RAF_Louvert

. Tony, that is fantastic news about your clean bill of health! And what a great ride that must have been in such a beautiful old bird. .

. Oh, I'll be around. .

. I am shocked that Jim was not already a member of the BOC! I even went and doubled checked our rolls. Welcome aboard Sir! .

. It will be odd and sad indeed when the devs finally close the doors and turn off the lights on their years-long labor of love. Can't imagine it even though I know full well the day will come. .

. I was just wondering if it's occurred to others of you here that, with the passing in recent years of the last WWI combat veterans, there is no one left on the face of this old rock who has the right to wear the campaign medals of 'The Great War'. With the exception of the cinema, you will never again see the "Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred" worn on a veteran's coat. I know time marches on and all, but I just find this to be rather sad. .

. When the medal trio was issued right after the war it happened to coincide with a popular comic strip that was just being published in the Daily Mirror. The strip was called "Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred". .

. The Vedovilli from 1911 has to be a contender in the ugliest airplane contest. .

. Jim, according to Bill Gunston's "World Encyclopedia of Aero Engines: From the Pioneers to the Present Day", the Rolls-Royce Eagle engines were fitted with starter motors that had a reduction ratio of 1:100. Hand operated primer pumps allowed for the injection of fuel directly into the intake pipes, after which the ignition was switched on and the starter motor engaged until the engine caught. .

. I'm not at home right now Jim so I don't have access to my library, but I can see about source material when I get back. .

. After mapping Flanders, the Marne, and Verdun in WOFF, (yes, I will get to the Alsace I promise), I can tell you that the roads, rail lines, and lakes are a match to the real world. After that it is all up for grabs. Rivers and major cities are so hit-and-miss that you cannot trust that they are where they should be. Same is true with the forests. Still, with maps built to fit the WOFF landscape it becomes a non-issue in terms of navigation. For me, the biggest single improvement that could be made would be to have realistic rivers throughout the WOFF virtual world and this would include their elevations. Wouldn't it be grand to be able to actually fly along a river valley in WOFF? And to pass over bridges that truly fit with the surrounding landscape? Someday perhaps - someday. .

. Robert, late to the party - tsk. But still, better late than never - words I've often lived by myself. Jim, keep us posted on the release date of your new book. Sounds like another excellent read. .

. Well done Soppy on bringing your report over here as well. And let me say again, top hole stuff Sir. .

. I had a-banana this morning for breakfast. Never had e-banana. Are they less filling, I imagine they would be. .

. Ten BOC members accounted for, 34 or so to go, (not counting the honorary members). C'mon lads, don't be shy, just admit you still haunt the place on occasion. .

. Well helloooooooooooooooo Widowmaker! Nice to see you are still about. Also nice to see you're still using the sig pic I put together for you. Hope you can get to flying WOFF on a regular basis at some point, it is a pip! .

. Jim, not sure about the HP O/100 but the O/400 had a compressed air starting system for the engines. .

. It would be awesome. .

. I stopped by the RoF forums a while back myself and came to the same conclusion - not much interest of any kind from the devs to develop it any further. Just the occasional sale on all the RoF goodies to try and generate what money they can on their previous efforts. Too bad, it is a great flight sim. .

. Hauksbee, there are tape strips along those edges and it's evident that the tape color had been deliberately chosen to contrast. Not sure why, style I suppose. .

. Yes Hauksbee, yes you do detect a nostalgia for Combat Ace. .

. I breeze through once every few days. I should probably just post "Hi" when I stop by. .

. As far as I can tell this has been an excellent discussion with valid points being expressed from differing views. I seen no need for apologies from anyone. I would like to see these forums left up and operating but I can also see how a few changes may be in order. I know I do not visit them much at all anymore, despite being one the major contributor here in years past. I even proposed precisely the same thing about the 'new' forums being used for all official business and this place being kept and used as the social side of camp. As is painfully evident, such did not happen. .

. "We fear change." (said in my best Garth Algar voice) .

. Tony, wonderful new Sir. I wish you only the best from here on out. To many more years of health and happiness! Lou .

. "A Story for the Season" 1916: Christmas Eve at the Front. The War has dragged itself along on its steely, mud-caked claws for over two years, and the end seems no closer now than when it all began. At an RFC aerodrome not ten miles from the first line trenches, a group of airmen sit through the morning’s briefing, and prepare themselves for the day’s work. They are nearly all young men, at least in years. But with war comes age beyond a calendar’s mark, and one would find that each man is far older than first appearance would tell if a moment were taken to look into his eyes. As the meeting breaks the jovial banter can be heard amongst the group: the good-natured ribbing and warnings, the verbal jousting, the camaraderie and the closeness that bonds souls together in such tenuous and temporary times. Across the mud at a German aerodrome, a similar scene is being played out. The Jagdstaffel pilots there are also preparing themselves for the task at hand. To look at them, you might imagine they were schoolmates of their British counterparts, rather than enemies soon to be locked in mortal combat. For they too laugh and joke, and share that same bond. And they too are of the "old young". The hour is at hand. On each side the signal is given and the small, fast scout planes skim along the cold, icy ground, and one by one lift into a winter sky as grey as the earth below. They form up, and after climbing to their prescribed altitudes, they head towards No Man’s Land and on to do their best; for King and Country; für Kaiser und Vaterland. They meet, and there is the initial gun pass as each sizes up the other. A few moments later and the aerial battle begins in earnest. To those in the fight it is a mind-numbing blur of action that runs in both accelerated and slow motion simultaneously. A split second given to pull the trigger as a plane zips across the sights: an eternity spent to try and twist out of the path of the bullets. An entire lifetime won or lost in less than an eye blink. To those on the ground it appears as a graceful ballet of the sky, the canvas-feathered birds turning and rolling and climbing and diving. But it is a dance to the death more often than not, and it will end when one or more has fallen. And one has fallen. The long, slow, spiraling pirouette as the finale comes to the dance. The others have now tired and as if by mutual agreement or unseen signal the partners separate and turn away. The audience below does not understand how it can be over so quickly. They cannot see the fatigue and exhaustion of those in the air; cannot see their battered ships, or their bruised and aching bodies; or their tired, aging eyes. No, they can see none of these things, any more than the men in the air can see the pain or the agony endured by those who must fight on the ground. Each sees the other from afar, as through a glass darkly. It is an irony of war that in each case, either in the Sky or on the Earth, a man better understands and is more akin to the enemy he fights in his realm than to his own countrymen above or below. Christmas Eve at the Front. Night has fallen and the pilots sit about the dinner table at their respective aerodromes, and talk of flying and fighting, and of family and friends. Wishes of the Season are shared, letters from home are read. Songs of hope are sung and toasts are made to fellow flyers, and to mothers and sweethearts. At one of the tables an empty chair stands in remembrance of the comrade lost that day, and to whom the final toast is made. He will be missed, and to a loved one back home he will forever be a young man with bright, happy eyes; forever a photograph, a memory of a life that could have been. It matters not which side he fought for. He was a man, a part of human kind, and with his passing we are all the lesser for it. . May you have safe and blessed holidays wherever you are, and may we each remember the true message of this season: Peace on earth, good will toward men. .