OTT-CYM Mission 1: Back to Front - July 5th 1916 {ShadowDragon}

[ShadowDragon]

So you kids want hear one of your grand-père’s war stories, eh? Not the one about how I met your grand-mère? Ah, Angélique was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and still is to this today.

“Enough of your nonsense, Jacques”, called Angélique through the open veranda door. “Tell them about X Squadron. I’m curious to hear what new embellishments you’ve added.”

Right-e-o. Pour me a glass of our very own Shiraz. We will sit on the veranda, watch the sunset over the vines and I will tell you about X squadron. Hmmm...this Shiraz is an up and comer. Aussie wine is better than French wine.

“Non, Jacques, not French, but better than American, eh?

X-Squadron? It was in July 1916, during the terrible battle of the Somme. The Royal Flying Corps - RFC as we called it - was desperate for help. So the Navy promised to send pilots and aircraft to the Somme - a new squadron called ‘X’ Squadron. It was to have a flight of scouts - single seat fighter aircraft as you’d call them today and a flight of reconnaissance aircraft but at first it was just the scouts. The squadron commander was Sir Henry Rumsbottle who, as Fates would have it, was a teetotaler. I don’t think Sir Henry ever saw the irony in that, but then, can you trust a teetotaler?




So there I was newly arrived at our just un-packed naval air station in what passed for our wardroom with four other flight sub-lieutenants - a fellow Canadian - Al Smith,




a Scotsman - Donald MacDonald, but, as I will shortly tell you, we all called him Jock,




an Irishman - Fergis O’Neil,




and an Aussie - Bruce Dundee - yes, ‘Uncle’ Bruce.




And of course there was me - your grand-père.




We had all come from different units and it would seem we all had chequered ‘careers’ in those units. Maybe that’s why they called us ‘X Squadron’.

There we were enjoying whatever spirits we could dig out of the boxes and wondering what about the future until we had had enough and retired for the night.

Next morning we had assembled in the briefing room - if one can call our casual lounging ‘assembled’ - when in walks Flight Commander Nigel Flashman but, as we would find out no one called him Nigel. He was just Flashman. He stood there with his service revolver as if we were prisoners and perhaps we were. Flashman was one natty dresser. We were allowed to wear a uniform similar to the RFC and Flashman must have paid a tailor a small fortune for his outfit. Standing there with he looked a real lady killer.




“Don’t bother getting to your feet”, he remarked sarcastically. He flipped through some papers. “You're rather a bunch of misfits, I see. You're rather a bunch of misfits, I see. Flight Sub-Lieutenant Donald MacDonald, what sort of joke were your parents having when they named you Donald MacDonald?”

“If you prefer, sir, you can call me Donald of Clan Ranald”, glowered the Scotsman.

“I think I will just call you, Jock”, replied Flashman. From that moment we all called him Jock.

“Demoted from flight commander for striking your superior officer.”

“I fell and bumped him, sir”.

“Well that’s what all the squadron members testified at the inquiry. Says you were in a heated debate”.

“Aye, we were. About squadron tactics……and squadron safety.”

“I hear the gentleman has been transferred to a torpedo destroyer. Be that as it may, if you have a disagreement with me about tactics, we will have a debate about back with just the two of us.”

The two of them glowered at each other. Then a twinkle came over Flashman’s eye – just the hint of one.

“We will break up into two patrols of three. Jock, you’ll lead one of them.”

“Flight Sub-Lieutenant Fergis O’Neil.”

“Aye, sir”, replied the languid Irishman.

“Are you sure which side your one?”

“Aye, sir. Quite sure.”

The Easter Week trouble was still on everyone's mind and every Irishman was looked on with suspicion but some of that is for a future story, kids.

“I’ll be keeping my eye on you. You will be in my patrol. And if you’re interested in any questionable excursions ashore, this chap here is responsible for security on and off the station.” He opened the door to show a well armed rating. Kids, the Royal Naval Service was peculiar in trying to pretend we were all on a ship. So off base was ‘ashore’ and Sir Henry was stickler for naval regulations. We had ceremonial divisions...the whole navy thing.




“Mr. Wilde. You’re quite the fellow. Failed the naval exams three times and finally joined the service because a rich uncle paid for your flying lessons. Your last report says you’re a good pilot but a poor officer. Seems we’ll take anyone these days. Says your from Wolf Creek, Alberta. Where in God's Earth is Wolf Creek?”

"West of Edmonton, Sir." My uncle had sent my dad, your great-granddad to Wolf Creek to look after his investment in the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway which ran from Winnipeg to Prince Rupert. Wolf Creek was about half-way. So with Uncle Wilfred's logic that's where dad should go."

“And you two, Mr. Dundee and Mr. Smith, brawling with the RFC, hmmm? Naval officers do not brawl?”

“Sir, the RFC took exception to our stating the obvious – that they needed our help. Well one thing led to another.”

“Quite. Still we need to work with these chaps even if they are somewhat mistaken. So there’ll be no more brawling. Understood? Hmmm….a jock, a mick, two Canucks and an Aussie, not an honest Englishman among you. Still there’s a job to be done and let’s get down to it. We’re new to the area so we will just get acquainted with the lay of the land. We’ll do two patrols of three scouts. I’ll lead one with Fergis and Jack. Jock will take Bruce and Al. Stay out of trouble. I want everyone back safe. If one patrol spots the other patrol in trouble they’re to scoot over had help out. Understood?”
“Aye, sir”, we all replied.

Soon we were out on the quarter-deck where our six Nieuport Bébés were lined up with their new sparkling coats of paint.

“What in God’s green earth are those”, exclaimed Flashman.

“Don’t rightly know, sir. They just showed up like that this morning”, replied one of the mechanics. Of course, no one knew that a local Frenchman was a little bit richer by the same amount ‘Uncle’ Bruce was that much poorer.

“What will the Hun think with us showing up like we’re from a circus? There’s no time to undo it and the fabric might be weakened if we did, so we’ll have to go on patrol like clowns.”

I thought that our Flight Commander looked even slightly pleased. Although he frowned at his own aeroplane which was pretty much regulation.




It was a lovely morning with not much activity in the air or on the ground. Flashman, Fergis and I were flying south behind the front lines. Jock, Bruce and Al were somewhere south of us.




Little did we know a kette, as the Hun called them, were flying in our direction north over the trenches.




The four Huns turned as one and headed in our direction and with me on the side closest to them. It made my blood run cold – the same as when I was stalked by timber wolves in the Swan Hills. . It seemed to me that the lead plane, a Fokker, look like one of those grey wolves.




Seemed to me that if we turned and ran, they’d be on us like those wolves. Our survival looked better facing them head on.




We were both on each other so fast I don’t think anyone got a decent burst off. We just flew past each other – trying to look as fierce as possible. Hoping to scare the other side off.




Planes twisted and turned and we came back for another go with our fingers ready on the triggers. I think everyone was a bit edgy. A few burst were fired but I don’t think much harm was done.




(Same moment from a different angle for an action shot.)




Flashman’s experience with 2 Wing showed and he lined up one Hun for a good shot. But I could see over my shoulder that one of the Huns had a good go at Fergis.




Flashman was flying brilliantly. He pursued the green Fokker, firing his Lewis gun, pouring lead into the poor chap until his plane burst into flames and exploded. The last I could see was the poor pilot climb out of his machine to fall freely to the ground. His chosen way to die, I suppose.




Flashman flew on – twisting wildly until he had another Hun in his sights – a CDL one - you kids might call it ‘beige’ but we called it CDL, which was short for Clear Doped Linen.




I went after the grey Fokker. Kill the leader of the pack and pack will scatter I reasoned. The pilot jerked in his cockpit. I think one of my bullets must have hit which was a good thing for me but it still leaves a strange feeling in your stomach.




I kept on the grey wolf Fokker trying to take him down.




But the grey Fokker pilot was wiley – like a sly timber wolf. I anticipated him turning and heading for home but he flipped his aeroplane around in what we call an Immelmann. I ended up in front of him but I suppose his injury prevented him from firing on me. Just then the CDL Fokker came from the left, but I had the advantage of altitude and slipped over top of him.




I had hoped that the two Fokkers would collide but the pilots were to clever for that. Still I think it threw the grey Fokker’s aim off so that he missed Flashman who was crossing in front of him.




I feared that the grey Fokker would escape but just then your ‘Uncle’ Bruce appeared – heading straight for the Fokker. ‘struth.




Your ‘uncle’ had no fear and headed straight at the grey wolf Fokker. The Fokker waited until the last moment to avoid the collision but with the damage I had done him, his aeroplane could not withstand the strain. The wings collapsed and the aeroplane dove down like a torpedo. Poor man.




That left two of use – your ‘uncle’ Bruce and me to gang up on the flaming CDL Fokker. First your ‘uncle’ Bruce had a go.




(This photo is for the missed fire damage when I realized that this Fokker was supposed to be on fire.)




Then I had a go at the Fokker, which with the fire, your 'uncle' Bruce and me was enough...




North of us Fergis and a dark CDL Fokker were having their own private war.




The Hun was wiley and probably would have taken Fergis down but luck was with the Irishman.




The Hun’s guns were silent – missed opportunities to finish off Fergis.




The Hun was glued to the Irishman’s tail.




Another burst but the Irishman flew on – bits of fabric flapping wildly in the air.




Surely Fergis’s end was in the sights of the Hun, when, in the nick of time, your ‘uncle’ Bruce came roaring in to the rescue.




Down went the Hun in flames! Two victories for you ‘Uncle’ Bruce, one for the Flight Commander and one for me….and Fergis got to live for another day.




When we got back, we were feeling pretty chuffed at our outing but Flashman threw down his helmet and googles and came charging over to Fergis.

“Did you run away to leave Jack and me to fight off four Huns, eh?”

“Damage, sir. Take a look.”

The Nieuport was barely holding together.

“He’s got you there, sir”, I said.

“Humph! Right, seems to have worked out well. First round in the wardroom is on me.”

Well that didn’t take much convincing, so off we all went to celebrate an astounding day. Some time later I notice that Flashman was not around. I went out since…well, that’s what you do when celebrate living for another day. I notice a motor car drive off.

I asked the sentry, “Who was that?”

"That was the Flight Commander, Sir. Smelling all pretty and with a bottle of champagne. He said he be back in the morning, sir."


A few days later Flashman was seen taking off on a solo flight, but curiously he had what looked like two funeral wreaths with him.

There was more to our flight commander than meets the eye, but that’s more stories for another day and my glass of Shiraz is empty, kids.