally sent one down smoking before rejoining all but one of his flight. Near Athies they were again set upon by a flight of Albatri and Jeremiah sent one of them down in flames. Ackart claimed one also. His flight had claimed 6 with the loss of 3 machines but the pilots were ok. One of his claimed was confirmed, bringing his total to 6

March 7
A 48 hour pass had been acquired when Ackart had been complaining about his claims being rejected. “Don’t worry none, it took 3 before I had one confirmed” Jeremiah had told him. When Ackart would not let it go, Jeremiah asked him if he had ever been with a women. “Of course “ replied Ackart, “Ive had the odd date now and again. Nothing serious.” Jeremiah laughed. “No, you numb skull! I mean, have you ever really had a women, the whole kit and kabootle.” Ackart looked at Jeremiah, “well,...I....” “The answer is no then!” Said Jeremiah with a laugh. “I’ve been thinking. Let’s hit up the ol’ man for a pass and see if we can remedy that situation for you. Besides, if I am going to die, I’d like it to be with a good memory!”


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!
#4558897 - 03/07/21 12:40 AM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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J.K. Thorpe
2 Lt. Rfc. M.C. MM.
41 Sqn
Lealvillers, Flanders.
4 Victory
6 Unconfirmed


6 mar 1918

Finally got the motor back together only to late for Patrol. Went up for an Engine check and decided to head for the lines for fun. On the far side in Hun airspace I spotted e/a 2 seats so gave chase. I caught up deep inside their lines but gave off the Lewis drum and about 200 rds of Vickers. The .303's hit something because she started to smoke. I was Bingo for fuel so dove out and headed back leaving the smoking e/a. I filed a claim ,but was Rejected.

Last edited by carrick58; 03/07/21 12:43 AM.
#4558912 - 03/07/21 05:29 AM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
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MFair - Congrats on number 6. No full time night woman for Ackert & JJ, but romance and bromance await. JJ would be the best squaddie ever.
Classic stuff from a classic movie. I also like the line a bit after after the ones you quoted.
"I swear, a woman's breast is the hardest rock the Almighty ever created, and I can find no sign on it."
So many brilliant lines, and not just for Will Geer.
Jeremiah: "Where you headed?"
Del Que: "Same place you are, Jeremiah: hell, in the end."

Just brilliant. Let's hope I've not put the whammy on your man with that last one.

Carrick - Thorpe is back! Will he be part of JJ and Ackart's game of cherchez la femme? Condolences on the rejected claim. Keep knocking them down. Thorpe is flying smart, although chasing a brace of 2 seaters into Hunland by his lonesome was a bit rash. Something to keep at an absolute minimum, the chasing 2 seaters part as well. Still, a man's gotta do...

Lou - Bummer about the weather. I suppose a Verey light down the chimney beats the alternative. I just realized I've been shorting "Verey" its second 'e' for the past year.
They say an idle mind is the Devil's playground. If this forced inactivity continues I shudder to think what the boys might get up to on both sides of the lines.

Fullofit - I guess that's Teuful's playground for Rudi. Good thing the weather cleared down Alsace way. Les Grenouilles are coming over in force. Can you imagine what the 1918 scramble raid missions will be like once BHaH2 drops? Nice work on those high SPADS. I do love me a rolling scissors. Boy do those French machines absorb punishment, and what's with the bulletproof vests the Aviation Militaire is issuing? Congrats on 38.

Riane - A most enjoyable tale of Mac's London adventure. Shame he didn't get to experience the beautiful Bray Dunes aerodrome for any length of time but between Channel coast in March or London, there is no choice.
Oliver is still a little groggy from the time travel but is up for another go if he can find Dr. Wells office again. BTW, that Champagne was NOT 1903. What a splitting headache. Did Compston enjoy any horizontal recreation with that Harpy? She was a real piece of work.

Robert, Trooper, BuckeyeBob - always good to see you boys dropping by. More the merrier.

_______________________________________________________________

À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 55 of many



19 December 1917
Royal Automobile Club
London

Visited the Air Ministry this morning to learn more of my next posting. “Report Gosport, January 2nd,” was all I could extract. The Staff Captain was 'pleased to be of service.' I did manage to appropriate a number of RFC Christmas cards, so the trip wasn’t completely for naught.

Goofed up one to Freddy so I’m keeping it as a bookmark. He’s been on a tear in that Camel of his. I hope he is well.

[Linked Image]

American bar at the Savoy again. Jimmy was most attentive. Met some RFC types there, which led to dinner, then the theater. Zig Zag at the Hippodrome.

[Linked Image]

One of the big numbers was “Over There” by George M. Cohan.

Over there, over there,
Send the word, send the word over there
That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming
The drums rum-tumming everywhere.
So prepare, say a prayer,
Send the word, send the word to beware –
We'll be over, we're coming over,
And we won't come back till it's over, over there.

I’d not truly understood until tonight the effect of the AEF on British morale. The chorus brought a cheer from the audience. My pride as an American soared. I felt ten feet tall. The Yanks are coming! Every day, thousands of American troops were pouring into France. It’s about d*mn time! I’ve been “over there’ for the past year and I was late to the party even then. President Wilson’s attack of the vapors was prolonged and debilitating, but he finally found his courage in the end. I composed a different chorus of my own: The Wilson verses.

Over here, over here,
We’ve been here, fighting Huns for a year
Waiting for your coming, for your coming,
Wait-ing to get you off your rear.
So prepare, say a prayer,
Get your arses up and over, I declare –
You’re coming over, finally over
And we won’t go back till it’s over, over here.



21 December 1917
Royal Automobile Club
London

Falling into a routine these past two days, but the old habits dissipate slowly. I still wake early in anticipation of Harris’ friendly presence announcing “patrol in an hour, sir,” before falling back into a leaden sleep. Each day after a late breakfast, I read the papers then submit myself to work in the gymnasium for some hours. Turkish bath, frigidarium, nap, then the evening revels. Nightlife takes the place of combat patrols: American bar at the Savoy, dinner, diversion. The theater draws me. I find solace there, losing myself in the stories.

[Linked Image]

Last night, it was ‘Bing Girls are There’ at the Alhambra. This is the successor to Bing Boys with many of the same songs. I was humming “If you were the only girl in the world,” all day. Sent a note to Clarissa at her Bywater Street flat. No idea if she’s in town.

I’ve been haunting Murray’s and the Rector’s into the wee hours before wandering home to the RAC. Avoiding Grafton Galleries. Bad memories there. Something feels amiss. I can’t be sure but last night I thought I saw someone following me.

Events took a wild turn this evening. I’m wide awake at the witching hour writing this entry. Tonight, I met a group of Tank Corps fellows at the Savoy bar, one of whom has a friend in 46 Sqn. We hit it off at dinner and having an extra ticket to “The Boy” he invited me along. The play was a musical comedy directed by Robert Courtneidge, the father of his 46 pal Charles Courtneidge. Alas, Courtneidge the younger just caught a Hun bullet in the arse so was in hospital. Tank has been in London a week and is romancing the star of the play, Billie Carleton. He brought me along to her dressing room after the show. It was there I met Abigail, one of the chorus girls. The attraction was immediate. She was petite but possessed of an outsize demeanor which belied her stature. Her dark hair and flashing eyes reminded me of Eliza. The contours of her strong little body held my full attention.

After some champagne Billie directed us to a taxi and a short ride later, we arrived the Mayfair flat of her friend, Reginald de Veulle.
“I’m about to make all your dreams come true,” she declared.

Even as we climbed the stairs, I could hear the revelry and smell the unmistakable waft of opium. Not since Shanghai had that sticky floral stench invaded my nostrils. Entering the hot, smoky flat the scene took me completely aback. Before me was something out of ancient Rome, or what I imagined Rome to be. Smoke of unknown composition obscured the ceiling. Men in robes or pajamas, and women in various states of undress lounged on the many sofas, watching as their fellow orgiasts grappled in every imaginable combination of sexual congress. My eyes landed on a costumed satyr, sans trousers, inhaling some substance off a woman’s breast. Cocaine? Through the doubled archway a living room was strewn with cushions on which the opium smokers reclined.

“Paradise Found,” exclaimed Billie and dragged Tank down the hallway by his tie.

The woman who greeted us wore a diaphanous nightie; her naked body plainly visible under the gossamer fabric. Her eyes were lined with kohl in the manner of the Egyptians.

“I brought you a gift, Sibylla,” said Abigail. It was clear who the gift was. “This is Oliver.”
Enchanté, Oliver,” she replied extending her hand.
I took it with a formal nod, declining the expected kiss.
“I suddenly find myself in need of strong military discipline,” Sibylla remarked, “but where are my manners, may I offer you refreshment?”
She extended a small powder-filled silver vessel. I shook my head but Abigail dipped a long pinkie nail into the pile, partaking twice. Sibylla moved on but not before looking me up and down in a way that made her future intentions plain.

Gods below!

Abigail pulled me away to one of the side rooms. Unbuttoning my coat, she suddenly kissed me with complete abandon. My thoughts swam even as the chimes of alarm boomed in my head.

Leave now, Oliver. Get out while you can!

“Abigail, stop. Let’s go somewhere else. Brown’s Hotel is right around the corner…”

“Don’t be stick in the mud, darling. Look at all the men here, women too. So many. With that ribbon you can have any of them, but start with me.”

“I’m a VC man. I can’t be here.”

She saw the refusal in my face and her expression changed. ““I thought you were a man,” she snapped. “Just a boy after all. Pathetic!” She stalked off in a fury.

I beat a hasty retreat, feeling the heel for abandoning a lady, but Abigail had made her choice. She was where she wished to be and it wouldn’t do for a VC man to be caught in an opium den. Even so, I almost went back. I was tempted. How I was tempted…

No more chorus girls for me. Not doing that again.



22 December 1917
Cavendish Hotel
London

The RAC is comfortable. I’ve grown fond of my daily routine here but I can’t escape a growing sense of isolation. Worse, a newspaper reporter accosted me as I departed this morning asking for an interview. That he knew me by sight and had my name without us being introduced annoyed me greatly. I gave the man the cold shoulder and quickly moved on. What was he after? As a matter of policy, the RFC never revealed the names or exploits of individual pilots. Medal citations were the only exception. Why this sudden interest, and how did he know me?

Time for a change. Dropped by the Cavendish Hotel on a lark. Mrs. Lewis swanned out of her sitting room on seeing me.

“Captain Winningstone!” she cried. Mixing up names was a Rosa Lewis trademark, though she did get mine right on the bill when last I was here. I didn’t think she’d remember me and said as much.

“I never forget my American boys, especially those who wear the King’s uniform.”

Her Aberdeen Terrier barked once.
“Neither does Kippy,” she said drolly.

Mrs. Lewis affection for all things American was evident both in the Stars and Stripes flying outside the hotel as well as her legendary generosity toward Britain’s most recent ally. I would benefit from this circumstance. The hotel appeared busy but I was given a fine room on the second floor.

I headed up Saville Row to Kingsman. I’d swapped my more traditional woolen greatcoat for one of the new style, cut a bit higher. Officially named in the finest militarese, “Coat, Warm” it performed as described but the fit left much to be desired. Mr. Pendergon, after taking measurements and finding me a substitute coat for the day, immediately set to work and before I’d left the establishment had completely dismembered the garment at the seams.

East along Piccadilly, around and through the Circus then up past Murray’s to Robinson & Cleaver. I’d seen an advert for one of the new Sidcot flying suits in the November issue of Aeroplane. Winter flying was here and the last six weeks in France I’d been frightfully cold aloft in my leather flying coat.

[Linked Image]

I opted for Wolverine fur to line the hood and the mask. Frozen breath won’t stick to it and form icicles.

An evening in after last night’s misadventure. Dinner in the Elinor Glyn room which was then cleared for the soirée. The Cavendish Jazz band played a mostly American repertoire. Rosa loves American Jazz, however, her favorite song I soon learned was “KKKKKaty.” She moved among the assembled guests making all welcome as only she could.

“Come and sit with me, Captain Winningshead,” she said, handing me a fresh glass of champagne. “Are you having a good time? Are those young Kippy’s fawning over the ladies an impediment?” Rosa Lewis loved her officers in uniform, Colonels to 2nd Lieutenants, but youngsters who hadn’t made a name for themselves yet were referred to as ‘young Kippys.’ Old Kippy sat quietly next to her while she scratched behind his ears.

“What may I get you?” she went on. “I’m sure I might arrange a nice clean tart if the none of the assembled lovelies compel your interest. Our obliging Irish Countess would find you most appealing but she is otherwise engaged at the moment.”

I declined her generous offer but conversed with her at length before returning to the dancing.



23 December 1917
Cavendish Hotel
London

I approached the RAC with what stealth I could. No sign of journalists. Midday routine. Good sparring with two Lieutenants of the King's Shropshire Light Infantry. Tough customers both. I could only imagine the savagery of a trench raid. We took lunch together at the RAC and got to talking. One of them hailed from Shrewsbury and spoke affectionately of his home town.

“Stay at the Lion Hotel if you ever visit, and remember the Golden Cross Pub,” he said and launched into a history of the Hotel where Dickens took Christmas holidays, and Paganini played.

Ambushed on exit! Two of the wretched newsmen lay in wait this time, peppering me with questions. I sent them packing, barely maintaining control of my language. Remembering Clarissa’s stair stepping routes, I walked quickly north through St. James square, up Duke of York Place, right on Jermyn, then a quick left on Church place. Taking life and limb in hand I waited until a large surge of traffic bore down on me before dashing across Piccadilly. Horns blared in outrage. Let those journalistic SOBs try to follow me now! For good measure I moved briskly up Regent street, into Robinson & Cleaver, then out the back. I felt like a character in some Conan Doyle mystery. The game was afoot!

Slunk over to Kingsman to retrieve Coat Comma Warm. As always, the fit was perfect. Stopped by the Savoy bar for a drink and quick visit before heading to an early dinner at the Cavendish. Jimmy had news of reporters skulking about looking to interview RFC officers. “Your name was mentioned, sir. I had Harold see them off,” he said, indicating with a nod of his head, the impeccably dressed, heavily muscled man sitting in the corner of the bar.”
Worrisome. What in the Seven Hells was going on?

Tonight, the theater beckoned once again - Maid of the Mountains. One of my favorites. I’d seen it before but the songs and story were just as transporting the second time.

Staying with the exiting throng I was swept along east, away from the Cavendish and down Garrick Street. I was hungry and Rules was nearby. Walking up Maiden Lane to the restaurant I saw a woman wearing a dark fur coat who looked exactly like Clarissa… My eyes did not deceive me. She was in company with a dashing, foreign looking type. Was the man actually wearing a sash?

Clarissa looked right at me, hesitated briefly, then with the barest shake of her head she continued into the waiting Rolls. I walked toward her but seeing her gesture I stopped. As the car started away left, Clarissa, sitting in the curbside seat favored me with a welcoming smile, then unseen by her companion put her fingers to her lips and blew me a kiss, her hand extending like a Buddhist mudra. The car moved slowly away.

Well I’m damned!

_____________________

Can’t sleep.

Clarissa is here! Has she been in London all along and ignored my note? Was it just Clarissa I saw tonight or the Games Mistress? In either case it was clear that she’s with the Compte de Sash, or whoever that fellow was escorting her.

London is played out for me. With Father’s birthday gift of funds and my Captain’s pay I can live like a high roller but that’s an empty pursuit absent the company of friends. The rootlessness I’ve felt since arriving grows heavier each day, and being hunted by journalists isn’t helping. Aunt Rhea and General Aubrey are the closest thing I have to family in England but that path is closed after October’s fiasco.

No. 56 Squadron, like No. 54 before them were my family, and sundered from them I’m adrift and completely alone. Time for a change of scenery.



24 December 1917
Lion Hotel
Shrewsbury, Shropshire

Quite a day. My mind was already askew after last night’s Clarissa sighting and starting the day with journalists tipped things completely. The fun began early as newspaper types caught up to me just outside the Cavendish. This was getting out of hand. I retreated into the hotel and penned a quick letter to Clarissa at Bywater St alerting her to my departure. It would arrive by the end of the day by which time I hoped to be long gone. Escape was the plan, but how? Rosa Lewis to the rescue! While saddened by my incipient departure, she very quickly consulted the train schedules then set up a ruse by which I might depart the Cavendish unseen.

“Do come back soon, my dear Captain Winningsbad. Happy Christmas.” she said and kissed me on both cheeks.

While the hotel porters loaded my luggage loaded onto a delivery lorry, I was escorted through the basement kitchens, around an adjacent building and out onto Piccadilly where the lorry collected me. Off to Paddington Station and onto the Great Western Railway.

I arrived in Shrewsbury mid afternoon and made my way to the Lion Hotel. My room was adequate but by no means luxurious. The bathroom had some very English looking plumbing. Not bothering to remove my coat or unpack I set off to explore. There was maybe 90 minutes of light remaining in the day so armed with a small map from the hotel manager, I wasted no time.

[Linked Image]

A quick right out of the hotel, then down Wyle Cop and St Julian’s Friars to the Severn River. I moved quickly along the tree-lined footpath.

On the playing fields under the town walls, I saw a group of boys playing an impromptu game of rugby. I continued past along the river arriving at the large park that was once the town quarry.

[Linked Image]

I stood at the central pond which bore the strange name of Dingle. St. Chad’s lay beyond, clearly visible through leaf bare trees. Even in Winter the place was green and lush, the dormant flower beds immaculately maintained.

Walked back along Beeches lane. The road ran atop the old town walls, their battlements replaced now by a three-foot barrier of stone. Passing a school where the sidewalks widened on the town side, I happened upon two of the boys who were playing rugby. They appeared to be of that indeterminate age between 8 and 12 years. The smaller of the two was drop-kicking the ball to himself as they walked a parallel course along the opposite side of the road. As I watched, he shanked his next attempt and the ball rocketed into the road and directly toward me. The lad didn’t hesitate one whit but came haring after the ball, hellbent on retrieval. He didn’t see the lorry bearing down.

In an instant I was in the road and with my left arm I caught the boy around the waist as churning legs carried me out of the lorry’s path and across the road. His weight unbalanced me and as my foot caught the patch of old mud and ice, I knew we were going down. Twisting to shield the lad atop me, I slid into the far wall with an awkward, painful, crunch. My right shoulder and upper back absorbed the force of the impact.

“Are you hurt?!” I cried

The boy stared mutely at me then as the shock dissipated, he slowly shook his head. I set him upright, and the older boy took hold of him. I stood and dusted myself off as my heart returned to normal pace. In the aftermath, nerves remained janky and on edge and calmed but slowly. My shoulder was going numb and the filth of the walkway fouled my coat.

The youngster didn’t cry and soon recovered himself but his eyes remained the size of dinner plates.
“Are you a General, sir?” he asked.
“No, just a Captain,” I said with a laugh. “My name is Winningstad. What might yours be, young hare?”

“Georgie, Georgie Lampard,” the lad replied in a high leaping voice.

“His real name is Reginald,” offered the older boy. The two were clearly brothers. “My name is Horace, sir. Everyone calls me Teddy.”

“How curious,” I answered. “I have three friends named Reginald.”

Only two now, Oliver. Pixley’s gone on ahead.

“One of them also goes by ‘Georgie’.”

Good old Hoidge.


“But you, Teddy, are the very first Horace of my acquaintance,” I said, extending my hand.

I will never understand the English and their nicknames

The lorry driver appeared nonplussed and soon went on his way after making sure that neither I nor the boy were injured. By now a group of 5 or 6 passersby gathered and a middle-aged gentleman came forward.

“That was a right near run thing. You and the boy nigh ended up as the ball,” he said, pointing to the torn and flattened ruin which lay in the gutter.

“My name is Owen,” he continued.
“Winningstad,” I replied.
He tilted his head as if sifting memory.
“And these two rascals are Teddy and Georgie,” I said.

It was a short walk back to the Lion, where it turned out the two boys were also lodging. Entering the hotel, Georgie slipped his brother’s grasp and raced into the reading room, emerging with a woman I assumed to be his mother.
Shrewsbury, land of fair-girdled women! The one who stood before me was the very image of the mother goddess; she of the golden throne, lovely-haired, oxen-eyed Hera. Mrs. Lampard was barely thirty, a woman in the full measure of her beauty. She smiled calmly as Georgie jumped impatiently into the tale of his brush with death.

Her extended hand was warm, her thanks effusive.
“We are in your debt Captain Winningstad.” she said.
“Not at all, Mrs. Lampard.”

She departed upstairs with the boys. I became aware then of something dripping on my boot. Coat Comma Warm was a mess. Making apologies to the manager Mr. Morgan for the trail of filth, I wriggled free of the muddy wool as a bellman took it from me with the promise to clean it post-haste. Morgan, now seeing my full uniform for the first time, stopped in in traces, his eyes locked on the row of ribbons. He spoke to his assistant:

“Llewellyn, please transfer Captain Winningstad’s kit to the Dickens suite.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Morgan. “I had no idea who you were.”

Time well spent in the hotel reading room opposite the bar. Llewellyn returned an hour later with a freshly cleaned Coat Comma Warm. Off to explore the town again and find the Golden Cross. Missed Golden Cross passage the first time and doubling back I passed a shop with sporting kit in the window. I found there a new Rugby ball. As he wrapped the parcel, the proprietor, noting my American accent, spoke with great passion about Welsh rugby and drew my attention to a photograph prominently displayed.

“That’s the 1905 Wales team that beat the New Zealand All-Blacks,” he said proudly

[Linked Image]

The Golden Cross was exactly what I imagined an ancient Welsh pub to be; heavy beams, dark wood and a quartet of older gentlemen holding forth at the bar. The sign claimed 1428 as the date of founding. The crowd was welcoming, and I recognized Mr. Owen among the patrons. As we set to talking over a fine ale, I learned Mr. Owen’s son Wilfred was in France with the Manchesters before being wounded.

He introduced me to the lot and it was all I could do to derail him as he recounted in detail the scene from earlier in the day. I tried to buy him a pint but he demurred.

“Most generous, Captain Winningstad but the local magistrates in their wisdom are cracking down fiercely on the no treating law. It’s each man for himself for the present.”

I’d known of the statues but in London they were never enforced. Never understood their purpose.

When I returned to the Lion after a festive evening, I found Mrs. Lampard in the reading room. Glowing. She looked as though she were glowing.

Get hold of yourself, Oliver!

She thanked me once again for rescuing Georgie. We exchanged small talk.

“With your permission, I should like to give Georgie and Teddy a present,” I said, indicating the parcel. “It’s a ball to replace the one they lost yesterday.”

“How very kind of you.” she replied. “The boys are confined to barracks after today’s breach of regulations, but they might be set free tomorrow evening. It is Christmas after all.”

The Dickens Suite was a far more spacious accommodation sporting a larger bathtub with more modern plumbing. This was more like it. I sat in the hot water and the stress of London slowly ebbed away.



Last edited by epower; 03/07/21 06:36 PM.
#4558928 - 03/07/21 02:27 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
Joined: May 2012
Posts: 4,624
RAF_Louvert Online grunt
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
RAF_Louvert  Online Grunt
BOC President; Pilot Extraordinaire; Humble Man
Senior Member

Joined: May 2012
Posts: 4,624
L'Etoile du Nord
.

Raine - Wait, what this? George and Oliver in town at the same time, and in the same place? Look out London! Great old photo of the investiture by the way.

Carrick - Now there's a picture of a real navy man.

BuckeyeBob and Trooper117 - Pull up a chair by the stove and stay a while gents, Fullofit's offering to darn socks that need it.

Fullofit - Those Sopwith Strutters can be tricky, in particular when there's a gunner worth his salt in the rear office. But Rudi played it smart, as he is wont to do in such situations. Well done, and super videos as always!

MFair - Congrats on number six for Jeremiah. And a 48-hour pass with a fine plan on how to make the most of it - smart man. Now let's hope he and Ackart are lucky too!

Epower - Aaah Oliver, ever the chivalrous hero, saving that boy in such fashion. Too bad about his shoulder though, hopefully the hot bath provided him in the Dickens Suite will help. Before heading off to Shrewsbury he certainly took advantage of what London had to offer, and wisely refused certain offerings. And a Clarissa sighting as well - oh the intrigue there! And what of the glowing Mrs. Lampard? Wonderful episode and illustrations, and loved the "bookmark".

.

7 March 1918
65 Squadron R.F.C.
Poperinge, Belgium

On the fifth of the month the skies over Flanders cleared at last and brought forth some fine flying and a touch of spring. It also brought six new pilots as HQ had determined the squadron's strength should be increased from 18 to 24. Something was most definitely brewing. Additional pilots meant additional planes, so Freddy and five others were sent over to St. Omer to ferry back the new mounts, and by the time they'd returned the day was over in terms of combat sorties. The next day Abbott was tasked with giving the new lads a cook's tour of the AO to familiarize them with the terrain around Poperinge and across to the frontlines. No air Huns were seen which was just as well as Freddy would have had to turn tail with his gaggle of green fliers and make for home anyway. However this morning, after nearly a week of no combat flips whatsoever, Captain Frederick Abbott was tasked with taking 'B' Flight up for an escort of some DH.4s from 57 Squadron, along the lines between Ypres and Armentières. He was hoping for some action and a chance to add number 50 to his tally sheet.


Lifting away from Poperinge, leading the lads east to meet up with their charges.
[Linked Image]


By the time they'd formed up only one DH.4 could be found. As Freddy shepherded the lone two-seater along the lines he was frustrated to see a trio of Boche B/R buses winging blissfully along in the opposite direction some distance below his starboard side. Tempting as they were he and his crew stuck with the DH.4 as per their orders.
[Linked Image]


Shortly thereafter one of the new pilots had to leave the formation and headed westward, presumably with mechanical trouble of some sort.
[Linked Image]


Not five minutes later the sky was full of planes when a very fat jasta of Albs jumped 'B' Flight and the lone DH.4 just north of Armentières.
[Linked Image]


The King's airmen had their hands full, but amazingly managed to keep the V-strutters from claiming the two-seater. Freddy scattered several Huns then latched on to one that looked to be going after the DH.4.
[Linked Image]


He closed the gap and fired into the cockpit of the hostile plane, which rolled over at that point and fell into a death spiral.
[Linked Image]


Freddy watched it drop, the Hun eventually crashing into a bare field below.
[Linked Image]


Brief moments later Abbott rejoined the rest of his flight to find they had sent the invaders packing, having crashed two more of them before they retreated. One Camel was smoking badly and had to set down in an open meadow a mile or so behind the British communication trenches, but apart from that all others were present and accounted for. The DH.4 was well on its way home by the time Freddy had reformed his group and turned for home themselves. Upon returning the Captain put in a claim for his V-strutter and wondered if this one would be credited to become his coveted fiftieth victory. Only time would tell just how charitable the Claims Office would choose to be this go-round.

.

#4558931 - 03/07/21 03:55 PM Re: Deep Immersion DiD campaign -- Player Instructions (UPDATED 28 Nov 2018) [Re: Raine]  
Joined: Nov 2014
Posts: 3,369
Fullofit Online content
Senior Member
Fullofit  Online Content
Senior Member

Joined: Nov 2014
Posts: 3,369
Ajax, ON
MFair, ah yes, there is only one cure for unconfirmed kill blues and that is a woman’s touch. I expect the next report to be entitled: “Hawks in the Cathouse”.
Congrats on another downed Albatros.

Carrick, looks like Thorpe is beginning to grow a pair. With the promotion comes greater risk taking.

Epower, scrambles are hair raising affairs already as it is. I expect more collisions.
So, Oliver is livin’ it up. Finally some rest and relaxation for the weary pilot. The London entertainment appears to agree with Winningstad.
Gods below indeed! Very well done - congrats on resisting the temptation. I assume previous experiences in Shanghai allowed Oliver to make the right decision.
Paparazzi, Clarissa’s snub and finally new surroundings. The excitement is rising.
Thanks for providing the map of the city. It made following Oliver around that much more enjoyable. From what I can tell, Winningstad will soon be in a need of a cold shower rather than a hot bath.
Great research on this one and a lot of patience I suspect. Excellent episode.

Lou, there is a no treating law around. Each man for himself and each man darns his own socks. Them’s the rules.
Fresh blood is a good sign. More targets for the Hun.
Here’s hoping for a confirmation to make it a nice round number. Freddy should start getting ready for an epic bash.

7 March, 1918 08:45
Toulis, Marne Sector
Jasta 19, JG II
Offizzierstellvertreter Rudolf Emil Fuchs EK1, HHO
38 confirmed kills
Awaiting one claim confirmation

Still waiting on the confirmation for the Strutter shot down yesterday. The kill occurred behind enemy lines, so not much could be expected.
HQ decided to do something different today and have ordered a ground forces support mission between Tergnier and Pinon.
It was definitely getting warmer. The snow was melting as if by magic. There were only some patches of the stuff on the ground here and there. They were approaching Tergnier when the Schwarm was accosted by a flight of SPADs flying higher. As always, there was the initial confusion of who’s who and who is attacking what target. Rudi let them come to him. He didn’t mind the enemy attempting to get on his tail. It always took only a flick of his maneuverable Dreidecker to turn the tables and end up on the unsuspecting enemy’s tail. The same formula was followed this time as well. Fuchs was soon attacking his attacker. There was no getting away from the German ace. A few more short bursts and the enemy plane was spiralling down to earth. Rudi was watching the last moments of his victim, as if bewitched, making sure it was not a trick, when a round hit his plane pulling him out from under the spell. He assessed the situation and banked to the right. No SPAD could follow him through this maneuver. He soon found the aggressor and flicked his plane to place it on the enemy’s six. The French pilot attempted to break free, but all he managed was simply getting hit with each turn of direction. He finally spiralled down in a similar fashion to his predecessor. Rudi watched again as the SPAD was falling closer to earth. Fuchs looked around to see another Fokker blow away one of the wings of another unfortunate SPAD. That seemed to be the last of them. He gathered his Schwarm and completed his mission.

YouTube Link



"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."
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