Raine

"What he said," says I pointing to Albrecht. OBD's commitment to this stellar sim is outstanding. They keep it fresh and, while offering presents like this from time to time, they keep us willing to support them when it's time to open the wallet.

Albert – Welcome to Sergeant Grace. He did brilliantly downing that Aviatik on his first operational patrol in a Caudron. And then you followed up by downing a Fokker! Lovely skin on that machine, by the way. Seb – Some excellent Christian advice from Davies, there. But something tells me that FLt Andrews is still working on a delicious revenge plot. That is a lovely livery on your Nieuport. Paroni – Condolences on losing Henri after such a good start. He was not far from the 30 hour mark when you can “improve your eyesight” by increasing the dot visibility range. But let’s welcome Bastian. Hasse – It took a special breed of man to fly as an observer in the Spad A series machines. As with the similar BE9, there are just so many ways to kill yourself in those machines. MFair – I absolutely loved Gallagher’s prayer. That was a new one to me. Sounds Irish – is it? Gallagher and Hawkwood are stationed not too far from one another and I have occasionally passed a BE that I suspected came from 8 Squadron. So far, I have not encountered any Fokkers in our sector, but Gallagher has now had that experience and has lived to tell the tale. Albrecht – Jean-Fidele has a very sinister looking Nieuport now. Congratulations on your eleventh victory. Outstanding for 1915! Good to see he made it through what appeared to be a pretty bad smash-up. I hope everyone has noted the announcement on the OBD website about the upcoming patch. As many of us are still flying two-seaters, the changes could be very entertaining. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Allonville, France Part 9 November ended with a period of foul weather. To my delight, however, Ned and I were moved into billets in the nearby village around this time. We are sharing a small bedroom belonging to a family called Blandurel. Mr and Mrs Blandurel speak no English so we search painfully for words our languages have in common. They have given us to understand that their son is serving in the French army and they are very concerned for his safety. Apparently, it is the son's room that we are living in. The room has only a single bed. Ned and I flipped a coin to decide who would get the bed and who would have to sleep on their camp cot. Ned won the toss and will have the bed for the month of December. We have resolved to change places at the end of each month. We are in a fortunate position. Most of the other NCOs have occupied several new Armstrong huts with canvas sides. They have coal stoves that are simply not up to the task of keeping the winter chill out. The only NCOs in warm billets like ours are two technical sergeants and our two sergeants-major. We get quite a laugh out of imagining Sergeant-Major Parson and Sergeant-Major Tinker as roommates. The former is an ex-Guardsman, disciplined and demanding while at work, but relaxed and almost “one of the boys” when at sport. The latter, on the other hand, is an ex Royal Engineer and believes that the only enjoyment in life is to be found polishing one’s boots. They have already started a feud over the decoration of the mess. Tinker has claimed the dining room and insisted that the only proper decoration should be a picture of the King and several hunting prints he has acquired. Anything else is either frivolous or filth in his view. Parson has claimed the anteroom and bar and given the mess members licence to hang all manner of risqué prints acquired in the shops of Amiens or cut from the pages of French magazines. The two men chirp away at one another about their diverging tastes nearly every evening. We continue to fly every day or two and so far my luck has held. I have encountered enemy aircraft on only two occasions in December. On both occasions a formation of Hun two-seaters passed overhead and we paid no attention to one another. They were more recent models with big, nasty machine guns operated by the observer in the rear seat. The only way for a BE2 to get a crack at them is to fly ahead of them and below. The Hun machines, regrettably, are faster than ours, and such a tactic would be invite disaster. Thus, we embrace the opportunity to be gentlemanly about this whole war nonsense. Lieutenant Clapp went as far as to stand up and lean over to where he could salute the passing Huns one day. The gesture very nearly ended in disaster as he gave the back of his right hand a good smack with the spinning propeller. Fortunately, he lost neither his glove nor his hand, but saluting Huns is no longer an item on his agenda. Mr Clapp has turned out to be a thoroughly sound fellow. When he meets me at the sheds to relay our orders for each patrol, he is good enough to ask my opinion about various approaches and has often deferred to my views. He takes great interest in technical matters and has been known to spend his off hours watching as the ack emmas do their work. We observed Christmas comfortably despite having to put on a two-hour reconnaissance patrol at dawn. The wing padre held a short and informal service in the late morning. Christmas dinners began at noon. All the NCOs served the men in the finest tradition of the army. There was goose with chestnut stuffing, turnip and peas, a gravy made with red wine, Christmas pudding with plenty of brandy, fruit and cheeses, and a healthy portion of ale. Following that, we sat down to our own meal and to our surprise, Major Todd showed up with all the officers, who proceeded to change into white aprons and served table for us. They did it all in great good humour and we made quite an afternoon of it. I understand that the officers enjoyed a wonderful meal later that evening. Certainly, few of them looked enthusiastic about flying the next morning. In the last week of the year the snow came and stayed on the ground. Our muddy field froze solid until it nearly shook one’s back teeth out to take off or land. White wisps curled over the stubble and sleet frosted the tree limbs and rooftops. Flying became an ordeal. Cold penetrated any gap in one’s clothing, and the pain of thawing feet and hands occupied an hour after every patrol. More often now we were rigged with small bombs to drop on the Hun lines. It seems like a foolish thing to me. There is such a small chance of harming a well-entrenched enemy and the Archie that greets us there is most accurate. New Year’s Eve was rather quiet. Ned and I left the mess and walked back to the Blandurel house around ten o’clock with a bottle of brandy as a gift. It was well appreciated, and we spent a pleasant hour around the kitchen table while Madame served little sausage rolls she had made and Monsieur smoked a wonderful old pipe shaped like a Turk’s head. We talked about – well, none of us really understood enough to know what we talked about, but I’m certain we all wondered what 1916 will bring.

First of all, condolences to Albert. As Paroni said, it is especially painful to lose a pilot so early after having invested in an excellent biography for him. Still, I am really looking forward to seeing your new man very soon. Albrecht and Seb – congratulations to both of you on getting the first DiD Campaign visit from the Gong Fairy. The decorations were both richly deserved. Your men have come out of the corner looking to win by a knockout. Paroni – I appreciate the recognition that we have tried to make gathering victories a bit more difficult in this campaign. But with so many talented WOFF veterans, that will be a difficult target to hit.

Albrecht – Let me second TWK’s compliments about the artistic editing of your screenshots. Jean-Fidele had a very close call with that fragile Nieuport, but then teamed up with Callinet to set the skies on fire! Epower and I did our best to make confirmed claims more difficult in this campaign, then your man comes along and makes it look like a pushover. Albert – Losing Hardie had to be a real punch in the gut. He was doing extremely well. Still, pushing ahead with a hearty welcome to Vzfw Doll. Now we get to see what an Eindekker jockey can do. Congratulations on your first confirmed victory. MFair – It was a real loss to see Captain Goon go so soon. As you said, now the war is getting personal. Hasse – I am thoroughly enjoying Auguste’s story. Whenever I read about changing the magazines on the early Nieuports, I know that if I were there, it would be 47 rounds and then time to go home. Seb – Please tell me you were working up a grisly revenge story for that Ackers fellow. Meanwhile, Andrews has become the pride of the Royal Navy. Brilliant work! Paroni – Henri is surviving in difficult times. I love the photographs you have found to go with his story. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Allonville, France Part 8 It’s time to catch up with my journal, which has been left by the wayside for some weeks now. The latter half of October passed without any incidents of note. In fact, I have begun to feel more like a guard on the Metropolitan Line then the intrepid aviator I imagined becoming. “All aboard! This train for Albert, Courcelette, Martinpuich, Montaubin, and Darkest Hunland. Show your ticket please sir.” Just read my last entry and remembered poor Mr Perkins. He was to go up with me a second time, but I was running a bit of a fever and was given the day off. He flew instead with a new officer who stalled his machine just after takeoff. Mr Perkins had a ripping good crash and has been away for a few weeks getting fitted for a new set of Army teeth. In his place I played rickshaw wallah to Second Lieutenant Barnett, who insists it’s really rather a lovely war and that we are lucky because we have better access to hot water then one did at Eton. He is not really a bad fellow at all. He makes a point of getting out to the sheds ten minutes earlier than Mr Osborne did and he gives me a very thorough account of our orders. He also likes to take short flips to a nearby marsh where we have several old wings laid out as gunnery targets. It has been reassuring to see that he takes that part of his job seriously. I have yet to encounter one of the Fokker monoplanes but that day cannot be far off. On 7 November 1915, the squadron relocated to Allonville, about three miles northeast of Amiens. The aerodrome is circled about by a horseshoe-shaped wood. The ground is level and dry. There are only a few wooden huts, and Major Todd has decreed that they will be used for now as the squadron office and the three messes. Sergeant Major Parson warned the warrant officers and sergeants to be on their best behaviour as our mess would at least temporarily be next door to the officers on one side and the ORs on the other. He confided that he had every faith that his warning was unnecessary for us but gleefully informed us that the same order had been strictly laid down by the major for the officers. A new Armstrong heart has gone up to house squadron stores. Ned Buckley and I have erected our canvas pleasure dome and set it up exactly as before. I must get a few hours away now that we are walking distance from Amiens and the little English bookstore I found on my visit there last month. I have finished reading the Iliad and feel a bit guilty that I did not enjoy it more. Perhaps it was because I laid on my cot thinking what silly sods they were to get bogged down in a siege for ten years – and then the rumble of the guns reminds me of our present situation and I wonder if those same Greek gods are perhaps interfering in our affairs to this day. I suppose that is what happens when you have too many gods and not enough honest work for them all. On 12 November 1915, Mr Barnett went up with another pilot and was wounded in the leg by a bit of Archie shrapnel. I now have yet another observer, Second Lieutenant Clapp. You can imagine the fun the ack emmas are having with that one.

I have had a splendid hour or so catching up with everyone’s stories. We have some marvellous characters up and down the Front. TWK – Welcome to Ailbe Dziarowitz! He has a very nice livery on his machine. Paroni – Excellent introduction to Sous Lieutenant Castillac. I like the graphic novel effect in your pictures. MFair – I’m glad that Gallagher is also experiencing a lack of air Huns. Down in the Somme area my man has spotted them only at extreme distance, with the exception of a group of Aviatik C types that I didn’t want to tangle with alone. By the way, that was a wonderful story about Colonel Bond at the Citadel. It explains a lot about Gallagher. If Gallagher stays with Captain Goon and if the captain keeps losing his breakfast every flight, you’ll have to put in for a transfer to a squadron that flies something with the observer in the rear seat. Hasse – You two are having a peaceful time of it. You are quite right that we should enjoy the peace and quiet of 1915 while it lasts. It is exciting to see that you have just been issued the new Nieuport 10 C1. Best of luck with it! Albert – So happy to see that you have joined us again! Welcome to Sergeant Hardie from Fort William. I remember stopping there for the night on a trip to Scotland back in the late 1970s. The little hotel had the pinkest room I’ve ever seen. It was likely a psychological trick to force me downstairs to the bar. If so, it worked. I enjoyed your opening chapter and was especially interested by the photograph of Abeele, which I had not seen before. Nice job not filing a claim for the enemy machine that landed behind its own lines. It’s a good reminder to us all. Seb – Glad to see you are getting lots of business for your pilot. Medium air activity and medium forced encounters is likely contributing to that. With my upgunned PC I have set regional air activity to the highest level but left forced encounters off. I suspect that I would have a great deal of activity in the immediate area of a push, but as I am in a quieter sector I am dealing only with the enemy squadrons based on the same sector. Anyway, Andrews’ story has become gripping. One moment I’m cheering when he blackens Ackers’ eye, and the next I’m staggered by Ackers’ nastiness in going after Monique. You have written a real page-turner. While we’re at it, congratulations on being the first confirmed ace of the campaign! Lederhosen – Welcome to Enno Bockhackler. And a roofer, just like Julius Buckler! He is lucky to be equipped immediately with an Aviatik C1, a good machine for 1915. Albrecht – Good to hear the continuing saga of Jean-Fidele. I like the sounds of Lieutenant de Gennes – a proper leader. Jean-Fidele and Aldric did a splendid job of stalking that Aviatik. It’s a pity they were denied the confirmation. But he certainly made up for quickly after being assigned to a Nieuport. Congratulations on achieving three confirmed claims.

I have a lot of great reading to catch up on and I'll do it tomorrow evening. For now, I'll post Hawkwood's journal for the first part of October... War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Baizieux, France Part 7 Up to this point in my flying career, I have known a number of pilots who have been killed in the performance of their duty. It was no special thing back at Larkhill to see a chap lift off only to stagger drunkenly above the treetops and come down with a splintering thud and a ball of flame. But since arriving in France, the number of pilots who “committed crashery” has seemed to drop away. Of course, we have had losses. Two of our machines went down due to engine problems over Hunland. Another couple were lost to Archie. And one pilot was killed and two seriously injured, with two observers killed in one seriously injured, in landing mishaps. Finally, we lost a machine two weeks ago to one of the new Fokkers. None of these events quite prepared me for what happened 2 October. Lieutenant Osborne and I accompanied Mr Needham’s machine on an artillery shoot up near Loos. Lieutenant Needham corrected fire for the battery while our machine and a third BE2 crewed by Lieutenants Bliss and Reid stood guard. About twenty minutes into our time over the target area, Mr Bliss suddenly banked his machine and turned sharply beneath us. He made no signal and fired no flare. I watched as his machine turned about and headed west, trailing a thin ribbon of black smoke. As he began to fade into the distance I thought I saw a flicker of light. Suddenly the smoke became more intense. The machine now fell into a diving turn until it was headed east, back toward Hunland. Then it erupted in flame and fell a full mile down like a comet. I was thankful that it was so far off but still could not erase from my imagination the idea of being in the middle of that inferno. I believe Major Todd must have gauged from Mr Osborne our reactions because he had the Recording Officer send for me and tell me that I would be posted supernumerary for the following day and likely not be required to fly. Lieutenant Osborne was not so lucky. He was sent up in the afternoon with a new officer just arrived from the pool. They managed to smash up their machine on landing and Mr Osborne was knocked about and unable to fly for several days. On 4 October 1915, I flew a reconnaissance patrol with a new observer officer by the name of Romans. Call me superstitious, but I think he was bad luck. We were over Bapaume when our engine began to overheat, and I was forced to switch off and glide into the westerly wind. Fortunately, we began our return at 9000 feet and we nearly made it home. I put the machine down in a tilled field two miles short of Baizieux. My observer did better the next two days and we had several uneventful hours together over the lines. Finally, on 9 October, Lieutenant Osborne returned. It had been quite irritating listening to the mechanics referred to my BE as “Mr Roman’s machine.” On 12 October, Lieutenant Osborne and I were sent to conduct another reconnaissance at the southern edge of the Loos battle. We had heavy fog in the morning and were forced to wait nearly two hours before it cleared. We weren’t allowed to smoke in the sheds, so I asked Mr Osborne if he wanted to walk with me to my tent, where we could at least sit down and have a smoke in private. He agreed and followed me somewhat nervously into the NCOs’ tent lines. Everyone was either sleeping or at work and no one noticed. We sat down out of the damp morning. He lit a pipe while I had a cigarette. “You’ve done rather well so far,” he said. “Does that surprise you, sir?” I said. Something about his tone had annoyed me. “No. Not at all. I do sometimes get questions about my opinions on sergeant pilots. I answer that I have no opinion on sergeant pilots in general, but I do have an opinion on you, and I think you’re a damn fine pilot. You should know that.” I muttered something appreciative. His comment was unexpected. Then he asked me whether I was interested in becoming an officer. “If they asked me, I would say yes. But if they don’t ask me, I won’t beg for it,” I said. He nodded. Then I asked him why he became an observer. “There was a press on for artillery officers to apply for attachment to the RFC as observers. I thought it might be a lark. Also, my major and I were not in the best of terms.” I raised an eyebrow in expectation of more detail. Mr Osborne took out a penknife and dug around in his pipe before re-lighting it. “Being an observer is hardly a career move,” he continued. “Our flying pay is less than the pilots’ and worse yet, we are not eligible for promotion as we are merely attached to the Flying Corps. Rotten thing, really.” I couldn’t get much out of him after that. We flew together that day, but the following morning he took another new pilot up on a familiarisation flight. Their machine came down near Morlaincourt and both men were killed. The cause was not determined. I flew next on 15 October, another reconnaissance north of Bapaume. My BE is now “Mr Perkins’s machine.” Lieutenant Perkins is, apparently, about fifteen years old. He finds the Flying Corps jolly well corking and his machine a top-hole bus. It’s all ever so ripping. It should be possible to keep the fellow alive for a while. If Herr Fokker shows up, we’ll see what the lad is made of.

End September 1915 report Sgt David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Sqn RFC, Baizieux, France BE2C Missions: 29 Hours: 38.23 Claims: 0 Confirmed: 0

MFair – Really enjoying your man's story. He is often the right foot with Sholto Douglas. Paroni – Very saddened to see Armand fall like that. I hope your back up with your next pilot quickly. Seb – "Runt" has quickly become the star of the campaign so far. Congratulations to him (and his muse, Monique) on his fifth victory. Outstanding work! Beyond that, the interplay with Simon Acker is a great storyline. The man is a cad and a bounder indeed. Hawkwood has had an extremely uneventful career so far. The way it's going I fly missions over the Western Front to relax after a stressful hour of Euro Truck Simulator! I expect it will heat up quickly enough. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Baizieux, France Part 6 On 15 September 1915, Major Waldron left us as he had been transferred to a training command back in England. Our new commanding officer is a Major Todd, whom to date I have met only on parade. My observer, Lieutenant Osborne, is now proudly wearing the new observer’s badge on his tunic. It is a poor thing in my opinion, merely a letter “O” with a single wing, and it seems deliberately designed to be less than the pilot’s badge. It has quickly gained the name “the flying arsehole.” The second half of September saw us do a reasonable number of patrols, mainly artillery spotting with the odd reconnaissance flight thrown in for good measure. Most of this work took us well north of the Somme to the area east and north of Arras. On 21 September, our guns began a massive bombardment in that sector leading up to an attack on the enemy positions around Loos on 25 September. We were all abuzz with anticipation of a breakthrough and an ending to this terrible stalemate. By the evening of 25 September, however, we knew that the initial advances had been checked, in part due to weather and in part due to enemy counter-attacks. There would be no more idle talk about getting home for Christmas. This entire month I saw no Huns in the air, although I know they were there. I heard the reports of others and on 19 September we lost a machine to one of the new Fokker monoplanes. September ended with three days of rain, which kept us on the ground and out of the war. The Royal Engineers were here with a work party from the DLI and we now have a fine wooden building with a tin roof for the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess. Everyone pitched in and helped to paint the place. The Technical Sergeant Major, who is appropriately named Tinker, has acquired a large framed picture of the King to hang on the end wall. He has firmly rebuffed the efforts of the mess members to hang pictures taken from La Vie Parisienne. “Leave that sort of filthy rubbish to the officers,” he told us. But at least there is beer…

Paroni – Congratulations on your first confirmation! Seb – I hope the burra memsahib is on the mend. Love the new livery! And the most recent episode was brilliant. First of all, I am deeply in love with Monique so Theo had better watch out. Then it was time to get Simon sorted. It seems you have a good lot about you in St-Pol. I can't wait to see what is in store between "Squeak" and Simon. Hasse – Best wishes for Auguste in Matougues. It sounded like a horrendous move. Albrecht – I loved the episode with the two letters and the different voice that Jean-Fidele uses for his mother and for his godfather. I must also echo Seb Toombs on congratulating you for a beautifully written chapter. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood 4 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps Baizieux, France Part 5 Approaching the aerodrome over our local landmark I have been out more than three months now and have become quite used to this whole picture. There is flying about every other day now. The duty NCO hunts me down after dinner every evening to let me know what time I am to meet Mr Osborne at the sheds. I allow myself enough time to be up and washed, snatch a piece of toast and a cuppa in the mess, and enjoy a cigarette on my walk across the field. We now have lovely large canvas hangars called Bessonneaus. Each can house several machines. But one is not allowed to smoke in or about them, so I loiter about outside until I’ve done my smoke and then, if it is not too warm, I get partially kitted out for the flight. Lieutenant Osborne arrives about ten minutes before we are scheduled to lift off and tells me what orders we have. If it is a case of spotting for the guns, we use one of the two machines in the squadron that are fitted with the latest lightweight transmitters. That way we can still fly with an observer. Sometimes we are given a target on which to drop bombs, most commonly a Hun aerodrome east of Bapaume. Occasionally, our machines are given a single very large bomb, in which case only the pilot may go up. More often, we carry two or even four 20-pound bombs. In the past week, we have been over the lines three times and have been heavily Archied each time but have not seen a single enemy machine. On Thursday we had a football match, officers against other ranks. Sergeant-Major Parson was the referee. The ORs won 5-2, although the match was closer than the score might suggest. Captain Halahan stood out notably as an accomplished sportsman. Major Waldron authorised two days’ leave for me on Saturday and Sunday and I caught a ride into Amiens. Had a marvellous night’s sleep in a small hotel not far from the famous cathedral and found a restaurant down by the river that did up a tremendous feed of mussels and pommes frites. There was an embarrassing number of young women about, all of whom professed to be “varee lonely.” In better times my lack of judgement might have overwhelmed concerns for my health, but I had enjoyed a second bottle of chilled vin blanc all by myself and it took all my concentration to find my way back to my hotel and its virtuous bed! In the morning I found an English bookshop and bought a used copy of the Iliad just in case Major Waldron decides to surprise me with a quiz. Back to work. This morning (6 September) we did another artillery spotting run. The machine is rigged with the transmission key in the pilot’s cockpit so Lieutenant Osborne got to watch me in action. Did rather well, I think. We saw a large French Caudron machine with two engines pass by us down near the Somme – something new.

Paroni – Armand has shared some lovely paintings. And he has made his presence known among the enemy with an early victory! Was it confirmed? Condolences on losing two machines and their crews to a collision. Seb – Chesham! Hawkwood and you are certainly neighbours. The photo and video images from the early morning flights out of St-Pol are very atmospheric. Congratulations on a confirmed victory. Albrecht – A brilliant introduction to Jean-Fidele. The petit-sous did a fine job of putting down his crippled Morane. Maeran – Characteristically splendid episode. I like the way you picked up on McCudden’s visits to the squadron. Hasse – Another great introduction. With any luck, Auguste will remain pointed in the right direction and stay out of Spain for the rest of the war. TWK – Look forward to seeing our Bulgarian friend back during August. Best wishes for the schoolwork. MFair – Interesting tale about how Elijah ended up joining the RFC in Canada. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood, Royal Flying Corps 4 Squadron, Baizieux, France Part 4 By 1 August 1915, we were well settled at Vert Galant. Accordingly, on 2 August we received orders to pack up and move to a new aerodrome at Baizieux, about four or five miles west of the town of Albert. The village of Baizieux was not long in giving up its secrets, for it had none. It was little more than a scattering of low brick houses and farm outbuildings bordering a muddy country lane that led northward from the Amiens-Albert-Bapaume road towards the only slightly larger village of Warloy. The aerodrome was to be set up on several featureless fields a little east of the village. About the only landmark in the area was a lonely windmill that stood on a slight rise in the ground just west and north of the aerodrome. Every officer and man in the squadron was kept fully occupied making the place serviceable. The first priorities were getting our munitions stowed under canvas, establishing latrines, and getting our own tents up. The weather did not look promising. Three timber and canvas huts had been already erected on site by a work party impressed from the infantry. These became the squadron office, the main stores, and (naturally) the officers’ mess. We also managed to get up four canvas sheds for aircraft and we dug in and sandbagged our storage area for petroleum, oil, and lubricants. The rain started during the night and so we worked soaked to the skin for two full days. Finally, on 5 August, I was able to take up Mr Osborne for a familiarisation “flip.” When the weather was clear one could see the spire of Albert Cathedral with its golden Virgin and Child. Beyond Albert to the east lay the pockmarked, dung coloured stain of the front. We flew twice in the surrounding area on 6 August and then the weather closed in again. Our first operational flight from Baizieux came on 8 August. It was a reconnaissance patrol over the lines just north of the River Somme. We flew with two other machines, providing a guard because of reports that the enemy had deployed their new Fokker monoplane with a machine-gun synchronised to fire forward through the spinning propeller. At one point in the patrol as we turned north again from the river, I noticed two tiny specks against a background of grey cloud a couple of thousand feet below us and about a mile off. There was no chance of catching them and, in any event, our orders were to stay with the rest of the patrol. As we returned towards Albert, I saw another lone machine in the distance below us to the north. We were now finished with the patrol and free to give pursuit, so I went to investigate. It was too late. We dive through a cloud bank and circled about, but saw nothing and returned to Baizieux. We have a new squadron commander. His name is Major Waldron, and the like Major Longcroft before him, he was among the earliest group of RFC pilots in France. On 22 August, I was called to the squadron office for a brief interview with the new boss. He seems like an “all business” type and did not know quite what to make of a sergeant pilot. He asked a number of questions about my education and interests and I managed not to reply “bugger all” and “football.” I told him that I was hoping to study engineering after the war and was reading the Iliad in translation. Both fine lies. My thought is that he was probing for any facts that might suggest I could one day gain a commission. A number of the officers go on about the Latin and Greek writers, hence the Iliad. I did pick the book up once – dreadful stuff. Give me Sherlock Holmes any day.

Many stories to get caught up on… In the meantime, here’s Hawkwood’s latest. Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood, Royal Flying Corps Part 3 The next week and a half were uneventful. During that time, I ferried Lieutenant Osborne about over the lines while he took notes on enemy traffic and rail movement. Twice we spotted for the guns. We still have not been fitted out with W/T equipment and so must depend on an Aldis lamp. I was becoming rather proficient at Morse, but Mr Osborne prefers to handle all the signalling himself and I am beginning to forget. Lest we become too comfortable in our billets and too familiar with the front lines in our sector, the higher powers have decided to move 4 Squadron south. Our new home is a place called Vert Galant Farm. It is a country crossroads on the road between Amiens and Doullens. There is a large L-shaped farmhouse on the north-east corner, owned by a family named Bossu. We bedded down in the farm the first night until all our tentage arrived in the morning. The aerodrome itself is splendid – wide fields either side of the main road with only a shallow slope fading away to the south. The crossroads and farm are easily identifiable from the air and only a few minutes’ flight west from Doullens. It was easy to get our bearings. We soon learned the reason for our relocation. Our army has taken over a new section of the front from the French, extending our lines down to the River Somme. Third Wing, of which we are part, has responsibility for the aerial defence of the sector. We share the aerodrome at Vert Galant with 11 Squadron, newly arrived from England. 11 Squadron is unique in that they are equipped with the Vickers fighting machine. This is a rugged machine with a “pusher” configuration that allows the pilot to be accompanied by a gunner with an unobstructed field of fire to the front. It is hoped that we will be able to dominate the air with his new instrument of war! From Vert Gallant, I flew a half-dozen patrols in the last two weeks of July, most of them to drop bombs on a Hun aerodrome east of Bapaume or on road and rail connections to the enemy’s front lines. Archie in this sector is moderately heavy, but I have yet to see a German machine in the air. Ned Buckley and I have re-established our comfortable “pleasure dome,” as he calls our tent. We have yet to get time away from the camp to explore the mysteries of the surrounding towns. I am hoping to get into Amiens one of these days. On a bright note, I have been assigned a newer BE2c and this one is equipped with a Lewis gun. Mr Osborne is in charge of the gun, which is mounted on a sort of bent post and which is pointed backwards over my head! Occasionally when we are flying, he fires a short burst to warm the gun and the noise deafens me for minutes afterwards. Until we received the new machine, Mr Osborne had never handled a machine gun. He does not seem tremendously keen about the thing, and I must gently urge him to get some additional practice at the butts. Received a lovely surprise this week. After I completed my final advanced flying training, the army sent me a cheque for £75, repayment for my initial flying course at the Grahame-White school in Hendon. I deposited it and wrote a cheque for the same amount to Mr Cust, my employer, who paid for my course. Last Wednesday I received a lovely letter from Mr Cust enquiring after my experiences with the Flying Corps and enclosing two £5 notes with the request that I buy something to make myself comfortable while I am here. I have tucked the notes away inside a small Bible my mother gave me, as that seems to be the last place anyone here would look. Tomorrow begins August.

TWK – Welcome to our first Bulgarian pilot! I know there will be the inevitable aviation stories, but I hope you can work in some tales of wonderful Bulgarian food… Carrick – Welcome to Klaus. I hope he makes it safely to the war after boarding that trolley. Paroni – Good to meet Karl. I was enjoying his accounts of his early missions and was truly shocked when I came to discover that he had been killed. I wish all the best to Armand Bouchant. He is already using his share of luck. I’m happy that his visit to the German lines was not a long one. Too bad about Armand’s second claim being denied. What happened with his first claim? Seb – Wonderful to have you back! And a welcome to Theodore “Runt” Andrews. He was lucky to get drafted to France (RN prefers drafted to posted) as he wanted. Great stories. You had me listening to Noel Coward doing “Uncle Harry Is a Missionary Now.” Interesting connection with Tring. I took a drive there with my son shortly before Christmas – to visit the brewery of course. It’s a lovely town. Where did you go to grammar school? Just read about your first claim as well. You did a wonderful job taking revenge on the claims gods by downing the next Aviatik you saw in flames. Congratulations! Maeran – An entertaining and well-crafted introduction to Mr Le Mesurier. I laughed out loud when I read, “That went awfully nice.” MFair – A heartfelt welcome to Elijah Gallagher! It looks like he’s going to have an interesting time as Captain Goon’s partner. Hasse – As I have come to expect from you, your introduction of Auguste Besson was outstanding! Rick, VonS – Great to have you checking in on us. There will always be a drink for you at the bar. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood, Royal Flying Corps Part 2 I have settled in comfortably in Bailleul. Ned Buckley and I wangled a few hours off to head into town, and we have managed to kit out our Tent, Circular, Mk IV. The poor ORs are housed nine or ten men to each such tent, but Ned and I live in luxury with the whole thing to our two selves. All our tents are pitched over a circular wooden floor piece, so we are high and dry. In town, we bought a threadbare oriental rug to cover much of the floor near the door and we have set up our two camp cots radiating from the central pole at 11 and 1 o’clock with a small table and paraffin lantern set between them. We have acquired a narrow dressing table with a mirror and a ceramic wash basin for shaving. Finally, we have two folding chairs that we can take outside in fine weather. Outside the tent, we have dug a shell scrape and have daubed the canvas with blotches of green paint so that from the air, the Hun will not recognise it as a comfortable Tent Circular at all. Rather, he will think it is a Tent Circular with blotches of green paint. Very clever of us. The Sergeants’ mess is a good spot to pass the odd quiet hour with a book or magazine. There is decent ale to be had. Unfortunately, I am the only pilot in the mess and am therefore unable to share my day fully with any of my comrades. The majority are mechanics by trade and, when we do talk, we talk about motors. One mildly irritating bit is that my BE2 is consistently referred to as “Mr Osborne’s machine” and I am “Mr Osborne’s pilot.” All the other machines are referred to by the name of the officer who is the pilot. Mr Osborne and I have become a good team. We conducted several artillery shoots over the past couple of weeks and we are both finding it easier to make out our target on the ground. On 25 June we were sent over the lines on a reconnaissance of road and rail traffic. The mechanics fitted my machine with a rack for dropping bombs. I have a control lever in the cockpit which releases them, at least in theory. That day, we flew all the way to Roulers. On the way back I noticed a field where the enemy were building what appeared to be aeroplane sheds. I dropped down to 2000 feet and let them have it with my bombs. What a joy it was to be able to strike at the enemy like this. I am reasonably sure that my bombs landed close enough to the German works that, if they did not actually frighten the Hun, he at least noticed their presence. Since then we have conducted further artillery shoots but no German aeroplanes. For that matter, I have only noticed our British machines in the air on two occasions. On both occasions, the machines I was surprised to see approaching were Bristol Scouts that had been assigned as our escorts. It is devilishly hard to see other aeroplanes whilst flying. The weather continues to get warmer. We leave our flying kit in the sheds and put everything on just before climbing into our machine. That way we are not soaked with sweat when we take off, for in five or ten minutes we will be chilled through if we are wet. Had another long reconnaissance on Monday (5 July). This time Lieutenant Osborne and I flew south-east all the way to Lille. That city is noted by its large star-shaped fortress and by the pyramid-shaped slag heaps around the nearby coal mining towns. We are told that the Germans are feeding their steel industry with the coal they are stealing from the French here. There is another aerodrome nearby, next to the large asylum north of the town. The asylum itself has been taken over as a casualty clearing station. There are many doctors and orderlies about and some very attractive young nurses. The nurses, unfortunately, are all kept under the gaze of steely eyed matrons and they are liable to be shot at dawn if they even glance in the direction of an admiring young flyer! Have received several letters from Mum and Dad and Auntie Peg. Also, Eddie Bristow has joined up. He is now an engine room artificer in the Royal Navy. They say you can join the Navy and see the world, but as an ERA he will be a lucky man to see the sun once or twice a month. I must write him and share all the joys of flying to make him jealous. Postscript – Just returned from a late morning “show.” Went with Lieutenant Osborne to direct artillery south-east of Bethune. We experienced rather heavy anti-aircraft fire, or Archie as the chaps call it, and even some machine gun fire from the ground although we were up around 5000 feet! Our duties took us as far south as Vimy. There, just as we were turning back to the north, I saw a single aeroplane about a mile to the east and heading south. I signalled to Mr Osborne and we turned to investigate. To my joy, the mystery machine turned out to be the first Hun I have met so far. I was able to position our BE2 below and in front of the German (which we believe was an Aviatik type), and Mr Osborne fired six rounds at it from his Lee-Enfield before the Hun dived away to the east. We do not believe he was seriously damaged although mental distress is a definite possibility. By this time we were some ten miles over the lines and I made my way westward by dead reckoning, as the compass did not settle down for several minutes. During our trip back to the lines, we were Archied more than I had yet experienced. Navigation was a challenge. As far as I have seen, all of France is a featureless plain except the bits they have dug up for coal. Every town has its obligatory church and they all look much the same. The buildings are low brick farms that line the various roads and all look much the same. Occasionally there is a fine straight highway, too good to be French and thus obviously Roman. But there were no such landmarks this morning and I did not get my bearings until we crossed the lines and I spied the chimney smoke of a large town off to the north. I headed in that direction and identified the place as Bethune from the pattern of roads that converged on it. Then I picked up the line of the Lys River a little farther north and from there we made our way safely back. Mr Osborne went off to file our report with the Recording Officer and I washed up and poured myself a celebratory noontime whisky back at the tent. A while later I visited the sheds where Tony Taylor, our technical sergeant, informed me that our machine had been holed in no fewer than fifteen places!

Good to be back and to get dug in to the campaign! Many thanks to epower for an outstanding job getting us up and running. I won't get a chance to read everyone's stories tonight, but I thought I get my first one up and then go back to them. War Journal – Sergeant David Armstrong Hawkwood, Royal Flying Corps Part 1 I found my calling as a pilot quite by accident. My parents, having failed as farmers, acquired a toyshop in the lovely market village of Tring in Hertfordshire, and there I grew up as a lacklustre student and reluctant part-time shopkeeper. My best friend, Eddie Bristow, lived nearby. His father owned a small garage where Eddie and I spent every spare moment tinkering with motorcycles and, when Mr Bristow was inattentive, with the occasional automobile. The night I learned to drive will remain with me forever. Mr Bristow had been labouring for two days over the most beautiful machine I ever saw – a gleaming black Rolls-Royce touring car. It was a chance of a lifetime and I shamelessly put Eddie up to sneaking into the garage after midnight and helping to roll the machine to a place in the high street where we could start the motor without waking the Bristows. I had a rough idea of the theory behind operating a motor car and had watched Mr Bristow’s trick of starting the motor by inducing a spark by a rapid flicking of the ignition advance lever. We were therefore soon underway and headed for the countryside. I shifted up into third gear without quite waking the entire population. Poor Eddie appeared to die a thousand deaths with each painful crashing of gears. But once into top gear, the powerful Rolls-Royce engine carried us up and down hills and ran smoothly at all speeds from a sedate walk to a terrifying rush. When we reached Berkhamsted, we discussed whether we should turn back or continue our explorations. Eddie opened the glove box in search of a map and immediately began to jabber like a madman. He had found the registration papers for the vehicle and discovered that it was owned by Walter Rothschild – the Rothschild family basically owned Tring. All sense of adventure evaporated in an instant and we turned for home. When we got back, Mr Bristow was standing outside the garage in a pair of overalls pulled over his pyjamas. Eddie got a sound cuffing and I was dragged to my parents’ home by one ear. It all paid off in the end, though. My father promised that I would spend every Sunday that summer doing jobs for Mr Bristow at the garage. Mr Bristow was surprised that I had been able to start and drive the Rolls-Royce and soon had me picking up and delivering motors for customers who needed work done. By the beginning of 1913, I managed to secure employment as a chauffeur for a gentleman by the name of Cust. This fellow was young and adventurous and rich, and more than anything he wanted me to teach him to drive. He was, however, hopeless at it and soon gave it up. Undaunted by his inability to handle a motorcar, Mr Cust acquired a 50 horsepower Bleriot aeroplane and hired an instructor to teach him to fly. Within a week he had succeeded in smashing the Bleriot, both his legs, his jaw, and one arm. Scarcely was he able to get about with two canes before he bought a Farman. He then proposed that I learn to fly it myself and act as his aerial chauffeur. At my employer’s expense, I was enrolled at the Grahame-White School, Hendon. I obtained my Royal Aero Club certificate in August 1913 and flew Mr Cust many times that autumn and the following summer, that last glorious summer before the war. When the first call for volunteers went out, I immediately signed up and informed the recruiting sergeant of my experience in aviation. He was supremely disinterested and told me that flying machines were useless objects and best kept far away from real soldiering. His eyes lit up, however, when he learned that I was a chauffeur and had some knowledge of internal combustion engines. Before I knew what hit me, I was a newly minted Private in the Army Service Corps. We did several weeks of training – mainly drill and inspections – and then were sent off to Avonmouth, near Bristol. From there we shipped out to Boulogne. I spent the next three months driving supply lorries back and forward between the coast and our lines in Flanders. In December I came down with a nasty case of pneumonia and was invalided back to Dover. While recovering in Dover, I met an officer of the Royal Flying Corps and enquired about transferring to the flying service. He was quite taken with the fact that I already had my RAeC ticket. I was set up for an interview in London, and within two weeks found myself in training at Larkhill on the Salisbury plain. Most of my flying hours were spent in machines identical to Mr Cust’s, and I had few problems impressing the instructors. There is even a chance to fly one of the new tractor Avros and a BE2a. Finally, in late May 1915, I received orders – after two weeks of home leave, I was to report to the pilots’ pool at Saint-Omer, France! This was the headquarters of the Royal Flying Corps in France and Flanders and all replacement pilots were drawn from the pool. Saint-Omer was a bit desolate despite being one of the busiest spots one could imagine. I knew no one and mattered to no one, least of all the band of hairy sloths in the kitchens of the warrant officers’ and sergeants’ mess. The food was truly dreadful and, as my name was somehow forgotten on pay parade, I was not able to remedy the situation by visiting any of the local cafés. The only redeeming feature was the availability of several rather battered BE2s. As there was a better than average chance that this would be my next official bus, I added another ten hours of BE time to my flying log. On 1 June 1915, I received orders at breakfast to prepare to move. A tender would pick me up outside pool headquarters at 9 o’clock to take me to my new home – 4 Squadron at Bailleul. Two officers were waiting there with me. One gentleman wore wings on his tunic and was bound for 1 Squadron and the other, Lieutenant Norris, was an observer just transferred from the Royal Artillery and was bound for 4 Squadron with me. When the tender arrived, the two officers crowded into the cab while the corporal driver stowed their kit in the back. When he was done, the driver nodded at me and said, “I’m afraid there’s no more room in the front, Sergeant.” I stowed my own kit and climbed aboard. There I found the officers’ greatcoats atop their valises. I placed one coat on the floor and used the other as a blanket, and then settled down for a very good sleep. Fortunately, I awoke in time to replace the greatcoats before the first officer dismounted at 1 Squadron! Bailleul seemed to be a delightful place, crowded with soldiery of every description, with a wide market square ringed with interesting restaurants, hotels, and shops. Our aerodrome was just on the edge of the town and in fact was referred to as the “Town Ground” aerodrome to distinguish it from the Asylum aerodrome nearby. I dismounted and assisted the observer officer with his kit. His name was Lieutenant Norris. He suggested that we report to the OC, Major Longcroft. I told him that I would first make my presence known to the disciplinary Sergeant Major and then report to the OC. Sergeant Major Parson seemed to appreciate my gesture and made it a point to accompany me to see Major Longcroft. The OC was an immaculately groomed and polished Welshman, obviously from a family who had never had the need to buy furniture. He welcomed me to the squadron and advised me to take my time in getting to know the place. Apparently, I was the squadron’s only NCO pilot. The Major suggested to Sergeant Major Parson that I share accommodation with Sergeant Buckley, a technical sergeant who had been with the squadron since the start and who had flown many patrols as an observer. The squadron was under canvas. Only the squadron office and the messes were in proper wooden buildings. I found Sergeant Buckley’s tent and threw my things inside, and then went in search of my new roommate. I found him in one of the single-aircraft canvas hangars, directing an engine change on a Bristol Scout. Ned Buckley, for that was his name, hailed from Lancashire and had a broad West Country accent that would take some getting used to. He suggested how best to arrange our things in the tent and let me get on with it, even to the point of moving his cot. That afternoon I took up a BE2 with Lieutenant Norris in the forward seat. A few of our machines were fitted with Lewis guns. Ours was not. Mr Norris’s sat glumly with his collar pulled up around his ears, cradling a Lee Enfield rifle. Our orders were to get our bearings, get used to one another, and stay away from any enemy aeroplanes. Mr Norris reminded me emphatically of that last point. It was a glorious day, the deep blue sky marred only by a single puffy cloud far to the east over enemy territory – “Hunland,” in RFC parlance. We flew north until the Channel coast lay just ahead and turned back to circle widely around Bailleul, taking careful note of any useful landmarks. I flew several more familiarisation patrols over the next few days. Then, on 10 June 1915, I flew with Lieutenant Osborne as an observer to spot for the artillery. Our target was a German gun line in front of Lille. Although the squadron had one machine fitted out with the new lightweight wireless apparatus, we made do with the old system of signalling with coloured Very lights. With the wireless sets, there was room only for the pilot as the set took up all the space in the front cockpit of the BE. Mr Osborne was new, as was I, and I suppose that the aim was more to give us experience than to discomfit the Hun. It was something of a relief when Mr Osborne confessed when we were back on the ground that he was not at all sure that what he was firing at was a German gun line. 15 June brought my first experience of losses in combat. Lieutenant Norris went out with another pilot and the machine did not return. No one knows what became of them. On 17 June, I again piloted Mr Osborne for a spotting patrol. We had a couple of moments of excitement. At one point, as we were flying over the enemy lines near the town of Lens, Mr Osborne raised himself in his seat and aimed his Lee Enfield off to my right side. I looked behind but saw nothing. We spoke of it later and he told me that he was sure he had spotted a strange aeroplane emerging from a cloud bank. He said it vanished back into the cloud before I turned about. A little later in the same patrol, we had just turned back to the north when I heard a dull popping sound over the roar of the engine. Two black puffs of smoke appeared off to my right and a little below. This was my first experience of “Archie” – anti-aircraft fire. The Hun Archie merchants were a dud lot and came nowhere close to us, so it was not too difficult to maintain the look of sang froid.

Another excellent overview of life in the Royal Flying Corps – "No Empty Chairs" by Ian Mackersey.