Raine

Things have gotten quiet here with all the bad weather in April and May. Hope to hear from you all soon! I'm sure we will be getting much busier as summer approaches and the offensive looms. War Journal – 2nd Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Izel-lès-Hameau, France Part 19 The foul weather of April became the foul weather of May. Even Major Ross-Hume conceded that the conditions precluded flight for several days at the beginning of the month. Finally, on 4 May, we were given the task of photographing a section of the lines well south of Arras. Edmund Beckwith, my new observer, seemed up for the task. He had busied himself for several days practising with the camera and our few available wratten filters. This morning, however, proved difficult. Layers of cloud and haze obscured the ground, and we were required to circle about at length until there was enough of an opening to get our exposures. All this while the Hun Archie was making himself thoroughly unpleasant. Upon our return, the photography section informed us that our plates were too indistinct to be of much use. The Major caught wind of this and sent us back up shortly after noon – in fact, just in time to miss our luncheon. So we spent another lovely couple of hours circling about and waiting for a gap in the clouds. We got one good chance at it, but again the plates proved to be of little value. We returned to Le Hameau and gave a report, only to have a strip torn off us. Then the rain returned. It continued through until 9 May 1916. On that day we were ordered out to do a low-level reconnaissance despite rain, gusty winds, and a 500-foot ceiling. We patrolled the rail lines around Bapaume and took some heavy ground fire. After one particularly nasty burst of machine-gun fire from a hillside position, I muttered “Bugger this for a game of soldiers” to myself and climbed into the cloud. The next five minutes were nerve-wracking. I stared at the bubble on the attitude indicator and watched my speed carefully to ensure that we continue to climb. If we got a wing down in this position or slipped into a stall, there would not be enough time to correct the mistake after we fell into clear air beneath the clouds. At length, we climbed out above the bottom layer of clouds, but still below another layer higher up. I turned north. Scarcely had we levelled off when three aeroplanes appeared no more than a thousand yards away, ahead of us into the right – Fokker monoplanes! Back into the cloud we went, levelling off when it seemed that we would no longer be visible. When the compass settled, I turned just north of northwest and held course for twenty minutes before beginning a descent. The descent was a nightmare – moisture running off the windscreen and the edge of my goggles with nothing but grey in front. Suddenly a line of trees appeared directly ahead. I hauled back on the stick. The Fee staggered over a small wood that crowned a hillock and dipped down the other side. After about another three minutes at treetop height, we passed over a rail line running roughly east and west. On the off chance that it was the line that ran south of Hameau, I decided to follow it. Our good fortune held, and we soon found our way home. When we landed, I learned that Beckwith had not seen the Fokkers at all. He seemed a bit shaken by the experience. To my surprise, the squadron commander accepted our explanation for abandoning the patrol near Bapaume. Our machine had about twenty holes in it, so I suppose they stood as evidence in support of our report. Having missed lunch, I suggested to Beckwith that we wash up and take a wander into town for a bite. No sooner had we left the aerodrome then he turned to me nervously. “I’m not like you, Hawkwood. I’m not at all sure I am up for this sport.” I looked at him quizzically. He continued. “It’s not at all as I thought it would be. I fancied that the excitement of flying would overwhelm the fear. But I’m afraid, Hawkwood.” “Everyone is afraid,” I offered. “No. What I’m saying is that I’m scared to death all the time. For men I knew killed themselves just in the past week by flying into the ground in bad weather. And the Archie last week – we had no fewer than four very near misses. And then today when the machine guns splattered us with rounds, not to mention coming face-to-face with three Fokkers. And I didn’t see them, Hawkwood! I didn’t see them at all. We could have been shot down in flames and I would go to my grave not knowing what had happened. Then we damn near the hit those trees on the hillside. It’s all too rotten. It really is.” “I suppose I should tell you that you’ll get used to it,” I said. “But that’s a lie. I have been out here since last June and I’m still not used to it at all. There is no way that you lose the fear. You simply learn to tame it. You put it in a box. You lock the box. Then you hide the box under your bed. If it starts to peek out you make a joke, take a walk with a friend, but you kick the box back under the bed. That’s all you can do if you want to live with yourself.” Beckwith was silent for a long time. We arrived at the estaminet, ordered a vin blanc with an omelette and chips and smoked cigarettes while we waited. I could see that Beckwith had tears welling up in his eyes. He took out a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose while surreptitiously daubing his eyes. “I’ll try,” he said. “I know you will. Good man. Oh, I say, here come our omelettes.” We flew twice during the next three days, and Beckwith held up well. On one day, we were told at dinner that the corps commander had relayed his appreciation for our work over his sector. Major Ross-Hume even made a point of mentioning that at dinner.

I understand that there is a time limit for editing, after which you can no longer go back. If you pay for a subscription, I believe it is removed. Also, there may be different levels of time limit depending on your status in the forums. Someone else may be able to clarify this better than I.

Maeran – good to see that Le Mesurier and May made it back alive, if not in one piece. Nurse Antoniadis is intriguing! War Journal – 2nd Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Izel-lès-Hameau, France Part 18 We have lost our squadron commander, Major Hogg, who has been promoted and posted back to England as a Wing Commander. In his place for the past several days has been our new gaffer, Major Ross-Hume. The new “old man” has made quite the first impression. He ordered a full squadron parade on a day when the ack emmas were crushed with work thanks to the splendid shooting of the Hun Archie merchants on our regular beat. Then, to top it off, just as we were ordered to “fall in the officers”, a nasty black cloud emerged from the southwest. The skies opened and we damn nearly drowned while the silly sod strolled up and down the ranks inspecting the lads. When we finally marched off the field through the cloying mud, he retired to his office, but not before ordering the Recording Officer to ensure that we took all the mud off our shoes before entering the mess. That evening at dinner, Major Ross-Hume informed us that we could expect to become much smarter and more effective under his leadership. It was announced that he would brook no excuse for failing to accomplish our assigned tasks. And then, just as we thought he would lighten the atmosphere by standing a round of after-dinner drinks, he announced that by the following week all officers currently billeted in the village would return to the aerodrome and be under canvas “now that spring is upon us.” Even as he spoke, we could hear from across the field canvas flapping in the unrelenting wind. On 26 April 1916, we finally got back in action. The squadron commander has reassigned observers, and I have a new officer named Beckwith assigned to me. He is painfully quiet and shy. Because he has now occupied the space in my tent previously used by Hazard, it will be something of a project to bring him out of his shell. Anyway, Beckwith and I went out together for the first time to do a close observation of a new section of third line trenching near Boyelles. The local Archie gave us a warm reception and I thought Beckwith stood up reasonably well. He had a death grip on each side of the nacelle and stared straight ahead the whole time. Still, he came out of his trance when we turned and dived west to drop our notes. Back up on 28 April. This time we got a perfunctory “good job” from the Major, as we delivered a number of good plates at the end of our patrol. After that, the weather closed in again. Then on 30 April, the squadron got a call from Wing asking about conditions. Was a check of the area around Mory possible, they asked. We had a light ground mist and a solid blanket of cloud at 500 feet. Drizzle blew up into rain and faded back to drizzle. Even if we were able to find our way to Mory, it would be difficult to navigate back if conditions worsened at all, and our reconnaissance would have to be conducted at a ridiculously low level over the front. We were ordered to go up despite this. I protested to the RO that there was a great deal of risk for probably no reward. It did no good. As we prepared to leave, I explained to Beckwith that we would follow orders but not spend a second more over the lines than was absolutely necessary. Be prepared, I told him, for my report upon our return to be – shall we say – enhanced. The outbound flight was thoroughly miserable. The rain soaked us, and the wind buffeted the machine terribly. Beckwith stood up to it better than I, for I became violently airsick. The cockpit of the Fee is a bit too wide to vomit over the side when tightly strapped in. As a consequence, I came to appreciate the driving rain for its efficiency in cleaning my leather coat. Archie was absolutely horrifying. When a shell bursts very close, one sees the flash and hears the buzz of shrapnel. The smell of cordite penetrates one’s nostrils. And shells were bursting right in front and beside us for about two minutes. As soon as we crossed the Huns’ second line, I climbed into the cloud above and gingerly began a leisurely turn with very little bank until I was fairly sure we were pointed westward again. When the compass settled at last, we were in fact heading southwest. We continued for fifteen minutes, then descended and found the terrain unfamiliar. I turned due west and flew for ten more minutes while searching for landmarks. Beckwith spotted a town off to our left and we approached it at 300 feet. The closer we drew, the larger the town seemed. Then I noticed the nearby hills, which seemed familiar. On one of the hills bordering the town there were earthworks and stone walls – the citadel of Doullens! We change course for the north and followed trusted landmarks to find Le Hameau again. The ground mist had not intensified, and we put the machine down about ninety minutes after we had left. That afternoon, Captain Wyllie sought me out and we took a stroll in the rain to have tea in the village. Wyllie has had a run-in with the new boss and swears he has the worst eye for weather of any man in the RFC.

War Journal – 2nd Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Izel-lès-Hameau, France Part 17 We were grounded by bad weather for more than a week. Major Hogg finally gave up trying to create nasty little jobs for us to do and decided to hit it for six by laying on an “escape and evasion” exercise. The concept was simple. We were issued boiler suits from a supply that was being taken out of service. The things were threadbare and smelled of oil, and their labels told us they were “Suits, Combination, Jean, Blue.” We were to be dropped off in pairs after dark all over the countryside and had to make our way back to the squadron without being “captured” by a marauding battalion of Canadian infantrymen equipped with electric torches. Our own NCOs and other ranks also played baddies and manned the perimeter of the aerodrome. Any man order to stop when a torch was shone in his face was considered in the bag. He would be bound and gagged and hauled off to a hangar at the aerodrome to be “interrogated” by the disciplinary sergeant major and the recording officer, both of whom had merrily donned German helmets and greatcoats for the occasion. Hazard and I were paired for the show. We had very little time to prepare. I ran over to the blacksmith’s shop and found a couple of leather aprons hanging on a wall. These I tucked into my boiler suit. Then it was back to the tenders and off into a cold, dark, drizzly night. The canvas was drawn shut as we bounced along the local roads. I tried to register and memorise each turn. The best Hazard and I could do was to estimate that we were somewhere north and probably west of the aerodrome. Every five or ten minutes, the tender slithered to a stop and two more of us were ordered down into the mud. Hazard and I were the last to dismount. We watched as the tender disappeared along a farm lane. After that there was just the patter of rain and the chill wind. We sought to get our bearings. Clouds obscured the stars. “I recall that in Boy Scouts we were told moss grows on the north side of trees,” said Hazard. All we could make out were flat fields of potatoes or turnips or something agricultural. No trees. Definitely no moss. “If there were a hill, we could climb it and get our bearings,” I ventured. But there were no hills. Hazard produced a cigarette case and a lighter. We huddled in a sodden ditch for a smoke. Far off in the distance we spotted the light of a torch and some furtive figures. A pair of our colleagues being put in the bag. We stubbed out cigarettes and discussed which way to walk. Hazard kicked my foot and pointed to the sky off to our right. “It may be my imagination,” he said, “but are the clouds over in that direction just a little bit lighter than everywhere else?” I conceded that he had a point and that they may be reflecting the lights of a town. The only significant towns this distance from the aerodrome were Saint-Pol to the northwest and Doullens to the south-west. The road from Arras to Saint-Pol ran southeast and northwest. If we walked toward the reflective clouds we should hit it. Sure enough, after about twenty minutes we heard the sound of motor vehicles a little ahead and to our left. We veered right and made our way through a wheatfield, eventually emerging onto a lane that led up a low rise. At the top, we saw a town about a mile off. Getting into the town involved wading over a muddy brook, as we did not want to risk the main roads. A signpost confirmed that we were entering Saint-Pol. We passed close by an abattoir and I stopped to take out the blacksmith’s aprons I had been carrying. “If we put these on, we might pass as tradesmen at first glance.” We removed our RFC split-arse caps and wandered into town bareheaded. We had not gone far before we encountered a working man’s café. Hazard had the presence of mind to keep his wallet with him, so in we went and ordered coffee and brandy. The locals eyed us suspiciously for a time, until Hazard explained in his good French that we were British aviators on a silly exercise. Then everyone became very friendly and we relaxed. Five minutes later, however, a local policeman showed up and said he had heard about two possible German spies. He demanded our identification. Hazard explained the circumstances as we showed our paybooks. The policeman advised us that we had no chance of making it through the town as there were British officers everywhere. He then sat down with us and accepted a coffee. The policeman suggested that we would blend in better if we wore caps, so Hazard coughed up a few francs to buy two blue workmen’s caps from the chaps at the next table. Now we looked a bit more the part. We discussed our options. Walking across country in the rain seemed a fine way to catch pneumonia. In the end, I promise to repay Hazard for my share of the expenses and we bought a bottle of brandy from the old woman who ran the bar. With the bottle tucked into the pocket of my boiler suit, we made our way back outside, trying our best to look like two hard-working fellows heading home after an evening shift. But everywhere we turned, there were groups of British soldiers or officers. A column of artillery caissons and guns was halted in the street, their horses shivering and neighing. We crossed over. Suddenly, Hazard stepped into the road and climbed onto the running board of a Leyland lorry. Our bottle of brandy turned the corporal-driver into a willing confederate. Hameau was just a little outside his route to Arras. Hazard and I huddled low in the passenger side of the front compartment until the lorry turned onto the side road through the village to the aerodrome. We rolled through the gate without interference, but a moment later were flagged down by two Canadians. Our driver was up to the challenge. “Where do I find the kitchens for the officers’ mess?” he demanded. “These two Froggies are supposed to fix a sink that has backed up.” Two minutes later I was signing a chit in the mess for a couple of double whiskies. Apparently, we were the first to make it back successfully.

Hasse – Auguste in the thick of it! Splendid episode about his transfer to Vadelaincourt. Then, just as I was looking forward to the first of many Verdun stories, he earns his wooden cross. WOFF is sometimes too true to life. My condolences, and I hope to see you flying under a new name very soon. Lederhosen – I hope you are feeling better and have no lingering side effects. Get well soon! Wulfe – You made me want to put on my coat and head for the Vieux Moulin myself. Great episode. I share Fairclough’s concern about the intensity of Archie these days. If we stay on photographic reconnaissance much longer, we will be certain to catch a packet. War Journal – 2nd Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Izel-lès-Hameau, France Part 16 "We had scarcely gained our own lines when the engine packed up totally and we glided and slipped into a field southwest of Arras." After a week of filthy weather, we were back in action at last on 3 April. Several more cameras had arrived at the squadron, and we started a steady diet of photographic reconnaissance work over the lines. Our orders required photography of sectors from up near Lens all the way south to the Somme. Speculation in the mess suggested that our summer offensive would be in the south; two thirds of our patrols were taking us in that direction. On 3 April, I flew with a new observer named King, Hazard being grounded with a case of conjunctivitis. We were down near Miraumont when we were closely bracketed by Archie. The engine began running roughly and we leaked fuel. I immediately headed northwest. We had scarcely gained our own lines when the engine packed up totally and we glided and slipped into a field southwest of Arras. The two of us were back up the following day. This time we had good success and King was deservedly congratulated on the quality of his work. We could now obtain quick assessments of our photography jobs. Photographic development is being decentralised. Instead of running all our plates over to Wing or even Brigade, we now have a small hut at the edge of the field where two or three photo section troglodytes spend their days and nights developing prints. I passed some time there when the weather turned poor again later in the week. Quite apart from the chemical wizardry involved in producing prints, there is a real science to absorbing information about the enemy from good photographs. I learned how to identify narrow cable trenches that often led to enemy headquarter positions. Ammunition trolley lines are a focus of attention. Narrow and easy to miss, they help one determine possible jumping-off points for future attacks. Everything on the ground seems to tell a story to those with a practised eye. On 7 April 1916, we flew twice, our work however hampered by low cloud and haze. Several more days of rain then grounded us until 10 April. It was during this time that I read in the papers from home about the nonsense in Parliament being preached about the Royal Flying Corps. The politicians would have one believe that we are being marched off to the slaughterhouse by ignorant generals and lazy civil servants, simply because the BE2 is now outclassed in air-to-air combat and because our fighting machines engage the Hun deep over their own territory. For one, the Navy has locked up most of the aircraft production in England, leaving the RFC with the Royal Aircraft Factory. The BE2 was a splendid machine for its time and did exactly what it was asked to do when it was designed. The war is simply forcing us to develop new machines more quickly than our industry seems capable. As for engaging the Hun deep over their own lines, every soldier on the ground and every civilian looking to the skies in England wants their own personal de Havilland scout directly overhead. It’s an understandable feeling, but I tend to agree with the higher powers that want to keep the enemy buttoned down behind his own lines. Of course it makes life difficult for the RFC pilots, for whom a mechanical failure or even light damage can mean captivity, and who must make their way painfully homeward against the prevailing westerly wind. But our offensive strategy permits King and I to parade up and down the front line taking photographs and making notes and sending messages to the artillery, and we have scarcely seen a Fokker in the course of our duty. On 10 April, we went up twice – morning and afternoon. The sector we were assigned to photograph was up north near Bethune. Given the pattern we have seen, it was hard not to think that we were being put in danger as a mere diversion. King did a fine job and kept his head despite some troublesome Archie. When we were back in the mess, I complimented him on his work. “I jolly well hope I kept my wits about me,” he said. “The zephyr vertical does no one any good in this business.”

End of March stats 2Lt David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Le Hameau, France FE2b 79 missions 99.21 hours 0 claims / 0 confirmed.

Lederhosen – Enno has certainly put up some good numbers in a short period of time. Wulfe – Enjoying Fairclough’s story so far. I expect you’ll be busy once the weather breaks. Chives – A hearty welcome to Sergeant Watson! Best of luck on your first trip over the lines. War Journal – 2nd Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Izel-lès-Hameau, France Part 15 Sunday, 19 March 1916 – The Wing padre held a service outside B Flight shed at 9 AM. It was quite unlike Sunday at Saint Peter and Saint Paul back in Tring. For one, the padre had some pulpit. An FE2 was pulled up to the door of the shed and he officiated the entire service from the nacelle, looking down at us gathered about. After a few obligatory prayers and hymns, the old boy invited us to relax and have a smoke and then gave a most humorous rendition of the parable of the good Samaritan. The fellow had spent some time in Scotland and told the tale as if it were about a street robbery in Glasgow. We could not have been the most devout congregation he had preached to, but after a half hour of this we were eating out of the palm of his hand! Hazard and I were then off on a photographic reconnaissance patrol. Once again, the German Archie was intense. We did the best we could, but there was a heavy ground haze, and I don’t suppose our prints were very good. After that we had two days of heavy snow with no flying. Finally, on 25 March, we were sent back up to take more photographs of the Hun reserve lines. On our second pass over our objective, a shell burst very close, just ahead into our right. Hazard was grazed on his left upper arm and our petrol line was holed. We were at 7000 feet, and I immediately turned west. The engine gave out as we crossed our lines. We glided as far as a field near Warlus and put the machine down safely. That was it for us the rest of the month. By afternoon, the snow had resumed and for the next week the cold cut to the bone. Flying was out of the question. The only consolation was that we were ordered to vacate our tents and billeted in the nearby village. Hazard and I were inflicted upon a poor old grandmother who, joyously, lived next door to one of the two estaminets, where we indulged in vin blanc with omelettes and chips. Some war!

Hasse, It would be perfectly fine to recreate your pilot and add the hours from the previous installation to his log manually. I have done that myself. When my pilot was commissioned from the ranks I needed to transfer him from 4 Squadron to 23 Squadron by 15 March 1916. Unfortunately, the in-game transfer process seemed to drag on for weeks and my hopes of a brief leave for the pilot before re-emerging at 23 Squadron as an officer were vanishing. In the end, and after discussion with epower, I simply created a new pilot with the same first name and family name, but nearly a middle initial. My new pilot began as a second lieutenant and had veteran status (as my old pilot had about 100 hours in the air). From now on, my stats will be computed manually. I did this as well as in the last campaign in order to allow my pilot to be transferred to Home Establishment. Cheers, Raine

V 1.21 also adjusts the frequency of ops so that in the early war, you may not be sent on patrol every day. It will get busy soon enough.

Wulfe – It is a joy to see you back for this campaign. I’m looking forward to reading more about Charles in your excellent and evocative stories. It seems he has scored a very jazzy billet! He is a lucky man. War Journal – 2nd Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Izel-lès-Hameau, France Part 14 "What astounded me most was the intensity and accuracy of the Archie in this sector." On arrival in Boulogne, I enquired of the disembarkation officer where I might place a telephone call to my squadron. The fellow asked my name and then pointed at awaiting automobile. “Ask him,” he grunted, motioning towards a corporal standing watch over the motor car. I discovered to my delight that the squadron had received my telegram from London and the OC had dispatched his driver and personal vehicle to pick me up. It was a long and tiring drive, made bearable by a lunch stop in Hesdin and the humorous prattle of Corporal Whittle, the driver, who had made his living behind the wheel of a taxi in London until last year. At first I was convinced we were taking the wrong road. Then corporal Whittle informed me that the squadron left Saint-Omer this morning, bound for Fienvillers down near Amiens. We arrived at this new aerodrome at half past three, and I was deposited in front of the squadron office. There I met my new commanding officer, Major Hogg. This gentleman was a genuine burra sahib, having served in the artillery in India and done a stint as the assistant military secretary to the King Emperor for several years. The good major was taken aback by the fact that I had never flown an FE2. He took me outside and looked at the sky. It had darkened noticeably since my arrival. “You’ll be in Captain Wyllie’s flight. Find C Flight shed and have them prepare a machine for you to take up. I shall send Captain Wyllie to meet you there.” The Fee was a giant beast compared to the little Quirk I was used to. A rigger named Simpkins talked me through some of the basics. While I was listening to him, Captain Wyllie approached and introduced himself. He was a pleasant fellow and a great deal older than I expected. He must have had fifteen years on me. We walked about the machine. One could pass beneath its wings merely by stooping. I examined the oleo undercarriage, which was a novelty. The moment of truth was upon me. Wyllie guided my movements as I climbed to the cockpit, stepping from wheel to step to wing root to a higher step and then inside. Wyllie followed and clambered into the nacelle. His observer’s position was in front of me and a bit lower so that I could see over his head. My cockpit seemed massive and comfortable. Wyllie talked me through pressurising the main tank and ensuring all switches were in the right position prior to “contact!” The engine started, I gingerly manoeuvred the machine to the far end of the field near the village and turned it about into the wind. The buildings of the No. 2 Aircraft Park were visible in the distance. I opened up the throttle and the machine eased itself into a rumbling roll. Then, before I was really aware of it, it took to the air and climbed gently. First impressions were pleasant. The Fee was a huge and heavy beast, yet it was surprisingly light on the controls and revealed no nasty habits. The wind was up now, and we were buffeted about. Wyllie stood up in front of me, holding the pillar mount for the rear-firing machine gun. He pointed downwards, showing me how low the sides of the nacelle were. “Make a sudden move and your observer is gone,” he shouted. I nodded my acknowledgement and thought to myself that I would never make it as an observer in one of these machines. As Wyllie stood there, the sides of his cockpit were well below his knee. Moreover, the observer’s position lacked even a seat. For most of our flight, Wyllie sat on the floor of the nacelle and faced me. He explained later that it was the pilot’s job to watch the sky ahead of the machine whilst the observer watched the engine and the sky to the rear, neither of which was visible from the pilot’s seat. After we landed, he brought me to the officers’ mess and introduced me to many of the others. I learned that Wyllie was a marine artist of some note with an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things naval. How he ended up in the air I shall never know. The other flight commanders were Captain Hargrave and Captain Lane. The latter was a tea planter from Ceylon. The subalterns were too numerous to remember. The first I met was Colin Hazard, a former Gunner who would be my observer. Major Hogg insisted that all pilots and observers share accommodation, so he had already ordered our soldier-servant to arrange my kit there. I met a fellow named Nash who came from Argentina and another named Mowatt from Canada. We were oversupplied with lads from the finest schools, and I confided to Hazard that I required his assistance to translate their schoolboy slang. As much as I wanted to get back up in a Fee, it was not to be. The following day, 16 March, was a washout due to rain. That evening we received orders that the squadron would move yet again in the morning, this time to a place called Izel-lès-Hameau. Le Hameau (as the adjacent village was called) was a lovely field, wide and long and free from trees. Although there were a few wooden buildings and Armstrong huts, we slept under canvas, four officers to each damp, chilly circular tent. Late on the afternoon of 18 March, Hazard and I flew together operationally for the first time, taking photographs of the German lines south of Arras. We returned to the same area the following day. On both days our work was hampered by cloud and haze. What astounded me most was the intensity and accuracy of the Archie in this sector. The rain returned, occasionally mixed with wet snow. I wanted to head into Doullens or St-Pol with Hazard. Then the snow worsened and covered the roads completely, so we retired to the mess and played interminable games of vingt-et-un. The atmosphere of an officers’ mess is much more carefree than I expected, and the fellows go out of their way to make one feel welcome. I believe they are all aware that I am newly commissioned from the ranks, yet the subject has not arisen. If I cannot make a reputation for myself through my scholarly achievements, I hope that in time I shall be able to earn their respect in the air.

Albert, That's a tough one. Hope you're getting your "1918" machine! Raine

I see that the update increases early war AA. How will this interact with the Balloon Archie Mod? Until we are sure, perhaps we should hold off with installing the latter mod. Comments, anyone?

Hasse – Auguste is settling in for a long fight. At least now he has the right machine for the job! TWK – Welcome back to Ailbe. He gave that Nieuport a nasty shock. Meanwhile, David Hawkwood's long-awaited leave comes to an abrupt end… War Journal – 2nd Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 23 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Izel-lès-Hameau, France Part 13 No.1 Savile Row, formerly simply Hawkes & Co, taken in December 2021. Right enough, I was able to enjoy breakfast in London. My train from Folkestone deposited me at Charing Cross, from whence I hailed a cab to Euston station. There I had time to wire home the news that I was back in England and enjoy a cup of tea with some eggs and black pudding before catching the train for home. The station at Tring is a distance from the centre of town and I was braced for a long walk. To my surprise and delight, however, my old friend Eddie Bristow’s father picked me up in his Austin and drove me directly to my parents’ home. Eddie, he was proud to tell me, was serving on board the cruiser HMS Southampton. We chatted all the way and Mr Bristow certainly seemed to have forgiven me for commandeering that Bentley from his garage when I was younger. Mum and Dad’s toyshop was ever the same, except that the window display fairly sang “Rule Britannia.” Tin soldiers in khaki advanced through a papier-mâché landscape of shell holes and ruined cardboard buildings whist a clockwork Zeppelin dangled overhead beside a tin biplane of dubious manufacture. An incongruous China doll in a Red Cross uniform stood at one side surveying the scene. I knocked at the door and heard my father shout to my mother as he scampered down the stairs from the family apartment. Seldom free with his emotions, Dad gave me a bearhug that fairly lifted me off the pavement. The next few days were taken up with eating and sleeping. I expected countless silly questions about shooting Huns down in flames. They did not come. Instead, both my parents enquired sensitively but firmly that I tell them the plain truth about life in France. So I did. Lucky for me that I had experienced few really terrifying moments – once I’d seen enough Archie to get used to the fellow. My mother was particularly pleased at how quickly I had run away from the only Fokkers I had encountered. Dad took me to the pub the second evening home and suggested that I mix bluff and manly understatement with the odd bald-faced lie about chasing the Kaiser’s aeroplanes all over the sky! Thus emboldened, I wove a wonderful tale about dropping spies in darkest Hunland and fighting my way back against Boelke himself. A telegram arrived with a direction to report on 12 March to GHQ Royal Flying Corps at the Hotel Cecil in London, where further orders awaited me. I’d been home only three days and was more than mildly annoyed at this interruption to my leave. Mum and Dad were even more upset but put a brave face on it. Mum even insisted that I pack up all my kit and bring it with me “just in case.” On the morning of 12 March, Mr Bristow again drove me to the station along with Mum. It was a heartrending departure and I promised her that I would send her a telegram to let her know when I’d be back. I took a cab to Charing Cross, where I checked away my kit and, after scoffing a tea and sausage roll at a tearoom in the Strand, I reported to the Hotel Cecil. There I received orders to report to 23 Squadron at Saint-Omer, France, on 15 March. The captain who gave me my orders listened patiently while I protested that I had served nine months in France without receiving any leave and now was directed back to France after barely half a week at home. It took a great deal of fortitude not to start blubbering. The captain was genuinely sympathetic and said he would personally take my case higher. For the time being, however, there was nothing for it but to prepare to return to France. I enquired about my new Squadron and was told that it was equipped with the newer FE2s. At least this was good news. I wired my parents about my situation and found a room at the Strand Palace. From there I made my way to Cox & Co, bankers to the Royal Flying Corps. There was an account already made in my name with my first month’s pay as an officer and £60 on top of that as a uniform allowance. It had completely skipped my mind that I needed to get properly kitted out. I had with me a letter from Major Todd to his tailor at Hawkes & Co on Savile Row. I entered this shop – although the term seemed to lack the dignity appropriate to this establishment – nervously. The walls by the entrance were covered with photographs and etchings of the famous and royal personages they had uniformed. An immaculately dressed gentleman enquired after my needs and I presented the letter. He read it and beamed a welcoming smile. “Come in, sir,” he said. “I shall send for a cup of tea, and we shall begin immediately to measure you.” He cast his eyes over my hand-me-down tunic while I explained its origins. I also explained that I needed to be on a train the day after tomorrow. The gentleman told me they would have one complete uniform ready by late the following afternoon. Everything else would be sent onto my squadron. I could settle my account on my next leave. These fine people had more confidence in my future than I. Then he began itemising my needs: tunics, RFC standard pattern (not the maternity jacket), 2; breeches, Bedford cord, 2 pair (fawn rather than khaki – my choice); trousers, khaki, 1 pair; belt, Sam Brown, with brace, 1 complete; puttees, 2 pair. We discussed the trend that was newly emerging to move rank insignia to the shoulder straps. As this was not yet official, I opted to retain rank insignia on the tunic cuffs. But I preferred the shorter British Warm to the official RFC greatcoat, which I had seldom seen in use. I enjoyed the process and especially enjoyed the tea, which was accompanied by a small glass of brandy. There was a bit of a fuss about getting my British Warm; the fine gentlemen of Hawkes & Co did not want me to leave improperly dressed in my sergeant’s greatcoat. A coat that was nearly finished was brought for me to try on and was altered while I waited. The sergeant’s greatcoat was packaged and sent to my home for safekeeping. By the time I left London on the morning of 14 March, I was a proper officer. I strutted to the station, gleefully returning salutes the whole way!

Hasse – Verdun! Visited the place in 2018. Nowhere else on earth feels as haunted. Good luck in the coming fight. Maeran – Delighted you are on the mend after a rough time. It is a joy to have you back and no longer a “superfluous clerk.” Seb – Absolutely gutted at Runt’s demise. Watching the video, I can absolutely understand how easy it was to push that extra second to empty a 47-round drum. Please regroup and hurry back. Albrecht – A rough homecoming of sorts for Jean-Fidele in Le Havre. And then to reject poor Therese. You can feel his life outside the squadron emptying out. At least he had Aldric to turn to. You did a marvellous job at tying up the loose ends of Seb’s story about Monique. War Journal – Second Lieutenant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Marieux, France (currently on leave) Part 12 On the first couple of days in March, winter flailed us with sleet and snow and piercing winds. Nonetheless, we flew our patrols from Arras down to Albert and spotted for the guns. Then the orders switched to reconnaissance, or “recco” as it is casually termed. Up through Monday, 6 March, life followed its usual routines. Then on that day, after we returned from yet another spotting show, the duty corporal informed me that I was to report to Major Todd as soon as I had cleaned up and eaten breakfast. I announced myself at the squadron office and the RO motioned for me to come around the counter and report to the Major’s office. The office was simply a desk in the corner separated from the rest of the room by low partition. The CO straightened in his seat as I saluted in the “doorway.” “Come in, come in,” he said and pointed to an empty chair. “I have some news for you.” He looked at me intently and then the ends of his moustache turned up as he smiled. “How long has it been since you arrived in France?” “Nine months, sir,” I replied. “Well then, you should likely have had at least two leaves in that period. Most of our officers get ten to fourteen days of leave after three months at the front. The system has not been kind to you.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I might have missed out on some leave, but I have managed to avoid the nastier types of Huns at least. And I have been blessed with an outstanding observer in Mr Clapp.” “Very well said,” the major remarked. “Still, it’s time that the Royal Flying Corps gave you what is due. I have here your travel warrants and papers for your leave over the next fourteen days. Captain Palmer will ensure your pay is brought up-to-date as you will miss pay parade. And since you have no further patrols today, you are free to leave immediately if you wish. I will have a driver take you in my motor to the station in Doullens. There is a train to Boulogne at one o’clock. You could be enjoying breakfast in London by morning.” I found myself grinning like a fool and spluttering thanks. “Oh, and there’s one more thing,” said the Major. “Tomorrow’s Supplement to the London Gazette will confirm the commissioning of one David Armstrong Hawkwood as a second lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps with effect from today’s date. Please allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Mr Hawkwood.” With that, the splendid gentleman rose from his seat and extended a hand. The handshake over, he called for Captain Palmer, the recording officer, to bring three glasses and he produced a bottle of Bell’s finest. He proposed a toast. “I’m something of a renegade in my family. All the other men are Royal Navy and here am I. So here’s the old Navy toast – ‘To a bloody war and quick promotion!’” I scarcely had a chance to talk to Ned over at the B Flight sheds before I had to pack my kit. I arrived back at our hut in time to meet again with the duty corporal who had a package for me. “It is a spare uniform from poor Mr Morgan’s hut. Major Todd thought you were about the same size and said that you should travel as an officer.” I had scarcely met Lieutenant Morgan. He had lasted less than a fortnight. I mumbled my thanks. “He also instructed me to have you consolidate any kit you are not travelling with, as there is a good chance that you will be posted to another squadron at the end of your leave. We’ll want to send everything along to you if that happens.” When the duty corporal left, I unwrapped the folded breeches and tunic. The tunic was a standard RFC “maternity jacket”. There was a Sam Browne belt as well, which required a fair bit of adjustment to fit properly. I retained my own field boots and putties. Thus, clad in a dead man’s clothes and with my NCO’s greatcoat over my officer’s tunic, I took my valise over to the Major’s car, where the driver put my kit in the front seat and held the rear door open. I was headed for a new life. But first, I was headed home.

As a BE2 jockey, the Aviatik C1 is more than I can handle. When the Roland arrives it will be time to join the Navy!

Hasse – Thank you for posting Lou’s “Claims Office.” Along with his traditional Christmas post, this has to be one of the great WOFF classics. Auguste was very fortunate to survive such a near miss by enemy AA. You must have been very patient to make it all the way home and to get him down safely. MFair – I was making my last post when you put up the story of Gallacher’s demise. I’ll really miss him and was looking forward to linking our two accounts. I have mentioned him below. Please hurry back with a new fellow. Paroni – That was a narrow escape. At least your man had a chance to get home for a while. From the photo of Ypres that you posted, it seems that he is doing a very good job spotting for the artillery. Seb – Wonderful pictures from your Aviatik hunt. Albrecht – Congratulations to Jean-Fidele on his selection for N26 and on his fifteenth confirmed victory! That is a pretty amazing record for this early in the war. Your other pilot, Enno, is also doing extremely well in his two-seater. I share your awe at what some people can do with a machine like a BE2. In my case, the observer has yet to fire his Lewis gun. Lederhosen – 4 confirmed victories already. And with an Aviatik! Well done. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Marieux, France Part 11 Fokkers! As we settled into the new aerodrome at Marieux, the pilots’ first priority was to get their bearings. Doing so involved a number of sightseeing flights in which one took note of prominent features that could serve as guiding points on one’s way home. Most notable, of course, was the small town of Doullens, with its citadel and tin-clad belfry and imposing brick town hall. There were several oddly shaped farms that stood out and some areas where the landscape was scarred with entrenchments made by units in reserve so that their soldiers could practise trench raiding and set-piece attacks. Late on the morning of our first day there, I was returning from one of these familiarisation flights and saw a pillar of smoke rising from the edge of the field just outside the aerodrome. I touched down and switched off in front of one of the sheds. Ned Buckley was the first to approach as I clambered down from the cockpit. “Bit of drama this morning, I’m afraid,” he said. “You’ve seen the result, I suppose. One of 8 Squadron’s lads took up a Bristol and had some engine bother. He went thundering in over there.” We had been invited to join Number 8 for dinner that evening. “Anyone we’ve met?” I asked. “Afraid so,” said Ned. “The American fellow, Gallagher.” I winced. I’d just met him the previous evening and we’d hit it off splendidly. I had been very much looking forward to having a drink with him that night. We had lost a number of pilots and observers in the months since I joined 4 Squadron but losing this man whom I barely knew bothered me more than I cared to dwell on. In early February we were assigned most of the time to spotting for the guns. Many of our flights took us up to the area between Arras and Monchy, farther north than I had yet seen. We often encountered enemy two-seaters. They always passed us at higher altitude. The BE2c is not a machine built for the attack, and if the Huns did not bother us – and they did not – we did not look to bother them. We had a spell of snow and sleet in the middle of the month, cancelling all flying for several days. On 20 February, I was given the opportunity to lead our group of three machines and spot for a battery of heavies near Boyelles. This assignment gave me little worry. The Hun Archie in this sector were rotten compared to our old friends at Delville Wood. For the first half-hour my target was a crossroads in the German rear area. It was surrounded by dugouts which had been poorly camouflaged. It took longer than I wanted to get the guns on line, but finally I progressed to the “shorts and overs” and was finally able to send the OK. There was an second target in my orders. Just as I was beginning to search for it, I saw the flash of a German battery at the edge of a corpse outside Écoust. I sent the message immediately and in less than a minute, our guns were ranging on the enemy position. This time it took only a few attempts before our shells were falling on the Hun battery and I gave the OK again. Their guns must have been obliterated. I had a thought for a moment to rejoice, but Lieutenant Needham put paid to that idea by firing a red Very light – our signal for approaching Huns. I spotted them at once. Two machines were diving at us from about a mile off to the east. They were barely visible against the morning sun, just a dot with a single thin line. Monoplanes. Fokkers! I immediately gave the washout signal and dived away to the west. The German machines were closing on us quickly, even though we had our noses down and throttles wide open. We were down to almost 1000 feet as we crossed the British reserve trenches south of Arras and levelled off. The Huns would very shortly be in range and my mind raced with the stunts I should have to perform to avoid being “Fokker fodder.” Yet as luck would have it, not long after crossing our trenches the two Hun monoplanes banked left and right and climbed away toward their own side of the lines. Only then, as the February air penetrated, did I realise what a terrible sweat I had worked up. 8 Squadron departed Marieux that same day, moving a bit north to La Bellevue. We had some novel work toward the end of the month dropping bombs on various targets in Hunland. At this point we were flying only once a day and had the occasional day off. Ned and I shared our hut with four other sergeants. One of our hut-mates was Sergeant Maloney, an older chap who had served in India with the 5th Dragoon Guards. He had an accordion which he played masterfully and a boundless collection of Irish tunes in his head. As my maternal grandmother had been Irish, I’d been raised with this music and we spent several happy evenings around our little iron stove, drinking whisky and singing heartrending airs. It reminded me of a long poem I’d read in school, all of which I’d forgotten except two lines: The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are happy, and all their songs are sad.

Sgt David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Sqn, Royal Flying Corps Marieux, France BE2c 31 Jan 1916 Stats 61 missions 81.27 hrs 0 claims made / confirmed

MFair – So Gallagher has graduated to a Bristol. Hardly seems fair for the poor Huns, having to rassle with a genuine gunslinger like Elijah. Congratulations on your first confirmed victory. (I have just read your post, which went up as I was writing this. If you don’t mind, I won’t change this story, but I will make it match your post in the next instalment). Albrecht – Good advice to the Nieuport jockeys about the blip switch being their friend. You have to handle those machines as if they were made of eggshells, because basically they are. Paroni – In a few short months, we will all look back fondly at the quiet two-seater patrols of late 1915 and early 1916. Seb – Congratulations on entering the double digits so early in the war. Now with the Nieuport 11, Andrews will be unstoppable. I am enjoying your videos on YouTube. Well done with the narrations. Andrews is well rid of Ackers for now, but I suspect we shall be seeing him again. Albert – Lovely Paris story. Hobnobbing it with the elite of the Aviation Militaire, are we? Better make nice with the Campaign Moderators because you never know when one might get transferred to a Caudron unit in the Alsace…Bwaahaha! Mind you, Sid earned some credit in the eyes of the gods by resisting the temptations of the beautiful Sophie. He is the one in a thousand who would have done so! And congratulations on the in-game promotion. Hasse – I enjoyed reading about the general’s inspection and I loved the touching 1915 French Christmas cards with their vain promise of victory in the coming year. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Marieux, France Part 10 Thus far, 1916 has been indistinguishable from its predecessor. Orders continue to grace me with the privilege of flying the early patrol most of these winter mornings. We now fly reconnaissance after reconnaissance, and Mr Clapp in the front seat and I in the back together stand watch while Mr Needham and his observer photograph the same stretch of trench lines from Courcelette down to Guillemont. Each day, the same nasty Hun battery fires the same nasty Hun Archie at us from its position near Delville Wood. The same three circuits take the same ninety minutes. The same bumps and bounces greet us at the same frozen field. And the same sullen mess steward serves up the same overdone boiled eggs. The only variety is the regular cycle from snow to mud and back to snow. Still no sign of the dreaded Fokker. We have lost two machines this month yet know nothing of why. They went out in the morning and simply failed to return. I suspect our friends at the corner of Delville Wood have something to do with it. Received a wonderful parcel from home. Mum enclosed a tin with her outstanding Christmas fruitcake, swaddled in cheesecloth and soaked in brandy, with big pieces of ginger amidst the fruit and nuts. Ned mentioned something to me about not liking fruitcake so that is my licence to hoard this treasure. Dad included a note saying that he presumed I smoked now like the rest of the army, along with a very fine pipe and rich burley tobacco. There is little new on the home front. I have written that I am perfectly safe here with very few Huns about and Dad has responded that I should put in for a transfer back to England to shoot down Zeppelins. The short winter nights have put a stop to their raids on England for now, he said. I am a terrible correspondent, but I took advantage of a spell of bad weather during the second week of January to catch up on all my correspondence. Mr Cust, the gentleman who employed me as his personal chauffeur and who paid for my flying lessons, was kind enough to send me a Kodak vest pocket camera along with a request for photographs about life in the Flying Corps. It is strictly against regulations to be taking such photographs, yet I see many of the officers posing for snapshots quite openly. Still, I think I shall be cagey around Sergeant Major Parson. We have had another good helping of snow. Flying over the countryside at two or three thousand feet is a remarkable experience, especially in the early morning when the sun is low in the east and each bare tree extends along finger of shadow across the icy fields. When we have had high winds, they sculpt crescent-shaped waves around each tree trunk. The scene is magical. 31 January 1916 – It has been more than a week since I last wrote in this journal. On 28 January, last Friday, I had a chance to lead a patrol. We were given the task of spotting for the artillery, together with the use of the machine with the lightweight wireless transmitter. Our friends on the ground were a siege battery and their target a group of buildings just behind the Hun lines that were suspected of housing a headquarters. We had several machines in various states of disrepair and as a consequence were assigned only one other BE2 for protection. And that machine was piloted by the squadron’s newest arrival, a Second Lieutenant MacArthur, together with an equally new observer whose name I did not know. We flew in icy clear sky to a spot north-east of Fricourt where, at only 5000 feet, we began our slow progress around the target. Our task brought us to a piece of the front directly above our old nemesis at Delville Wood, who immediately laid on an impressive reception. The sky around us erupted in greasy black puffs and bright flashes. Splinters must have been everywhere. One struck a glancing blow on the right exhaust, making quite a gong. Mr Clapp signalled to me and pointed astern. I turned to see that Mr MacArthur’s aircraft had turned west and was losing height. Clearly the Delville Wood boys had scored a hit. We continued alone and finished the job. The big guns turned the suspected headquarters into a cloud of brick dust, and we headed for home with a farewell cluster of Archie bursts in our wake. I was relieved to hear later that Mr MacArthur had successfully put his machine down a little inside our own lines. The big news came last night when we received orders to pack up and move to the aerodrome at Marieux, outside of Doullens. As Ned was engaged most of the night in dismantling and loading the squadron machine tools, I went to our billet and packed his gear as well as mine, and then arranged for a tender to bring our kit back to Allonville aerodrome to be placed on the proper lorry for the move. Then I had to obtain a packet of French money from the RO to pay the Blandurels for our accommodation. Mr Blandurel insisted that I share a brandy with him. At 10 o’clock, I excused myself to get a decent night’s sleep before an early morning pickup to take us to the field. Marieux aerodrome is a lovely open field a little north-east of the village of the same name. We are to share the field with 8 Squadron, another BE2 unit. Our first day there was taken up with unpacking and organising. All personnel are housed in canvas-sided Armstrong huts, each with a single coal-fired stove for heat, and each housing six NCOs or eight other ranks. I am uncertain about the officers’ accommodations. Once my personal kit was squared away, I reported to the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess, yet another Armstrong hut, or rather two joined together. There we laid out our threadbare carpets and set up tables, chairs, and armchairs. A makeshift bar was assembled from crates and doors. It will do until we can commandeer the carpenter shop to make something proper. Late in the day, the kitchen stewards laid on a beef stew with some excellent bread they bought in town. A keg of beer was tapped, and we drank to our own good fortune and the Kaiser’s demise. Three NCOs visited from 8 Squadron and invited us to join them for dinner the next evening. To my delight, one of them is also a pilot. We didn’t get much time to chat, although I came away wanting to see the fellow again, for he is a rough and ready American and talks like all the cowboys from the penny dreadfuls. I’ve never met anyone quite like that. Moreover, he introduced himself as Elijah Something Irish. The family name was lost to me as I wondered about anyone in today’s world calling their son Elijah.