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P5M Marlin...French Navy

Early morning Janet back to McCarran

...and lastly, The U.S. Coast Guard

SitRep: i added more buildings to the Campana Oil Refinery. The refinery and the Steel Plant now have Flak protection. If you have SAM for the Argentinians then one SAM site is part of the Steel Plant defence.

Decided to try out the F-16C Block 52 and doing some BVR familiarization earlier.

SitRep: Campana Steel Plant, again. I added some buildings and a port with two cargoships. Then i repainted the steel work building a second time. Then i have started to build the oil refinery of Campana which is close to the Steel Plant.

A Legionnaire’s Tale – Part 2 26 August 1915 Notre-Dame d'Amiens Amiens, France What in the name of God, the Devil, and the Djinn Who Spoke to Me, impelled me to confession after all this time? Her Birthday. Today is her birthday. Just walking in set my mind whirring. The Cathedral itself. This place, these ancient stones. Frankincense lingered in the air from the recent Mass. The smell conjured memory. I felt a presence. Hair stood up on the back of my neck and on my arms. I feared the nightmare might slip from its shadowy prison and seize me. Some years since that last happened. The line to the confessional was mercifully short. An old woman dressed in black emerged weeping. As I entered the confessional, I smelt a passing hint of rose, then the stronger aroma of old varnish. Suddenly my agitation passed. Kneeling in the darkened cubicle I felt sheltered, as if the filigreed walnut were some sort of dugout immune from blast and terror. The Priest’s voice was at once old and also soothing. “May the spirit of God be in your heart and on your lips that you may humbly confess your sin.” “I have not confessed in nine years, Father. I am 22 years of age.” “Nine years,” he replied. “Best to skip over the venial, then. Speak of those sins which burden your soul.” “I carry contempt and hatred in my heart towards women.” One woman, Felix. Just one. But she became all women. “I have killed, sometimes with pleasure. I have consorted with demons.” “Demons?! How have you done so?!” exclaimed the Priest. “In the desert, a Djinn spoke to me from a whirlwind.” “Incroyable! What did this Djinn say?” “I can’t remember. I was a day without water at the time.” “Perhaps this elemental being was just delirium, or Cafard.” “You know Cafard, Father?” “I was not always a priest. Do continue,” he said in a more authoritative tone. “Many times, I have thought to take my own life.” “That is no sin unless you succeed. You must never give in to despair.” He spoke adamantly. “Suicide is an irredeemable sin.” Fear of damnation is the only reason you didn’t go through with it, Felix… “Go on,” he said. “I have cursed God for what He has allowed to happen.” “The War is terrible, my son, but it is the work of men.” “I speak of greater evils than war, Father, but I did not come here to discuss them.” “Why have you come?” he asked gently. “Today is my Mother’s Birthday. The only gift she ever desired of me on this day was that I make confession and cleanse my soul.” “Confess your sin. God loves you even as you curse him.” “My mother always said such things,” I mused, “but I never saw any sign of it.” He waited and said nothing. He was clever this priest. He knew. “I have done worse than revile the name of God. On this day nine years ago, I cursed my mother.” Cursed her for a whore, Felix. That's what you did. “That is grave, my son. You must ask her forgiveness.” “She is dead these nine years, Father.” “I see.” He rustled behind the screen. I heard him sigh. “Do you repent your sins?” “I am sorry for my sins, Father, with my whole heart.” So many years since I spoke the litany. Words that once brought me such joy and lightness were today, just words. Empty. Powerless. “The Boche will provide the remainder of your penance. For now, go and light a candle for your mother on this her birthday. Pray for her forgiveness. Pray for God’s grace and the strength to return to the path of righteousness. Only then will you have peace. “…det tibi Deus veniam et pacem, et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned solemnly. I rose to go. The Priest spoke again. “One more thing, my son. If you cannot see a sign of God's love then you have not been paying attention. God be with you.” A candle and two prayers. That was the price for nearly half a lifetime of apostasy. He was right about the Boche but why give me such a light penance? Was this Priest an ex-Legionnaire? He knew Cafard***, the peculiar form of nervous torment afflicting the Legionnaire. Wishing to see him and know his face, I sat nearby for half an hour waiting for the Priest to reveal himself but the line to the confessional grew steadily. I moved off to a chapel to begin my assigned penance. ____________________________________ Mother…dear Mother… I dropped to one knee in the side chapel. Dozens of candles burned in front of me, flickering like the dead souls they called to. The candle I lit for Mother shone out among the others like a flare in the dim light. The weight of sorrow, so elusive in confession, settled on me at last. How long I remained so I cannot say. The grinding pain of the stone on my knee returned me to my senses. My eyes burned, not with gas, but with tears. I can’t remember the last time I wept. Going soft or is this my Cafard? A female voice spoke beside me. Lost in reverie I hadn’t seen her approach. Hastily wiping my face, I stood to regard the woman beside me and as I straightened to my full 5’9”, her eye level remained above my own, no matter how much I stretched. Standing a good inch taller than me was a woman of stunning beauty. A half-caste, what the French or Spanish would call Creole. Smooth perfect skin, a shade or two darker than café au lait. Shorter wavy hair down to her neck framed a high forehead and broad cheek boned face. Large eyes that appeared green, (or were they grey?) shone from under distinct arched brows. Hints of blond danced in the stray tiny curls at her temples. A curvaceous body filling out the modest dress, molded onto an extraordinary physique. Arms smooth and powerful with none of the swollen, dangling fat so common to large women. Broad shoulders and a full bosom balanced her proportionately wide hips, but hers were not the overly massive breasts one might expect from a woman of her stature. Her waist tapered only slightly yet her stomach appeared flat to the extent I thought she might be corseted. Even through the fabric of her mauve dress, I could see the lines of her tremendous shapely, and undoubtedly firm, bottom joining heavily muscled legs. Thews. Can one say thews when describing a woman? She radiated the physical without in any way losing the feminine. Of the ample-bodied whores I’d enjoyed in Sidi-bel-Abbes, none were anything like her. A magnificent creature! What violent delights might we share? Such strength. In the throes of her ecstasy, I might be as Job wrestling the Angel. “For your comrades, monsieur?” she inquired again. “There are not enough candles in the entire cathedral for that, mademoiselle.” “You speak as a Gascon,” she said, remarking my accent. “Yet you wear the uniform of the Legion Étrangère.” Taking my Kepi Noir from under my arm, I swept it low in a flourishing bow, as D’Artangnan might have before Monsieur de Treville or Madame de Winter. “Milady,” I said with exaggerated formality. She smiled and then, moving with an unexpected grace for a woman of her size, she responded with a flowing if equally mocking curtsy. At this moment her companion called to her, “Madelaine.” Blast! Just when I was making headway. “Mademoiselle Madelaine, I have forgotten my manners and failed to make introduction. I am Felix Moore.” “Enchanté, Sergent Moore,” she replied. I waited for her to expand but she remained enigmatically silent. Was there more here? “Madelaine,” I ventured impertinently. “The only Madelaine I know is delightful and most delicious dessert…” She looked at me askance, perhaps deciding whether to take offense. “Sergent, have you not heard of the famous Col du Madelaine, a high pass in the Alps known from Roman times? One day it might be part of the Tour de France if ever a road might be built. If you wish reach such a summit and taste the fruits of victory one may find there, I think you will need something more than a Legionnaire’s legendary marching legs.” A savage riposte! En Garde! How remarkable she should mention the Le Tour. At that moment my thoughts flew to my dead comrade. How happy he was when the telegram arrived announcing the birth of his daughter… the same day he died. How it must have galled Faber, a Luxembourger with Belgian roots, to sing Le Boudin, the marching song of the Legion. Pour les Belges il n'y en a plus. (For the Belgians there is no more.) Pour les Belges il n'y en a plus. (For the Belgians there is no more.) Ce sont des tireurs au cul. (They are lazy shirkers.) “You speak of the Le Tour de France, Milady. Then you must know the name of Francois Faber, champion of the 1909 race. He was a legionnaire, killed in May in Artois.” Francois Faber, Champion, 1909 Tour de France “Je suis désolé,” she replied solemnly. Her companion, a shrewish middle-aged woman, now approached. While not quite a crone, she would be there soon enough. Features pinched, as though accosted by an unpleasant smell, she surveyed my person with obvious disapproval. Indeed, my very presence in the Cathedral seemed an affront to her sensibilities. “Madelaine, we will be late. We must go,” she croaked. Damn the ghastly hag for spoiling everything. I had a real chance here. “Au revior, Sergent Felix Moore,” said Madelaine with an expression of wry amusement. The two women turned and moved down the Nave. I almost left it too long. Dashing after the two I called out to them as I closed the distance. “Mademoiselle Madelaine, honor me with the gift of your family name.” The incipient crone scowled as I approached but Milady turned to me smiling. “de Verley,” she said, nearly laughing. Perfect teeth, dazzlingly white, flashed in contrast to her lovely dark skin. Once again, I swept my Kepi Noir in a low bow. She returned my flamboyance with the most infinitesimal curtsy. With her beldame in tow she continued to the Narthex and out the doors. A chance meeting this was. I would never see her again. C’est le guerre. Ah, but to lie with such a magnificent creature as Madelaine de Verley. __________________________________________ *** “Cafard,” wrote David Wooster King in 1916, “comes from the word meaning ‘black beetle.’ In army jargon it means blues or melancholia. The African army troops are subject to this periodically, due probably to the heat and bad wine. In the more acute cases the victims are convinced that their brains are being eaten by black beetles.” According to Legionnaire Edwin Rosen, “Cafard, is a collective name for all the unconceivable stupidities, excesses and crimes which tormented nerves can commit. The English language has no word for this condition. In cafard murder hides, and suicide and mutiny; it means self-mutilation and planless flight out into the desert; it is the height of madness and depth of despair.”

And so it begins... A Legionnaire’s Tale – Part 1 19 August 1915 My name is Felix Moore. Felix A. Moore. I added the ‘A’ for Arthur to make it more believable. These are not the names my mother gave me, but together they serve well enough as my nom de guerre. A gift of the Legion. I shall keep it even when my days as a Legionnaire are ended. My real name... that would cause a stir in certain quarters. The myth of the French Foreign Legion as a refuge for jilted lovers, killers, and fugitives of all kinds is exactly that – a myth. It is true that some of my brother Legionnaires joined because they sought adventure, but most signed up because they had no work. What did come as a surprise was the number of Germans. In 1912, over half the French Foreign Legion was composed of Germans. Of the rest, a few sought refuge from the law. Others, like myself, were men in need of a fresh start and a new identity. A year at West Point prepared me better than most. That seems a century ago now. Légion Étrangère. A perfect place at last. I fell into its traditions and the hard, repetitive life became one more beating making me stronger in body and in mind. With each travail, each blistering 60km march, each fight against the Arab, the troubled memories slip away. Sidi-bel-Abbes, the Legion’s Algerian home, (Holy City might be more accurate) , provided an exotic education of a different sort, the taverns and brothels of the Quartier Nègre being among them. Such lessons, and such a life, were not without cost. I would look upon the true Anciens, hardened veterans on their third or fourth enlistment, and they appeared thinned of their identity as though the color of individuality were wrung out of them, like water from a twisted cloth. They were all the same, in thought, appearance, action. Even as I admired them, I scoffed at the idea I might lose myself as they did, but theirs was exactly the path I traveled. This German war came none too soon. I might be a character in some absurd play. Enter Felix, a Moor. I am well suited to the role. The African sun burnt my Irish skin blacker than many of the native Algerians. Who was he, I wonder, my dark ancestor? Perhaps some hapless shipwrecked Spaniard of Phillip’s ruined Armada, cast on Ireland’s fatal shore and taken in by his fellow Catholics. After three years in Africa fighting the Arabs, I thought myself somehow shielded by the hand of God, a God I once thought had abandoned me… or maybe it was the Devil, or the Djinn who spoke to me in the deep desert. Whomever. After 11 months in France, any hope of divine protection seems illusion. Yet despite my calculated attempts to die, I am still alive. It cannot last. Like that romantic Seeger, I too have a rendezvous with death. Not for the glory he seeks, or the old patriotic lie. Just cold death and an ending to this pain, to this Cafard. I write this chronicle so that my life and deeds may be remembered. On my death it goes to Jacko, Porthos, Artemis or one of the others, for it is their story as well. In time, I trust that one of them will bring it to Monsieur Duval. He is the closest thing I have to family. Few of us left now, we les Anciens, the old African Legionaries. Not many of the new volunteers either. Not after we took Les Ouvrages Blancs, the so-called ‘white works.’ Trenches dug out of the chalk at the base Vimy Ridge. They could be seen for miles and were thought to be impregnable. So many assaults by other regiments broke like water against them. Thousands perished. But on May 9th they could not stand against the force of the Legion. We, the 2nd Regiment de Marche of the 1st Étrangere formed the spearhead of the Moroccan Division. Scores fell as we charged. Capitaine Junod leapt from the trench, shouting in powerful voice, “En Avant, mes enfants! Courage!” He made it twenty meters before falling wounded. Etienne, Houska and Corporal Werner died right beside me 30 seconds later. Many of the officers were killed before we cleared the trenches in front of Berthonval. More died before the White Works where our artillery failed to completely flatten the wire, but we could not be stopped. Like a great wave crashing inland, we took Les Ouvrages Blancs, then the Bethune Road, Hill 123 and finally to Hill 140 on the crest of Vimy Ridge itself. It was 11:30. Four kilometers in a mere two hours! A few madmen, bent on decorating themselves with loot, even ventured down into Vimy and Givenchy. Through it all, I was miraculously untouched by bullet or shell. My greatcoat nicked and perforated but nothing hit me. What we failed to do, as we swept onward, was clear the captured trenches of the Boche. In the wreckage we left behind, they emerged like rats from their holes to harry us from behind. A magnificent feat of arms, nonetheless. The 156th on our right were still pinned before La Targette and could not advance to support us. We sat on Hill 140 like a giant pimple waiting to be exploded. The crossfire from La Folie Farm and Neuville on our unprotected right grew worse and the German artillery started finding the range. It was around Noon when our own artillery landed on us. Terrible slaughter. The barrage continued despite desperate waving of flags and recognition panels. As I directed efforts to reverse the German trench and strengthen our position against counterattack, I saw Lt. Feraud calmly issuing a string of orders trying to get control of the chaos. Companies and Battalions were all mixed. There weren’t enough officers present to effectively organize a defense. From my vantage point, I was one of only three NCOs left alive and unwounded. Seeing the situation, Colonel Pien, our commanding officer seized a rifle and charged forward, only to be killed by a sniper. By 3:30pm enemy reinforcements came to play. City buses full of Boche stopped so close to our position that we could read the advert boards painted on their sides. We repelled the first Boche counterattack with the timely assistance of Lieutenant Wetterstrom’s machine gunners, but no additional reinforcements, machine guns, or additional officers came forward to assist us. Lieutenants became company commanders, Sergents acted as officers, and any Legionnaire with initiative found himself in the role of an NCO. Lt. Feraud, imperturbable as ever despite the bullet wound to his jaw, moved down the ruined trench. “Sergent, today you have earned the Medaille Militaire,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “I shall see to it personally.” He continued on his way. Ten seconds later a shell landed nearby. The blast that literally blew Lt Feraud apart before my eyes, riddled me with metal, and knocked me briefly unconscious. My memory of the next hours blurs. Fighting close in with any weapon at hand. The Boche hit us a second time and pushed us off the crest of 140 and back to Hill 123. Hundreds died holding the latter hill. I woke lying in a shell hole with an officer’s sword in my hand. Judging from the blood encrusted tip to hilt, I had done some strong work. Monsieur Duval would be pleased to see his training put into practice against his hated Germanic foe. In time two of our Russian stretcher bearers found me. Carried away at last, my comrades set me down at an impromptu aid station and went to collect others. There, I heard a wounded German officer speaking perfect French inquire of his Russian stretcher bearers what language they were speaking. “Russian,” they answered in French. “Impossible! Are the Russians here?” “One battalion,” they said. “But...what regiment?” “The Legion!” they answered. “Ah...The Legion!...The Legion!...Now I understand everything,” he sighed. The mystery of how his impregnable Ouvrages Blancs had fallen now solved, he lapsed into unconsciousness. A bloody red day, one that would see the 2nd Regiment de March receive its first unit decoration – the Croix de Guerre. But the cost… My God, the cost. We lost our commander, three of four battalion commanders, 41 other officers, scores of NCOs and 1,889 legionnaires, half our effective strength. My chance for a medal died with Lt. Feraud, but I have my life, and my wounds are nearly healed now. I shall rejoin the regiment in a week’s time.

Coming in for a bad trap. If I was flying a real plane they would have waved me off and I would have struck the ship, possibly damaging the landing gear and turn in my wings. But this is SF2 and I can get away with it.

Hey Tom, I see a whale down there. SHUT UP, CARL, DO SOME OF THAT PILOT SH17! Let's goooo! The faster, the higher. Flying along, singing a song...

Loved this manga!!

Air Combat and Ground Strafe over Isla Martin Garcia

off topic scenes from a photo opp mission.

All trees are felled. The steel mill is painted a little differently. I like it better that way.

And more....

"Operation Market Time" Martin SP-2B Marlin of VP-40 (Vietnam circa 1966)

Damn... it had been ages since I made a little flight! Done some scooting around...

F-104S fresh out of my paintshop.

Pilar industrial complex is finished. I placed some Flak in the middle. Make a nice firework. Its astonishing, that Flak hits something. This time the tailsection of my wingman. BTW: Does Argentina has SAM?

Obflugm Edward Reimann MFFA II Nieuwmunster 5 confirmed victories (3 unconfirmed victories) 26th February to 5th March 1917 The weather relented enough for a couple of sorties for Edward as the winter chills showed its first signs of ebbing away into spring mildness. On the 26th, reports of enemy movement north of Ypres had orders for Edward to fly above the area whilst Hasse made detailed notes of anything he could see, troops, equipment, shells, transport....anything that might give a clue as to the enemy's intentions. The orders then stated Edward was to fly low over the local command headquarters and drop the notes for immediate actioning by the brass on the ground. The mission itself passed quietly enough, although 'quiet' is hardly the correct word to use for anywhere around the Ypres salient. The bag drop by Hasse was completed successfully and both Edward and Hasse were commended on their return to Nieuwmunster. Commended by headquarters that is, not Leutnant Wald. In fact, Leutnant Wald had been rather distant with Edward ever since Oberleutnant Saschenberg's visit a few days previously. Not actually hostile, just distant. Edward shrugged it off at first as he had his hands full with flying but in the evenings in the kasino, the forced silence between the two was being noticed by others. Ebersbach stated that it was more proof that Wald had been affected by the birth of his child and his enforced absence from it. "Instead of patting you on the back and saying 'well done' for your success, he gets 'insulted' that your success has led to interest from elsewhere!" explained Ebersbach. On the 27th, Edward, Wald and Ebersbach flew an attack on the Bailleul railyard. The weather was perfect and the flak terrible. All three survived however and considerable damage was done to the rolling stock and storehouses. On the 28th however, when another attack was planned, this time on the lines south of Nieuwpoort, only Leutnant Wald managed to reach the lines as both Edward and Ebersbach had to abort due to engine faults. In Edward's case it had been quite dicey as the engine had seized as he banked steeply, leaving him sideslipping towards the ground. Thankfully he had enough altitude to pick up enough speed to land safely. This debacle resulted in a severe dressing down for Chief Engineer Uwe Ziegler. Ziegler, a burly 6 footer from the Hamburg docks, was left crumpled and destroyed by Leutnant Wald's tirade. At one point, both Edward and Ebersbach, who could both hear everything being said, thought about going into Wald's office to save Ziegler further earbashing. As February gave way to March, the weather put paid to the flying on the 1st and 2nd. On the 3rd however Edward was out on a reconnaissance trip to the lines. As he gained height and levelled out for his short trip to the lines he saw flak bursts over towards Oostende. He then froze as five Neuports emerged, however these Neuports did not attack. Instead they flew on, making steady progress, back towards the lines. Edward now saw that they were two-seaters, Neuport XII's if he remembered correctly. He throttled up and came up underneath one of the enemy aircraft. Hasse blasted it from below and rhe Neuports split up and tried to give their gunners a shot at Edward. Edward however used his skill to avoid them and come up behind his original target. A long accurate burst had the Neuport nosing down with the pilot slumped and still. The other Neuports now nosed down and ran. Edward let them go and finished his mission. On his return he completed his report and filed his claim. An hour later Leutnant Wald called Edward to his office. Wald looked stonyfaced as Edward entered. He had paperwork in his hand and briefly looked at it as Edward stood to attention. "I have read your report Oberflugmeister, a satisfactory outcome to the mission requirements it seems." said Wald. "Yes sir, and I was lucky enough to down one of our enemy too." responded Edward. "Indeed, however I should tell you that your claim has been rejected." continued Wald. Edward looked rather perplexed, "Has the claim been investigated? It was over our side of the lines. Have the local commanders been contacted sir?" asked Edward. A glimmer of a thin smile cracked Wald's face, "No Oberflugmeister, I have not contacted the local commanders. They have enough to do than chase around Flanders looking for your claims!" said Wald with barely concealed sarcasm. Edward was about to let loose when Wald moved the paperwork he was holding in front of him. "Your 'new friends' have made a formal request for your immediate transfer to Marine Feld Jasta I. I am instructed to provide a date by which the transfer can be completed!" Wald's tone rose as he finished. "My 'new friends'? I have no idea what you're referring to or insinuating herr Leutnant" said Edward, rather affronted. "Oh piffle Edward! You have clearly instigated this and now Oberleutnant Saschenberg is flexing his military muscles by getting headquarters to side with him. Now, if I refuse their request I will have to provide just cause!" berated Wald. Edward could contain himself no longer "I have no idea why you believe I have anything to do with Oberleutnant Saschenberg's request, or visit the other day! I'm sorry you feel 'affronted Oswald but it has nothing to do with me!" said Edward, forcefully. "Do not call me by my first name Oberflugmeister, may I remind you that I am still your commanding officer until such time as I see fit to let you go!" responded Wald. Edward drew breath slowly and calmed himself, he would not allow himself to fall into a trap, even an obvious one like this. If he continued to argue, Wald could have him charged with insubordination and would probably take great pleasure in doing so it seemed. "That is your perogative.....sir" responded Edward. There was a long and cutting silence until Wald broke the quiet...."I suppose I will have to let you go, but I'm damned if I'll allow it to disrupt the rest of the unit." said Wald. "I'm not sure that I understand....sir" said Edward. Wald did not respond directly and stared out of the window at the darkening skies outside. "I will arrange your transfer to MFJI as soon as possible Oberflugmeister and until that moment you are on leave! See the adjutant for any transport documents you need!" finished Wald, staring out of the window throughout. Edward thought about an abrasive response but thought better of it. "As you request....sir" said Edward, who saluted and turned to leave. Edward arranged travel documents through Belgium and back to Germany with the adjutant. He would leave right away. He barely had time to say goodbye to the rest of the unit. Ebersbach was fuming with Wald but Edward persuaded him not to raise it with the Leutnant. They would meet again someday Edward assured Ebersbach.

Obflugm Edward Reimann MFFA II Neuwmunster 5 confirmed victories (3 unconfirmed victories) 20th February to 25th February 1917 Edward watched as Kehr was led towards the waiting ambulance. Kehr looked sad but calm. Leutnant Wald was also there and was talking to another officer who was holding the paperwork Wald had just given him. Just as Kehr neared the ambulance he stopped and looked at Edward. Kehr beckoned Edward towards him and Edward drew near. "Thank you for your help meine freund" said Kehr and grasped Edward's hand. "I resisted far too much, but you managed to get the truth from me, like a doctor draws the poison from a wound." Kehr continued. "Now the wound can heal" said Edward, smiling. "Get yourself sorted and then you can return freund." finished Edward. "I shall!" finished Kehr and with that he entered the ambulance. Edward flew a relatively uneventful mission that afternoon, directing the artillery fire along the enemy held road towards Bailleul. Bad weather was still hampering the flying however and the next two days were lost. During the afternoon of the 22nd however Leutnant Wald received an unexpected visitor, Oberleutnant Gotthard Sachsenberg. The adjutant showed Saschenberg into Wald's small and simple office and closed the door. "Guten tag, Oswald, I hope you don't mind me calling on you unannounced!" Said Saschenberg as he sat down. "Not at all Gotthard, it is always a pleasure. It seems so long ago now we were at flight school together." Wald responded. " Indeed! I remember those trips into the nearby town all too well!" Gotthard smiled broadly as he spoke. "Me too" responded Wald. He reached into the cupboard underneath his desk and drew out a bottle of Napoleon Brandy. He took two small tumblers from a drawer and placed them down on the desk. He poured two decent measures and handed one to Saschenberg. "What brings you here?" asked Wald. "Danke Oswald. I see that Oberflugmeister Reimann now has five confirmed victories?" enquired Saschenberg, although he already knew the response. "That's correct, he is a fine pilot, we're lucky to have him." responded Wald, taking a decent slurp of his drink. "Indeed WE are" responded Saschenberg, overemphasising the 'we' considerably. "Is it not time you allowed him to fulfill his potential flying scouts with my unit?" asked Saschenberg. Wald's expression tightened slightly but his voice remained clear and calm, "I think that's a decision for me don't you agree Oberleutnant?" responded Wald. "Of course herr Leutnant, but who's decision it is is irrelevant, it is the decision itself which is important." replied Saschenberg. Wald found the logic of that statement difficult to counter so sidestepped it with an equally unequivocal statement, "We two-seater staffels need good pilots too Gotthard. Not just the jastas." said Wald. "Indeed Oswald, but it would be wrong to hold another's promise in check simply to prove a point, don't you agree!" continued Saschenberg, deliberately stoking the flames with a provocative statement. Wald, flushed momentarily then regained his composure, "You always were a presumptuous twit Gotthard" replied Wald with a hint of intention, despite the smile as he spoke. "Indeed Oswald, one needs to take chances if one is to reach one's full potential. Maybe that is why you are still a Leutnant in charge of a handful of fellow pilots and beobachters." responded Saschenberg. "A position I'm more than happy with herr Oberleutnant. I will release Oberflugmeister Reimann from his current duties when I see fit" responded Wald. "Therein lies the difference between us herr Leutnant and maybe the difference between you and Oberflugmeister Reimann too by chance?" responded Saschenberg, finishing his drink and rising from his chair. Wald looked a little miffed, "Did Oberflugmeister Reimann initiate this approach?" asked Leutnant Wald. "Not at all, this visit is purely off the record Oswald. I'm simply stating what we both know to be true. Reimann has excellent potential and can best fulfill this, to the betterment of himself and the fatherland with us at MFJI." finished Saschenberg. The Oberleutnant saluted and Wald responded. "Auf weidersehn, herr Leutnant" said Saschenburg, who duly left. The following day Edward was on a reconnaissance down towards the Bailleul lines again. All seemed well until Hasse spotted flak bursts and three winged shapes closing in with the sun at their backs. "Enemy schwein! Behind and closing" shouted Hasse, as he cocked his weapon. Edward bided his time and left it to the last moment to throw his aircraft to the left. The ploy worked and a Triplane zoomed past the DFW. Edward pulled every move to keep the enemy at bay, until purely by chance, the Triplane appeared directly in front of Edward, albeit momentarily. Edward fired a quick burst into his assailant who now made a dart for his own lines. Edward, with no hope of following, turned for home and landed safely some time later.

Obflugm Edward Reimann MFFA II Nieuwmunster 3 confirmed victories (3 unconfirmed) 10th February to 19th February 1917 The wretched weather had put paid to any flying for two days now. There was little to do but write or play 'skat' although that carried danger as Ebersbach was a patent expert at the game. In fact if it wasn't for Leutnant Wald's strict rules on the amounts being gambled, Ebersbach would be a rich man. During these couple of days, the unit received another pilot, bringing the total to 6 pilots and 6 beobachters. Flugmaat Lothar Dreis was from Bielefeld. He was somewhat older than the the others at 31 and had been working in a naval training school near Kiel for some time before applying for flight training. He was made welcome and was to bunk up with the other lower ranked NCO's, Flugmaat Kehr and Flugmeister Werner Buhr. Buhr, a former boxer from Friesenried, was a likable if simple fellow. He had already gotten used to Flugmaat Kehr's peculiar sleeping. Kehr had a habit of talking in his sleep, rather unintelligible stuff, but as Buhr rather bluntly put it, he was clearly "having a go at somebody". All went well on the evening of the 11th, possibly because Dreis had fallen asleep instantly and deeply due to his tiresome journey. On the 12th however, Dreis was woken by Kehr's nocturnal noises. Whereas Behr would simply roll away and go back asleep, Dreis bellowed loudly, "For heavens sake fellow! Be quiet!". At this, Kehr, although clearly still asleep had got up out of bed and come over to Dreis. He grabbed the shocked Dreis by the shoulders and shook him, almost imploringly. "I can't do it! I can't do it I tell you! It wasn't me!" yelled Kehr as he shook the shoulders of the petrified Dreis. Buhr got up and pulled the now sobbing Kehr away. The commotion had brought, Wald and Edward into the room. Ebersbach being on a 4 day pass. Kehr, who presumably had now woken, was sat on his bed with his head in his hands. Leutnant Wald, looking slightly absurd in his longjohns but with his cap perched on his head, looked at Kehr. He now approached Dreis. "Are you okay now Flugmaat Dreis?" Wald enquired. "Alright! How can I be alright!" said Dreis rather loudly. "I was attacked by that man!" He exclaimed, pointing past Wald towards Kehr. Buhr now interjected "He didn't attack you, don't talk rubbish" he said, again in that blunt manner. "He clearly had a nightmare and your shouting at him drew him towards you!" Buhr continued. A now rather heated argument began between Buhr and the clearly affronted Dreis. Wald, tired and wanting to end this spectacle, brought both of them to silence. He looked at Buhr, "Flugmeister, return to your bed straight away!" said Wald firmly. Wald now stopped momentarily as if in deep thought. Finally he turned to Dreis. "Flugmaat Dreis, will you now return to your bed as well, danke" said Wald, hoping that would be the end of it. "But herr Leutnant, I cannot possibly stay in the same room as this....this... Verrückte!!" exclaimed Dreis. Wald, visibly annoyed, had been hoping to avoid prolonging this any further. He sighed and looked over towards Kehr, now being consoled by Edward. He had but one option left, "Oberflugmeister Reimann, will you please escort Flugmaat Kehr to the lockup please and have a guard posted". said the Leutnant. For a split second, Edward thought of speaking out against this but caught Leutnant Wald's imploring gaze. He picked Kehr up carefully and grabbed his blanket "come on meine freund". Kehr put up no resistance as Edward led him out of the room and over to the tiny lockup at the end of the corridor. The next morning, Edward spoke with Leutnant Wald over breakfast. "What will happen to Kehr now"? Edward asked. "That rather depends on Flugmaat Dreis, Edward. If he decides to make an official complaint....Well I can hardly ignore it." Wald replied. "Let me speak with Kehr please herr Leutnant. There is clearly something troubling him, something constantly toying on his mind and each night it emerges when he's asleep." said Edward. Wald smiled, "I had no idea you practiced psychology Edward, but yes, feel free." He replied. Edward sat with Kehr in the tiny lockup, he could see the straw mattress had not been used. Kehr looked exhausted and forlorn. "Tell me what's troubling you" Edward asked. After much refusals and counters from Kehr. There was a moment when Kehr looked like he was about to blow again but finally, he drew breath deeply and spoke. "Back at the end of '15 I was with my unit on the eastern front. I can't remember the name of the village we were near. I could never pronounce those Ukrainian place names" Kehr smiled thinly as he began. Edward listened intently as Kehr described what happened next. Kehr's unit had been ordered to round up the villagers, roughly 100 old men, women and children. They were ordered to take them into the rear whilst the village was fortressed up as a strongpoint. Kehr continued and told of how, after marching them roughly 2 miles, they were ordered to stop. The Hauptman in charge of Kehr's unit then ordered the villagers to be lined up as if for an inspection. The Hauptman then ordered two platoons, including Kehr's, to form up in front of the villagers. Kehr's platoon leader, now realising what was about to happen, challenged the Hauptman. The Hauptman destroyed the Leutnant with a tyrannical tirade of abuse and threats. Two of the villagers, a man of about 50 and a young girl, maybe 15, also now realised what was about to happen and tried to run. The Hauptman raised his pistol and shot both of them dead as they ran. Kehr described the inevitable rest to Edward who had sat in silence throughout. "You see Edward! I hate myself, I hide it under silly jokes and overbearing ways but it's there.....constantly." finished Kehr. Edward, shocked but now at least informed, was able to explain this to Leutnant Wald. Kehr was removed from duties and a report sent advising immediate referral to a medical unit. On the 13th, the flying resumed. Edward was on his way to the lines to the south of Nieuwpoort again to ascertain enemy positions. All went well until Edward was about to turn and head for home. Bullets tore into the wings of the DFW and Edward instinctively rolled into the direction of the attack. A Nieuport, with British markings zoomed past. Edward, threw the cumbersome two seater around for all it was worth. He could hear the rattle of the enemy's Lewis gun from time to time but the pilot was either a poor shot or Edward's maneuvers were working. Momentarily Hasse was able to get a burst at the enemy aircraft. The englischer now made a fatal error. He tried to run. Edward now rolled around behind the fleeing Nieuport and blasted him. Clearly the enemy pilot did not know about the DFW's armament. Another burst and Hasse watched the enemy roll over into the ground about a kilometre from the German front lines. After a delay of roughly 24 hours, Edward's victory was confirmed thanks to a report from the sector commander. He now had four confirmed victories. After more missions, including Edward (and Hasse's) first use of a wireless system and more days missed thanks to the weather, Edward scored his fifth victory. On a trip towards Ypres, Edward and Wald spotted a fornation of enemy Caudrons. Edward instinctively went after them. He targeted the leader and came up beneath as Hasse kept the others at bay from the rear. He blasted the french machine and another burst had the right engine in flames. Edward continued after the now stricken Caudron and a final burst had both the gunner and pilot slumped and the enemy aircraft heading straight down into the ground. Wald confirmed this one himself and a raucous evening was had, celebrating Edward's fifth victory.

Albert, apologies for my long absence. I miss no fewer than three of your posts. All were gripping reading with fantastic screenshots. I admit to being very nervous when it seemed that you were going to be down in your new machine. Good job in getting it home in one piece, ragged although that piece may have been. How do you the new machine after the Roland? Here is my catch-up entry… Journal of FLt Douglas Bell-Gordon, RNAS Part 12 Tuesday, 13 February 1917. Furnes aerodrome, Belgium. I have done a thoroughly miserable job of maintaining my journal, although I have at least managed to keep my family occasionally informed by letter of my continuing existence. Where to begin? The last entry concerned my balloon claim, which was credited to Huntington. Not wishing to be ungracious, I allowed that matter to pass. But Huntington has remained a subject of some doubt in my mind. He is, by all accounts, an Etonian and wears an air of superiority like an ermine cloak. He has taken to asking ridiculous questions about life in Canada – whether one is often attacked by red Indians or whether we all speak French or whether it is possible to dine in a restaurant. Not sure whether he is taking the piss or is genuinely stupid. I have taken to answering him sarcastically and believe he is convinced I grew up in a log hut behind the palisade at the edge of the wilds. Reggie Soar is enjoying the nightly show immensely since I have drawn enough fire that no one teases him about his Yorkshire accent. And our other hut mate Simpson says very little but his occasional glances tell me that he has had his fill of Huntington. Huntington meanwhile goes on about his undying love for Eliza and his plans to marry her once he has personally dispatched the Kaiser. Late January saw intense cold and wretched weather that limited our flying. My log reminds me of numerous “close offensive patrols”. These are patrols only a few miles beyond the German trench lines. Archie there is bad but one has a good chance of scrapping with the Hun. We encountered the new Albatros scout on several occasions. This machine is rather similar to a Nieuport and has become known as a vee-strutter. In several scraps I exchanged bursts with the Huns without conclusive results. In the same period, Huntington has claimed two of the new Albatros. Both were confirmed by Wing without the need for witnesses. He now boasts of a bag of five hostile aircraft. My count remains at six. On 25 January, I had a real fright when in the middle of a close offensive patrol there was a loud whoomp and my Pup was thrown sideways. Several ragged holes appeared in the wings and I could smell petrol. I switched off and glided several miles westward to a forward aerodrome at Courcelles. Then two days later the same thing happened. We were crossing the lines near Arras when another near miss resulted in a petrol leak. This time I made it to a field just south of Arras. I spent most of the day with a battalion of the Scots Guards who kindly provided a watch over my aeroplane while I was invited to join two of their company commanders for tea. “Tea”, it seems, is Scots for whisky. By the time the repair lorry arrived and my machine was ready for me I was in a dubious state. Still, I managed to get it back in one piece. The Squadron went through something of a rough period at this time. The Huns were becoming more aggressive and despite occasional mix-ups, we had no confirmed claims. We lost Mackenzie as well. The Germans confirmed that he had been killed – a sad loss of a good man. Reggie Soar failed to return after a patrol and gave us an awful fright. He showed up finally about twelve hours late. After that there were days without contact and days with snow and intense cold. Life changed somewhat at the beginning of February when the Squadron was relieved by Naval Three and we returned to Dunkirk by road, having left all our Pups for 3 Squadron. Many of the fellows got leave during this period, but my number did not come up. I was somewhat miffed as I have been serving in France since October without leave. On a brighter note, the Squadron is being refitted with new machines. These are triplanes built by Sopwith. They are very like a Pup at first touch, the additional wing being a major difference, of course. The “Tripe”, as it has been christened, is a splendid thing. It has a magnificent 130 horsepower Clerget rotary and climbs like a lift! It is also very light on the controls and rolls quickly. I am still uncertain how it will hold together in a dive. There is no point in tempting the fates quite yet. I’m certain that all will be answered the first time I have a couple of Huns on my tail. In the meanwhile I have been kept busy test flying machines as the Ack Emmas prepare them. Today is 13 February. Everyone is back from leave and orders have just arrived to prepare for a move to Furnes, just across the border into Belgium. There we will replace 1 Squadron RNAS, who are moving south. I shall leave this afternoon along with two other Tripes as part of the advance party. Another chapter begins…

Fry-day