After-Action Reports

[=IRFC=Gascan]

My brother Kotori sent me a number of AARs while I was out at sea over the last year, and I have also written some for him while he is out. I figured I would share some of these, and if anyone else wants to show off their writing skills, I'd love to see what you can do. Everything that I have written is from live multiplayer combat, but missions flown against the AI are perfectly fine. 

 

This first one is from the Vintage Mission that was run just last year. Although the mission was not a no-comms mission, the IRFC pilots ran without comms as The Royal Mutes Association.

 

April 9, 1917. Dawn, Epinoy Aerodrome. Jasta 18 briefing room.
“Your kette is to take off in five minutes for a 1-hour patrol between Lens and the Scarpe. You will climb to 3 km altitude and rendezvous with a kette from Jasta 12 over Penis Lake. They’re flying from Guisnaines so they should reach Penis Lake around the same time as you. From there, proceed due west to the front, and engage any Entente scouts or two-seaters you encounter. There is a heavy bombardment going on near Vimy Ridge; both friendly and enemy two-seaters. There may be other flights in the area from Jasta 5, Jasta 2, and Jasta 30. You know the rules by now. Stick with your kette leader, and use standard flare signals for communication. Good luck, and happy hunting!"

I climbed into my powerful Albatros D.Va fighter next to my kette leader, known as bbob. Our first flight of the day consisted of six planes in three pairs: bbob and me, Haupt and Colon, and Gardimus and Jager. The ground crew had already lined up our kites and warmed up the engines. The weather was cold. Enormous cumulonimbus storm-clouds floated overhead dumping a steady snowfall across the ground, reaching from only 500m to over 3.5 km above. As the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon, all eyes were on bbob as he throttled up and the powerful 180 horsepower engine roared. The other planes thrummed to life as well, and all six colorful kites rolled down the airfield. I pulled gently on the elevator and I gently rose into the air… but something was wrong. My adrenaline spiked from fear. The flight stick flopped loosely in my hands, with none of the feel of a plane in the air. I glanced down, and the problem was immediately apparent. The power cable had come disconnected! I still had control, but no force feedback. The rest of the flight was already climbing to the north, so I had to hurry. I carefully grabbed the power cable in one hand to plug it back in, avoiding the electrified prongs and keeping my other hand on the stick and maintaining my climb. It only took a few seconds to complete the maneuver, but I had already fallen out of formation and dropped behind. I was above the cloud base, amongst the towering storm clouds. I trimmed my radiator and focused on reaching optimum climb speed, with the kette in sight ahead of me.

Soon I caught up, and slipped into the #2 position alongside bbob. His bright yellow fuselage sported a red 69, and a bright checkered streamer flew from his wing. We slowly wove back and forth as we climbed, trying to catch glimpses of the ground through the dense cloud cover below. The thunderheads still towered over us, so we couldn’t take a straight path to the rendezvous. Our 3km patrol altitude seemed to come up fast. Other planes came into view. Two-seaters below, coming back from the front down below. I didn’t have much time to rubberneck though, holding formation and keeping up my alert scan took most of my concentration. The flight of two-seaters passed underneath, following a road to the east. I had no way to know if the rest of my flight even noticed them. It was only after the patrol I found out they were actually British BE2s heading for a brick factory in the outskirts of Douai. I didn’t know at the time though, so we continued on our merry way. A glance at bbob - in position, good. Further left, formation looking good. Down, a brief glimpse of a lake. Is that it? Maybe. I could see a shaft, but the place where the balls should be was covered by clouds. Back aft, nothing but cloud and sky. To the right, sun and sky. Wait, there’s a speck! No, three, four, six of them. Same altitude, distant, heading south-west on a closing course. Back to bbob, I’m slightly fast. Reduce throttle a touch, trim the radiator more. To the left again, formation still holding strong. Back down, that’s it! We’re over penis lake, right on time. Those must be the other kette approaching from Guisnaines. Back aft, still clear. To the right again, they’re close enough for an ID. Even wings with chevron tips, definitely Albatri. They cut a fine sight, with a neat formation cruising through sunbeams and enormous valleys of thunderheads.

Wait, are those more below us? Away to the east? They’re heading away to the north. Back to bbob, he’s turning towards the front. Time to start hunting. We circled north around one of the enormous storm clouds. I spotted a pair of triplanes far to the north, lower than us and heading for that third group of Albies. Five versus two, no need for us to intervene. Other planes, in ones and twos, all around. Some high, some low. I twisted and turned through my cockpit, trying to identify. Another pair of triplanes below us, and then bbob was rolling over and diving. I turned to follow, and then the tripehounds spotted us. A quick evasion, and our dive was spoiled. We climbed back up, looking for our opportunity to strike. Two other Albies zoomed past us, followed by another two, pushing their attack home. They quickly broke up into a messy dogfight with the tripes, but bbob and I stayed high. Suddenly, RAPRAPRAPRAP PING PING bullets tore through my plane, ripping fabric and crashing into the engine. I rolled hard, and saw a SPAD climbing back up. A second SPAD was coming down, so I cranked into a hard turn to spoil the shot. The SPAD broke off, and I had a moment to catch my breath. I had completely lost the formation, both flight lead and the rest of the crew. A column of flame fell from the sky in the distance. Several fights were going on around me, but none looked like my flight. The two SPADs were above me, maneuvering back into a bounce position. I saw several Albies nearby, and headed for them. Greentails from Jasta 5. The SPADs, clear above the tops of the thunderheads, broke off their stalking and headed away. I checked my plane. The engine was rattling a little, but it was still producing good power and the radiator was undamaged. I had a few holes in my wings, but nothing to worry about. I joined up with the greentails as they circled the thunderhead looking for trouble. Soon another Albatros showed up. Checkered streamer and red 69 on the fuselage. It was bbob. I pulled up alongside, then dropped back into my wingman position. We were back on the hunt, looking for both the remainder of our flight and Tommies and Poilus to kill.

The flight continued like that, circling around our chosen thunderhead, climbing while searching then diving towards whatever fights we saw. I had no other close encounters with French or British bullets, but I also had no success myself. All of the fights we dove into were over before I could shoot. The Entente had set out in small groups, and our larger flights slaughtered them wholesale. Bbob and I got separated again, so I continued the patrol without him. Eventually I saw an Albatros in the distance fire a green flare. Then another one, then a third, and a fourth. That was the signal to return home. I turned south-east, weaving through valleys of clouds as I descended in hopes of spotting navigation waypoints. Eventually I broke through the bottom of the cloud layer, into the swirling snow beneath. I quickly took my bearings and saw that I was over Etaing, a small town several kilometers from the front and far to the west of Epinoy Aerodrome. I checked my fuel, trimmed my radiator, and set course for home. As I flew, two more Albies descended through the cloud layer in the distance. Near the aerodrome, I saw a fourth and fifth plane landing. My fellow pilots were ecstatic. They’d gotten into a number of close scraps, and downed several Tommy planes. Bbob and Colon had an encounter with a powerful new British machine, the Bristol Fighter. They shot one down and reported the crash location. I was sure Idflieg would want to inspect the new machine. The other kette called over from Guisnaine, They’d seen our sixth pilot crash-land near the front. We dispatched a lorry to pick him up and recover his plane, if possible. Now that the engines were quiet, I could hear the distant roar of artillery hammering our positions at the front. There was sure to be more sorties today.

[=IRFC=Gascan]

Here's the next one, a mission in the same event but after the first sortie.

 

After our first sortie in Albatros D.Vas, some room opened up on the Entente side, so we eagerly swapped over. Most of the tripehounds were already taken, so we loaded up Spad VII 150s. It would again be a split flight, taking off half from Filescamp and half from Bellevue. I started at Bellevue, flying wingman for MajorQC. We had a simple plan, just like before. Climb to 3KM, rendezvous with the Filescamp flight over Arras, then patrol from the Scarpe up to Lens as we work our way up to 4km. Due to the wind direction we couldn’t take off straight-away. Instead, we taxied off to the right, then one by one we turned into the wind and roared into the sky.

Once more, it was a deadly game of cat-and-mouse through the gaps between towering thunderheads. We didn’t find any trouble on the way out, but over the mud I spotted a pair of Albatros below us. We rolled and dove, but other SPADs in the flight were closer. They got into it first, so Major broke off the dive to preserve altitude. It took us a long time to get up there in the first place, better to save it if possible. It was a good thing too, as all that gunfire below us attracted another Albie to the fray. Again we rolled and dove. Our engines roared, the wind howled, and the vibrant green tail of an Albatros D.Va loomed large in my gun sight. I pulled lead, and my gun spat fire and fury. To my left, MajorQC fired as well, and the greentail pulled up as bullets riddled his plane. We had energy to burn though, and we both followed him around. I pulled up into a zoom climb once I could no longer stay on target, and spotted movement above us. Still specks though, so not a concern yet. I looked back at the peak of my zoom climb, and tried to turn towards the greentail. Oops, not enough airspeed. My left wing dropped sharply, so I kicked my rudder and turned it into a snap roll instead. Once again, the Albatros was in my sights and my machine gun roared. Then I heard the chatter of another machine gun above me, and I looked up to see MajorQC on the inside of my turn. Our bullets raked all over the Albatros. Its climbing turn soon robbed it of energy, then it stalled and spun into the snow and mud below.

The immediate threat was over, so I looked up to identify the planes overhead. To my horror, I counted the distinctive profiles of at least ten Albatros, in good formation almost a kilometer above us. This was a terrible position to be in. Dangerously low on energy and severely outnumbered. We disengaged to the north-west, climbing as fast as we could. Just because we couldn’t attack them NOW didn’t mean we would never engage. We just had to set up the conditions. Fortunately the Huns didn’t spot us, and they turned away to the south. Other SPADs appeared around us as we climbed, each sporting the distinct IRFC stripe and the various numbers and streamers of flight pairs and leaders. Soon I noticed a pair of Albies shadowing us, high above and behind. We outnumbered them 6-2, but they had the altitude so we couldn’t force an engagement. We continued our climb.
We flaunted our numbers as we climbed so the two Huns declined to fight. They skirted in and out of a cloud to our south, and we circled around it, slowly gaining the altitude advantage while we searched for an opportunity. They were gone by the time we had it. Vanished into a cloud, and disengaged to who-knows-where. We reformed and resumed our patrol at 4km, just barely above the tops of the clouds. It would be almost 20 minutes before more prey arrived. A flight of three V-strutters, spread out and ripe for plucking. The first one went after two SPADs to my left, and broke into a swirling dogfight. I went head-to-head with the second. He flinched, I zoomed, and the fight was on. For all the swirling maelstrom of SPADs and Albies, we maintained wingman discipline. Major and I fought as a closely coordinated pair. I dragged an Albie, and he shot it up. One went after him, and I shot it up. We zoomed and dove, turned and shot. A hun put a couple bullets into my fuselage. Major’s radiator got shot. But in just a few minutes, the fight was decided. Only SPADs remained, and all of the huns were dead. We slowly circled a thunderhead over the middle of the mud as we assessed our damage and re-formed our formation. Overall, we’d done well. I still had 25 liters of fuel and minor damage at best. Some planes had damage, and they disengaged. Major, Artun, and I continued the patrol.

It wasn’t long before trouble showed up again. Archie drew our attention down low, and I spotted a pair of huns through a gap in the clouds. We maneuvered towards the east, for a perfect out-of-the-sun ambush. They were just below cloud base, completely ignorant of us as I began my dive on the lead plane. I looked back for a moment - Major was engaging the other almost a kilometer behind. I turned back towards him. better to stay close enough for mutual support. The Hun fighter survived the initial pass, and was able to get around on Major. Artun opened up on him next, and he broke off his counterattack. I came in third, pulled a good lead, and fired. Bullets riddled his engine and cockpit, and the stricken Albatros suddenly dropped sharply. I watched as it fell to the ground, reduced to a twisted pile of debris. The other Albatros, the one I had initially dove on, was coming back. Whether through skill or luck, he managed to clip MajorQC’s wing with his landing gear during their head-on pass. Major’s plane fell to pieces, but the Albie continued towards me. I wasn’t lined up for a direct head-on pass, so I pulled up into an immelmann turn. I kicked my rudder over and lined up again. Two short bursts, and the second Albie fell. Not as sharp of a dive, but a slow, spiralling descent that ended in a heap at the edge of the mud. With just Artun and I left, low on ammunition and fuel, we turned for home. 

Well, not quite. With this little fuel, I instead set course for Filescamp. I raced through the snow and smoke, artillery and machine guns, as I headed for friendly lines. I barely reached the green of British lines when my engine stuttered to a halt. Out of fuel, time to pick a field to land in. I touched down next to a farmhouse just north of Arras. Hopefully I could catch a ride from an army lorry on the road nearby. But my plane was intact (asides from the holes in the fuel tank and wing) and I was unharmed. Artun and the parser both confirmed my two kills. Artun came away with three kills himself, and MajorQC also bagged three before he went down. Not a bad haul, I’d say.

[=IRFC=Gascan]

Here's an earlier report my brother wrote up from the first attempt to fly as part of the Royal Mutes Association. I think this would be back in October or November of 2022.

 

Today we tried something new. Not only am I now a member of IRFC, I am also a member of the Royal Mutes Association. We organized a group of initially six, later nine-plus pilots interested in doing missions without in-flight voice comms. No speaking, hence the name. This was on a late-war Arras-Bethune map, late afternoon with good weather. The rules were simple. We could plan out our mission with voice comms, and arrange any form of in-game signals before takeoff, but no text or voice comms allowed once in the air.

 

Sortie 1 was a mixed group due to low plane availability. Two Camels and two SE5a's from the MSE, to rendezvous with two more Camels from Bruay in the north over Bethune. We would then conduct a line patrol across the adjacent 15 miles of front. The huns were known to be active in the area, with their recon complete and at least one strike on our back targets broken up by teammates already. Takeoff at 1600, rendezvous at 1615, and RTB at 1700. Communications would be kept simple. Green flare means RTB. Red flare means Rally at rendezvous point. White flare means Rally on Me. Wing Wagging adjacent to the flight leader means "I've spotted something". Porpoising means look up or down. Short bursts of gunfire can be used in emergencies to get an individual's attention or to point in a direction. We took off on schedule, formed up, and began climbing to the north.

Echo and Haupt in their Camels climbed at a slower speed than SE5a's could manage, so bbob and I had to weave back and forth to maintain our positions relative to Echo in the lead. It was an eerie experience climbing and hunting in silence. I knew my fellow pilots were there, I could see them and tell they were holding formation and doing well, but I could not tell what they were thinking or what they were seeing. Other flights cruised past below or above, each going about doing their own thing. A SPAD came by to check us out, then moved on. I saw a fight distant to the northwest, probably another German raid getting broken up. Soon we reached Bethune, and I saw Artun and Cuban approaching low from the west. Echo started to circle to let them catch up. We saw flak in the distance to the north, but it was sporadic and I couldn't see whatever Archie was shooting at. We continued to circle.

After a couple orbits, I spotted movement down low, heading west along the northern river. I needed a couple good looks to get a positive ID. Grey wings and fuselage, black crosses on the wings... a pair of German two-seaters heading to our back-line targets. They were not yet to Bethune, but moving fast. Hopefully Flight Lead would notice. We circled again. Now they were past the fork in the river, almost directly beneath us. What about Artun, and Cuban? They were racing off to the north. They must have spotted whatever was drawing the flak, and were haring off to intercept. Echo continued to circle and I thought hard. The flight wasn't fully grouped up yet, but that was looking less likely by the moment and the Huns wouldn't wait. I throttled up and cut the inside of the circle to pull up alongside Echo's Camel. I gave a distinct wing waggle, then a couple up-and-downs and a short burst of gunfire in the direction of the two Germans, then I turned and dove HARD.

Radiator shut, throttle to full, stabilizer full forward. My engine roared, and small droplets of cloud splattered on the windshield then faded. In moments my airspeed indicator pegged high, and the tachometer was climbing fast. The wind howled past my ears and the two grey crosses grew large in my sights. I eased off the throttle just a hair to avoid over-speeding my engine and set the mixture rich for a fight at treetop level. Now there was nothing between me and my targets but a few hundred meters of empty sky, and I got a good ID on them. A Pfalz D.III in the back, with a DFW two-seater up front. They were almost to the ammunition dump. I knew bbob was close behind me and I hoped our Camels were following as well. With backup right with me, I chose to hit the bomber first. I eased out of the dive, still closing rapidly, then squeezed my triggers for the first time. The machine guns spat fury, flame, and lead for a good long burst, then I was pulling hard up and away. Too late! A bomb dropped from his fuselage, and landed near one of the ammo tents. The Pfalz pursued me, guns spraying wildly, then bbob descended on him. It was only a short firing pass, then bbob was climbing back to safety. My own climb had effectively turned all of my speed into altitude, so I kicked my rudder into an Immelmann Turn and swung my nose around. After multiple evasions, the Pfalz was low on both altitude and speed, and it wallowed through the air. It was in no position to threaten either of us, so I set my sights back on the DFW and dove in a second time. At close range, I let loose a long, rattling burst and walked my fire all over its fuselage, upper wing, and cockpit. Pieces fell off, and the stricken two-seater listed over and smashed into the ground in a fiery explosion as one of the remaining bombs onboard detonated the fuel tank.

While I had been distracted by the death of the two-seater, the Pfalz had recovered, and bbob was in a bad way. I saw his SE5a pulling out of a dive just above the ground when his wings tore off, and his half-winged fuselage skidded along the field for quite a ways. I had a couple hundred feet altitude advantage on the Pfalz, but that wouldn't help in a 1v1. It was at this point that Echo and Haupt arrived. Diving from the east at high speed, they tag-teamed the Pfalz into a turn-fight, then Haupt closed for the kill. He put a good long burst into the Pfalz from point-blank range, and it rolled over and fell. I took a moment to assess my machine. Apparently the Pfalz did hit me, since my engine wasn't quite hitting right. It was still producing power though, and all of my fluid levels and system pressures were normal. I was loading a new drum into my Lewis when Echo fired a red flare. Rendezvous at the rally point. The three of us turned back towards Bethune and began our long climb back to altitude. Amazingly, it had only been 20 minutes from takeoff. We reached Bethune at 6,000 feet and set out for the front. It was still busy up there. I saw a pair of SE5as heading in the same direction as us, and a SPAD circling overhead looking for trouble. Far to the east and southeast, I saw the specks of many distant aircraft. The two SE5as raced out ahead of us, apparently intent on destroying the German observation balloon. We followed at a slightly more sedate pace, keeping formation and evading the flak when it started up. They handily shot down the balloon, although one of them was damaged by the flak. I saw what looked to be a German plane, either Pfalz or Fokker type, to the north of us, but the SPAD was already stalking it. The flak was starting to get thick, so Echo turned us back to the west. Another SE5a roared by just below us, and I recognized the distinctive paint scheme of the IRFC. bbob had rejoined us! We swept up and down the lines from Puppy Lake to Lens once, then Echo fired a green flare. Time's up, head home. All four of us formed a nice tight formation as we cruised towards Bruay, where we landed in good order.

Once back on the ground, we met up with Cuban, who told us what he and Artun had gotten up to. They'd apparently spotted a couple of German escorts retreating after a failed raid and ended up deep behind enemy lines. They got a stack of kills for their effort, but Cuban's engine quit on him while they were exfiltrating. He landed behind German lines and got captured. Artun himself was still on his way back, expected in ten minutes. Everyone took a short break to repair, refuel, bio, and drink. Then somebody in chat mentioned a bunch of Huns headed down south, including at least one Gotha. Suddenly waiting for Artun wasn't important anymore.

 

Flight 2. Same pilots as before, plus Cuban in a Bristol fighter, running slick. Rendezvous point at La Targette, with an intended line/defensive patrol from there down to Arras. Echo led the flight down south as quickly as possible while still climbing. MSE was already reporting hostiles in the south. First 3, then 4, finally 6. Then Filescamp started pinging too. Eventually I spotted dots on the horizon, from 1 o'clock to 2, low down and gunfire all around. Echo must have missed them though, since he continued towards La Targette. By the time we got there, not a single plane remained. Cuban had fallen behind, and bbob disappeared at some point, so once again it was just me and two Camels, Echo and Haupt. We started a slow, cruising patrol, holding steady at 6000 feet. I was a bit higher, but close enough to maintain formation and see Echo's signals. Eventually bbob came back, and I spotted Cuban below us. No idea why he was so low, but he must have been busy. We reached Arras again and turned
north, and then I saw it. A large formation, between 8000 and 10000 feet, heading south-west from Lens. Echo pointed towards them, but barely climbed at all. I throttled up to climb on my own. Fortunately I was keeping up my visual scanning, as I spotted a Fokker DVII and Pfalz DXII due east of us and high above. The Fokker was already beginning his dive, so I had to break to spoil his attack. He zoomed back up after scoring a couple hits, then it was the Pfalz's turn. His pass was harmless though, and I swung my Lewis into its upward position. I lined up on one of the Fokkers and started firing, when my view disappeared in a cloud of plane parts. Apparently a Pfalz had collided with me, and both of us exploded.

The fight was on though, so I tried to hop into Cuban's gunseat. That wasn't open though, so I hopped into another Bristol gun seat instead. By the time I got in, the fight was mostly over. I took a few shots at a Fokker DVIII, and helped my pilot track him through some maneuvers, then the German pilot made a mistake and lost too much altitude, and the swarm of Entente fighters devoured him. With no more Huns in sight, I de-spawned and took a Dolphin to rejoin the flight. Unfortunately by the time  I caught up with them, the rest of the flight was low on ammo and fuel, and the green flare was launched. Four Camels, a Bristol, and a Dolphin descended on MSE in beautiful, parade-ground formation. Then we reached MSE and tried to land, and things got chaotic. I aborted my first landing attempt and throttled up to fly over a taxiing Camel. My second landing attempt went better though, and ultimately nobody died. We returned to the planning room to prep the next sortie.

 

Down in the planning room, I learned that bbob had left the formation during the flight south to deal with a lone, lost DVIIF. It was apparently wandering just over British lines, taking the occasional burst of flak at 9000 feet but not moving fast or with purpose. He approached from below and put a burst of Lewis directly into its cockpit, and it fell away and fell to pieces. There was no chute to shoot. He then got shot down by a Pfalz DXII during the big melee. The rest of our formation did very well for themselves. Only a kill or two each, but they annihilated the German formation, and bbob and I were the only losses. We then noticed that a lot of the Jastas had logged off for the day, so we decided to swap sides and run an Albatros Dunce flight. We contacted a couple of J5 pilots, Wolff and one other, to join us for the fun.

Flight three would be out of La Brayelle in Albies and Pfalzes, with the most colorful skins we could find. There were eight of us on the ground, with a couple more joining us in the air over Lens. we would rally at Lens, then patrol the northern sector of front and see what we could see. This was the largest flight yet, so we planned to run two elements of four planes each. We spent a few minutes on the ground prepping our planes, figuring out skins, and discussing routes and signals, when I spotted a plane approaching low in the distance. It had a familiar silhouette: straight upper wing, dihedral on the lower, and I thought it's just a Camel. What's a Camel doing here? Then the airfield's defensive guns opened up, and I thought OH CRAP CAMEL! Artun shouted SCRAMBLE in the discord, and as my engine roared to life, the Camel came in. He strafed right along our beautiful line of colorful aircraft, dropping bombs as we raced for the sky. Our flight scattered like an ant nest. I saw at least one of our planes crash during takeoff, and the plane to my left was late starting its engine and was blown up by a 20lb bomb. I got a couple bullets into the Camel, then he turned the tables and put a long burst into me. Then another Albatros got a lineup on him, and put a couple dozen bullets into his fuselage and wings. His plane fell to pieces as he turned around for another pass. I saw a couple of parachutes as I circled around to land.

 

Flight 3, take two went a little better. We took off in two groups of four, climbing north towards Lens. Once there, we continued northwest towards Bethune. Our large group attracted attention from a number of Entente planes. A SPAD stalked high overhead, and our lead group dropped in on a pair of Entente machines over Bethune. Second Flight maintained high cover, and I drifted behind and above in my Pfalz DIII to try and lure the SPAD into a dive. He soon came down, but not after me. He chose to hit Artun's Albatros instead, ahead and below me. This put me a perfect position to dive on him. Artun's evasion took him out of the line of fire quickly, while I eased my sight onto the SPAD and opened up. I followed him as he tried to zoom back up, then his wings fell off and I recognized the nose shape of a Dolphin, not a SPAD. Artun popped a white flare to rally on him, and we proceeded to re-form the flight. We patrolled south for the last few minutes of the mission, then the map timed out.

 

Overall it was a heck of an experience. Very different from the usual mayhem on the Flugpark, and much more like a campaign. The individual missions weren't quite as planned, and without comms we weren't as flexible as the usual flights, but the tension was thick enough to cut the entire time. And, despite having a full flight around me, the solitude was very real. I saw things that others didn't, and apparently I missed a bunch of things that others saw. In the first flight, nobody else saw the Huns I was diving on until we were almost on top of them. But they trusted my signal and followed me in, with overall good results. Apparently Cuban got bounced at one point during his first flight, and Artun was unable to warn him in time, resulting in his eventual crash and capture. The general consensus was that it was a very good experience, but not suitable for all occasions. We planned fairly short, hour-or-less patrols, so anybody who got lost or shot down could rejoin fairly quickly. I had a lot of fun with it, and I hope to do this sort of mission again some time.

Edited February 14, 2023 by =IRFC=Gascan
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[=IRFC=Gascan]

This one is a bit more fresh, coming from the first flight of the Royal Mutes Association last Sunday on the FlugPark. There was a second flight, but I haven't written it up yet.

 

Gentlemen, the Imperial Royal Flying Corps will send a flight of Sopwith Camels and a flight of SE5a scouts to perform a Close Offensive Patrol near the city of Bapaume. Your three Sopwith Camels will form the main force, with three SE5a's providing backup. The Sopwiths will take off from Brasieux and climb to 10,000 feet, heading north to a rally point at the Hump. From there, you will cross the lines heading northeast, and will patrol south from St. Leger to Bapaume. The Seefas are flying out of Marieux. They will climb to 12,000 feet or higher and perform a defensive patrol from La Herliere to Acheux, then to the Hump. If the flight gets broken up, head for the Hump to regroup. If you encounter a very large enemy force, retreat to the Hump and the second flight will attack from above. As you can see, weather is clear, light wind from the west, and broken clouds between 5,000 ft and 7,000 ft. Perfect weather for hunting Huns! You are scheduled to hold the line for one hour. Good luck and happy hunting!

Bbob bursts through the door yelling “Wait, wait, wait, can I join this flight? The mechanics are bringing my kite out right now!” Mols seems fine with the idea. “That's fine, I need a few minutes before I'll be ready to fly anyway. I didn't get much sleep last night, so I've been drinking a lot of tea to try and stay awake.” Echo, the flight leader agrees to take the additional pilot with a curt “Very well. I'll see you on the flight line.”

Outside, the planes are being lined up and prepared for combat. Echo, the flight lead, has mostly left his machine painted in squadron colors: the crimson and white stripe on the left wing, two white bars around the fuselage, and the solid white elevator and vertical stabilizer. The only way to know it is Echo is the letter E emblazoned on the right wing and the side of the fuselage, paired with a compass rose on the wheels. My machine has blue and white stripes on the nose, with a blue trifoil on the wheel. To finish it off, there is a heraldic fish on the side and a letter G on the wing. Mols has been shot up so many times his machine has recently received a whole new fabric covering, and the grey doped linen has not yet been covered in the usual protective coat of greenish PC-10 that marks the others. The letter M was added to the wing, but the red cowling and wheels were maintained from his original machine. Within minutes, the mechanics have wheeled out bbob's aeroplane, and the armorers start loading the belts of ammunition into the machine guns. This one has a yellow cowling and a yellow diamond sitting behind the pilot and on the fuselage, with the letter O on the wing. All of the Sopwith Camels have been put through their paces, and the signs of wear are plainly visible. Paint has chipped off the edge of access panels, dirt from the wheels spatters the lower wings, and streaks of castor oil run along the nose and stain the fabric coverings. The used look belies the skill of the mechanics: there will be no engine failures today. The Sopwith Camels will perform when it counts.

While the armorers finish up and the mechanics make last minute adjustments and checks, another machine is ready to go. It's an American SE5a, with the number 13 on his wing, a white nose, and the squadron emblem of an Executioner with a big axe. It's Landis, from the 25th Aero Squadron, and he zooms off for a lone patrol. In the mean while, Mols has put on another pot of tea to boil, and tells the rest of the flight he'll catch up later. We use the time to finish reviewing our comms: wing waggle for enemies, porpoise for single RTB, red flare for distress, white flare for reform the flight, green flare for flight return home. Last ditch is a burst of MG fire for emergency break. At this point, Mols runs out of the mess and scrambles into his machine, yelling for the mechanics to start the engine. In a flash he's off, looking for the flight that hasn't departed yet. The rest of us jump into our aeroplanes. “Contact!” The mechanic heaves on the propeller and the engine sputters, then roars to life. I tweak the Tampier quadrant fine adjust lever and the engine smooths out. Echo and bbob taxi forward a bit, then their puttering engines change to a roar as they rumble down the field. I gun the throttle and the sound of the Clerget 9B envelops me. A bit of forward pressure on the stick and my tail rises, then the whole machine races forward. I have to work the rudder to maintain the plane straight and level down the field, but soon I can pull back and the rumble of wheels on grass vanishes. Now its just me and my engine.

Mols is circling the airfield looking for us, but we're still beneath him. We form up in a three ship Vic formation with practiced ease, then head north and start to climb. Behind me, I see Mols turn north and wander in our direction. Hopefully he sees us. Eyes up front, we're continuing to climb together. This isn't a tight parade-ground formation; we're close, but with a little room for the normal wobbles as each pilot looks around. To the east lies the layer of dust and smoke, the brown scar of earth tilled by artillery. Columns of smoke rise from small fires burning on the battlefield. Behind me I can see Mols trailing along behind us, clearly following but unable to catch up. Around us I see a few single planes going about their own urgent missions. Alone in the cockpit, I find my senses expanding as I search the skies. Even climbing over our own lines I am constantly searching around. A distant flare in front of us, a tiny speck passing the opposite way to the right. It all paints a picture of a busy day for the war. Below us I can see an army encampment near Acheux for the upcoming offensive. The enemy are sure to try and harass the camp before the troops can join the battle. A few distant specks appear overhead, probably our friendly SE5a's, since we are still over British lines.

Below I see a tiny speck of dirty black smoke. Archie has found something. Another puff. It's on our side so it must be a Hun. I can't make out the enemy aeroplane, though. Now Echo is banking right, taking us east across the lines. We must have reached the hump. I settle back onto Echo's right wing, bbob strains to catch up and resume his position on the left. Behind us, Mols turns as well, still gallantly trying catch the formation.

Looking past Echo, I can see a column of heavy black smoke falling from the sky. “They've got our balloon!” I cry indignantly. Fortunately I see two white specks: those lucky aeronauts have parachutes so they can jump to safety if they get attacked. We steer a course northwest to the enemy side. My flight hasn't seen the attack on the balloon. Bbob is waggling his wings! He's pointing north! Echo's seen it! Together we bank left, heading for where our balloon used to be. There they are.

“Two planes, but is it a fight?” Echo noses down, bbob and I follow. I glance behind me at the wayward Mols, who has apparently missed the memo and is continuing on our previous path, oblivious to the coming fight. The wind starts to howl past my ears, and I fiddle with my tampier throttle to prevent the engine from tearing itself to pieces. Tracers appear in the sky, and they're not coming from the ground: the two dots are aeroplanes, and one of them is shooting at the other.

I've fallen a bit behind, but I can't push it any faster. I can now see wings, fuselage, and tail of the two planes. Echo steers straight for them, I lean a bit to the right to intercept the Hun if he tries to run. I can see the uneven wings of a Fokker chasing the even wings of a British SE5a trailing white smoke. It's barely a fight: down goes the British scout. But now the Fokker sees us and knows the meaning of mortal fear. He never stood a chance against the three of us, and he makes a basic error: his climbing turn leaves him slow and vulnerable. First Echo, then bbob, then I line up and pour a stream of bullets into his machine as it twists around.

“And that should be one dead Hun!” I zoom past the stalled machine and look down to see the pilot slumped over. The deed is done in mere moments: he falls from the sky trailing oily white smoke and lands in a crumpled heap half a mile south of where our balloon was shot down. I compliment myself on my fine shooting, then turn to the task of rejoining the flight.

Echo has fired a white flare, there bbob drops in beside him. I'm a bit behind, but soon catch up after adjusting my throttle. The lower altitude requires a richer mixture of fuel and air to get full power. Echo leads the flight east as we climb again. As always, I constantly scanned the skies. We were heading to the home turf of Jasta Boelke and Jasta 5, and sightings of other Jastas were common. Recently reports had come in of JG1, J13, and J30. It was at this point that I realized Mols was nowhere to be seen. I could only hope he had merely gotten lost due to his sleep deprivation, and that nothing bad had happened to him while we were away.

We continued to climb hard to regain our precious altitude before our easterly course carried us across the lines to our patrol area. Soon enough, bbob rocks his wings: he's spotted something again. He points us north in the middle of the mud. For a minute I see nothing, then a tiny speck over the clouds. Echo rocks, but I still don't know if the speck is friendly or enemy. WOOF. I look around and see the fading black puff of archie firing at us. I didn't think we were in range yet. I can't tell what we're hunting. Soon it becomes apparent that the speck won't come in range. We give up the chase and turn back to the east. We still haven't reached our patrol area.

Behind the German lines, where the brown scar of No-Man's-Land turns back to the summer green of France, I can see more specks: several distant, unidentified aeroplanes and the tiny black puffs of archie. Are we setting up to attack them? Its breaking into a fight. I hope it isn't the wayward Mols, wandering around the German side alone without us.

Soon enough I can focus on a single aeroplane with dihedral on both wings, which have an even span. It turns to the south, as does Echo. I can clearly see it is an SE5a. Are we starting our patrol now? 10,000 feet is about right. The SE5 stays a bit higher, and swings around to have a closer look at us. The roundels are American, and it has the number 13 on the wing: it's Landis, who took off shortly before we did. I can't spare a moment to think about the American, though, since bbob is turning east again.

“Bob, whatcha got?” I ask myself. “Are you going for that guy?” There's a speck that isn't too far away, we might be able to engage. Has Echo seen? Landis is with him. Is it a Fokker Triplane? No, it's a D.VII. Is it looking at me or bbob? I start to separate out a bit, easing to the right so the single enemy has to choose one person to look at. He stays pointed at me. bbob dips down, picking up speed then pulling up to fire at the Fokker from below. I circle right, unwilling to engage head-on with a pilot staring right at me. But he's not looking at me, his eyes were on Echo and Landis, who zoom past me on either side. The Hun takes a shot at Echo, who dives beneath him to evade, then rolls past Landis. This places him squarely in front of me. I tap the triggers and a short burst of fire heads his direction. I can see the green tail plane of Jasta 5. The tracers bullets walk across his main wing and into the fuselage as he passes through my fire. He pulls hard, past my sight and into the gap in the wing cutout, but he can't sustain the turn. Slowly the ring of my Aldis sight settles into place, and I squeeze. The twin vickers chatter away and bullets streak into my opponent. He dives and I follow at first. Then I see the pilot clamber out of the cockpit. I break away, he's finished.

Soon there's another white flare, and we all turn west to reform the flight. I can see Echo in front of me, and move to join up. There are two machines to the north, though, and I can't quite tell what they are. I see flak explode nearby. Are they Camels? I'm close to Echo now, but I want to see what those guys are. I keep pushing north and Echo comes around with me. The tail sticks up too much, the nose isn't blunt enough. “Those have gotta be Fokkers,” I say, more to convince myself than Echo who can't hear me. I rock my wings, the signal for enemies. It's a pair of Fokkers trailing behind and beneath an SE5, probably Landis, with a Camel , probably bbob, trailing behind them.

Now that the Echo and I are coming to help, the SE5 takes his chance. He turns and dives on one of them, taking a passing shot, then zooms past and away out of reach. The Huns turn, almost surprised that they've been attacked, circling and looking for enemies. I'm almost in range now, so I point at one of them and fire a burst. The machine guns roar, then fall silent. “Come on!” I had a misfire! I pull the cocking lever to cycle the action and clear the dud bullet. The other one zooms past me, heading the other way. I give him a quick burst and he returns the favor, then I lock onto the tail of the first one. Black and white stripes: not one of the Jastas I'm familiar with. I lay into him, pouring a hail of lead all along the engine, cockpit, and fuselage. “He's gotta be hurting now,” I crow. He slowly pulls up into the sun, then rolls over. Just as I'm about to fire again, I realize the Fokker is out of control, either unconscious or dead. No need to waste bullets on an enemy that's out of the fight. If he comes back I can finish him off, otherwise the bullets may be needed later in the patrol. I've run out on previous patrols, and nothing is worse that sitting on the tail of an enemy unable to fire because the ammo belt is empty.

There's no sign of the last enemy, so I head west and search for my flight. Soon I spot Echo, who then dives away. More enemies? No, there's bbob beneath us, and we're just descending to make it easier to join up. The patrol continues to the south, then eventually turns back north. There are numerous specks in all directions, but all too far to chase down. On the northern leg I see something: a bit below us is something with uneven wings, possibly a Fokker. Once more I rock my wings, then start to descend. Unfortunately, I have lost the enemy while I alerted my friends. Now I circle downward, looking for the missing Hun. There, far below me! I'm gonna need to descend to catch this guy. As I circle down, he disappears again. I'm sure Echo and bbob are wondering what I'm up to, dropping this far down. “I know I saw him!” And there he is again, a thousand feet below. I'm not losing sight this time. He passes underneath, so I roll over and dive on him.

The wind rushes, the engine roars. I can see his black fuselage fill my sight, with the boxy wings of a Pfalz D.XII. My twin machine guns chatter furiously, but my aim is just a bit off. The bullets rip into his left wing and even his wheels, but nothing hits the vital engine or cockpit area. Worse, one of the guns falls silent. As I pull up and away from the attack, I can see the Pfalz wallow in the air. The pilot was climbing and had no speed to maneuver, leaving him open for bbob's follow-up attack. Of course bbob plants his bullets on target, and the Pfalz goes into an uncontrolled flat spin. With the enemy driven down out of control, we start climbing back up. 5,000 feet is already lower than I would like, and there's no need to stick around now that the enemy has bailed out and is floating to earth in his silk parachute.

With our fourth fight of the day behind us, it is time to form up again. A green flare soars out from bbob's Camel, but I don't see Echo near us. To the east I see what looks like a distant Sopwith, so I head over to check it out. Sure enough, I can make out the bare metal cowl and white E of Echo's aeroplane against the dark PC-10 coating, and he's now heading west to leave the area. I zip in to join him, with bbob a bit below and to the north of us. The patrol is almost over, and the time has come to start heading for home.

Suddenly, Echo banks to the north. Naturally, I follow him. At first, I'm afraid he's setting up on bbob, but he continues on past. I don't see anything in that direction. Behind me, bbob is heading north east, possibly tracking an enemy again. Then I see it: just above the clouds is a biplane heading west. Archie isn't firing, so it's probably a Hun. I tweak the Tampier throttle again to ensure maximum power is available. I squint my eyes to get a better look: even wings, no dihedral, pretty large. Probably a two-seater. That narrow-ish tail that doesn't stick up too much looks familiar, but the large radiator in the nose gives it away. It's a DFW, an enemy photo-reconnaissance machine! Usually those valuable machine either fly much higher or have a large escort, sometimes both. He's coming obliquely to my left, making it easy to set up an attack run. I swoop in, guns blazing away. I can see flashes from his gunner in return, and tracers zip past me, but I press home the attack. Just as I get too close and break off, the observer collapses and falls back into his cockpit. The Hun turns for home, but it's far, far too late. Echo comes in next, sitting on the tail of the DFW and blazing away without worry of return fire. Black smoke pours from the engine, and Echo breaks off, thinking enemy is on fire. However, the smoke peters out. Bbob makes a head-on pass from below. I make another attack from behind, but my bullets aren't needed: the machine falls from the sky out of control.

As I circle around to form up again, I see bbob do a celebratory loop. Observation machines are one of our most valuable targets, and it's pretty clear he finished this one off. Of course, aerobatics can be a bit dangerous, and he falls into aspin, but soon pulls out I spiral down to join him, and so does Echo. As we head for home I look back over the flight so far.

We lost Mols somewhere and don't know what happened to him. Echo shot down a Fokker who had destroyed our balloon and a friendly SE5. I defeated a Fokker and forced him to bail out. I then killed one of two Fokkers, the other one probably killed by a nearby American SE5. I then dropped in on a Pfalz which was killed by bbob. To finish things off, I killed the observer on a DFW, which which was then damaged by Echo, and killed by bbob. Overall, a very successful flight. Once we reach our side of the lines, bbob breaks off and porpoises up and down a bit, the signal for individual washout. Was he damaged? Echo and I both head for the nearest airfield and we all set down at Marieux. There we learned that Mols was alive and well, having joined up with the other flight. All's well that ends well. Time to stop by the Officers Mess while our machines are refueled and rearmed.

Edited February 18, 2023 by =IRFC=Gascan
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[=IRFC=Gascan]

Here is the second flight from the Royal Mutes Association. Enjoy!

 

It wasn't our home airfield, but the mechanics and armorers were busy outside with our aeroplanes while the three of us rested and refreshed ourselves in the Marieux Officers Mess. Our next patrol would be similar to the last one, with our three Sopwiths flying along the lines at 10,000 feet. Should we be offensive, over the enemy lines, or defensive over our own lines? Our run-in with a DFW earlier suggested the Huns were pushing photo reconnaissance machines today, so we planned to act more defensively and block their access to our territory. A blinded enemy cannot respond as well to whatever we plan, and we intended to keep it that way. No haring off after lone Fokkers! We also agreed to shift our rally point from the Hump to La Herliere, a town midway between Arras and the Hump. There was also a brief discussion about maintaining formation. Specifically, the flight lead needs to keep a speed that allows the rest of the flight to keep up. By backing off the throttle a tiny bit, the leader provides the wingmen a small margin of extra power to catch up and adjust position in the formation. It doesn't need to be much, especially if trying to maintain a rapid climb. Circling or flying a zigzag allows the rest of the flight to cut the corner and catch up as well.

 

By now, the mechanics had finished refueling, the riggers had done a brief check to tension the flying wires as the day warmed up, and the armorers had given us new belts of ammunition. Once more, it was time to take to the sky! With the engine primed and pre-lubricated, I engaged the magneto. “Contact!” I called, then the mechanic heaved the airscrew. The engine spluttered then roared to life. I fiddled with the tampier quadrant to smooth out the firing, then waited for the signal. Bbob and I were already lined up on the flight line, then Echo taxied up next to us. He looked around, waved his arm, then advanced to full throttle. Seconds later, bbob did the same, then I smoothly powered up. The rising thunder of the engines filled the aerodrome and the flight leapt into the air. The formation was so precise we didn't even need to circle the airfield to get into position, Echo simply headed to the front, reaching for the clouds above.

 

Far to the south I caught a glimpse of a massive machine heading west and descending. The only thing that big was the gigantic Handley-Page Type O, with a 100 foot wingspan and two powerful engines. They normally flew at night, but perhaps this crew was getting some flight experience... near a front-line aerodrome. Perhaps it was supposed to be a delivery from England that got lost... on a day with only light clouds... Whatever the case was, it was too far south for our flight to do anything, and the aerial leviathan soon settled to the ground just west of Warloy-Baillon. Our flight continued merrily on its way north.

 

Up and up we climbed, passing Bellevue at around 5000 feet and following the road to La Herliere. At 7000 feet we turned east toward the distinctive brown scar of the front lines. Then Echo rocks: the signal for “enemy in sight,” then bbob rocks as well. Now I see it: a few dark puffs of Archie to the south and a bit lower than us. Bbob starts edging in that direction, but Echo carries on eastward. All is confusion: an enemy is clearly in sight in the area we are to defend, but the flight lead isn't responding. Was he merely tweaking his course, not rocking his wings? Has he not seen it? I can just make out the object of Archie's attention: a single plane. Bbob eases into a shallow dive in the direction of the enemy and I follow, the single enemy beckoning us onward. Then bbob breaks off and turns back north, where Echo followed us from behind, not seeing it. Perhaps the enemy was too low for us to engage, especially when our orders were to search for recon planes. Regardless, the flight is now spread out, the formation is broken. The ten minutes is spent in confusion, trying to find the wayward members of the flight rather than climbing to heaven to look for enemy recce. The wrong flares are used, planes turn away just when they should be coming together to join up, and I am left disgusted by our unprofessional display.

 

Eventually our merry band of brawlers is back together again, heading for the front at 12,000 feet. The layer of dust above No-Man's-Land was well below us, and on this clear day I could pick out the distant specks of aeroplanes on the other side of the lines. They were above us, and there were more of them than us : five vs three. Echo led us further northeast, across the lines, having apparently decided to hit the enemy before they could make it to our side. Soon I could pick out puffs of enemy archie: some enterprising pilots had already taken the fight to them as well. Halfway across the mud I picked out something with wide, even wings: it had to be the recon. Their formation was heading south to meet us heading north. I looked right and saw a SPAD running south, using his speed to escape the Huns while we charged in. Eyes front again, locked onto the recce, but the shape was wrong. “Those are SPADs!” I exclaimed, frustrated at the lack of a fight but relieved to not fight from an inferior position. Echo rolled right and I hauled around after him as the two formations merged into one big blob flying in the same general direction. I almost ran over Echo while squinting at a SPAD in front of us, then followed him around further east. Two specks on the German side drew my attention, although I took a moment to confirm bbob was a bit north of us. He wasn't heading for the two tot he east, however: he was pointing south at the SPAD I had been looking at. The other machine had turned east, and now I could clearly see the rudder was that of a Pfalz D.XII, not a SPAD. The BMW engine made the new Pfalz faster than our Sopwiths. We would never catch up unless the pilot wanted us to or made a serious error.

 

I glanced around: bbob and I chasing the Pfalz, two machines sitting at my low 9, Echo behind me. The two machines looked hostile, could I set up a bounce? As I maneuver my kite, another machine appears from behind the leading edge of the wing: a Fokker about to go head to head with Echo! I yank my machine around to assist as Echo dips underneath the Hun. This is a pretty long shot, but I fire two short bursts to distract the Fokker and give Echo a better chance. It must have worked, since it flies a circle and I take a longer shot as he crosses my nose again. The Fokker dove hard to escape was was clearly a losing fight against several Sopwiths. Echo followed for a bit, but the Fokker had a head start and he quickly broke off. Losing altitude can be a death sentence in a dogfight.

 

Echo rocked his wings again as I joined up. An Albatros V-strutter was charging him. I was not the focus of attention and took full advantage, spraying the green-tail the whole way into the merge. I saw a sparkle near the red prop hub, then a flash, and before we passed, I saw bright orange flames spewing from his engine. An SE5a screamed past me, and another Camel circled below. Behind me, the trail of black smoke marked the Albatros' dive to oblivion. My eyes picked out another Albatros down there, but with just a short glance I couldn't tell if he was climbing up or was diving down with the doomed Hun. It looked like he was dancing with a white-tailed Camel which marked it as IRFC, so I dove hard for about 2000 feet to catch up.

 

This Albatros also had a green tail, with silver fuselage and splotchy green and purple wings that filled the Aldis gunsight. I thumbed the triggers and the two Vickers chattered away, but it looked like every single tracer ripped into the plywood fuselage and tail rather than the vital engine area or pilot. Still, the Alby flipped upside down and dove away to escape the onslaught. I hauled my kite around, but the enemy skillfully forced me into challenging head-on passes and continuing to drag me down, never letting me settle on his vulnerable 6 o'clock for an easy shot. I broke off at about 6,000 feet, the last I saw was him diving steeply, barely under control. Reports from other pilots later confirmed that the Hun bailed out before his machine smashed into the ground.

 

At this lower altitude, I was well below the rest of my friendly scouts, and I felt very vulnerable as I started to climb again. We were fighting directly over an enemy aerodrome, and they were probably already coming up to meet us. In front of me the uneven wings of an approaching Fokker appeared, but a noise caught my attention. Behind me, a Fokker had already swooped in and was about to open fire. The bright sun stung my eyes, and all I could see was the dark outline of death approaching. Adrenaline surged, my heart thundering like an artillery battery. My Camel bucked wildly as I wrenched the stick over and kicked the rudder bar. It flipped over and fell into a spin as the Fokker flashed past and zoomed up again. Now my pilot instinct kicked in, and I frantically worked to regain control before I fell into the clutches of the still-climbing Huns below.

 

The machine steadied out in a dive and I hauled up, spotting the Fokker as it followed me down, trying to get a shot. His dive carried him beneath me as I rolled over the top and pulled in behind him. His green tail was supplemented with a red nose, a red bar around the fuselage, and a white chevron on the top wing. With me on his tail, the Fokker hauled his kite into a tight vertical turn. The force of the turn smashed me into my seat, but I held on through two full circles before I squeezed off a burst. That must have wounded the pilot, since he immediately nosed down out of the turn and bailed out. No need to waste bullets on someone who is out of the fight when I'm feeling very vulnerable this low down.

 

This victory brought me enough respite to fully take stock of the situation. I was about 6,000 feet up, directly over an enemy aerodrome. A furball of four machines was behind me, so I turned in that direction. Squinting a bit, I could make out a Camel, a Fokker D.VII, another Camel, and another D.VII. Another Camel came down from above on the Fokker I was heading for, forcing it down before breaking off and zooming up. This allowed me to turn and come in on the Fokker in a shallow dive, firing a short burst until it kicked over out of my gunsight. I kept my eyes locked on it as I followed it around, but it continued to spiral out of control past another two or three Fokkers who were still climbing up. One of those just happened to line up in front of me, flying slow and straight as he climbed, a perfect target for an easy shot. I took the time to estimate the lead as I closed, then unleashed hell. Twin streams of .303 bullets smashed into his engine, walking along the fuselage and wing, then back across the engine again. The Fokker flopped over and dove away, but I refused to follow him lower. The last I saw was another Camel chasing after him, but I wasn't willing to stick around for much longer.

 

By now I was at about 4,000 feet, below the clouds and within reach of the Huns coming up from below. Machine guns on the ground could also reach me, and although the odds of them hitting were still low, I'd rather avoid that risk if possible. As I worked my way to the west, I could still see SE5a's and Camels in the area. One white-tailed Sopwith was following the silver outline of an older Pfalz D.III as they circled across my escape route. The Pfalz had the advantage at the moment, so I took a moment to drop down and help my fellow out. The flashes from his machine guns were clearly visible. He was firing at an IRFC Camel while I maneuvered for a shot. I got two short bursts in his direction, but scored no hits as I passed beneath the Pfalz. This was enough to cause him to break off for a moment, and a third Sopwith barreled in, guns blazing. That left the Hun in a bad spot as he tried a shallow dive to escape. I came around and tried to shoot, but broke off when I saw a green flare. Green was the washout signal, so it was time for our flight to turn west and head home.

 

Looking back, there was no sign of the Pfalz any more. I could still see a a few planes dancing above the airfield, tracer bullets indicating the battle was still going on. However, it was time to escape. We were by now down to 2000 feet, and more Huns were arriving. I fired a green flare myself, on the off-chance that other pilots hadn't seen the washout signal. All around me I could make out distant specks heading about their business, not close enough to properly ID the friendly planes from the enemies. Ahead of me, someone zigged and zagged a bit, and soon I caught up with a Sopwith about halfway across the lines. The white tail was clear, then I could see the crimson and white IRFC stripe, followed by the white E on the wing. Echo was on his way home, but a white mist trailing behind indicated that he was leaking petrol. He had been hit during the furious fighting earlier. Less than ten minutes of fighting, but so much had happened. Talking about the fight afterward, I was credited with four more victories. The flaming Albatros was the first, followed by the Albatros that bailed out. Next up was the red nose Fokker that bailed out. Last was the Fokker that fell out of control. I was not credited with the Fokker who line himself up for me, since he was seen to land at the airfield safely. Bbob was credited with downing the final Pfalz. Echo counted 16 holes in his machine, including one that went through the petrol tank right behind his seat. We had just fought a hard fight and done significant damage to the enemy, with very little done to us in return.

 

Many thanks to those who make these possible, both friends and foes. Here is a link to video from both flights.

 

[J2_Seya]

Thanks I enjoyed them. It's fun to read them when you're away from the game.