I can see nothing that helps me determine my position in the lunar landscape below. I would just follow my compass east but something seems to be wrong with it, the needle doesn’t move. Perhaps it’s being attracted by something in the cockpit.

Suddenly a Himmelwurst* rears up ahead. What’s it doing up in this weather? Of what use could it possibly be?



*Sky sausage.

If I can make out its markings I can ascertain which side of the lines I’m on. That is, if I don’t get shot out of the sky by the balloon’s protectors.

No…I see the bright cockade on the side of the sausage.

I’ve never tried a Ballonherunterholen* before, Berthold assigns that task to the other Staffels in the Gruppe, and I don’t have the proper ammunition, no Ph-Munition, but; Warum nicht? (Why not?)

I point my nose at the ever larger shape before me and press both buttons in a long burst until my Spandaus jam.

The explosion comes as something of a surprise.





*Balloon strafe.




.

I’m too close!



I bank to the right and hit the rudder bar hard as the force of the blast throws Beomia up in the air.

The heat scorches my face and Beomia’s paint and wing dope.

We sideslip toward the ground but regain control and right ourself.

The mist and rain closes around us as we race away in the direction I assume is east before the machine gunners and Flakartillerie have time to react.

The exhilaration at the complete success of the attack floods me with a wild joy and I laugh and slap Behomia on her side.

I see shellfire before me and go in that direction, passing over masses of brown clad Tommies who take quick pot shots but we take few hits.

I’m tempted to dip my nose and fire at the men on the ground but I must get back to Germany.*

I raise Beomia’s nose until we can no longer see the ground.

If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

I can see the shell bursts through the mist below me, then, when I see no more explosions I slowly bring us back down so that I can see the ground again.





* In Fliegersprache, (aviator slang), differentiation between the two sides of the line were often referred to as ‘Germany’ and ‘Ententeland.’ “Memoirs of German Pilots in the First World War/Volume 3, Translated by Jason Crouthamel.











CONTINUED:

72


CONTINUED:



I find an Eisenbahn and follow that. It should lead me to Roulers, then I can find some airfield for fuel.

I land at Ingelmunster where most of Gruppe Wytschaete’s working machines are stationed.








Caption – This is Ingelmunster aerodrome from Consolidated Custom Facilities Airfields Mod for WOFF BHHII by Robert Wiggins

While refueling I have a look at some of the two-seaters and wish I had my camera with me. One is a particularly interesting gray DFW CV. I also have a look at one of the high flying Rumpler Photo reconnaissance aircraft from FA 7.




Caption – this gray ace DFW skin is from the Two-Seater Skins Mod by Jerbear.

off_DFW_CV_t_Ss-19 1917_Oskar Freiherr von_Boenigk - WOFF gave this unit a red spinner as a unit marking. This is an alteration of the original WOFF skin to conform to information in “Schalchtflieger” by Rick Duiven and Dan Dan-San Abbot. Photos and profiles and information in this book indicate that “When Schusta 19 was formed from Sonder Staffel II, they brought with them the Staffelkennung of a light blue nose or spinner, and black and white wheel covers.” This takes place in January 1917 in WOFF. I did not include the white tactical number that should also be there.

I gave Boenigk the gray version of a 5th production batch DFW. He flies a DFW from April into May 1917.






Caption – This is the WOFF default Rumpler CIV skin for FA 7.

I’m approached by a pilot and observer who have just come in from a support mission, the crew of the Artillerievögel*we pulled the Pups off of last Sunday. They remembered our red nosed bluebirds and wanted me to express their thanks to the Bertholdstaffel.


*Yet another slang term for Artillery observation aircraft –‘Artillery Bird.’




Caption – This is the WOFF default DFW CV skin for FA 19.

Leaving Ingelmunster, I follow the Eisenbahn south again to the Lys and home.

I get some quizzical looks when I explain the scorch marks on Beomia as close Flak burst but as I cut the discussion short no one presses for more clarification.

They’re used to my quirks by now.













Caption – the pink lines show the advances made by the British during the Battle of Broodseinde, 4 October 1917.






ENDE

73

5 Oktober 1917

Paul Strahle is back from leave. He came in last night.

This morning he test flew a new Albatros DV since his OAW couldn’t be recovered after Kleffel’s emergency landing in it.

The weather is still quite bad for flying. Paul and Otto Schober flew to Ghent for a shopping spree. They’re taking some clothing to a tailor there and boots to a cobbler. All but a few of us pilots have been allowed some time away.



I’m out at the hangars with Dieter when I hear an aircraft coming in. The motor doesn’t sound right. It makes a buzzing sound.

An SE5?

Are we being attacked?

I hear no machine guns or bombs; the siren isn’t howling and the Anti-aircraft crews aren’t firing.

We run out of the hangar to see, sure enough, a British SE landing.

The aircraft stops at the end of the field, propeller windmilling to a stop.






Caption - Off_Se5a_ace_t_RFC-60 1917_Personal_Skin – This skin was made for the Dead is not Dead storyline on SimHQ and will be in the next release of the Personal Skins by jerbear Mod.

This aircraft was flown by nineteen year old 2/Lt John Joseph Fitzgerald. He became lost in heavy mist on 5 October 1917 and inadvertently landed on Harlebeke airfield where Jastas 18 and 24 were stationed. The SE5a was turned over to the Inspekteur der Flieger (Inspectorate of aviation) for testing and examination and Fitzgerald became a prisoner.

A photograph of this aircraft can be found in both “Iron Man, Rudolf Berthold” by Peter Kilduff and Osprey’s “Jasta 18; the Red Noses,” Greg VanWyngarden, and probably in a butt load of other publications as well.

People are running and shouting now but I have a head start on most of them and reach the side of the SE first.

I hold my hand up for everyone to stop where they are.

The pilot looks down at me and in a mild Irish accent says “Well, I’ll be buggered.”

In my best Upper Class accent I say, “Hello old boy. Lost?”

“I suppose I am now.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. We’re friendly enough here.”

“Good to hear.”

“Are you injured?”

“Only my pride.”

“You should come down then. Those people with the rifles are a nervous lot.”

With a sigh he climbs down from his machine, a 200 hp SE5a no less.














“Bad luck old fellow. Why don’t we have a drink or two. Everyone calls me Felix.”

I put out my hand, he pulls off his glove and we shake, “John.”

I shoo everyone aside and they part for us as we go toward the Kasino.

Pointing at the Officer of the Day who has just come up, “Oh…yes…you should probably hand that chap there your service revolver.”

John carefully does so.

“Aren’t you supposed to say ‘For you, the war is over or something?’”

I laugh. “That’s the spirit!” Then I say it in German “Fur dich, ist der Krieg vorbei.”

I offer him a cigarette and we light off the same match.

I say, “I wish you lads would stay on the ground. I’m tired of chasing you in the rain.”

“Have to be up there for the boys on the ground, you know.”

“Quite right. Nice of you to drop by to see us ‘Dreaded Huns’ though.”

He doesn’t seem to know whether he should laugh or not so I do and we walk off to the Kasino.

When we sit down in the back of the Kasino, “We have some good Bols gin if that will do.”

“Very nicely, thank you.”

Guards post themselves at both entrances to the room.

We get to know one another. He’s careful not to give too much information and I don’t try to push for any. I don’t have intelligence gathering on my mind. I want something else.

All the pilots who are still here come filtering in. Seppl and Sigi sit with us, every one greets John and introduces themselves. Max and Bella sniff him and check him out to see what he’s good for.

He is nineteen year old 2/Lt John Joseph Fitzgerald of Dublin*. I don’t ask him anything about his unit but I can see from the markings on his fine aircraft that he is from 60 Squadron.




*There is no information on what city or town Fitzgerald is from. I made it up.

















In the course of our conversation, I come to the point that I want to make. “You’ll be needing some good boots this winter. What do you say to trading those clumsy sheepskin ‘Fugs’ for a good pair of officer’s trench boots. I think I can get you a pair that fit well enough.”

“I suppose so, if you can throw in some cigarettes.”

“I tell you what, I’ve got some Woodbins, how would a few packs of those do.”

“You’re quite a horse trader.”

“I am that too.” I say in an imitation Irish accent.

I tell the steward of the Kasino, a friend of mine, to bring Malmann who knows where these things are and can have them brought.

While Fitzgerald is trying on a pair of boots, der Meister walks in.

“Is this our prisoner or one of your criminal associates? Perhaps you will equip the whole Gruppe with sheepskin boots?”

We all stand, including Fitzgerald in his stocking feet.

In German I say, “Herr Oberleutnant, this is Leutnant John Fitzgerald of Number sechzig Squadron.”

And in English, “John, this is our Group Commander, Oberleutnant Rudolf Berthold. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“So I have, a pleasure Herr Oberleutnant.”

Berthold does not extend his hand or reply. He simply makes a slight, ever so slight, bow in Fitzgerald’s direction, then ignores him and turns back to me.

“Such a facility you have with languages mein Scherge. Very handy for you, I’m sure.”

“See that you do not allow him to escape, make sure he knows that he will be shot if he tries.”

“Certainly, Herr Oberleutnant!”

Berthold goes toward the door, then turns, “the Luftnachrichtenoffizier (air intelligence officer) is on his way.”

Then, “Don’t sell him any maps, guns, aeroplanes…that sort of thing.”

When Berthold is gone Fitzgerald says, “Charming fellow.”

“He has his moments. He doesn’t like Englishmen…sorry…or the Irish either.”

“Does he like his mother?”

“I think perhaps not…he does love his dogs though.”

“There’s someone for everyone. Do you mind telling me what he said?”

“He said to make sure you know that you’ll be shot if you try to escape and that the Air Intelligence Officer is on his way to collect you.”

“Ah. All good things come to an end.”

After a pause, while he is trying on a boot, “What sort of fellow is this Air Intelligence chap?”

“Leutnant Schmidt? He’s a decent enough fellow. He’ll see that you’re well-treated. Probably try to turn you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“He’ll probably take you to the prison in Kortrijk…that’s Courtrai here to the south of us. It’s being used for Officer prisoners. Probably then you’ll go to somewhere in the Reich.”

Walking around to see how the boots feel Fitzgerald asks, “I suppose you spent time in Blighty, your English is…well…so English.

“A few years when I was very young and I knew some Engländers in Africa and India. I’ve traveled around a bit.”

That’s all true, I just didn’t tell him it was the Boer War and in John Company before and during the Indian Mutiny.

“So…are you German yourself or from somewhere else.”

“Saxon. As I say, I’ve traveled around a bit, but my home is Konigsberg.”


(This is what I have on my identity papers.)


“Like you lot, we have our own regions. The Oberleutnant is a Franconian, Seppl here is a Rheinlander. We have Bavarians, Württembergers. Prussians of course, what have you.”

“We have our differences; we just don’t hate each other as much as your lot do.”

“You English, Scotch, Irish, Canadians, South Africans and Australians detest one another and make no effort to conceal it. And, of course, you all hate the French. It’s amazing that you don’t all turn on one another and leave us alone.”

“I suppose that says a bit about how much we all hate bloody Germans.”

We both burst out laughing over that, leaving everyone else at the table wondering what the joke was. None of them have much English.

We’re both well pleased with our trade and that’s how it should be. Win/win.


John mentions several times: “Your Archies are awfully good!”

"They'll be pleased to hear it."

I take my brownie and make a thorough photographic study of the SE5a. I simply feel I should for some reason.

John is with me and I get an excellent shot of him looking wistfully at his SE.

I clap him on the shoulder and tell him. “It’s not exactly the story you imagined you’d have to tell your grandchildren I know. But you’ll most likely live to tell it.”

He told me about the SE, more than he probably should have as a prisoner, but not of any use to intelligence as long as I keep it to myself. Which I promised to do

The machine had been flown by Lt Barlow of Number 56 and had probably been encountered by Jasta 18 in the air. It went to Number 60 Squadron 10 September and was flown by Leslie Childlaw-Roberts when he was attacked by Werner Voss on 23 September 1917.

I’ll put that in my diary tonight.

We get our friend John well fed and just a little drunk before the Luftnachrichtenoffizier shows up in a Benz to take him away.

As they filter back to Harlebeke all the pilots, including Ltn Hugo Schäfer, just arrived, get a chance to gawk at the enemy machine in the hangar tent, with its nickel, copper, brass and rubber parts, the costly fittings and all the other refinements an industry with unlimited materials at its disposal can produce.

It would have been nice to have been able to fly the Kiste but that wouldn’t be allowed as we might wreck this valuable prize and the weather is horrible. Strong gusts of wind and heavy rain.

Schäfer is a cadaverous looking young man, with deeply sunken eyes, in the uniform of some Hussar Regiment or the other, seems like a good fellow,







Paul and Schober are back about 1800, in time to see the SE just before the Inspekteur der Flieger (inspectorate of Aviation) comes by to haul it off.
















ENDE

74

Mittwoch, 10 Oktober 1917

Neuer tag.

By 1645 the weather has cleared enough for us to make a hunting flight.

Berthold has been on pins and needles for the last few days, wanting to get into the air and he’s been hard to live with.

We have tried several times but were forced to turn back by the stormy conditions.

He’s obviously worn out but won’t admit it. He continues to act as if his body were as iron as his will and totally invulnerable. Against my better judgement I suggest he take leave.

Among the expletives I was the recipient of for my temerity were; Arschloch, Mistück. Spasti und Depp. Along with suggestions of his own for me such as, Küss meinen Arsche, Verpiss disch, und Fahr zur Hölle