DiD IV Campaign - Flight reports & Player instructions

[AlbertTross 82]

Obflugm Edward Reimann

MFFA II

Nieuwmunster

5 confirmed victories (4 unconfirmed)

 

5th March to 10th March 1917

 

Edward climbed out of the cab which had brought him from the train station to the family home on Stephanstrasse in the centre of Otterndorf. The journey had been a long one travelling through the night and involving several train changes from Ostend, through Brussels to Dortmund and then on to Otterndorf. He'd said quick farewells to the other pilots and had left hastily. Leutnant Wald hadn't even said goodbye, he'd simply stayed in his office. 'Good riddance!' Edward had thought as he left with his bags. He managed some fleeting moments of sleep on the trains although they remained busy despite it being the middle of the night. There were servicemen everywhere, nurses too, although Edward was too tired to pay them much attention.

 

He knocked at the door to his mother's house, after a moment the door opened. His mother, now 50, still had the radiance of her youth. She smiled broadly as she saw her son on the step. "Eddie! She hugged her son warmly and despite Edward cringing at sound of 'Eddie', responded in kind.

 

"Why didn't you write and say you were coming?" his mother reproached him. "It's a long story mother, I'll tell you in due course" responded Edward. "Right now I'm shattered and in need of a bath!" Edward continued.

 

Edward went straight to his old room and threw his bags on the floor and himself on the bed. His mother had kept his room spotless despite it being nearly two years since his last visit. After a rest he went into the kitchen where his mother was busy preparing dinner. "If I'd known you were coming Edward I'd have got more in. For now I do hope a Käsespätzle will suffice!" said his mother. "It will be fine mother" responded Edward.

 

"Where is Eva?" Edward asked. Eva was his older sister, 3 years his elder. "She is in Bochum meine leibe" replied his mother. "Bochum? Why would she be there?" Edward queried. "She is at the teaching hospital there. She's been training as a nurse for the last three months now" replied Edward's mother.

 

 

The Käsespätzle was wonderful and Edward enjoyed sitting at the family table once more. After dinner he went for a walk through Otterndorf. Not much had changed other than there being a preponderance of navy personnel about. He spotted the Rathaus and his old school. On the Marktstrasse, he stopped at many of the shop windows. Feldmann the Tailor was still there, as was the dairy. Next door, the bakery was busy and smelt wonderful. As he looked in the bakery window at the beautiful kuchen, a soft feminine voice spoke from behind him. "Edward? Is that you?"

 

Edward turned around and saw the owner of the voice. Inge Muller had known Edward since childhood and had lived opposite for many years. Her mother had died a few years ago and Inge lived at home with her father who was a local businessman. Inge was beautiful, beautiful to Edward anyway and seeing her now brought back many memories.

"Inge! How wonderful to see you!" Edward exclaimed.

 

To be continued.....

Edited March 18, 2023 by AlbertTross

[AlbertTross 82]

Inge and Edward sat in a fairly dark recess of the Cafe Zaubernuß. The Zaubernuß had been there for many years although it had been some time since Edward has frequented it. As to why the cafe was so named was obvious on first entering. The piquant citrus smell of witch-hazel was obvious from the moment one set foot in the door. A small bundle of the flowers was to be found on each table and was a way of keeping the overpowering stench of cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke at bay. Edward had suggested a drink to Inge as a way of spending some time together and reminiscing.

 

 

"So what are you upto these days Inge? Are you still with your dad?" asked Edward.

 

"No Edward, I've been a full-time nurse for nearly two years now. I have three days leave and came home to see him" replied Inge.

 

"How is you're father by the way? Well I hope." Edward continued.

 

"He is well. He's looking rather old now but otherwise he's healthy." stated Inge.

 

"I'm assuming you are in the navy looking at your uniform Edward" said Inge.

 

"I'm a naval pilot Inge. I'm home on leave myself and then I'm transferring to a new unit." explained Edward.

 

"Ahh you are a pilot! How wonderful...and dangerous. You look very smart anyway." said Inge.

 

"You look beautiful Inge" said Edward, almost unintentionally, certainly unplanned, but utterly from the heart too.

 

Inge flushed red but smiled nonetheless, "I'm far from beautiful at the moment Edward. It's been a very hard few months and I'm exhausted". explained Inge.

 

"Where are you based?" asked Edward.

 

"At the military hospital in Brussels" replied Inge.

 

The pair continued to talk, Edward ordered another round and the afternoon turned into the evening.

 

"Can I see you tomorrow Inge?" asked Edward. "I'd like that very much Edward" replied Inge.

 

With that the pair went home and Edward slept like a log in his own bed.

 

The next day Edward's mother woke him with a hot coffee. "Danke Mutter" said Edward as he came to. She also handed him a telegram. It was stamped by a navy stamp. Edward teared it open and read......

 

To Obflugm Edward Reimann stop

 

Transfer has now been authorised stop

 

Report to Oberleutnant Gotthard Sachsenberg at Marine Feld Jasta I at Nieuwmunster stop

 

No later than 1700 hours on 10th March 1917 stop.

 

Edward felt relief, it was now official and he had the green light to start a new chapter of his life. For now though, he had a date to keep.

 

Edward met Inge as planned and spent the day walking along the many rivers and streams that straddled the area around Otterndorf.

 

 

The weather was fresh but dry and the pair reminisced. "Did you not have a boyfriend Inge? I remember all the boys chased after you when we were younger" asked Edward, only half in jest.

 

"Nothing serious Edward and I'm not one for dalliance." replied Inge.

 

"I apologise Inge I wasn't suggesting for one instant that you were that type." spurted Edward wishing for all the world he'd kept his big mouth shut.

 

Inge laughed "Stop worrying so Edward, I know what you meant.".

 

The pair continued and went for a meal at the Cafe Zaubernuß. At the end of a glorious day, Edward walked Inge home. As they reached Inge's door, she turned and faced Edward. The pair came together and embraced warmly.

 

"Can I see you tomorrow Inge?" asked Edward. "I'm accompanying my father into Hamburg tomorrow morning Edward." replied⁴ Inge.

 

Edward looked rather crestfallen...Inge laughed again, that disarming and warming laugh, "I shall be back in the afternoon so can meet you tomorrow evening Edward". said Inge.

 

"Wonderful! I can't think of much else at the moment Inge....to be honest" stated Edward. Inge smiled warmly again....."me neither" she almost whispered as she kissed him again and went inside.

 

The following day, Edward sorted his travel arrangements out for the trip back to Flanders on the 10th. If all went to plan he'd be there by 4pm. In the evening he and Inge spent more time together. A meal at the Gasthaus zur Schleuse. She was leaving in the morning to return to Brussels. "Promise you will write Edward!" stated Inge as they parted that night. Embracing warmly again, Edward replied "of course I will Inge and given the chance I'll come and see you in Brussels".

 

 

Inge smiled and after a final embrace, they then parted.

 

Edward went into Hamburg himself on the 9th, and attended to some business on behalf of his mother. Including a meeting with the bank as his mother needed additional funds to attend to several jobs around the family home. He had a lavish meal that evening with his mother and left early on the morning of the 10th.

 

The trip back to Flanders, though long and tiring, went quickly enough and Edward had plenty of time to think about the new adventures ahead, both as a pilot and with Inge.

 

He finally reached the home field of MFJI at about 4.20pm. The daylight was beginning to darken as he climbed out of the lorry and grabbed his baggage. He took a deep breath and looked out across the airfield.....and then frowned as he looked upon the long line of aircraft on the edge of the field....."Halberstadts?!?" He said to himself. Finally he went into the office.

Edited March 18, 2023 by AlbertTross

[AlbertTross 82]

Obflugm Edward Reimann 

Marine Feld Jasta I 

Nieuwmunster

5 confirmed victories (5 unconfirmed)

 

10th March to 20th March 1917

 

Edward was introduced to the rest of MFJI by Oberleutnant Saschenberg, following an introductory chat in Saschenberg's office. Although it was all very friendly, Edward had asked about the Halberstadts out on the field. Saschenberg had explained that the jasta had received several Albatros DIII aircraft at the end of February, only for them to be withdrawn the next week due to 'structural issues'. The only aircraft available in numbers as replacement were the Halberstadt DIII's.

 

 

A pleasant evening in the kasino on the 10th was followed by Edward's first sortie on the 11th. Saschenberg himself led a flight out to the Ypres salient. They were all but there when tracers flew passed Edward's propeller. He turned instinctively and saw several enemy Triplanes zooming in.

 

 

Despite his relative inexperience in the Halberstadt (he had roughly two hours in the old DII type) he gradually mastered one of the enemy aircraft and blasted him mercilessly. Another burst had the englischer spiralling down into the ground.

 

 

Edward then saw another Triplane attacking Saschenberg. He worked furiously to get a shot in and eventually managed a few hits which drew Saschenberg's attacker away. Edward saw and seized his chance, he turned across the Triplane and fired long and hard into the foe. More hits and the enemy aircraft smashed into the ground.

 

 

Saschenberg confirmed both Triplanes for Edward and privately thanked him for saving his bacon.

 

The 12th was a washout and Edward spent time getting to know his fellow pilots.

 

The 13th was a quiet affair as Edward led a trio on a jaunt over to the Nieuwpoort lines. No encounters and nothing to report was the order of the day. The same could be said on the 14th as the same trio defended a Drachen balloon on the Passchendaele ridge.

 

The 15th was following a similar trait until Edward saw flak bursts ahead, out towards the lines. He went to investigate and was rewarded with a formation of enemy Caudrons coming across the front.

 

He signalled to attack and went after the lead aircraft. He came up behind ad the Caudron desperately tried to give the gunner a shot. Edward had other ideas however and fired a long accurate burst into the right engine which spluttered and steamed at first but then burst into flames. The enemy pilot fought hard to retain control of the now unbalanced and burning Caudron but ended up spiralling into the ground near the German lines.

 

 

The other Caudrons had tried to scarper but Edward went after one of them. His pursuit took him over the lines and he hammered into the Caudron as he drew near. More hits had him in flames and plummeting down into the ground.

 

 

Edward found himself alone and made his own way back to Nieuwmunster where he landed safely some little while later. One of Edward's victories was confirmed, the other, not a huge surprise to Edward, was rejected ad it had been unseen and fell on the enemy side of the lines.

 

The 16th involved a defensive flight of the railyards of Roulers which was without incident.

 

The 17th had the jasta up in force over Ypres and their patience was rewarded when a flight of ponderous BE2's appeared unescorted. Edward went after one and made short work of the poor englischers. Several good bursts had the engine and fuselage in flames and the aircraft plunging into the depths.

 

He then went after another two seater and again, despite the desperate attempts to evade, the outcome was the same. A burning BE plunging down into the ground near the Ypres salient.

 

 

Saschenberg confirmed both of Edward's BE's bringing his total to 9 confirmed victories.

 

The 18th was meant to be a sortie down towards Passchendaele again but after several minutes, Edward's windscreen was suddenly covered in oily grease as his engine spluttered and stopped. Thankfully he was able to land safely in an adjacent field. He was left to flounder his way out of the muddy quagmire and back to the airfield, leaving the Halberstadt to the mechanics.

 

On the 19th, Edward was again leading a flight towards the front lines north of Ypres when a flurry of bullets ripped into his wing. He turned to face his foe and saw a trio of Nieuports nearby. His sturdy Halberstadt was still airworthy and eventually got the better of one of the Nieuports although every so often he could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of enemy Lewis guns. He had been dragged lower and lower by the turning Nieuport but got some hits in. Another flurry and the enemy lurched over and spiralled into the ground.

 

 

Despite it being on the German side of the lines, the claim was rejected however. Edward's score remained 9.

 

The 20th was washed out once more.

 

 

 

[Raine 102]

Albert,

Wow! I'm really impressed by Edward's streak of victories. It has not taken him long to become the star of MFJ 1. For my part, I have been working from home on my laptop rather than from my office and apartment in town where my WOFF computer sits. I'll be moving it home in a week or two because health reasons will see me spending less time at the office. I'll have a lot of catching up to do. In the meanwhile, keep Edward's skin intact. Those Albatri will be on their way to you before long.

Raine

[Raine 102]

Got some catching up to do...

Journal of FLt Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 15

"Flames immediately began to pour from the engine of the Albatros and I watched it, a black machine with a white band around its fuselage, as it fell in flames directly over the enemy aerodrome"

 

12 March 1917. Dunkirk.

So with the beginning of March I was off to England, boarding HMS Llewellyn in Dunkirk for the quick dash across the Channel. The German Navy had been active during the preceding night and the ship’s complement were clearly on alert. We landed at Dover without incident, and from there the train delivered me to Victoria Station in the heart of London.

What a city! My past acquaintance with the place was so brief and so full of preparations for transfer to France that only now did I have a chance to take it all in. I headed out to the street to flag a taxi for Holt & Co to cash a cheque and exchange francs for sterling, then bring me to my hotel on Basil Street.

First priority was a long bath and a smoke, all accompanied by a stiff whisky. My hotel is a bit of a walk from everything. Wandered north through Hyde Park and took tea at the marvellous Maison Lyons by Marble Arch. Shopped on Oxford Street and ended my marathon by following Regent Street to the famous Piccadilly Circus. It was growing dark by then and the place wasn’t all it’s made out to be because of the blackout rules. Ran into Pete Maguire from Halifax. He’s over here with the artillery. We enjoyed dinner at the Regent Palace and he suggested that I take in the new show “Maid of the Mountains” at Daly’s. I picked up a ticket on my way home.

Took in the Natural History Museum next morning. Met Pete for lunch and then went to see Buckingham Palace. Light dinner at the Trocadero and from there by taxi to Daly’s Theatre by Leicester Square.

Played the tourist for several more days – British Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum, and saw “Zig-Zag” with George Robey at the Hippodrome. Joined a small group of Canadian officers for a trip to the Turkish Bath at the Auto Club. Then a most pleasant surprise – the clerk at my hotel informed me of a letter that had been left for me in my absence. It was a dinner invitation from the mother of George Simpson.

On the evening of Friday, 9 March, I caught a cab up to Regent’s Park. I’d always understood that Simpson lived in a posh area, but nothing prepared me for the immaculate white, pillared Georgian frontage of Cumberland Terrace. Before I even reached the door of number 29, it was opened by a liveried butler who took my cap, gloves, and walking-out stick (with which I had never before actually walked out). To my surprise, I was met by a Mr Goodman Levy and moments later joined by Simpson’s mother, who introduced herself as Alice. The story tumbled out over sherry. Simpson’s parents were English but had moved to Australia more than thirty years before. Simpson himself was born in Melbourne. They returned to England when Simpson and his brother Rolfe were boys. Simpson’s father taught art but had died six years ago. Goodman Levy was a trusted family friend, also from Australia. Goodman and Simpson’s father were old school chums in Melbourne. Goodman and his brother had a prosperous importing and exporting business and he was something of a wine merchant. When Simpson’s father died, he left money to Goodman Levy, who had promised to take care of Alice. And take care he did! The flat at Cumberland Terrace was immense and Mrs Simpson had two rooms of her own and the run of the place. It was all very proper, of course, and a very comfortable situation for Alice.

More visitors arrived – two lovely girls named Dorothy and Patricia. Dorothy is a distant cousin to Simpson. She and Patricia are working as nurses at Saint Thomases’ Hospital. A splendid dinner followed. I related as much as I could comfortably about our experiences with the Royal Naval Air Service, and about George Simpson. After dinner, Dorothy gave me a package. She invited me to open it when I returned to my hotel and said it contained several items that George had requested her to find for me.

My return to France was delayed by problems with the ship on which I was to sail. Finally, I made it to Dunkirk. There the disembarkation officer helped me to find a telephone to arrange a drive back to Furnes. I had a long and serious chat with D’Albiac, our Records Officer, who had not received my telegram about the delay in sailing. Absolution received, I settled into a café to await a tender.

 

13 March 1917. Furnes, Belgium.

We had a celebratory dinner in La Panne in honour of – wait for it – my old chum Huntington. Huntington has achieved ten Huns to his credit and been awarded the DSC. There is even talk of making him a flight commander. Huntington gave a stirring speech at the end of dinner, in which he thanked all of us for our support and vowed to continue taking the fight to the enemy. He even managed to work his beloved Eliza into the conversation, saying that decorations meant nothing to him – all he wants to do is make her proud of him. It seems that his last three claims have all been unwitnessed. Once the patrol breaks up and the pilots head home on their own, Huntington goes off to do battle with the enemy. Increasingly, his claims from these solitary quests go unquestioned. In the atmosphere of the wardroom, one does not question the integrity of one’s fellow officer. So there’s nothing for it except to smile and nod when Huntington is praised. Infuriatingly, he placed a hand on my shoulder whilst we were finishing the port and said, “Terribly sorry to have taken advantage of your leave to surpass your score, old boy.”

Simpson and I have taken Reggie Soar into our plot. We have decided to head for La Panne on our first dud day and spend the afternoon putting it all together. I will share the contents of Dorothy’s package at that time.

 

21 March 1917. Furnes, Belgium.

A busy week back with the squadron. Flew twice on the 14^th, encountering a large group of Albatri whilst on a close offensive patrol near the coast. I managed to drive one down but did not see it hit the ground.

On 15 March, we were to attack the rail yard south of Roulers, but as we crossed the lines at 11,000 feet we were attacked by a large formation of Halberstadt scouts. Our Tripes handle these machines rather comfortably. After twisting about the sky for a couple of minutes, the fight spread out and I spotted one of the brown Halberstadts turning behind a Triplane. I dropped in behind the Hun and gave it a long burst. The HA immediately began to trail black smoke, and then a bright tongue of orange flame snapped back from the cockpit. I silently hoped that I hit the pilot before the fire erupted. This victory over the Hun, however, was hard to miss and Simpson was able to confirm its fall. My score was up to eight. With the exception of Huntington, we all pretend not to count our scores. But dammit, I can’t help treating it as a competition.

I added another Halberstadt to my bag on 18 March. A mixed group of Halberstadts and Albatri engaged us as we were climbing over our lines and preparing for another trip back to Roulers. This time I chased the HA down to nearly treetop level before finishing him off. Huntington, however, claimed another Halberstadt that morning – this one beyond question, so he had eleven to his credit and I had nine.

Then on 19 March we were off to attack the Hun aerodrome at Ghistelles, which the Flemish call Gistel. We approached over the sea and turned inland for the attack. We were in squadron strength and our other flight was already beating up the aerodrome when a very large group of Albatri decided to interrupt the proceedings. We met several of them head on and tried to turn behind them. The Huns were faster and zoomed into high turns. One of them punched a few holes in my wings, but this time I was able to snap the Sopwith into a left turn and catch the HA as it began another climb. My rounds hit all about the pilot and I saw the enemy machine tumble out of control.

A second HA passed in front of me, diving right-to-left. I was behind him in an instant and firing. Flames immediately began to pour from the engine of the Albatros and I watched it, a black machine with a white band around its fuselage, as it fell in flames directly over the enemy aerodrome. I claimed both Albatri, but the first was accepted only as driven down. Several of the fellows had seen my flamer over the aerodrome, so it was confirmed. Number ten at last!

Edited April 7, 2023 by Raine

[Raine 102]

Journal of FLt Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 16

 

24 March 1917. Furnes, Belgium.

We’ve had a week of grey skies and cold drizzle, relieved only by periods of freezing rain and wet snow. Patrols have been uneventful. Simpson has been made a flight commander and so has Huntington. The latter claimed a Roland yesterday and it was marked up as his eleventh.

The talk in the wardroom centres on the many young ladies of London who have taken up correspondence with the chaps ever since Galbraith was drafted back to a seaplane squadron that in England a few months ago. Galbraith was a fellow Canadian whose sister was a Red Cross nurse at a hospital in London and who had undertaken to have her colleagues write to lonely aviators. Every few days Reggie Soar received a letter from Grace. Roderick McDonald is corresponding with Dolly. Crundall has been sent letters from Margaret. And I have begun a mild correspondence with a girl named Alice. So this afternoon, Reggie was enjoying a glass of brandy and a pipe whilst reading to us a poem written by his Grace – a poem about, of all things, flying!

Raised up from English soil and blessed with English sun,

He rises from the earth to stalk the frightful Hun,

Girded not with armour but canvas wings and wires

He jousts with England’s foes above France’s lofty spires!

 

Hoots of laughter. Jenners-Parson grabbed the letter from Reggie’s hand and set it alight. Reggie tried to get it back and in the process dropped it onto one of the overstuffed armchairs. Disaster was narrowly averted by throwing the flaming chair outside into the rain just in time to splash mud over Prince Alexander of Teck, who was arriving with Squadron Commander Bromet for tea!

Huntington sat apart from us all this time and, once tea was over and the higher-ups had left us alone, he came over to give us a dressing-down. We were bloody fools and what we had done was dangerous, he said. Furthermore, we were unkind to Reggie who was lucky enough to have someone who cared for him enough to write letters. As a flight commander, he would not put up with such behaviour. “You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves,” he told us, “and especially you as a flight commander, Simpson.” And then he added, “Galbraith should have known better than to start this nonsense.”

“Has a girl written you, Huntington?” It was Simpson who asked.

“You know full well that I have my Eliza,” Huntington replied. “No need of anyone else.”

“Strange. I don’t recall you ever getting letters from Eliza.”

Huntington’s face pinched. “In the first place, Simpson, it’s none of your bloody business. Eliza sends her post along with letters from my parents. She is very close with the family. Should be part of it one day, I suppose.”

I couldn’t help joining in. “Are you sure this Eliza is not a cousin, or perhaps a hideous sister you’ve forgotten about?”

“You disgust me, Douglas, you really do. Of course, one should probably expect that sort of thinking from a colonial homesteader, I suppose.”

As luck would have it, I was seated next to Roddy McDonald. Roddy hailed from Antigonish, Nova Scotia, where his family had farmed a homestead for several generations since being evicted from the Highlands to make room for deer.

“Mixed up as usual, Huntington,” I said. “It’s Roddy here who is the colonial homesteader. I’m the colonial hockey player and Navy brat. Then there’s Simpson. He’s the colonial sheep shagger from down under. And Hervey, he’s the colonial peas souper from Québec. Bob Little over there is another colonial sheep botherer. Hell, as if being Australian is not bad enough, his old man comes from Canada. Then of course there’s Grange over in the corner. He’s a Yank, so he only wishes he were a colonial. You’re outnumbered by us colonials, old boy.”

Huntington left in a huff.

That evening I received permission from Squadron Commander Bromet to take dinner in La Panne along with Simpson and Reggie Soar. We’d found a comfortable little estaminet on a side street, well away from the more frequented establishments. The woman who ran the place made a genuinely decent cup of tea, and once we were settled I cleared the centre of our table and laid out my package of tricks.

“My God, a Dorothy bag!” Reggie exclaimed. “Haven’t seen one of those since the Dardanelles.”

“What did you call it?” I asked. Reggie explained that “Dorothy” bags were issued on hospital ships so that the wounded men could store their personal possessions. Mine apparently was a very fine version of what he had seen. “I got it from a nurse. Interestingly, and she was called Dorothy, too.” I gave Simpson a wink. The bag was the package I’d received from Simpson’s cousin Dorothy and her friend Patricia when I had been invited for dinner with Simpson’s parents in London a couple of weeks before. I reached inside and withdrew a small photograph of a young woman.

She was idyllic – languorous eyes, fair hair falling in ringlets, noble cheekbones and a fine, strong nose above perfect lips and delicate chin. The lower part of photograph was gauzy. Perhaps she wore a a thin dress low on the shoulders, but it was barely visible and the suggestion of nakedness was tantalising.

“Meet Apollonia Willing, gentlemen.”

“Who is she? She is topping,” said Reggie.

“Apollonia is Huntington’s new fancy,” I told him.

Simpson was giggling uncontrollably. “Willing? Her name is Willing? Isn’t that a bit transparent?”

“It’s Huntington, man. It will be at least a week before the thought crosses his mind.” I withdrew from the Dorothy bag a small pile of yellow stationary embossed with gold floral finishes in the corners. There were at least a dozen envelopes and as many penny stamps. I then explained the plan. The three of us would collaborate in composing letters to Huntington from Apollonia who, of course, was a figment of fantasy. The photograph belonged to the sister of a nurse who worked with Dorothy and Patricia at Saint Thomases’ Hospital in London. She had planned to send it to her boyfriend at the front but thought it too racy. I had been practising a girlish, loopy script that suited the character. Apollonia would be enthralled at the idea of writing to a gallant bird man. Perhaps we could begin innocently enough and gradually make her letters more suggestive and enticing. We would slip Apollonia’s letter into the post at the squadron office shortly before dinner time. The trick would be intercepting any reply from Huntington before our outgoing mailbags were picked up by the dispatch rider in the morning. To this end, Simpson had volunteered to assist the Records Officer, D’Albiac, in maintaining the squadron war journal. He figured he could offer to censor some letters while working in the office, which would give him easy access to the mailbags.

Reggie asked how we would make the incoming letters appear to have passed through the post. “Take a look at this,” I said, and pulled the final item from the bag. It was a stamped envelope, addressed in a girlish hand to Flight Lieutenant Samuel Huntington. The one-penny stamp was cancelled with a postmark from Torquay dated 21 March 1917.

“It’s perfect,” said Simpson. “How?”

“It’s the sixpence ha’penny solution,” I said. “The outer circle is traced in pencil using the ha’penny and the inner circle using the sixpence. From there it’s just a matter of mastering the lettering. I’ve diluted a bottle of black ink with some distilled water and cigarette ash. If you lightly paint it on with a drop of ink smeared on the end of a pencil and nearly dry, you can do a fairly good job. And if you make a small mistake you can always rub it with your hand and make it look like the post office smeared the cancellation.”

It was time to order a bottle of wine and begin… “Samuel, my dear boy, we have not yet met but I have already heard so much about you!” It would take several more bottles before we were done.

 

27 March 1917. Auchel, France.

After a period of bad weather the squadron moved again, this time farther south towards Bethune in the Arras region. Our aerodrome is just outside a place called Auchel. It is a rather grimy mining town of squat brick houses and soot-stained buildings that eventually dissipated into the countryside along muddy roads flanked with ancient low farm buildings and middens coming alive with the springtime. Above the town looms two giant mountains of dross called terrils. They have the appearance of great black pyramids standing guard over the countryside. We should have no problem finding our way home here.

I’m in the squadron commander’s bad books since I smashed up a perfectly good triplane during my arrival at Auchel. Got away with only a few bruises.

 

31 March 1917. Auchel, France.

We are still awaiting our first postal delivery at the new aerodrome. I am billeted with Simpson in a house at the edge of town. The owners are an elderly couple who speak no English. Whether they speak French is still a mystery as they scarcely talk to each other.

I have been over the lines twice since arrival here. By all accounts there are some very keen Huns in the area. Had a scrap yesterday with a formation of Albatri and managed to drive one down. D’Albiac phoned around but no one saw it crash. Today we were sent up to chase off several two seaters in our area. I fired about 200 rounds at long-range at one of them but it got away.

April is upon us and with it rumours of a new push. I suspect we are about to get busy.

[Raine 102]

It's been a while. I have moved my main PC back home from the apartment in town where I stayed many nights during the week while working. I'm gradually disconnecting from that whole "work for a living" thing. The previous post is the first of several instalments it will take me to catch up. And the following are the month end statistics for Bell-Gordon.

Flight Lieutenant Douglas Bell-Gordon
8 Squadron Royal Naval Air Service
Auchel, France
Sopwith Triplane
82 missions
56.43 hours
26 claims
10 victories

[+VonS 1,424]

Excellent tales gents - happy to pop into the DiD IV thread occasionally to see the latest reports. I was particularly immersed in the last two entries from Bell-Gordon’s journal, Raine (right up there in quality with the Capt. Collins adventures from DiD III).

Nice to see Bosta 2’s old haunt at Ghistelles in that pic - a good reminder that I should one of these days revisit my casual campaigns in WoFF that have been in storage for a couple of years.  And that Huntington fellow - very entertaining indeed, the airman’s version of Kenneth Grahame’s Mr. Toad. I’m sure he will enjoy corresponding with Apollonia Willing. 

Cheers all.

Edited May 12, 2023 by VonS
Fixed typos.

[Raine 102]

Von S – Thank you for your kind words. It's wonderful to see you dropping in on the campaign.

I am well behind and trying to catch up. My PC that I use for WOFF used to be at the apartment in town that was part of my company office. I would stay in town during the week when I had early morning appointments as we live in the country about an hour away. But because of my condition (ALS/MND), it's now easier for me to work from home. So I have set up an office in our guest apartment attached to the house. The only problem is that I have a very large window at my back and the light interferes with my track IR until sunset. There were no blinds on that window as we are surrounded by woods and wonderfully private. Now I've ordered blinds and am waiting to have them installed. I have about a month of catching up to do. Anyway, here is another instalment that brings Bell-Gordon's story to within a week of where my actual flying has taken him. More to follow later, I hope…

 

 

 

Journal of FLt Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 17

10 April 1917. Auchel, France.

 

"An Albatros appeared just ahead and below. The fuselage and tail of the machine was entirely washed over with red paint."

 

So much to write about. April began with rain and sleet. On the first day of the month, I went into the town with Crundall. We have arranged with the mining company for access to their well-appointed bathhouse, so we soaked ourselves for an hour and then retired to a café for omelettes and chips. I’m not sure what magic these French women perform when they crack an egg, but the omelettes here are unforgettable. The one that morning had onions and scraps of pork mixed in with the egg.

We had just returned and settled into the wardroom for a rainy afternoon when the post finally arrived. The despatch rider left everything in the squadron office. Fortunately, Simpson was working on the journal there and immediately volunteered to sort the letters – one pile for the chiefs and petty officers, another for the lower deck, and a third for the wardroom. With his body between D’Albiac and the counter he was able to slip from his pocket a scented yellow envelope and place it in the middle of the wardroom pile.

Later in the wardroom, Rob Little spread the post on the bar and called out the names of the addressees. When he said, “Huntington”, Huntington sat bolt upright in his armchair by the fire. Rob was examining the envelope. “A bit of a sweet pong on this one, by God! I didn’t think your Eliza would wear a scent quite so…forthcoming.” Huntington rushed to the bar. He snatched the envelope and examined it.

“Come on, lad,” said Reggie Soar. “Read it aloud.”

Huntington tore open the envelope. He noticed and began to remove the photograph of our creation, Miss Apollonia Willing. But after a momentary glance he tucked it back inside. He then unbuttoned his tunic and slipped the letter into an inside pocket. Reggie protested loudly and others took up the cry.

Huntington protested. “It’s from one of those trollops that Galbraith persuaded to write you lot. I shall likely consign it to the stove. Regardless, a gentleman does not share letters from the opposite sex as wardroom entertainment.” He got up and headed directly to the flight commanders’ cabin.

The following morning, 2 April, dawned clear and frosty. The original plan was to conduct a line patrol from Lens down to Arras. It was becoming clear to all of us that the impending push was directed at the high ground near Vimy, west and south of Lens. Then, just before seven in the morning, Huntington informed us that enemy two-seaters were approaching the lines near Lens and we were to drive them off. Our machines were rolled from their sheds and run up. We dressed quickly. I could not find my scarf and tied my pyjama trousers around my neck to keep the wind from penetrating the flying coat. Huntington made a point of saying I look like a bloody gypsy. We had only a minute to prepare. Huntington would lead and my machine would carry the single streamer of the flight second in command. He wanted me above and behind the main formation. We refer to this as the “sacrificial lamb” position. Then we took off.

After gaining height over Houdain, we headed for the lines at 6000 feet and climbing. A few desultory Archie bursts drew our attention to a pair of two-seaters heading south from La Bassée. Huntington went straight for them without trying to get the sun at our backs. The Huns spotted us when we were still two miles off and put their noses down and ran for home. We followed them as far as the other side of Lens but gave up the chase when they drew us too low and the Hun Archie began paying us their compliments.

As we climbed back westward, Hervey waggled his wings and surged forward to get Huntington’s attention. The formation turned to port and inclined towards the south. There they were! About six or seven dark specks coming directly out of the sun. We continue to climb towards them and within seconds the sky filled with tracer streams and aircraft. The Huns were Albatros vee-strutters, the latest type. More troubling was that they were all somewhat red. We had learned that this was the colour scheme of Jasta 11, a club of particularly keen Hun pilots led by a baron who is a bit of a star turn.

I climbed sharply and banked hard to starboard, looking about. Two Huns were below and circling with a pair of Tripes. Two are three more were off to my port side. Then streamers of smoke flashed past my head. There was a Hun in my blind spot. This time I rolled sharply left and then zoomed. An Albatros appeared just ahead and below. The fuselage and tail of the machine was entirely washed over with red paint. Even the black crosses were covered, although I could make out the faint outline of a cross on the tail. There was time for a quick burst. The Vickers popped away for a couple of seconds and rounds hit the fuselage of the Hun machine. Then the all-red Hun did an S-turn below me. For several seconds he seemed gone. Then once more rounds were snapping past my head. I pulled away in a climbing turn. By the time I turned about the sky was empty and the red Hun was gone.

The next few days were busy but uneventful. The gunfire along our sector of the front smashed at the enemy lines around Vimy, an unceasing and stomach-turning assault of noise. Above Vimy, our machines were everywhere. Our task was to patrol just over the enemy lines. The Germans dared not approach. We flew, we searched the sky, we froze, and we went home.

Yesterday, 9 April, the storm broke. Our own Canadian Corps, four divisions strong and with British divisions on either flank, swarmed forward over the churned-up mud and wire of Vimy Ridge. At the south end of the ridge, our boys advanced more than 4000 yards and seized their objectives around Thélus. The central spine of the ridge fell by midday and from high above we could see the Huns staggering eastward, away from the fight. Only at the north end of the ridge did the enemy line hold.

That day we patrolled three times and twice ran into desperate attacks by Albatros scouts. On my third patrol we met our old friends from Jasta 11 once again. They were good, these Huns, and I threw my poor Tripe all about the sky while avoiding their fire. Suddenly I heard a sharp crack and knew that something was seriously wrong with my aeroplane. The starboard upper wing showed a concerning amount of flexion and the ailerons scarcely responded. I throttled back and headed west, praying all the while that the wing would remain part of the machine until I could get down. Luckily, none of the Albatri decided to follow. I found a field just behind our lines and settled down into it. At least, that was the plan. But just before touching down the ailerons decided not to respond at all, and the port wings dropped and hit the half-frozen earth. My Tripe cartwheeled across the field and, somewhere before it settled into a ditch and crumpled itself into a ball, I was ejected and landed on an embankment. I have never been so winded or bruised. Nothing, however, is broken. Squadron Commander Bromet has given me a day off. Meanwhile, Huntington claimed two Huns from the scrap. One was almost certainly Crundall’s. I had seen Crundall chasing it and shortly thereafter saw the German – yellow with a red nose – spinning earthward. Huntington asserted that the Hun levelled out and he dived on its tail and finished the fellow off. No one wants to say anything but there are several of us looking sideways at Huntington.

After dinner, Simpson got hold of Reggie and me and insisted on walking to town so he could buy us a bottle of wine. He would say nothing more until we were safely ensconced in Madame Girouard’s estaminet in Auchel. There he produced his secret – a letter in Huntington’s hand addressed to Miss Apollonia Willing in Torquay. He had successfully intercepted the outgoing mail. The wine was poured and he read it aloud.

“Dear Apollonia,

“I pray that I am not too forward in addressing you by your Christian name (is Apollonia truly a Christian name?) when we scarcely know one another. Yet I have read your letter so many times since it arrived yesterday and feel that we are destined to become good friends. Lord knows that I need some good friends. You should see the lot that I am saddled with here. They are an uncouth mob. More than half of them are Canadians and Australians and are still walking about with their mouths open at the wonders of a civilised world away from the prairie or the outback. Still others are barely above the most common of working men. They are unschooled and unsophisticated with few exceptions. One can simply not have an intelligent conversation. And as their commander, one must bear responsibility for their sad lives. I think only that I have perhaps the opportunity to leave them better persons than they were when they came to the Navy.

“You said that you were told that I had enjoyed some success here. One shrinks from revelling in success when success means killing another human being. The beastly Huns, I tell myself, are scarcely human. It is a story that eases the soul. I have lost count of how many Huns I have bagged, but the squadron commander tells me it is somewhat more than twenty. Perhaps you have heard of Albert Ball. He is a pilot of the Royal Flying Corps and has downed thirty Huns. But Ball is back in England, so perhaps I have a chance to catch him or, who knows?

“Thank you for sending me your photograph. I shall try to reciprocate if I can find an officer here able to use a camera. You asked me if I was fond of a girl. Until this week, I devoted all my energy to fighting our enemy and have never thought of pursuing any woman. Now I must confess, Apollonia, that I keep your picture hidden near my bedside and wonder nightly whether one day we might meet. Do not spare a thought that you could be a distraction for me in the air. My devotion to my duty is unshakeable. But put my feet on the ground? Ah, now I find my thoughts turning to you and to the sentiments you shared with me.

“Do you like poetry? I am very fond of Shelley and Yeats. Please share with me all your likes and dislikes. For my part, I will dedicate all my efforts to you.

“Your devoted airmen,

“Samuel Huntington.”

Simpson put the letter down on the table. “Well, chaps, that’s the end of Eliza it seems.” We were laughing hysterically, although I suspect we all felt a slight tingling of guilt.

Edited May 18, 2023 by Raine

[Raine 102]

It has been far too long since my last post. Between my own health issue and my wife suffering from a nasty fall on the stairs, real life has precluded much campaign flying. I am well behind but will try to catch up. At least I don't have to worry about being out of sync with other contributors. With luck others can rejoin the campaign in time to take advantage of the two promised updates/expansions from OBD. These sound tremendously exciting.

Journal of FLt Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 18

30 April 1917. Auchel, France.

 

"A small but intense puddle of flame appeared in front of the pilot."

 

The battles around Vimy continued through until 12 April, but we were grounded for three days by bad weather – including sleet and late snowstorms. On 11 April, I led a flight of five machines over the lines near Arras and spotted a Hun two-seater. It dived away after I expended more than 200 rounds, but we could not tell if it crashed. Meanwhile Huntington continued with his claims. According to routine orders, he is to be awarded a bar to his Distinguished Service Cross.

On 12 April, I was with a flight that encountered four Albatros scouts over Vimy. Because of the poor weather that day we very nearly collided before seeing each other. The fight was chaotic for the first few minutes – machines flashed past leaving time only for the briefest burst before one had to zoom or jink violently to avoid enemy fire. Then, as quickly as it had started, the “dog-fight” (as they are coming to be called) broke up. I spotted and dived upon a lone HA, a black Albatros with a white band around its fuselage. Closing to 50 yards, I fired a long burst and saw flames erupt from the engine. It was a horrible sight and I climbed away with only the briefest glimpse to confirm that the Hun was falling vertically streaming flame and thick black smoke. This one was confirmed for my eleventh victory.

We flew once or twice every day in the week that followed and had several inconclusive scraps. On the ground, however, events were more interesting. Simpson, Reggie Soar, and I continued our correspondence with Huntington under the pen name of “Apollonia Willing.” And Huntington for his part gave into his baser instincts and fell head over heels for the young lady that we had invented. Every few nights, the three of us conspirators retired to Madame Girouard’s estaminet in Auchel, ordered a bottle or two of plonk, and wrote another letter to our boastful colleague. Things began to turn steamy when Apollonia regaled Huntington with the theme of a novel by Elinor Glyn that she had just read – one involving the heroine playing horizontal rugby on a tiger skin with a dashing young nobleman. Huntington rose to the bait. His return letter a day later was intercepted by Simpson. In it, Huntington described a lengthy and breathtaking conflict with Baron von Richthofen, the master Hun pilot who had made a considerable name for himself of late. He claimed to have come within a hair’s breadth of downing von Richthofen. According to the letter, the Baron pretended to surrender before cravenly diving away home when Huntington drew alongside him to salute his skill. “I am quite sure that I should have earned a Victoria Cross had the dastardly fellow not done me such a caddish turn,” he wrote. He then professed his deep love and shallow lust for Apollonia. In her response the following week, Apollonia fantasised about their future racy encounters when Huntington next came to England on leave.

The jape was getting somewhat beyond our control. Huntington sent a package of lace underthings to Apollonia, which Simpson discovered and intercepted moments before it was picked up by the outgoing post despatch rider. Huntington had spent a fortune on this gift and we felt somewhat guilty that the woman he’d lavished his pay on was a figment of our evil imaginations. Reggie, however, secreted the items away and confided that he knew a place in Amiens where such things would be appreciated. We headed back to the estaminet in Auchel on the night of 19 April and, persuaded by a third bottle of wine, created an erotic masterpiece of a letter from Apollonia to Huntington, one that would certainly render him mad.

Huntington continued to file claims, several of which were completely genuine but more of which were dubious. He was indeed a good scout pilot and a fine shot, but at least four claims were unwitnessed yet confirmed by Wing. One of our colleagues – I shan’t say which – voiced his scepticism in the wardroom and brought the wrath of Squadron Commander Bromet down on his head. Yet we were all of the opinion that the skipper was himself beginning to question Huntington. Still, Huntington now had twenty victories to his name and was due for leave. Indeed, if it were not for the current offensive and the pressure we were coming under from the number of superior German machines over the lines, he would likely have already headed back to England. Simpson, Soar, and I began to discuss ways to bring the whole charade to an end.

On 25 April, I led a patrol of five Triplanes on a defensive patrol to the north. There were reports of several enemy observation machines on our side of the lines. After an hour of fruitless searching as far up as Armentieres, I turned south for one more sweep. A couple of miles ahead and to starboard, several light grey puffs of Archie betrayed the presence of a lone Hun. I signalled to the others that the chase was on. They soon left me behind as my machine was not giving full revs. This would not be my day, it seemed. But then it all changed. Crundall and Rex Arnold were well above and banging away at a DFW. The Hun turned on its side and fell into a vertical spin. I watched as it dropped past me and passed through a thin cloud. For whatever reason, I became suspect and dived after the two-seater. Sure enough, the Hun pulled out of the spin a couple of thousand feet above the ground. The observer was angrily pounding on the shoulders of the pilot. Poor fellow had been holding on for dear life all the way down. But this was no time for sympathy and I began firing from 150 yards.

A small but intense puddle of flame appeared in front of the pilot. I watched in horror as a plume of black smoke poured from the stricken machine, which rolled slowly onto its back and fell in flames directly downward. The observer, just moments before angry after narrowly avoiding death, now fell free of the DFW and momentarily hung spreadeagled until his leather coat was torn away by the wind and he tumbled, disappearing into the backdrop of fields below. The Hun was confirmed as my twelfth.

After the intensity of the past few weeks, April ended with a succession of uneventful patrols. It was announced this evening that leaves will be reinstated shortly. Huntington is off to Dunkirk tomorrow to receive his second DSC from the Admiral. He complained at dinner that he should really have received an invitation to an investiture at the Palace. “I really had planned on taking Apollonia along to meet the King,” he said. “Poor girl will have to make do with meeting my parents.”

“We’ll need to meet for our correspondence club soon,” Simpson whispered to me over coffee and brandy. “This thing needs to be put away.”

[Raine 102]

Journal of FLt Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 19

3 May 1917. Auchel, France.

 

"The DFW banked hard and dived under us."

 

Like so many mornings since I arrived in France, this morning began before sunrise when Macklin, our steward, shook me gently by the shoulder and whispered, “Just after three-thirty, sir. Promises to be a fine morning.” He left me with an enamel mug of strong, steaming, sweet black tea and three lovely ginger biscuits. Crundall was on leave and I was to lead the flight this morning, a close offensive patrol along the German lines from Arras up to La Bassée. I met the others of the patrol by the sheds and quickly went over our routine. By the time the eastern horizon paled from deep violet to dark blue we were turning into the wind and bouncing over the stubbled field.

Spring was finally making its presence felt. Scarcely a cloud in the sky and the chill failed to penetrate the layers of leather, fur, wool, and silk until we passed 5000 feet. Formed up, we turned southeast towards Arras and continued to climb toward 12,000 feet. Archie welcomed us to Hunland. We turned north over Monchy and began our patrol. Such a glorious day – virtually no chance of being surprised. Occasional clusters of Huns appeared off to the east, but none dared approach us. Over La Bassée canal we turned back south. Archie fell into a predictable rhythm: scattered over Lens, then thinning out, then slightly heavier at the balloon line near Oppy, and finally bloody annoying over Monchy. Then around to the north and do it all again. And again.

Ninety minutes in. McDonald came up alongside and waggled his wings, pointing to the northwest. I turned in that direction and began to climb toward two specks about two miles off and slightly above. As we approached them that it became clear that we were creeping up on a pair of DFW two-seaters. There were six of us struggling to keep safely under their tails. When we were still 500 yards behind and slightly below, the right-hand Hun must have spotted our approach for he peeled away and dived east. I signalled for the others to chase him and continued after the remaining two-seater. McDonald stayed with me. This was an experienced Hunnish crew. The observer held fire until we were only 150 yards away. I began to fire in the same instant that he did, and we both scored hits. As I broke away, McDonald had a go. The DFW banked hard and dived under us. McDonald and I took it in turn to fire at him, each trying to approach from an opposite side so that the Hun observer would have to swing his gun about before firing back. After several such exchanges, McDonald must have turned the wrong way for I lost sight of him. I caught the Hun in another steep bank and raked his machine from tip to tail from directly above. It took several seconds to find him after that pass. We were down to less than 1000 feet. There he was! The DFW, grey-green with a camouflaged upper wing, was in a shallow dive and trailing a stream of vapour or white smoke. Now McDonald came screaming down at him from above but overshot the Hun, whose observer gallantly kept up his fight. I dived onto the tail of the HA and fired one last burst. The machine continued down and I thought for a moment it would land safely in a broad green field, but its undercarriage caught a treetop and the aircraft smashed heavily into the ground and disappeared in a cloud of earth and flame.

We regrouped and soon afterward headed home. The other HA had got away. I claimed the one that was downed and McDonald vouched for its destruction. Once D’Albiac took our reports, he asked me to complete a written account of the claim. While I was doing this, the squadron commander entered the office. Squadron Commander Bromet directed the Records Officer to leave us alone for a few minutes. Once D’Albiac had closed the door behind him, the boss sat stiffly in his chair and eyed me carefully.

“What I have to say is, for the moment, between us. It is also a painful topic to approach,” he said. I looked at him a little sideways. What horrid news had arrived? Were my parents all right? The squadron commander continued. “A rather serious allegation has been made about you by a flight commander. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No sir. I have no idea at all.”

Bromet sighed and winced. “Yesterday you led a flight of five Triplanes escorting three RE8s from 52 Squadron on a diversionary bomb run near Vitry. Flight Commander Huntington led a second flight of six machines to provide you with support. I am informed that Huntington’s flight was engaged by hostile aeroplanes and destroyed three of them. At the same time, you led your flight away from the enemy and failed to support Huntington. As a result, the enemy nearly succeeded in destroying Mr Arnold’s machine and Huntington himself was left to face several Huns alone. What is your response, Douglas?”

I could feel my breath shortening and my heart pounding beneath my tunic. Rage boiled up. I took three or four deep and deliberate breaths before responding. “Let me begin by stating that I am doing my damnedest to be measured and objective in what I am about to say. So I will begin by saying this. Flight Commander Huntington has absolutely no basis to believe that what he has told you is the truth. I can presume, therefore, that his intent is malicious. He is lying about me. He knows he is lying about me. And I therefore hold him in complete contempt.”

“Mr Bell-Gordon…” I held up a hand and cut the boss off in mid-breath.

“Let me recount that patrol. First, we took off around ten minutes after four in the afternoon. My flight formed up in three or four minutes and we circled over Bruay as we climbed to seven thousand feet. I looked about for Huntington’s flight but they were nowhere to be seen. After waiting there several minutes, I headed north north-east towards our rendezvous point south of La Gorgue. We spotted the three Harry Tates from two miles away and joined them quickly. From that point, we kept station about a thousand feet above them as they climbed south-west toward the lines at Vimy. We crossed into Hunland at eleven thousand feet and followed the two-seaters as they approached Vitry. This was a bit after four-thirty. Soon after we crossed the lines I noticed Archie bursts off to the north and the little west – probably a bit west of Lens. It was not possible to make out the aircraft, but I assumed that Huntington’s flight was trailing well behind us and at a distance of four or five miles.”

Squadron Commander Bromet was scratching notes on a pad of paper. I waited until he stopped writing and continued. “I angled off to the south so that I could watch the RE8s more easily. At one point I observed five or six scouts several miles off to the north-east. We stayed with our wards and these Huns – I’m certain they were Huns – flew north out of sight. Near Vitry, the 52 Squadron machines began bombing their targets as we circled above them. After about five more minutes, I made out Huntington’s flight of six Triplanes. They passed us to the north and continued several miles to the east. At the closest point we were only a mile apart. Strangely, they were descending.”

“The 52 Squadron machines took about ten minutes to finish their work and another five or ten minutes to reform afterward. During this time I saw Archie several miles to the east and presumed that the Huns had found Huntington but I could not see any machines at that distance. The RE8s now began heading home and we zigzagged in station behind them. The entire time I kept looking back for Huntington’s flight. At no time was he in a position to support us had we come under attack. As our two-seaters crossed back over the front, I led my flight in a long turn back to the east. I had spotted a formation of several Hun scouts heading southeast toward where I thought Huntington must be. I left them and turned south after a couple of minutes so as to continue to watch for Huntington while maintaining contact with the two-seaters. Then I noticed two Triplanes heading west around five or six thousand feet. I then made out several aeroplanes milling about just north of Vitry. I could not positively identify every machine, but I saw that at least three out of five were Triplanes, still well to the east. Seconds later I saw that those remaining Triplanes were heading west and were not being followed. By this time, the 52 Squadron machines were well to our west and we raced after them at full throttle, catching up near Arras. Shortly after that, I signalled for my flight to return to base.”

“Is that all?” the boss asked.

“No sir. As we descended on our way back to Auchel, I caught up with and passed close to Mr Arnold’s machine. He had clearly been the first of Huntington’s flight to head home, having passed beneath my flight about the time that I first saw Huntington’s machines mixed up with one or two Huns. At no time did Mr Huntington’s flight require our assistance. And at no time would matters have justified my flight abandoning the two-seaters. Finally, sir, may I ask whether Mr Huntington has explained to you why he wandered off in the direction of Douai and descended to five thousand feet instead of covering my flight from twelve thousand feet in accordance with his instructions? Or is that question answered by the fact that he has claimed three Huns downed after his flight headed home and there were no witnesses to his claims?”

“That comment is completely out of line,” said the squadron commander quietly.

“Merely a question, sir. I apologise if I insinuated that Mr Huntington is a liar. It was not intended as a mere insinuation.”

“We’re done here.” With those words, Squadron Commander Bromet snapped the cap onto his pen and placed it on his desk.

I found Simpson and Reggie Soar in the wardroom. “Emergency meeting of the correspondence club at Madame Girouard’s place after dinner. I have a plan and we need to see it done right away.”

[lederhosen 7]

whats the present date ??

 

danke

[Raine 102]

Lederhosen,

The correct date for the campaign should be this date in 1917 – at the time I am writing this it would be 18 August 1917. Because of personal circumstances, I have been unable to keep up with the calendar. My pilot will soon be transferred to Home Establishment where he will fly less often, thus allowing me to catch up.

Raine

[Raine 102]

Journal of FLt Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 20

14 June 1917. Manor House Hospital, Folkestone.

"Wave upon wave of giant aircraft were approaching the coast east of Margate. I estimated at least fifteen or twenty Gothas."

 

Early May 1917 – Farewell to Naval Eight

It has been so long since I last picked up this journal that I must return to what seems a distant past. My last entry followed an awkward conversation with squadron commander Bromet on 3 May 1917. Later that evening, Soar and Simpson showed up at the estaminet in Auchel.

“Here’s the drill,” I began after pouring double brandies for each of us. “We’re going to write two letters that will bring the whole romance between Huntington and Apollonia to an end. I spoke with D’Albiac just before heading out for town and I have reason to believe that the skipper wants to separate Huntington and me and will be shipping me off to a training job, or a defence flight, or a seaplane squadron. So that’s get this done. The first letter is from our Miss Willing to the editor of the Evening News…”

My two friends sat back in their chairs looking at me open-mouthed, as if I were mad.

“Reggie, let me rattle on and you take notes. I’ll do it all up in Apollonia’s hand later. For now, let’s get our ideas down.” I paused, took a deep breath, and began. “Dear Sir, We have all followed with horrifying interest the reports from France and Flanders of the vicious struggles with the enemy on the ground and in the air. It is with regard to the latter that I write you this evening. Several recent articles have mentioned the ferocity of the enemy’s military aviation and have singled out a pilot named von Richthofen as the premier German flyer. To read what has been written, one would think that the enemy dominates our own valiant boys, none of whom rise to the level of this Prussian, a level deserving of widespread renown. I believe that our newspapers are allowing a great disservice to be done to the men of the Royal Flying Corps and Royal Naval Air Service.

“A while ago I entered into a friendly correspondence with Flight Lieutenant H, an officer with the Royal Navy’s air service who is currently at the front in France. I am enclosing several pages from a letter this brave fellow sent me not long ago. As you will see, he has destroyed on his own nearly thirty enemy machines in the air despite having been in France only a few months. Furthermore, in these pages he describes an encounter with an enemy aeroplane almost certainly piloted by the vaunted von Richthofen himself. Flight Lieutenant H fought that beastly Hun to a standstill and was saluted by him in the air before the fight ended. THIS is what our British aviators are capable of doing! Why are their stories not told? Why cannot we have our own heroes when those men richly deserve our recognition. I pray that you will see the wisdom in publishing Flight Lieutenant H’s account of his exploits and redress this sad situation. Sincerely, A.W., Torquay.”

“Would they publish this?” asked Simpson.

“Damned if I know for sure,” I said, “but I’ll bet on.”

Reggie chuckled to himself. “If this appears in the paper, our boy Huntington will be doing the hatless dance in front of the wing commander. It’s just not on for our boys to be bathed in glory – unless their name is Albert Ball, at least.”

I told them I would write it up and, if I were sent to England, I would post it myself. Otherwise we should have to do get Simpson’s cousin to do the trick.

“How many victories has Huntington actually chalked up?” asked Simpson. I responded that his official tally was sixteen and that I had called a number of them into question, which was why the squadron commander wanted me to go away. I also ventured a guess that the squadron commander was beginning to have his own doubts about Huntington.

“Now, Reggie – here is the gist of the second letter. This one is from Apollonia to Huntington himself. I’ll make sure this gets posted after the Evening News has run its article. Ready? Here goes. My dearest Samuel, I am terribly frightened that I have got you in serious trouble. I recently shared a couple of pages from one of your letters with a journalistic acquaintance. All I wanted to do was show how our brave aviators were toiling unrecognised whilst the enemy wins glory in the press through their exalted Richthofen. Two men visited me today, a naval intelligence officer and a man from the Air Board. They were asking questions about you and demanded to see all your letters. It was ever so embarrassing! They poured over your most tender thoughts and heartfelt confessions with their grubby paws and questioned me for two hours about what I knew of your station, aircraft and equipment, and your opinions on the war and the war leadership. Oh Samuel, what have I done? I fear that I have jeopardised your career by wishing so much to make you a hero as you so deserve. They made such awful threats. I cannot face you again. With heavy heart, I leave you forever… Apollonia.” Your

“The man will be beside himself,” said Simpson.

I took great care preparing the two letters the following day and hid them away in my valise. That evening, 4 May, I shot down a lone DFW near Bethune. This brought my tally to 14 enemy machines.

On 6 May, I led a flight over the lines just north of Arras. We were jumped by a large formation of Albatros scouts – every one of which was covered at least partially red. These were the Baron’s boys. For the first few minutes it took all my skill and attention simply to avoid their fire and evade collision. Then, as the fight spread out across the sky, I found myself turning and twisting with a red and green Hun. The enemy pilot was highly skilled. Although my machine was in theory the more manoeuvrable, I soon lost the advantage of height to this fellow. Spotting a nearby cloud, I decided it was time to get away and did a half roll and dived beneath him. There was a splintering sound and the lateral control became mushy. The starboard main strut had begun to split. If it came apart my machine would break up in the air. No longer able to throw the Triplane about, I maintained a shallow dive toward the cloud and prayed. Tracer streams passed overhead and one or two rounds hit my machine. Then, mercifully, the wispy arms of the cloud surrounded me. I regained our lines and put the Tripe down in the first flat field I found.

It was nearly midnight when I returned to Auchel. Time for one drink before bed. The squadron commander entered the wardroom behind me. He ordered two whiskies and motioned for me to join him by the fire. The words he used were kindly, but he made it clear that I would be leaving the squadron. He could not continue with Huntington and me in conflict. He also made a point of saying that he did not expect me to apologise to Huntington and that he understood my point of view – not that he necessarily agreed with it, just that he had heard and understood it. That was as good as it was going to get. He told me I would not be flying in the morning and would have a week’s leave. I was to be appointed as a flight commander with the Dover Defence Flight. This was a small formation of about eight aircraft, part of the defence of coastal Britain against enemy Zeppelins and bombing raids. We spoke at some length about the squadron, the various personalities who had come and gone, the early days at Vert Galant, and then some technical matters. We shook hands and left as good colleagues should.

May 1917 – Leave

I arrived in Dover on 7 May 1917 after a rough passage in a destroyer, the name of which has quite escaped me. I reported to the aerodrome on Gunston Road, just north of the town and castle, there to discover (to my complete surprise) that there was no commanding officer to whom I should report at that location. The Wing Commander was in Dover and it appeared that I was the commander of all I surveyed at the aerodrome – a “squadron minus”, consisting of five Sopwith Pups and a pair of ancient Bristol scouts. I stayed there only an hour or two to chat with the pilots and meet for a while longer with Flight Lieutenant Munro, a diminutive Cumbrian who was in temporary command of the flight. None of the chaps other than Munro had experience in France, and Munro’s experience before being sent for flying training and drafted to the Royal Navy Aeroplane Station at Dover was as an observer with Naval Four.

The Wing Commander was away at a conference and I reported to his Number One. There I learned that I had leave until 16 May. The first thought was to do what we all did – make a straight line for London, get blindingly drunk, and then visit dance halls and theatres. On reflection, however, that did not truly interest me. I knew no one in London and was thoroughly exhausted. My months in France had not affected me the way it had so many of my colleagues. I had not suffered from nightmares, the shakes, irritability, and growing dread of war flying, but now that I was in Britain I felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue and loneliness. I went to the train station and found a locker for my possessions, then bought a haversack, into which I stuffed some work trousers, drawers and singlets, and a work shirt. I found a shop where I could buy a water bottle with a cork stopper, breeks, long woollen stockings, and a simple jacket. Having nowhere to change, I booked myself into a small and cheap seaside hotel to spend the night. After dinner, I bought a copy of the Evening News and addressed an envelope to its editor in the hand of Apollonia Willing. The postmark would not say Torquay. With luck, the envelope would be thrown into a wastepaper basket before being given to the editor. I slipped the letter I had prepared into the envelope and left it with the front desk for the evening post.

In the morning I took to the road. A cool drizzle soon gave way to bright sunshine and clear skies as I walked westward along the coast. I was in Folkestone for lunch, after which I left the main roads and wondered through the north part of town until I found a good walking path into the countryside. I found a pub with simple lodgings near Brabourne and made an early night of it, dining on steak and kidney pudding, chips, and good (for wartime) ale. The publican discovered that I was a Canadian flyer and from that point would not accept my money. Needless to say, I was rather late getting back on the trail in the morning. Over the next several days I wandered northwest through the verdant hills and lush valleys of the North Downs until I came to Wye. From there I turned north-east, arriving a couple of days later at Canterbury. There I spent two nights and enjoyed my days exploring the town and its famous cathedral. The papers were reporting that Albert Ball was missing. It was good to be in England. Everyone runs out of luck eventually.

Finally, I took the train back into Dover to retrieve my possessions at the station. I booked myself into the Grand Hotel with the room overlooking the Granville Gardens. There I enjoyed a hot bath and had my uniforms laundered and properly pressed. I found a good military tailor in town who furnished my cuffs with the star designating a flight commander. Thus equipped, I went on 15 May to take over my first command.

16 May - 18 June

The first few days at RNAS Dover were spent getting to know our people. The pilots are mostly inexperienced. All are British except for Sub-Lieutenant Henderson, a Canadian from Toronto. I am capably assisted by Chief Petty Officer Blackwell, who oversees general discipline and is also in charge of the aircraft mechanics. I lack a records officer but have a petty officer paywriter fulfilling that role. One of the first things I shall have to do is sort out priorities with the Chief. The flight exhibits a degree of spit and polish that would be most unusual in France. I should like to see that relaxed very slightly. On the other hand, not enough attention is paid to the technical side of our operation. I want the mechanics to duplicate all control wires on our machines and I want the pilots to begin paying personal attention to the zeroing of their machine guns and to their ammunition.

I have flown with the men every day, striving to improve their formation work. The only exception was on 19 May, when I flew a Sopwith Pup to Gosport, near Portsmouth and not too distant from Torquay. There I posted Apollonia’s farewell letter to Huntington. I must be an evil man, for I did not feel an ounce of guilt.

On 20 May, we were joyfully astounded to learn that we had been allocated two of the latest fighting machines by Sopwith. These machines have been nicknamed the “Camel” because of the hump-like protuberance over the breeches of their twin synchronised Vickers guns. I have claimed one and Munro the other. Frankly, it frightens me to consider giving these things to some of our pilots. The Camels are unstable creatures requiring full rudder on takeoff to counter the powerful gyroscopic effect of the 130 horsepower Clerget rotary engines. In a left turn, the nose wants to point up at the heavens and a stall is easy to induce. In a right turn, the nose wants to snap under the rest of the machine and a spin is difficult to avoid. And if you enter into a spin, it is the very devil to get out of it before the ground hits you in the face. Munro and I spent the first two days gingerly learning to coax this wild beast to follow our commands. For all its frightening habits, the machine promises to be the nimblest thing in the air if you can tame it.

On 25 May we received a call warning of approaching enemy aircraft and we patrolled for more than an hour from Dover up to Manston. Unfortunately, the Huns failed to show up for the party. Three more weeks of uneventful patrols followed. Finally, on 13 June 1917, we were dispatched to intercept an expected raid by Gothas, the giant two-engined bombing machines the Germans have unleashed on England. Instead of climbing to altitude near our aerodrome as we usually did, I told the boys to meet up over Margate, as this was where the enemy was expected to make landfall. In our Camels, Munro and I climbed away from the others. We passed west of Ramsgate at 10,000 feet and saw Archie bursts in the distance to the north-east. Climbing hard, we were astounded at the view. Wave upon wave of giant aircraft were approaching the coast east of Margate. I estimated at least fifteen or twenty Gothas. Looking behind, I realised we had left our pups and Bristols far behind. I fired a red flare and signalled to Munro to attack the enemy directly.

When we were still almost a mile from contact, the leading Gothas began releasing their bombs and turning away eastward. The trailing Huns dropped their bombs over water and turned back. I picked the machine I was most likely to intercept and climbed for it. My selected Gotha had been one of the trailing machines but now was near the front of the pack running home. Unfortunately, there were other Hun machines behind and above me, but there was no avoiding them. I would have to take my chances. Thanks to the powerful Clerget I began to close on my Gotha and pulled out of range of the enemy bombers behind me. When I was about 300 or 400 yards away, its gunner opened fire. We had been puzzling for a couple of weeks about whether the Gotha had a machine gun that could fire downwards. My impression was that it certainly did. Although I was nicely tucked under the Hun’s tail, his rounds were snapping past my head. Then another Gotha off to my port side began to fire. I held fire until I was 200 yards away. By this time several rounds smacked into my Camel. I fired a long burst without any visible effect – I was clearly too nervous to shoot well. I began a second burst when suddenly the forward port cabane strut splintered and I felt a whiplash across my face. I pulled away involuntarily and, true to its nature, the Camel entered a spin. By the time I recovered my machine had dropped several thousand feet and the Huns were well out to sea. I had blood on my flying coat and my goggles had disappeared. I throttled back and began a gentle glide homeward.

On landing I was driven to the Royal Victoria Hospital in Folkestone where a great deal of Camel was removed from my temple, cheek, and jaw. The injuries were neither painful or debilitating, despite which I am required to remain in a convalescent hospital for a week to ensure that the minor wounds do not become septic. Munro has visited twice and kept me up to date with news of the flight.

[Raine 102]

Journal of FCdr Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 21

12 September 1917. Leffrinckoucke, France.

" I maintained a height advantage over the two giant machines I had selected and planned to approach them from their starboard quarter."

 

Day one back in France and I have finally summonsed up the energy to bring my journal up to date. It has been a splendid summer. Some of the energy and joy of life has returned and I am even looking forward to my first patrols over the lines.

Following my brief hospital stay in June, I returned to Dover and immersed myself in the organisation of my little unit. Munro had done a brilliant job in my absence and the general standard of cleanliness and organisation had continued to improve. We still had only two Camels, although our overall effectiveness was improved when the ancient Bristols were replaced by Sopwith Pups.

On 4 July, we received a telephone warning that enemy aircraft were heading for the coast north of the Thames. At the sheds, I gave the orders to get airborne as quickly as possible and to proceed individually on a course that would bring us over Manston and thence north to Harwich. We got all six serviceable machines on their way within five minutes. Thick clouds covered much of southeast England. I chose a gap a little off to the north-east and climbed through the cloud layer into brilliant sunlight. With the ground now out of sight, I changed course over what I can only assume to be Manston. Some time later the sky cleared enough for me to see Margate disappearing under my tail.

The time over water seemed interminable. As I approached land on the northern side of the Thames Estuary, the clouds became heavier. I patrolled for a half hour between Southend and Felixstowe before Munro spotted me and joined up. When my petrol gauge told me it was nearly time to head home, I led the pair of us back below the cloud and into a driving drizzle. There was no sign of the Hun lower down and we returned to Dover.

Three days later we abandoned our breakfast to fly in a rainstorm up to Southend. Returned after more than two hours wet and hungry without seeing a thing once again.

On 22 July 1917, we again chased rumours of Gothas, this time up to Margate. A beautiful morning – the lanes and fields and corpses of Kent spread out beneath us in a tapestry of green and yellow that spoke of everything English. Smoke curled from the occasional chimney above thatched cottage roofs. White dots were scattered about fields where sheep grazed. In the river valleys, wisps of fog hung beneath the crowns of oak trees. I found myself humming “Hearts of Oak” as I climbed to 10,000 feet. We spotted the Huns making landfall over Sandwich Bay. There were perhaps sixteen Gothas in a long gaggle of twos and threes. They shone silver in the sunlight and were probably rather pretty. By this point, however, I was thoroughly upset at the idea that they could come here and drop bombs on this island paradise. I recall chuckling to myself that it was strange for me as a Canadian to be thinking of it as our island and smiling at the idea of my parents hearing this. Both were born in Scotland and would have been proud of my sentiment.

After my experience in June when the rear gunner of the Gotha nearly did me in, I resolved to approach these Huns differently. I maintained a height advantage over the two giant machines I had selected and planned to approach them from their starboard quarter. At the right moment I banked and began a shallow dive, firing from 350 yards until I swooped beneath the nearest Gotha. But by the time I zoomed and turned back for a second pass they were well off. I chased them and narrowed the distance, this time firing from long range. The rear gunners of both Gothas converged their fire on me and forced me to break off the attack. Now the Huns dropped their bombs randomly. Many fell over water. Then they turned east and ran for Belgium. I noticed one of the giant bombers fall out of formation and tumble downwards. To my joy, I saw Munro returning from that direction. His was our first victory over these intruders.

At the end of July, I was granted a few days’ leave and took the train north to Glasgow to visit my Uncle Bill and Auntie Tilda. Uncle Bill is my father’s younger brother. Like Pop, he is a policeman. Glasgow was far more industrialised than I expected, or at least it seemed that way because of the way that years of soot had stained every building. Bill and Tilda live in Whiteinch, a pleasant part of the city with some lovely green spaces, although I suspect even the leaves of the trees were a shade darker than they should have been. Bill called it a “hard toun” in his broad Scots dialect. The people of Glasgow were friendly and funny, yet even their humour had a hard edge. Uncle Bill related the story of being on patrol when an electric bell sounded. Three young hoodlums had thrown a brick through a shop window and made off with some jewellery. Bill blew his whistle and gave chase. As the louts reached the next street they ran past a one-legged man with a crutch coming the other way. “Only in Glesga,” Bill said while giggling uncontrollably, “wid the buggers pause in their flight tae kick the crutch frae under a cripple!”

I arrived back at Dover on 9 August to find a familiar face. Gerry Hervey had been drafted from Naval 8 to join our little crew. We had a jolly reunion and I was delighted to welcome my fellow Canadian to the flight. Even more interesting, Gerry was able to bring me up to date with events after my departure from France. It seems that the Evening News thought it best to check with the authorities before printing Huntington’s fantastic account of scrapping with the Red Baron. This resulted in his being “invited” to a meeting at Fleet HQ in Dunkirk. The story that made it back to the squadron was that Huntington was given his own command and would not be returning to Naval 8. His exploits with von Richthofen never did appear in the paper. According to Hervey, Huntington is now a course commander at White City, the training centre in west London where RNAS probationary sublieutenants are taught drill, which fork to use, and Traditions of the Service. He’s the man for the job, I’m sure.

We launched the entire flight on the morning of 12 August. There were reports of Gothas heading toward the Thames and so we were to patrol from Southend nearly as far as Harwich. Munro and I led the way in our Camels, while Hervey led the others trailing behind in their Pups. Arriving at 12,000 feet south of Clacton, Munro and I immediately spotted fifteen or twenty of the large bombers inbound from the open water. I picked a group of three Huns and signalled that I would take the closest. We approached from their starboard beam, firing long bursts and diving away out of range before zooming to attack from the opposite beam. My rounds splashed along the wings and around the starboard engine. As I turned, the Gotha began to trail a thin stream of smoke or vapour and fell out of formation. This was no time for caution. I chased after it, ignoring the tracer from the bomber’s rear gunner. Another long burst sent the Hun tumbling out of control. Two flailing bodies detached themselves from the following machine. Only the pilot stayed with the aircraft all the way down until it crashed into the water about four miles southwest of Clacton. I saw another Gotha turning eastward and gave chase. Several long bursts exhausted my ammunition. Although the Hun lost altitude, it did not fall – at least I could not say so with certainty.

We had ten days of quiet until 22 August. On that day we intercepted another large group of German machines as they crossed the coast near Manston. This time they turned back as soon as we engaged. I fired it one of the fleeing Gothas which seemed to lose control but I lost it in clouds below. The enemy machine was not seen to crash and was considered only to have been driven off. Most distressingly, however, I learned on landing that Munro had put down at Manston with a serious wound to his thigh. They took him to the Royal Seabathing Hospital in Margate. I borrowed a car to go there that evening. By the time I arrived, Munro was dead from his wound.

For the rest of the month, the Germans left us alone. Two more Camels arrived and we focused on getting everyone in the flight some time on these difficult machines. The Camel demands full right rudder during the takeoff roll. Pilots who did not take this instruction seriously would find themselves swerving off-line dramatically and could easily dip a wingtip onto the field. Next, pilots need to avoid right-hand turns on takeoff. Those who ignore this caution frequently induce a tight spin close to the ground. In left-hand turns the Camel wants to point its nose up and without firm left rudder will stall. Finally, the machine is slightly tail-heavy. Constant forward pressure on the stick is needed to fly level. Low flying takes practice.

On 11 September 1917, everything changed. I was called to Wing and given orders to report to Number 9 (N) Squadron, currently based at Leffrinckoucke, a field on the eastern edge of Dunkirk. There I was told to report to Squadron Commander Vernon as a Flight Commander – a substantive one as opposed to “acting”!

The following day – this morning – I sailed from Folkestone to Dunkirk aboard HMS Greyhound. This little destroyer was showing its age as it was quite overcome by the stiff wind and moderate seas. I joined several other flying officers as guests of the captain on the bridge of the ship. After only fifteen minutes of clutching the binnacle as we heaved and tossed, I decided to leave their company and the captain’s pipe smoke behind and head aft to check on the stern rails and stare at the horizon for a good while. It was a blessing finally to disembark and get safely back to the war.

Leffrinckoucke is not much of an aerodrome. The field is featureless except for several Armstrong huts (a pilots’ room, a cramped mess for the lower deck, and an office) and two long rows of Bessonneaux. I was surprised to see a group of several dozen Chinese labourers preparing a site for accommodations huts. The pilots and most of the chiefs and petty officers are currently billeted nearby, while the ratings are mainly under canvas. Squadron Commander Vernon welcomed me generously and walked me about the place. He explained that he had been here less than two months. The squadron had been somewhat written off by General Trenchard, GOC of the Flying Corps – not aggressive enough and with a poor record for equipment maintenance and reliability.

We share the aerodrome with 54 Squadron RFC. They are a Sopwith Pup group and have a good reputation. There is a dinner at a hotel nearby tonight and we will be together with them. I had a chance this afternoon to have tea with the Boucher family in whose house I am billeted along with two other officers, Flight Commander Joe Fall from the Yukon and Flight Sublieutenant Roy Brown from near Ottawa. I’m told about half of the squadron is Canadian. Over tea and biscuits with them and the elderly Monsieur et Madame Boucher, we discussed the need for a heavily Canadian squadron to set a better example.

More to follow…

[CaptSopwith 26]

Fantastic post, Raine! I cannot imagine the level of terror that would run through me if I caught sight of Gothas, knowing that I would have to try something, anything, to deal with them from my tiny, fragile, scout.

[Raine 102]

Thanks for the kind note, Captain! Some of the most memorable experiences in WOFF have been encountered on Home Defence. For those that have not yet flown from English aerodromes, I recommend a good Zeppelin hunt above the cloud base on a moonlit night – be sure to keep the labels off and rely on spotting the shadow against the clouds. If you're lucky, one of the giants will be caught in a searchlight or you will spot the twinkling of AA in the distance. Then you will have the challenge of finding the faint flares marking your field back in Essex. Once the Gothas come, your situation is even more precarious. It is easy to get caught in a crossfire from three or four of the bloody things.

[Raine 102]

Journal of FCdr Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 22

26 September 1917. Leffrinckoucke, France.

 

"Large fragments of wood and fabric broke away. The Albatros nosed down out of control and began to tumble."

 

The first few days at Leffrinckoucke were rainy and blustery, and we were grounded most of the time. I was able, however, to get in a few familiarisation flights. Moreover, I was able to spend the time necessary to get to know some of my fellow pilots, and especially those of my own B Flight. Naval Nine has not been a happy or a lucky squadron. It was drawn together from training establishments back in England. Operational experience was largely lacking. Our first squadron commander, Fawcett, struggled to bring the unit up to standard, either in the air or on the ground. By all accounts, we lacked aggression and seldom had all our aircraft in flying condition. Poor old Fawcett was returned to his unit and replaced by Squadron Commander Vernon.

It was Vernon who welcomed me on arrival. He is relishing the prospect of turning the squadron into a crack team and has very clearly set out his expectations – lead by example, go after the Hun without hesitation, stay on top of aircraft maintenance for my flight, and remember to keep the squadron a happy place. Central to that last objective, the swarm of Chinese labourers working alongside the REs has erected four Nissen huts in as many days. I moved into one of these “cabins” together with A Flight commander Joe Fell and our Equipment Officer, Art McCready. The fourth in our little gang is “Boots” Le Boutellier. Boots is a Yank from New Jersey, but his mother is Canadian. If we count him in, that makes all four of us from Canada.

Next door we have Stearne Edwards and Roy Brown, both from Carleton Place, Ontario. They are friends from back home. With them are two Englishmen, Oliver Redgate and Harold Stackard. On the other side of that cabin is one shared by Taylor from Ontario, and Banbury from Saskatchewan. Their cabin mates are Wood and Mellersh, both English. I’m still getting to know the others.

Life here is kept exciting by regular visits from night Huns. About every other evening one or two enemy two-seaters drifts by to drop bombs on our aerodrome. And once or twice a week we are awakened by thunderous explosions from the Leugeboom gun. This is a fifteen-inch gun about twenty-five miles from here. It has been dropping rounds on Dunkirk, Malo, Coudekerque, and surroundings. Depending on the level of activity at the front, one can sometimes even hear the gun fire. It takes more than a minute and a half before each massive round smashes into Dunkirk!

Our squadron commander, Vernon, did not last long. A couple of days after my arrival he went forward to check on a recovery team that was extricating a Camel from a shell crater close behind our lines. The Huns spotted the effort and shelled the site heavily, killing Vernon and wounding two fitters. Our new commander arrived the following afternoon. Squadron Commander Norton is a Welshman and seems like a force to be reckoned with. I’m sure he will pick up where Vernon left off.

On 16 September, I finally got to lead B flight over the lines. Our sector is the northernmost part of the entire western front, stretching from Ypres north to the sea. In this sector the dikes have been broken so that the Yser River now spreads across a wide floodplain, turning the entire countryside into a muddy bog. This stalled the German advance along the coast. Here we have both Belgian and French troops in the front line, with British divisions holding the line south to Ypres. On this day we patrolled from Middelkerke to Cortemarck and encountered a formation of six or seven Albatros vee-strutters. I led our six Camels to the attack. The fight was brief and more than a little terrifying. Our fellows were new to this game and there were many near collisions. In the end, we drove the Huns off but were unable to claim any as destroyed or even out of control.

Following several days of rain and high winds we attacked an enemy balloon near Eernegem. We succeeded in driving it down and causing it to smoke, although the thing couldn’t be claimed.

On 21 September, we again patrolled behind the German lines. This time we chased a DFW and shot some pieces away. The fight, however, remained inconclusive. The following day we scrapped with a large group of Albatri over the front and I sent one down, apparently out of control. Unfortunately it fell into a large cloud bank and was not seen to crash.

That night we hosted 5(N) Squadron in the wardroom, as well as several visitors from Naval Three. I knew some of the lads, either from training or from my time with Naval Eight – Le Mesurier, Jope, Clarke, and Omerod. The CO of Naval Three is a fellow Canadian, Mulock. First rate fellow. We have set up a baseball game between our squadrons and I have again been pressed to work as the umpire.

25 September was a banner day. Our patrol took us close to the Hun aerodrome at Ghistelles. There the Archie bracketed our formation with their first salvo. In the process of shaking off their aim, I failed to pay attention to a large group of Albatri approaching from the northeast. The AA fire suddenly ceased and we found ourselves with our hands truly full. These were the new Albatros scouts with the rounded fuselage. They seem only marginally quicker than the older types, and our Camels can easily outturn them. “Keep above the fight,” I told myself. I wanted to watch over the less experienced men. Stearne Edwards flashed past, close behind a Hun. A second Hun was turning onto his tail so I dropped in at the end of the procession. The pilot of the second Albatros was so focused on Edwards that I was able to close to within twenty yards before firing. The twin Vickers guns rattled and I saw my rounds strike the fuselage and left wings of the enemy machine. Large fragments of wood and fabric broke away. The Albatros nosed down out of control and began to tumble.

Now I had lost Edwards. An Albatros passed to the south, climbing slightly away from the fight. It was black and white striped, as was the machine I had just shot down. Must be a squadron marking, I supposed. As so often happens, the sky now seemed nearly empty. Just this Albatros and my Camel remained. I closed to 100 yards before the Hun knew he was in danger. Then suddenly the Albatros entered a hard vertical bank to the right. I fired and saw my rounds plunging directly into the engine cowling and cockpit. The EA rolled over and began to stream thick brown smoke. Several flutters of flame were visible as it spun vertically down. It had been too long since I looked about and I shuddered with surprise to see a biplane close behind. But it was Edwards, and he signalled with a wave that he had seen the Albatros fall. In fact, it turned out he had seen them both fall. Both were subsequently confirmed, which brought my tally up to seventeen.

Into town this evening for a celebration dinner at Goberts.

[Raine 102]

Journal of FCdr Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS

Part 23

14 October 1917. Bray Dunes, France.

"At Ghistelles, I turned over the Hun sheds and let loose the bombs – two hangars went up in flames!"

On Thursday, 27 September 1917, we moved yet again. This time our move took us a few miles farther east to an aerodrome called the “Middle” or “Frontier” aerodrome, just south of the community of Bray Dunes and very close to the border with Belgium. The new field was flat and expansive, and we shared it with several other British and French squadrons. The French occupied the more southern parts of the area while 9 and 3 Naval occupied the more northern parts along with a couple of RFC squadrons flying RE8 two-seaters.

As can be imagined, the place was alive night and day with the sounds of aero engines, gramophones, laughter, annoyed petty officers, dogs, and French arguments. We settled in quickly. The wardroom played host to friends from nearly every squadron in the north. Squadron Commander Norton began to make his presence felt. He encouraged his flight commanders to study war flying as a trade. When the weather permitted, he hosted lunch for the flight commanders in his cabin. The topics were always the same – an overview of operations, equipment and tactics, personnel issues, and recommendations for improvements. He recognised that in the air service, the officer pilots had a life quite separate and apart from the lower decks. He worked it out with the Chiefs that each flight commander would be held personally responsible for the development and welfare of other ranks attached to their flight, provided that training, discipline, and development initiatives were to be coordinated with and administrated through the appropriate Chiefs and Petty Officers. He even set aside some non-public funds for use by the flight commanders for purposes beneficial to their men. We immediately set about procuring some battered hockey sticks (ice, not field) and turned the carpenters to the task of building rudimentary boards for an indoor “rink” that could be erected on the concrete floor of one of our oversized hangars. A tennis ball would substitute for the puck. It would be 9 Squadron versus 3 Squadron on a date to be determined.

October began with a series of mostly inconclusive engagements between our Camels and Albatros scouts. We learned to recognise the German Navy aircraft by their distinctive black-and-white stripes, and a fierce rivalry sprung up. Banbury claimed the first Hun shot down since our recent move. On 4 October, I led B Flight to drop bombs on the enemy airfield at Ghistelles. As soon as we had formed up, we headed north over the sea and then turn east toward Ostend. From Ostend to the target was one long, shallow dive. At Ghistelles, I turned over the Hun sheds and let loose the bombs – two hangars went up in flames! Now it was time to pull up and away, but as I did so I spotted a purple and green two-seater taking off from the field below. I kicked the rudder over and dived on it when it was still barely a hundred feet up. My rounds splattered across both upper wings and onto the cockpit area. The enemy machine rolled to the right and dived straight into the ground. Finally I had another confirmed victory.

This success was followed on 10 October when our ship’s bell sounded the alarm in the late morning. We ran to our machines and took off as quickly as we could, for German bombing machines were in the area. Friendly AA fire alerted me to the presence of two Rumplers. One of the Huns turned to fight me while the other ran for home. I caught the aggressive fellow in a tight turn and saw his machine, powered in the air after a short burst at close range. There was still time to catch the second Hun before he made the lines. This one too fell out of control and crashed. I was credited with the first EA but was one of three Camel pilots firing at the second, so I withdrew my claim.

We held the hockey match on the afternoon of 11 October. Mulock’s boys led off the scoring and were soon up 2-0. We had a strong contingent of French spectators from the two escadrilles across the fields. They interrupted the proceedings by presenting the Canadian team captains with bottles of apple brandy – potent stuff. It was announced that since the game was being played on French soil it had to be played by “French rules.” Any team who scored had to down a stiff belt of brandy, so double brandies were poured for the 3 Squadron side. This ingenious system evened the game wonderfully and we arrived at our designated break (we play two halves instead of three periods) tied four-all and pleasantly tight. The second half was a comedy act. Anderson from 3 Squadron was sick on the concrete floor, and our 9 Squadron side insisted this was because for a penalty shot. The matter was resolved amicably when our own man, Edwards, also was sick. By the time each side had reached seven goals the score was forgotten and most of the players simply sat down and held their heads while “Hugo”, a mongrel mix of mostly terrier extraction disgusted us by licking the floor clean. The French were highly entertained.

Then on 12 October we flew a defensive patrol down toward Ypres. There we encountered a formation of DFWs and fell on them. I dived on one and saw the enemy pilot pitch forward in his seat. The machine began to tumble and fell from 8000 feet, landing just northwest of the stricken city. This was followed the next day by another DFW which I met over the lines whilst patrolling just across the river Yser. My first burst silenced the gunner and I closed to within twenty yards before administering the coup de grace.

"I dived on one and saw the enemy pilot pitch forward in his seat."

This brings my tally up to 21 confirmed. Time for a binge!

[Raine 102]

Journal of FCdr Douglas Bell-Gordon, DSC

9 Squadron, RNAS

Part 24

3 November 1917. Bray Dunes, France.

"The Hun began to fall and just then Redgate’s Camel came between me and it."

 

As October progressed, the enemy became ever more bothersome in our sector. They preferred to fight us over their own side of the lines by day, but by night they would send raiders to attack our aerodromes. The fields around Bray Dunes were hit frequently around this time. We dug slit trenches outside our cabins. These we improved over time by adding more sandbag protection and deep dugouts with overhead cover. Some of the fellows, perhaps most of them, have begun sleeping in those dugouts. For my own part I prefer the warmth of my cot to the safety of our dugout. Still, every few nights the Huns leave us with cratered fields and occasionally with a burning shed or building. Our French neighbours have lost their other ranks’ mess and the nearby Belgian squadrons have had a number of machines destroyed.

On 15 October, the Huns came over shortly after nine in the morning. I was one of several pilots who were hanging about the sheds and therefore able to get airborne at the first alert. Without waiting for the others I climbed away sharply as soon as the wheels left the ground. Grey puffs from friendly Archie showed the way. About a half-dozen enemy two-seaters were lazily circling above Bray Dunes, taking turns lining up on the rows of hangars below. It took me a while to reach them. They were up around 10,000 feet. I selected one machine that stood slightly farther from the others and began to stalk it. Unfortunately, the other EAs spotted me and fired from long range, alerting my prey. The Hun – it was a Rumpler – got the wind up and turned for home. This move necessitated a dangerous pursuit, one in which I could close the range only slowly. As much as I attempted to stay in the enemy’s blind spot, his gunner was periodically able to fire bursts in my general direction. This reminded me how much I disliked attacking two-seaters by myself.

I held fire until I was about 200 yards behind and just below the Rumpler. My first burst scored some hits and the enemy pilot seemed rather disconcerted. He threw his machine into a downward right-hand spiral. This was lovely for two reasons. First, it forced the enemy observer/gunlayer to abandon his weapon in favour of holding on for dear life. And second, it allowed me to attack the Hun machine from above. The Rumpler has always seemed more fragile than the other larger enemy machines. This time was no exception. I fired a burst of ten or fifteen rounds from each Vickers and saw pieces of the upper wing fall away. The Hun began to fall and just then Redgate’s Camel came between me and it. I banked into a near-vertical dive and flashed past Redgate to finish off the Hun with one last burst. The Rumpler fell about four miles north-east of Bray Dunes. When I landed, several of the lads went with the squadron commander’s car to find the wreckage. I wasn’t up for the trip, so I asked them to get a piece of fabric for the wardroom wall.

The Rumpler brought my account up to 22 confirmed victories, one more than my old pal Huntington had claimed, only my score and lacked his degree of imagination.

We flew offensive patrols for the next few days, most of which were uneventful. We had a good scrap with some Albatri on 18 October and I sent one down in a spin but could not see whether it recovered. On 20 October, however, things were more eventful. That day we conducted a close offensive patrol. This sort of patrol keeps close to the front and just behind the enemy lines. It was towards the end of our time and we were re-crossing the lines when we encountered three Hun two-seaters heading east. I immediately attacked one of the two machines at the rear of their little formation but was driven away by an energetic and accurate gunlayer. Brown led two of his boys against the fellow. They seemed to do no damage. I had regained altitude and was trying a beam attack when the enemy gunner swung his weapon about and caught me with his welcoming burst. One round smashed into my left Vickers and a piece of metal – I’m not sure whether it was part of the round or part of my machine-gun – sliced open my left jaw. It bled horribly and I confess that I was awfully upset at the thought that it had terribly disfigured me.

I landed at the field near Nieuport and was carted off to a French casualty clearing station. From there I was taken to the Queen Alexandra Hospital at Dunkirk. It turned out that the injury was not at all serious and would leave only a rather dashing thin scar. It provided me with a week’s rest at a time when it was most welcome. I had a number of visitors during my stay, many of my chums from Naval Nine and several from other nearby squadrons. Greaves from 12 Squadron dropped by and we spent a pleasant couple of hours. I’d met him only once during my training and once as a guest at Leffrinckoucke. His sister was a VAD here at the hospital.

I returned to duty on 28 October and led a defensive patrol down to Bailleul. On our return, we explored a bit of the front at the salient. The fighting near Ypres has gone on since the summer. The place is a perfect vision of hell. For miles around nothing recognisable remains. Roads are drowned in mud. Former villages are marked only by a more reddish taint of mud. Shell hole abuts shell hole, and all are filled with vile green sludge. The constant explosions and occasional gun flashes betray the presence of men, but the men and the mud are indistinguishable one from the other. The Anzacs have given the enemy a good going over. The ridge near the smashed village of Passchendaele remains to be conquered before winter comes, and the Canadian Corps has been moved into the sector to do the job. You can be proud to be Canadian these days. Our boys did a splendid job at the end of the summer down near Lens and, on top of the Vimy Ridge fight in the spring, are making quite the reputation for themselves.

Perhaps I have that reputation to thank for the conversation I had this afternoon with Squadron Commander Norton. He has informed me that I am to be awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for success in air fighting. It will be gazetted later this week, but I was told to put up the ribbon right away. The greatest news, however, was that he has put my name forward for home leave. I can expect to get at least two or three weeks in Canada and should receive news of when I go before the end of November! As much as I am a terrible correspondent, I immediately wrote home to the parents and have begun to think about what I can bring as Christmas presents. I cannot lie to myself. The leave is most welcome. I feel very tired and for the first time have begun to worry about my nerves holding out. A little break from more and some peace and quiet back in Halifax will be most welcome.

[Rick Rawlings 138]

Nice work! I've had my fill of obsever gunners for a while!

[Raine 102]

Rick, good to see you here! I'm enjoying your video series.

 

Journal of FCdr Douglas Bell-Gordon, DSC

9 Squadron, RNAS

Part 25

16 March 1917.  On board SS Middleham Castle.

 

"From there it was a simple matter of staying above the barrage balloons…"

 

Had a bit of excitement on 4 November – led a defensive patrol down to Bailleul, providing protection for the several aerodromes in that sector. We had scarcely arrived when a cluster of white-grey Archie bursts drew our attention to a lone Hun two-seater about a mile and a half off to the south. I waggled my wings and led the flight to cut off the Hun’s retreat. The EA was a new type with a biplane tail. My first burst from behind and below sent the fellow into a steep spiral dive. Edwards and I followed him down firing all the way, until I caught him pulling out around 8000 feet. One last push of the trigger levers sent at least fifty rounds into the cockpit area, and the Hun fell vertically, streaming smoke. It fell a couple of miles south of Arras, my twenty third official victory.

Over the next several days we typically flew only one patrol a day. We chased away some Albatri one afternoon, and on another day harried a Rumpler. Nothing conclusive – just longer and colder patrols. Meanwhile, the big push at the salient drew to a conclusion. The Canadians took their objectives on the final ridge. On the larger stage the situation in Russia seems out of control and we are worried that the Ruskies will pack it in and leave the Germans to us in the West. Just what we need, I think not!

By 10 November, the whole of our sector from Diksmuide to the coast was quiet, the Huns having gone into hibernation for the winter. On 15 November, I completed the early patrol. We enjoyed a touch of excitement when we ran into a group of Pfalz scouts. They put up the briefest of fights and then ran away before anything of significance happened. The Pfalz machines dive like gannets. The squadron commander sent for me as soon as I’d completed my report.

“Your Canada leave has come through, Douglas,” he said. “But the last ship I can get you on that will have you in Canada before Christmas sales from Liverpool at nine this evening, our time.” The clock on the office mantle told me it was eight-thirty. Squadron Commander Norton gave me the use of a driver and his car to get me to Naval Five at Petite-Synthe. They had a worn out DH4 that needed to go back to England. I was to pick up Shaw from 5(N) Squadron and fly to a place called Hooton Park. This is an RFC aerodrome not far from Liverpool. Arrangements had been made for Shaw to spend the night with the RFC training establishment there and return the aircraft to Eastchurch in the morning. It was hoped that I could get a drive into Liverpool or at least a taxi. Then there was the matter of the ship. No troop ships or passenger ships were Halifax bound for a week or more, so I had been booked on one of two open cabins on a cargo vessel – SS Middleham Castle. With luck I’d be home in a week and half.

I threw my things together in minutes. There was a lace tablecloth I’d bought for Mum and a lovely French pipe for Pop. I’d not had a change to shop for Maggie, my sister. But I wasn’t even sure that she was in Halifax. Last I heard she was part of a Canadian Red Cross VAD contingent bound for England and perhaps France. Things would get sorted once I landed at home.

The boys at Naval Five were a fine lot. Flight Sublieutenant Shaw introduced himself and invited me into the wardroom for a coffee laced with brandy and a bacon sandwich with brown sauce. We went over our maps together. The plan was to follow the coast to Calais and thence west northwest to Dover. We would skirt the west and north side of London and point ourselves in the general direction of Birmingham. This would be the hardest landmark to miss, and as our only map was a large railroad map of England and Wales, we could not afford to be overly detailed in our navigation. From Birmingham we would head northwest, hoping to meet the Mersey River somewhere between the ocean and Liverpool. We would then drop down and follow the coast to Hooton Park aerodrome.

After a quick briefing on the DH4, we headed out to the sheds. Our machine was ready and nearly up to temperature. I climbed aboard and settled into the spacious cockpit. Wonderfully rugged, it seemed. This machine was powered by a 200 horsepower Royal Aircraft Factory engine. Most of the type enjoyed more powerful motors, so that is why our mount was being put out to pasture in England. We took off and turned over Dunkirk, following the coast. By the time we arrived at Calais we were already up to 8000 feet. Shaw’s voice came through the speaking tube, reminding me of the course to Dover.

It was a sunny, cold morning with moderate gatherings of cumulus clouds from 7000 to 10,000 feet. We continue to climb clear of the cloud. After about twenty minutes I heard Shaw saying something I could not make out. I turned and saw him pointing downwards. Through a gap in the cloud one could see the white cliffs. Now we dropped down to around 6000 feet, all the better to navigate and a bit warmer. The Thames became visible ahead. I recognised the southward bend in the river east of Gravesend, and then the distinctive landmark of Tilbury docks. From there it was a simple matter of staying above the barrage balloons and following the indistinct edge of the metropolis north and then west until the straight line of ancient Watling Street stood out clearly. All praise to Emperor Claudius! This road became our guide all the way to Birmingham. Or at least I thought it was Birmingham. I began to set a course for the Mersey until I remembered that Coventry lay to the east of Birmingham. Sure enough, I picked out the famous cathedral below. Then the smoke haze of England’s second city became obvious, and I headed west until I was really over Birmingham. Now it was a simple matter of flying northwest to the Mersey.

But of course, matters are seldom as simple as they should be. The cloud became heavier and we descended to around 4000 feet. There was a bit of ground haze, so it took me by surprise when a line of hills emerged just ahead on to our port side. I’d forgotten how hilly Wales was supposed to be. The railway map did not show hills and mountains. Besides, it was massive and if I pulled it out now it would be torn away in the slipstream. Another mountain appeared dead ahead. We climbed and followed a gap around the peak. Yet more mountains appeared. The compass was still moving about and I held the machine steady for several minutes. We were heading nearly directly west. This course would bring us into more high terrain and deposit us directly onto the Irish Sea. I decided to turn due north.

About twenty minutes later I made out shoreline ahead. It was running roughly east and west. Must be the mouth of the Mersey. When we arrived over water I turned east. If this was the south shore of the Mersey, why could I not see the north shore? Now the shoreline turned southeast and a far shore appeared, but there was no sign of Liverpool. We were flying over a wide bay that soon began to narrow. I had no choice but to turn north-east and pick up the main coastline once more. My mistake became obvious in a few minutes. I had completely forgotten about how the River Dee joins the open water just below Liverpool. We had been heading up the wrong river. Soon the proper entrance to the Mersey appeared and we descended over its south bank, passing low over Birkenhead. The challenge now was to find the aerodrome. Finding aerodromes was an easy task in France where they stood out clearly in the flat farmland of Flanders and Picardy. The problem here was the sprawl of built-up areas. Every time I thought I’d spotted the place, it turned out to be a part or a football pitch. It was Shaw who drew my attention to Hooton Park. By the time I’d heard his call through the speaking tube, the aerodrome was over my left shoulder. The sheds were unusually dark and did not appear distinct. We turned back over a built-up area and began our descent. I arrived at the edge of the field much too high and much too fast. We went around again. On the second approach we were lower but still too fast. Feeling like a fool, I went around for a third time. I missed the ability to blip the engine! The damn DH simply would not slow down. This time I shuddered over the treetops onto the field at the edge of the stall. Even then, I used all the ground available to bring the machine to a stop.

“You realise that will cost you a drink or two, don’t you?” Shaw said. A tender with two Ack Emmas pulled up and I asked the petty officer in charge to get the machine back to the sheds. I really didn’t want to see the bloody thing again, I explained. To my delight there was a Navy car waiting for me.

“It is you!” the driver said. “Remember me, sir?” I studied the man’s face. Where had I seen him before?

“Luxeuil, of course You were the chap that picked me up at the train station. My God! That was August of last year. What brings you back here?” Sure enough, my driver here was the same fellow who had brought me to 3 Wing on my arrival in France. I remembered that he was a Liverpudlian. The driver explained something about a medical issue and a doctor, but his accent had not become more decipherable in the past year. He waited while I spoke with the RFC station commander and thanked him for his patience with my landing and for hosting Shaw for the evening. I also left a few shillings to ensure that Shaw’s drinks were covered. From there I made a quick stop at the latrines and headed out to the car.

It took a very long time to get to the docks where I finally boarded the SS Middleham Castle around four in the afternoon. I met the captain, Captain Irvine and the first officer, Mr Gwilliam, who showed me to my billet. The cabin was a spartan affair. An iron bed frame was bolted to the wall and topped with a thin mattress. The sheets and blankets were like the standard Navy issue. A bedside table held a shaded reading lamp. Its wooden base was screwed to the tabletop. There was no closet for clothes, merely a couple of open shelves and a row of three hooks. The nearest toilet and bath were at the far end of the passageway outside. I had a chair but no writing table. Fortunately, Mr Gwilliam showed me to what he described as the ship’s library. This was a room of modest proportion with three wooden card tables and a collection of chairs, including two comfortable armchairs. There was a bookshelf with an odd assortment of novels and maritime-themed non-fiction works. They had today’s Daily Post and a collection of magazines. I settled into an armchair and pulled over a standing ashtray. After a quick smoke and read, I fell sound asleep.

 

[Raine 102]

That Journal of FCdr Douglas Bell-Gordon, DSC

9 Squadron, RNAS

Part 26

18 November 1917. On board SS Middleham Castle.

Third day at sea. The seasickness caught me by surprise – didn’t expect to be so vulnerable after my flying experience. Looking out over the rail of the Middleham Castle, I counted eight vessels on the port side. This was a small convoy, just over a dozen ships in all. In the distance brownish-black smoke curled away from an escorting destroyer. I gazed down into the grey waters folding and falling in icy rhythm. What lay beneath? We had seen dolphins earlier. Below here was the realm of sharks and cod. Sharks eating cod. The story of nature – the big fish eat the small fish. It’s all very simple. Then along comes man and their collaboration. Now the little fish work together and build weapons to attack the big fish. No more random, simple predation. Now we have proper wars, the ultimate product of civilisation. But why should we evolve into warmaking creatures? I thought about this for several minutes. Perhaps in the end it’s all mathematically the same. Millions would die anyway with predators thinning out the race of men one at a time. Thanks to collaboration, however, we now get the job done in a few years and then with luck enjoy brief periods of peace before the next thinning-out. In the brief periods of peace we can get on with the job of improving our lot. That’s the evolutionary benefit. Thus pleased with my reasoning, I threw up my breakfast.

 

4 December 1917. Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

Where to begin? The ship reached Halifax early – 24 November. That morning I went on deck and saw the shore of Nova Scotia emerging from the mist, all granite and windblown pine. We passed Sambro Head a couple of hours later and steamed at slow speed to give time for the Navy to open the harbour booms. Point Pleasant Park slipped past on the port side. I’d spent many a happy hour as a boy playing Rob Roy MacGregor in the woods there. Now released from convoy stations, each ship paused at the Examination Anchorage off McNab’s Island to be cleared into the harbour. The war had changed Halifax. British destroyers and Canadian patrol vessels cluttered the harbour, plus the at least one American vessel laid at anchor. It struck me odd how nearly all the city buildings were wooden. I suppose this had always been the case, but I was not used to it any more. The Citadel still stood watch over the harbour.

The Middleham Castle was guided into Pier 2. This was in normal times the immigration terminal. These days it was mainly used as an embarkation point for troopships. Our ship was destined for repairs in the nearby drydock. Pier 2 was where I got off. Paperwork in the terminal took only a few minutes. From there I crossed the railroad tracks to the harbourside road and looked for a taxi. I had wired my parents from Liverpool and told them to expect me on the 25^th at the earliest, so no one was here to meet me. So onto my shoulder with the duffle bag and on up the never-ending hill, following Cornwallis Street to the North Commons, thence across the windswept open Commons to the intersection known as the Willow Tree. I stopped for a coffee at a small café on Quinpool Road. It was getting late in the afternoon and the sun was down over the rooftops. Time to get home. I made my way past several streets to Jubilee Road. At the corner I saw my home – it was one of the few red brick places around, a compact two-storey detached house with a bow window. I crossed the street and began imagining what I would say to my mother. Just then came a stentorian bellow: “Stand fast, young man!” And down the street from behind me strode my father. He looked like the same strapping fellow I’d always admired, tall and broad-shouldered with a full moustache. He wore his favourite grey overcoat and bowler hat and carried a fine walking stick. Only I knew the weight of the ornamental brass knob at the end of the stick. Pop was a police detective and never left home without some means to take down the meanest thug in Halifax.

The reunion was joyous. Mum cried for a good half hour and Pop went to the cellar to retrieve a bottle of whisky. Halifax had come under the Temperance Act after I left for England and was now a dry city. You could make booze and export it, but you couldn’t own it, drink it, or transport it for any reason except lawful export. Veteran policeman, however, might occasionally acquire a cheeky bottle or two for medicinal purposes. I was plied with questions about flying and about the front. Quite to my surprise I answered honestly and did not try to paint an overly rosy picture. Inevitably, Pop asked me if I had fought any German aircraft. I told him that I had been officially credited with the destruction of twenty-three Huns. A very long silence followed and Mum stared at me as though I was a stranger. Pop poured me a long drink. Then he did the same for himself.

The next week and a half were spent visiting neighbours, schoolteachers, and the odd chum who was still in town. My sister Maggie was away, headed for England with the Red Cross. We wrote a “family letter” to her. One day, Pop took me to lunch at the Busy Bee Café on Barrington Street with a friend of his who was influential in the Dominion Police. He was angling for me to join that force after the war. The Dominion Police are a federal force. They do a lot of work avoiding smuggling, not the most interesting subject. But they have some responsibility for national counterintelligence work. That could be of interest. Still, my mind was not ready to grapple with thoughts of a peacetime career.

8 December 1917. Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

Everything has changed. Everything.

I slept late on the morning of 6 December. Pop left for work long before. I went downstairs in my pyjamas and slippers and enjoyed a cup of tea and some toast while chatting with Mum. She was telling me about Gail, a neighbour from down the road who was expecting her fourth child. Mum was laughing as she related how Gail’s oldest girl was upset at the thought of a new sibling. Then the house shook violently. I heard window glass shattering upstairs and three of Mum’s precious china plates fell from a plate rail in the dining room. A deafening roar – louder than anything I’d heard in France. We both dived under the table and waited while the house continued to shake and rattle. Then I ran outside.

Jubilee Road seemed normal at first. Then I saw that two trees were down farther up the road towards Robie Street. On many of the houses all the windows were smashed. Somewhat more sheltered, our house had lost only the upper windows at the front. Across the street and farther up, the roof of one house laid shattered on the pavement in front. A greasy, charcoal-coloured cloud rose above the rooftops. I heard my mother gasping.

“Oh dear Lord, what is happening?”

“No idea,” I said.

“Are the Germans here?”

I shook my head. “They have nothing like this. Maybe it’s a magazine explosion. I need to find out and see if they need help. I’m going to get dressed. Can you check on the neighbours?” Already we could hear the sound of children screaming and women crying.

Minutes later I was in my work dress uniform and watch coat, striding up to Robie Street. The thick, roiling cloud rose a mile over the city. At first the damage seemed scattered. There was a piece of jagged metal lying in front of one of the houses on our street. A wagon lay on its side on Robie Street, the horse kicking and screaming in panic. I crossed over to the North Commons. Nearly half of the temporary barracks buildings there were damaged or destroyed. The sandstone Armoury still stood guard across the field. Its semicircular window over the doors was mostly gone. I headed diagonally across the Commons to the end of Agricola Street. Here the telephone poles were fallen and wires draped everywhere. In places entire houses had collapsed. There were screams and shouts. Already teams of militia soldiers frantically searched for survivors. I spotted an officer and asked him what had happened.

“Not sure, really,” he said. “There are rumours of a munitions ship going up. Then again, a fellow just told me there was a Zeppelin over Dartmouth.” I knew this was impossible but said nothing.

A voice cried out from the rubble behind us. The officer directed two men to follow me and the three of us dug through splintered wood and bits of plaster until we found an elderly man pinned under a roof beam. His face was torn with bits of broken glass and I could not make out his eyes. We got him out and carried him to the side of the road. Someone brought a blanket. Men were working with shovels and axes to clear an open lane for wagons or lorries. Already one could smell smoke and see flames here and there in the wreckage where stoves and coal fires had been upset.

I worked the entire morning along that street, all the time thinking that I should report to the Navy. At noon a lieutenant told me that I could get tea and a sandwich back at the Armoury. Instead I continued walking along Agricola, arriving at North Street, where I turned down the hill toward the harbour. The North Street train station was a ruin. The glass roof had fallen in and the walls were down in places. The closer I got to the harbour more total the devastation became. At Barrington Street I met a petty officer who had some information. It seems that a French munitions ship collided with another vessel bringing relief supplies to Belgium. This happened at the Narrows, which as the name implies is the narrowest part of the harbour, coming just before the end of the harbour opens into a broad bay called Bedford Basin. The Basin is where convoys formed up. Anyway, when the vessels collided the French ship caught fire. Then the whole place went up. According to the petty officer, the entire north end of the city is destroyed. He pointed to Wellington Barracks, just visible through the broken trees from where we stood. The small magazine next to the barracks had caught fire after the blast, but soldiers had worked to get it under control. “A lot of folks started to panic that there was going to be another explosion,” the petty officer said. “We’re going to have a job keeping people from going nuts with rumours.”

He had not exaggerated about the north end being levelled. By the time I got to Barrington Street, it was clear how very dire the situation was. This part of the city had simply ceased to exist. I was reminded of Ypres. Except that at Ypres the rubble was brick and stone. Here there was only shattered lumber and a few stumps of chimneys. Street after street were erased. Close to the harbour the sugar mill and brewery had collapsed and train carriages lay on their sides. The Belgian Relief ship, badly damaged, lay against the far shore. Ships at the naval dockyard showed signs of damage. My old ship, the Middleham Castle, was now berthed near the drydock. Its funnel hung over at a sharp angle. I later heard that the ship’s third engineer had been blown from its decks and landed naked at Fort Needham, nearly two miles away!

I went to the dockyard and reported to the old cruiser HMCS Niobe, which acted these days as the headquarters for the Royal Canadian Navy. There a British senior officer assigned me to lead a rescue team of ratings. We had a wagon to transport the injured to the dockyard. All the hospitals were filling up and one of the American ships in the harbour had been quickly converted to a hospital vessel. Before setting off, I enquired about my return to France. Originally I was set to return on the same ship I arrived in, but it was clear that the Middleham Castle was not leaving Halifax any time soon. They told me they would try to get me back on a convoy but for the time being I was a rescue worker.

 

 Militia soldiers searching the ruins – 7 December 1917                                                                                          Ruins of Richmond, looking toward the Narrows

 

11 December 1917. Aboard HMS Highflyer.

There is no need to write down everything I did in the next few days. Those memories are burned into my brain for life. That first day we worked our way north towards the Basin. Crews cleared a single lane along Barrington Street. We left the dead alongside the street and loaded the injured on our wagon. That afternoon we collected more than two dozen women and children who were blinded. They had been watching the fires on the Mont Blanc, the munitions ship, and the Imo, the Belgian Relief ship. Windows shattered in their faces as their houses collapsed around them. We were directed to send all the poor blinded victims to Camp Hill Hospital.

I returned home very late that evening to find that my mother had opened our house to our expectant neighbour Gail and her children, as well as two other local families whose houses were no longer safe. We were lucky. Our street was partially sheltered from the blast by Citadel Hill and the slightly higher ground at the North Commons. Pop sent a message that he would likely not be home for a few days. Prime Minister Borden was coming to town and Pop was preparing for meetings at City Hall, where they would be setting up committees and emergency relief organisations.

The following day, 7 December, was marked by a blizzard. Six inches of snow fell over the ruined city. We continued the grisly task of digging through the wreckage looking for survivors. The first relief trains arrived that day, to be followed by many more from Montreal and Boston especially. Public buildings and halls were converted into makeshift hospitals. More than 300 doctors and nurses arrived from other parts of the Maritimes, with hundreds more coming from the United States and the rest of Canada. As the morgues of the city were overwhelmed within hours, orders were given to bring the dead to the basement of Chebucto Road School. Our work was occasionally hindered by crowds of onlookers. Police Chief Hanrahan stopped that by issuing passes to all those authorised to be in the “devastated area.”

Three more days of mind-searing rescue work followed, with fewer and fewer survivors coming out of the ruins. On 9 December I returned to Niobe to enquire about my return to France. After a couple of fruitless hours being bounced from one officer to another, I finally discovered someone who was aware of my existence. My travel documents were already prepared. I was ordered to board the British light cruiser HMS Highflyer the following evening. Highflyer was to escort the first convoy out of Halifax.

On 10 December, Pop returned home for the first time since the explosion. He had a bath and a drink and then we all had tea together. No taxis were running, so he arranged for a police vehicle to drive me down to Bedford Basin to board the ship’s boat. We put to sea early the next morning, slipping in single file through the Narrows. We passed the wreck of the Imo along the Dartmouth shore. I asked about the Mont Blanc. It had simply ceased to exist. We passed McNab’s Island and proceeded at dead slow while the thirty-four ships of the convoy sorted themselves into rows and columns as they headed to the open ocean. We were bound for Plymouth.

 

that

The Imo after the blast                                                                                                                                                        Barrington Street YMCA, converted to a temporary hospital

 

Notes

The Halifax Explosion of 6 December 1917 was the largest man-made explosion before the atomic era. It was triggered by a series of errors resulting in the Imo entering the narrows on the wrong side of the harbour. The Mont Blanc sounded its horn and held course. Although the ships collided at slow speed, the results were devastating. The Mont Blanc carried a cargo of high explosives, including TNT and picric acid. Its deck cargo included barrels of highly volatile benzol. The collision ignited the benzol on deck. The ship burned and drifted toward the north end district of Halifax known as Richmond, where it went aground. At 9:04 AM, the burning benzol found its way below decks to the main cargo. The blast wave flattened the north end of the city and caused damage across a wider radius. The explosion also caused a tsunami up to 60 feet above normal sea level as the blast laid bare the harbour floor and the water crashed back to fill the void.

The explosion and tsunami killed nearly 2000 residents. 9000 were injured, many of whom had been watching the fire on the Mont Blanc through their windows and who were completely or partially blinded by the storm of glass fragments when the blast wave hit. About 6000 Haligonians were left homeless.

As a reminder of the strength of the blast, the shaft of one of the Mont Blanc’s anchors landed across the Northwest Arm about two and a half miles from the site of the collision. The shaft, weighing more than a thousand pounds, had flown over the entire city and the waters of the Arm before landing there. It is today mounted in a small park near where it landed.

Amidst the horrors of the tragedy lies a more positive tale. The heroic relief efforts in the wake of the explosion were a lesson for future generations. Overnight, public spaces were turned into hospitals. Trainloads of medical personnel and supplies arrived from across Canada and the US. Innovations in ophthalmic surgery, emergency and rehabilitative medicine, prosthetic design, and emergency response organisation followed. Canadian and British governments donated millions for reconstruction. The explosion was a major factor in the establishment of the Canadian National Institute for the Blind. The CNIB is still a major charitable institution providing service and support for persons with visual disabilities.

Incredibly, as Douglas’s story illustrates, the port of Halifax was able to resume its wartime duties within less than a week of the explosion.

As a final footnote, the province of Nova Scotia sends a giant Christmas tree to the city of Boston each year as a token of gratitude to the residents of that city for the support provided to Halifax in the wake of the 1917 disaster.

Edited December 15, 2023 by Raine

[+epower 23]

Bravo Raine.  I was wondering if Bell-Gordon would be in Halifax on 6 December. 
Brilliantly told. 

You've been carrying DID IV solo for a long time now.  I heard a rumor that your man may have some company before long, not to mention another visit from He who Must not be named... Cigar ash and Tulle.  Carry on in the finest, and do fly carefully.

[jerhear 50]

Excellent story Raine, enjoyed it very much.