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I will be working on this model M163 PIVADS for Vietnam within the coming week it shouldn't be hard as I have the basic model, I just need to add the floating cells to the sides of the chassis.

WOFF BH&H II V1.24 UPDATE for 'Recon Wars' is now available. Version 1.24 7th April 2022 1) RFC 56 no longer has Aces flying N17s in April 1917 (was originally meant for Albert Ball only) 2) Fixed an issue that resulted in no weather setting for saved QC Missions. 3) Fixed a German HQ facility that had Allied flak guns deployed in error. Of course, it includes all previous updates for BH&H II, see the WOFF website for more info.

It is a possibility, they have ties with China and N korea, as well as the likes of Libya and Syria, however, although a reasonably wealthy country, they are a little limited on their manufacturing and industrial capabilities, unlike SAAD which is a more industrialised country, with their own aircraft industry, Zafir has only a light industrial capability, they do have an arms and munitions industry, but heavy industry is really a far reach for them. As I said to Daddy, I am not really a big fan of including Nuclear weapons. However a Scud or more likely Silkworm capability is definitely on the cards, having those weapon systems would certainly cause some headaches in the area !!!

Folowwing thier long policy of having two suppliers for their fighter aircraft, the Israeli HQ followed with great interest the AZ development for South Africa, purchasing at least 36 of them and renaming F1 AZI for Israel, they fought very well in the Invasion of Lebanon as attack aircraft, but the agile F1 banged even some kills over syrian MiGs. thanks to Valastur for this great work, soon to be released!

I think this is a great idea, and a welcome addition to the SF/FE world. A workaround for the nuke issue could be that Zafir makes their own. They may buy Scuds from the Soviets or China, but what if they had access to uranium and scientists, built their own facilities and made their own warheads like North Korea or Iran?

The Story of Charles A. Fairclough: Part 4. March 27th - April 4th, 1916. No.10 Squadron R.F.C “...Three hours? Is that all?” Charles’ face was screwed into a frown as he meticulously scanned over his pilots’ logbook. Outside the window of his and O’Bannon’s room in the Chateau, the muted grey-browns, greens and yellows of France’s wintry countryside had been blanketed by a brilliant dazzling white. As it happened, O’Bannon’s half-drunken hope had become reality and the storm which had put an end to Number 10’s operations had persisted overnight…and had continued to persist for the past week, covering France in a sheet of crisp, deep-set snow. Today was much the same, and the haze of snowfall drifted gently down to earth, carrying with it promises of another flightless day. In truth, Charles had started to feel perfectly redundant. “Three hours what? What are you talking about?” O’Bannon asked from his seat at the small writing-desk in the corner of their room; a new addition, procured on a whim during a day-trip to Oblinghem (borne of sheer boredom) two days prior. “My logbook,” Charles explained. “In the two weeks since I arrived, I’ve only flown three hours ”. O’Bannon chuckled lightly. “Yes, you’ve done rather well for yourself. The chaps are all very jealous” he teased. Charles sighed deeply. “But that’s just it, you know!” he replied, failing to mask the frustration in his voice. “I rather feel like I’m not pulling my weight. And, if I’m being perfectly honest, I rather want to gain some experience in the air”. To this O’Bannon laughed a little harder, to Charles’ disdain. “My dear Charles,” he answered, “the war will still be here tomorrow! You’ll have ample opportunity to, as you say, ‘pull your weight’. But it’s not always advisable to be too keen, you know. Experience inherently requires danger, and the chaps who start out too bull-headed…well…” he drifted off, his smile fading into solemnity. “...anyway”. Charles was thinking of a retort when there was a sharp knock at the door, which swung open without awaiting a reply. It was Arnold Morecombe, adorned in the hideous green-and-orange patterned cardigan (another spoil of war from the day-raid into Oblinghem), which had been a great point of contention in the Anteroom upon its first appearance. “Hullo, Fairclough. Hullo, Kim”. “Kimball, if you please”. “I don’t. Listen, Kim, some of the chaps are planning on making the most of the dud weather by heading to the Vieux Moulin tonight. What do you say?”. O’Bannon let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been making the most of the weather for the past week. I’m bored to death of it. Besides, there’s absolutely nothing to do at the Moulin besides getting tight, and there are a million better things to do with my time”. “...So, you’re in?” Morecombe asked with a sly smirk. “Why not?” O’Bannon answered with a shrug. He turned to Charles. “Fancy it?”. “Yes, okay. It beats sitting in here frozen stiff all night”. Throughout the day, word spread of the planned incursion to Le Vieux Moulin, and by early evening it had become a whole squadron affair. The Moulin’s proprietor, Madame Bussiere, looked perfectly horrified at the wave of khaki that rolled in through the front door. Bravely she tried to put on a smile, twinging slightly as Hill, one of the Observers, knocked clumsily into one of the tables, sending its flower-vase smashing upon the floor. He yelled a quick “Désolé!” in Madame’s general direction and went back to the heated debate he had been having with Buckston (which Charles had vaguely gathered was something to do with horses and motorcycles). Having crowded into the centre of the Moulin, the pilots and observers quickly organised themselves around the establishment’s various tables, and Madame’s three young daughters set to work supplying the horde of airmen with wine by the bottle. As they came and went, several pairs of eyes lustfully followed them. The eldest of the three apparently enjoyed the attention, her mannerisms and interactions becoming increasingly provocative throughout the evening (despite Madame’s hushed scorn each time she returned to the bar to fetch another bottle), but the other two were the perfect picture of shyness and misery. Charles felt quite sorry for one of them who was red as a beet as she brought his table their fourth bottle of wine. Eventually, having had their fun and having caused slightly more damage to the Moulin’s furnishings than was reasonably permissible, the pilots poured back out into the ice-chill of the evening air. It was at that point that Charles realised he was completely Blotto. As if in answer to this revelation, his balance suddenly decided to abandon him and he was forced to cling to O’Bannon to prevent himself falling. “By god, you’re as tight as can be!” he exclaimed with a laugh. Charles also laughed, more at the absurdity of it all than anything else. Here he was, in the heart of France, only some seven miles from the frontline of history’s bloodiest war - and rather than flying and fighting as he’d expected, he’d spent the last week going on day-trips around French towns on various binges. He may as well be on holiday. Charles and O’Bannon’s laughter grew to drunken hysterics as the airmen of No.10 climbed back into the Bedford which had ferried them from the aerodrome, causing several of the men to look their way with confused grins. Eventually their laughter subsided, and O’Bannon began to sing merrily to himself. “...Tight last night, and tight the night before…” Several of the pilots quickly joined in. “...Going to be tight tonight, like we’ve never been tight before! When we’re tight, we’re happy as can be, For we are the airmen of 10 RFC!” Charles was roused the next morning against his will by the cry of “God! Just our bloody luck!” from the other side of the room. Squinting against the intense throb in his head, he looked over to see an apologetic batman standing beside the bed of an extremely irate O’Bannon, who was fumbling for his uniform with one hand while nursing his own headache with the other. “Whazzat?” Charles sleepily mumbled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you” O’Bannon replied. “Bloody storm’s passed. I’ve got the damned dawn show. Can you believe it? God, my head. I was tight last night”. Charles had rolled over and gone back to sleep before O’Bannon was through the door, and mercifully he was afforded a few more precious hours before the batman returned to wake him at Ten O’Clock. “Sorry, sir” the batman said softly. ‘B’ Flight patrol. Off the ground in one hour”. Resigning himself to the inevitable headache, Charles reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and threw his uniform on, not bothering to button up his tunic. Slinging his flying coat and helmet under one arm, he made his way downstairs and into the mess, where he found Wood waiting for him. “g’Morning, sir” Charles muttered. Wood raised his eyebrows slightly, then glanced down at his wristwatch. “Yes, only just. God, Fairclough, you look dreadful”. “I got a little carried away last night”. “It’s an epidemic this morning, it seems. Nobody expected the weather to clear up. We’re ranging for artillery at Arras later”. “All of ‘B’ Flight?”. “Just us. Buckston and Hill didn’t come back from the long reconnaissance this morning. Most likely got lost again. Aspirin?”. “Please”. Wood produced a small pillbox from his breast pocket and threw it across to Charles. At the same time, Owen came into the mess. “So, who’s stupid idea was it to get blotto last night?” he asked with an air of pained annoyance. “Morning, sir. Morecombe’s idea originally, I believe”. Charles answered. Wood and Owen let out a Tch! in unison. After having breakfast (which he struggled to force down), Charles made his way with Owen, Wood and Brown (Wood’s Observer) to the aerodrome, upon which sat two B.E.2s, quietly awaiting their masters. A mechanic clad in blue overalls rushed over to meet them as they approached. “Engines are as good as frozen, ser. You’ll have to warm them up a fair bit before they’ll go right” he explained to Wood. “Thank you, Corporal. Any sign of Mr. Buckston yet?”. “Not yet, ser”. After half an hour of idling the engines, with several intermittent prop-swings required, the two B.E’s opened their throttles and climbed up into a cold so cutting and bitter that it made Charles hunch his shoulders up to his chin and tighten his muscles to stop himself shivering enough to allow for somewhat level flight. Ahead of him, Owen was similarly afflicted, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into the collar of his flying coat. By the time they had reached 4,000 feet Charles was perfectly miserable, and already longed for the warmth of the Anteroom’s fireplace. It would have struck him as amusing, given how bored and apathetic the prior week’s lack of flying had made him, were it not for his current discomfort. As Charles had now come to expect, the moment they reached the point which marked the edge of the Front, where the fertile farmland abruptly melded into blasted mud and chaos, a sudden Whoof, Whoof, Whoof announced the arrival of Archie. As per usual, its sudden appearance disturbed him slightly, although he noted that it didn’t intimidate him quite as it had on his first trip to the front. He suddenly spotted, a few miles ahead and above of him, another grouping of black smudges in the sky and, craning his eyes, saw a lone F.E.2 ‘pusher’ roughly 1,000 feet above, ambling stoically towards ‘Hunland’. The lumbering pusher’s presence comforted him as he watched it sail Eastward. It was then that it dawned on him: He’d perceived another aeroplane in the sky! Somehow, it felt like a great achievement to him, like he was finally ‘Getting his Eyes’, as he had been promised he would do by his colleagues several times over when he’d confided the unhappiness of his inexperience to them during the storm. He allowed himself to relish in this accomplishment for a moment - he’d tell Owen about it when they landed - but then he reverted his attention to the task at hand. He followed Wood’s Quirk as they crept diagonally South-East across the Front, towards Arras. As they overflew the Bosche trenches, Archie’s voice suddenly elevated into a frantic crescendo. If Charles had thought before that he’d gotten over its terrors, such hopeful thinking was now obliterated as the sky around him seemed to be swallowed by the torrent of black ink blots that formed around him. It took all the nerve he had to sit still as Owen tapped away on the Radio Transmitter, periodically gazing over the side of the cockpit to watch the fall of the artillery’s shot. After what seemed like an eternity, Owen signalled that it was time to leave, and the two Quirks swung Westwards. Back on the aerodrome, Charles inspected the several gashes that had been left in his B.E’s fabric by the archie. “Deary me, ser”, the mechanic beside him said after letting out a long, exaggerated whistle. “You’ve been fair lucky today. Looks like Archie had yer number proper-like”. Charles wondered how the pilots of No. 10 Squadron had coped with such a vicious onslaught each day for weeks, or even months, on end - but, as he found out when Wood approached him after de-planing, they hadn’t. “I’ve never seen Archie so accurate,” Wood exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Took a chunk right out of one of my inboard struts!”. After a moment more of assessing the damage to their machines, the two pilots made for B-Flight office in the Chateau to make their reports. “Any word on Buckston yet, Holloway?” Wood asked a short, slightly overweight Sergeant, sat behind a desk piled high with assorted untidy stacks of paperwork. “Not yet, sir,” Sergeant Holloway answered. “Not even a phone call?” Wood asked annoyedly. “No, sir. Nothing” Holloway replied. “Damn him, where the hell’s he gone?” Wood muttered. It seemed an exception to the rule of ‘Talking Shop’ was made that afternoon in the Anteroom, as each pilot seemed to have his own tale about Archie’s ferocity. Several pilots speculated that a new unit had moved into the sector. Several others speculated that they’d simply brought up more guns. The more hopeful pilots and observers chalked it up to Archie just having a particularly lucky day. At around Three O’Clock, Buckston’s absence began to become conspicuous, and several times Wood returned to his office to see if any word had been received. The day drew longer, and the pilots became more anxious. There was a solemnity and morbidity palpably in the air when they retired to the mess for dinner. Rogers checked his wristwatch. “...Quarter past Five” he said quietly. Silence befell the mess for a moment. “Well, I guess that’s that”. O’Bannon’s gaze dropped downward. “Poor old Buckston,” he muttered.

The War Diary of Auguste Besson, Escadrille N.23, part 11. Throughout March, while the battle raged at Verdun and the fate of our nation hung in the balance, we maintained a regular schedule of patrols in our quiet sector of the front. As days and then weeks went by, it became evident that the enemy had weakened his presence there. We had very little hostile activity in the air, and nothing happened on the ground either, with the exception of a few harassment barrages every now and then that were intended to keep up the appearance of a war being fought. One by one, more of our escadrilles were being sent to bolster the defenses of Verdun – but not us! We seemed destined to become forgotten in a sideshow theatre of war, infuriatingly close to the action at Verdun, and yet so disappointingly far from that city of heroes. This was beginning to have a negative impact of the morale of our men, and grumblings about the situation were commonly heard. Alas, there was nothing we could do while the army headquarters saw it fit to keep us where we were. Then, on March 25, Captain de Rochambeau summoned us for a special briefing. New orders had been received from the Fourth Army – the escadrille was to be transferred to the Vadelaincourt aerodrome, a mere 15 km from the front at Verdun, by the end of the month! This news was welcomed by cheers and shouts of ”Vive la France!” So eager were we to do our part in the struggle at Verdun that even the sternest of us could not restrain their emotions. Preparations for departure were made at a feverish pace, and when our column of cars and lorries finally began to lumber forward on its 100 km journey to Vadelaincourt, we were in high spirits, though also feeling sombre about the situation. For if things had been calm, almost peaceful, in our old sector, that would no longer be the case at Verdun. Eventually we reached the road that runs from Bar-le-Duc to Verdun, a distance of about 70 km. This road became better known as ”La Voie Sacrée”, the Sacred Way, during the battle. It was the only road in the region wide and reliable enough to carry all the heavy traffic that was vital to supplying our forces at Verdun. All horse transports and troop movements by foot on the road had been forbidden since the end of February, leaving it open for motor vehicles only. Our column reached Bar-le-Duc via the road from Ligny-en-Barrois, and then began proceeding towards Verdun among countless other cars and lorries. I had never witnessed such an incredible collection of various types of motor vehicles concentrated in one place at the same time. It seemed to me like a glimpse of mankind’s mechanized future, dominated by machines! Traffic was kept in two lines, one going to Verdun and the other back to Bar-le-Duc. Occasionally we passed by vehicles that had suffered mechanical breakdowns. They were simply pushed to the side of the road to wait for repair crews so that the constant flow of men and materiel would not be interrupted by anything. A narrow-gauge railway had also been constructed parallel to the road to further improve the logistics of the troops at Verdun, and there was an additional standard-gauge railway being built in order to reconnect the city to the national railway network. As we proceeded towards Vadelaincourt, we saw large groups of men working along the road, repairing the damage it had suffered from constant heavy traffic. Many of these men were Annamites from our Far Eastern colonies, hired to do work in labour battalions in Europe. Every now and then we also spotted men in boche uniforms with shovels in their hands – prisoners of war, doing the same work as the Annamites. Compared to the Asians, these men looked dirty and unhappy. Night was already falling when we reached Vadelaincourt. It was a small commune about 15 km southwest of Verdun and more or less insignificant before the war. However, the German offensive had suddenly turned the place into a hub of activity. Aerodromes had been rapidly constructed in the area to house all the men and machines that were being sent in increasing numbers to help defend Verdun in the air. In the fading light, we saw big Bessonneau hangars, constructed of timber and canvas for easy transportation, lining the airfield. There was no time to waste, and after stretching our legs for a bit and getting our bearings, we all joined in with the ground crews to help them in making the escadrille operational again as quickly as possible. That night, we were too busy to sleep and took full advantage of the cover of darkness to avoid any potential observation of our actions by the enemy. The front was so close to us that we no longer had the same luxuries as we had had in our previous aerodromes. As dawn approached, we could hear the guns booming in the not-so-far distance. TO BE CONTINUED...