(I posted this at the Western Front Patch forum, but I thought some here might enjoy it.)

Flanders - July 8, 1917

The five Halb. CL.II's of Schlasta 15 escorted by HpM. Wurstman and Fwl. Schonberg of Jasta 32b had just banked for home after their bombing run south of Albert. Wurstman descried several specks approaching from the east. Friend or foe? "Better have a look.", said he.

As he got closer, the aircraft dived away obliquely westward. "Mein Gott!", Wurstman exclaimed. Wiping his goggles, he signaled his wingman to follow him down. Yes, three ancient Morane Parasol 2-seaters scudded along at 1000 meters like frightened rabbits. He made out the markings of 3 RFC squadron on their fuselages.

"Ach," Wurstman murmured, "my honor will be blackened for this, but I have orders, and witnesses as well." He signaled to Schonberg to attack, closed the distance with his Albatross and opened fire on the hindmost Morane. A few bursts from his twin Spandau guns tore the plane to shreds. And again, a second plane broke up like a paper kite, falling away below.

Wurstman turned his gaze to the remaining 2-seater, fleeing away in seeming slow-motion. They were already well behind the British lines, he thought, knowing that there were several enemy aerodromes nearby. "It is enough," he decided, "and we ought to resume our escort besides. Let the poor b*****ds go." He signaled to Schonberg to break off and rejoin the Schlasta. As they climbed away back over the lines, the mist had burned off the fields below, and he felt his plane buck and sway as the morning hate went over. "Well," Wurstman said to himself, "it could be worse."