"Dive dive dive" went the call, our CO Oil as always leading the charge.
I pushed the stick forward and dove too. My target was not the hangers on Coy, I was travelling light, my eyes locked on an allied fighter which had seen the oncoming onslaught way too late. As the allied pilot struggled to climb and save his beloved airfield i zoomed in and sat on his right wing. His slow climb speed combined with my dive attack brought him within range very promptly... Blatt blatt the stalling spin spelling certain death for my foe.
By the time I turned around, the airfield was ablaze, our Albatross's, and Dr.1's had performed splendidly, only token allies crept from the few remaining hangers, sadly for them to be squashed like bugs as they attempted to lift off. The radio by now was ablaze with cries and cheers, our target had all but been destroyed. An unknown voice came over "straiff the remaining hangers!", I obliged accordingly and expended all my ammunition. In the process an albertross who had been hoarding bombs suddenly dropped two barely 100 feet away!, I broke right but shrapnel tore through my wings and front fuselage. "Drat" I saw smoke billow from my crate.. she was now injured and I desperately wondered whether I would make Ancvielle.
I left the enemy's base on a NNE heading and linked up with Oil ahead and Gunner tailing me some way off. We departed and as if from nowhere a lone allied fighter appeared, it was above Gunner's plane and bearing down. I went to notify Gunner but I could see by his planes manouver he was aware. What could I do??.. no ammo, and a limp plane!!, I made the only decision I could in such company. I turned and went to Gunners aid... smoke poured from my radiator as the Dr.1 increased closing distance.. Soon I could see the Allied fighters markings... "Drat again" I said to myself as the letters AK appeared, on the tail. This was not going to be a friendly encounter, with such a deadly foe I prayed that Gunner had at least some rounds left in his machines belly. I would ram if I had to but knew the it would more than likely lead to my death.. closing near I saw the word "Avenger" on the allied fighters front cowl cover.. "Drat again!".. I zoomed to engaging range.. Gunner by now had turned to face his foe, then to both our disbelief the fighter began climbing away from us, we were saved!!. I grabbed the radio mic "Gunner lets dive the hell outta here", "For sure, Im glad thats over I have no ammo!", I could hear the relief in Gunners voice and was thankful we were clear.
We flew on for 5 Minutes in silence, my mind in a semi state of shock. When I snapped to I contacted Gunner again "Guess what?" He came back instantly "What?", "You know how you had no ammo?" "yeah", "Well nor did I!". Same as me I knew Gunner would be laughing, not so much from the Bluff we had pulled off but more so from the release of nerves. We had survived. Our Jasta 18 Creed had been put to the ultimate test and remained intact. S! JASTA18
Author: J18_Ozhawk
A low grumble growing in intensity wake your field warden from his unauthorised rest. With eyes half closed from sleep he searches for the source of the sound already causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. Its 5am. He knows there were no nightly patrols. He knows the allied planes dont usually fly at night due to a mistrust of their compasses. He knows whatever the source of the sound, it will not bring cheer but dread !
Finally he sees it. A lone aircraft coming in low from the north at treetop height. He shifts his feet from their resting place and his brain attempts to keep pace as he fights off the drowsiness. "WHY ME" he thinks and he moves as quick as he can in his sleepy state to the air raid siren. He needs to wake the field!
Even as he reaches it and starts to wind the crank releasing it loud ear shattering screaming wail, the aircraft once a spec from afar flys over his head. So close he can see the smile on the goggled pilots face as he looks over the side of his aircraft at the sleepy field below. Your field warden instinctively ducks as he sees a small package leave the enemy pilots hand and begin its descent to the field below. "Ach MEIN GOTT" he whimpers to himself as he attempts to bry himself in the cracks of the posts wooden floorboards. His arms over his head. His hands clenched white in a tight lock offering imagined protection to the fragile surface of the back of his head. He now knows the value of an alert sentry on duty. He now knows the value of a good steel helmet. He now knows the value of a good wound which will send him home to his family away from the madness that is War.
A dull thud and the mystery object lands on the wooden deck beside him a mere foot from his head. Cautiously he prys loose his frightened grip and lifts his head. His relief is expressed by a long gasp of air as he sees that it isnt a bomb, it isnt some new allied secret weapon. Its a note. Written on brown Xmas cake paper and wrapped tightly around a mechanics shifting spanner. He unties the Xmas hamper string from around the note and uncrumples the paper by smoothing it out on his knee. He is fortunate having spent a number of his pre war years at school in England. The ragged scrawl is easily deciphered. It reads.... "We know it was you Jasta ! And you shall know no rest ! Claymore is coming ! And with Claymore, COME THE SC !"
The warden, now old in relation to the youthful pilots which have gathered around him, lifts his eyes to the sky in time to glimpse the allied Spad IX vanishing into the morning twilight to the south. He glances once at the fighters scrambling off the field to begin the chase, knowing their token effort will be in vain. He walks slowly from the group now clamouring around the note, yelling for an interpreter. His feet shuffle on the ground and his body seems to take on an immense wait. He knows it is coming. He can smell their exhaust in the air, he can taste the cordite from their bombs. he can hear the clattering and cries of the dying and wounded before it has begun. "Nein SC ! Nein !!
The warden weary from war and heavy in heart continues to shuffle to his bunk. He needs to weep. And it is better the others do not see him. In time they will all weep. And that as in death. He and his comrades may share in it together.......
Author: SC-Sp00k
This latest offensive, code-named "Claymore," was to be the decisive blow against Hun air power all along the center of the Western Front. With the Centrals destroyed, his aircraft could then support a huge ground offensive which would drive the Allied armies through to Berlin. Unfortunately for all the Allied forces involved, it seemed a junior operations officer, let in on the plan since his squadron would spearhead the attacks, had gone quite mad and had taunted the Central squadrons which would oppose "Claymore" with details of its planning and the time of its execution.
Armed with this knowledge the Centrals had responded quickly, mounting a surprise counter-offensive which had decimated Allied airfields and destroyed hundreds of aircraft. The best "Claymore" had been able to mount had been a few abortive bombing raids on only 2 Central airfields, with the Centrals snapping even at the edges of these like lions making a kill.
Fortunately for England, the junior operations officer who had let the cat out of the bag had been killed in action, avoiding the need to drag his family name through the muck. He and his whole squadron had been casualties of the attack, dead before it had had a chance to draw breath.
The Vice-Marshal thought again of all the airmen and planes that were now smoking heaps of rubble on the Belgian landscape. How now will we win the air war? he asked himself. Having no answer, he could only hang his head and cry.
Author: J.18*Hartmann
The Klaxon screeched and broke through
the chilled early morning air
The Dispersal huts emptied as the
SC's young men ran to their machines. Other men turning their pilots aircraft
into the wind, pulling away chocks and standing by prop blades ready to
bring their machines to life.
Pilots scrambling onto wings and shuffling their bodies into the cramped cockpits of Camels, Nuieports and Spads alike. Deafening roars as motors add to the noise of a Squadron at full scramble. Trails of blue smoke issuing from exhaust ports and splutters of cold engines drowning out the cries of pilots "Contacts!"
Machines and men as one, streaming
down grass fields, Landing gear releasing their tenuous holds on the ground
as the Skeleton Crew lifts from the deck and begin their climb into their
Sky !
Flight Leaders, already penciling
notes on maps strapped to their knees, wingmens heads already swivelling
in search for an enemy in the dangerous skies above.
One of our own in the right Echelon waggling his planes wings from side to side frantically to grab the Flight leaders attention.
An out thrust arm pointing high to our right. A nod from the Flight Leader and The Skeleton Crew arch gracefully upwards to meet the enemy head on....
A Sergeant and a Lieutenant, one the working class, one borne of aristocracy, man a forward observation post in advance of the main fields. Both with eyes turned upwards wincing against the sun at the planes flying high overhead heading west.
"You got that wire off Sergeant?"
The lieutenant asks as he lifts the Bino's once more into the sun.
"Yes Sir" is the reply. "I Believe
the Skeleton Crew have been informed. Imagine their already off the deck
to meet the hun"
"Thank the gods and little fishes then Sergeant. It looks like its gonna be...ONE HELL OF A FIGHT !"
THIS TIME. ITS OUR TURN TO KICK SOME A$$ !!!!
Author: SC-Sp00k
The skies are filled with clouds and there's a heavy over cast which has hidden all Central planes from eye sight of the anxious central lookouts below. All of a sudden a break in cloud cover, and Central planes are spotted, but it too late they are almost over their targets.
Strike Leader voices out "DIVE WHEN FIXED ON YOUR TARGETS!!!"
One by one the Centrals dive on their targets. The Allied planes are sitting there idle, as though in a carpark, waiting for mum to pack them with shopping. A few groggy pilots manage to get their crates airbourne. "FIGHTERS ENGAGE!!!" The unsuspecting allied planes dont see the Central fighters moving in on their 6. Then finaly the first allied plane breaks formation with 2 centrals on him, a fierce dogfight ensues. Allies out numbered 2 to 1 put up a good fight, but still go down. Its all a numbers game. Central fighters regain alt and move on to the next target.
"2 MINUTES OUT". Strike Leader orders all fighters to dive in keep all allied planes down. "MAKE THEM COUNT GENTLEMEN! BOMBERS, DIVE WHEN READY!" One by one Central Fighters dive, searching for their prey. The bombers following closely behind hitting their targets without mercy. Allied fields go up in smoke. Then attempting to come in high on Central bombers and fighters from the north, a flight of Allied planes begin to dive. As they are engaging Strike Leader yells out over the coms "SECOND GROUPS IN NOW!!!" for as the Allied plans were approaching, they were spotted a few minutes before by the second Central attack groups. As the unsuspecting Allied planes dive on their Central counterparts, so the Central's second group of fighters follow. The Allies had no idea what was to come, they were fixed on their targets, in the painful expectation of at last seeing an Allied victory, when, all of a sudden, Central bulletts tore into their dreams and their planes. They had to break ranks to save their own arses first. With the Allies speed and energy expended the Second attack group had an easy beed on the Allied planes 6. The second Fighter group had served its purpose.
Strike Leader says "ALL PLANES CHECK IN, GIVE ME A COUNT ON HOW MANY WE HAVE LOST TONITE."
The Allies didnt expect an offensive to come this early following Claymore. Allied planes did manage to shoot down more Centrals than was hoped by the Strike Leader. As each flight leader checks in and gives the number of planes lost, the Strike leader lowers his head and says a prayer for those pilots lost. Then the Strike Leader gives the order "Return to base, a Job well done men. Salute!".
Shortly after, in the privacy of hiscockpit, he lowers his head again and releases a deep sigh . As they all look back at their targets and se e the destruction that they left behind, they all release a sigh. Nothing more than smoke and rubble remains. A Central fighter from the rear calmly says "man isnt that a beautiful sight." as he looks out over all the planes returning home. The Strike Leader then says "Son.... it's not a beautiful sight. It is merely Great Job done by all."
Author: J18_Myztic
In the darkened room, the only sound present was the occassional scrape of a wooden chair on the floor slats as a restless pilot shifted his wait, a hushed cough and the persistant clicks of the slide projector shifting on frame forward, its flickering light offering the instructor standing to the side of the screen his only glimpse of the men seated in front of him. Now and then the occassional flash of a lit cigarette in the darkness before him announced the presence of another pilot. All intent on the black and white photo recon information displayed before them.
The Squadron Leader shifted his weight onto his good leg and extended his pointer once more to the screen, tapping it against the enemy target, his own cigarette, long since forgotten, its ash and extended line of grey matter extending from his hand like a 6th digit.
"Information recieved from the 34th recon Squadron over St Omer suggest a build up of enemy ground troops all along a 5 mile front behind the line. The Hun have been bringing up Heavy Artillery during the night and it is estimated a further 1/4 of a million men are waiting in reserve to the rear ! This gentleman can lead us to only one conclusion. The encrypted dossiers, labelled DoomsDay which were captured over a fortnight ago are accurate and whats more. The Hun doesnt know we have them. For once. The Brass appear to have moved on the issue. More Allied Squadrons have been moved into the forward areas. Our own lines are being filled with Sengalese, French and Belgium troops even as we speak. Daily our Artillery spotters and theirs have been observed high over the lines. The front is alive gentleman and the Infantry is counting on us to remove the enemy air threat above them. Flight Leaders will assemble their wings as per S.O.P.'s Pilots are to form quickly on wings and communications will be as it has on previous missions. Piorities are the Bombers. They must be stopped at all Costs. We all remember Claymore. This time its going to be different. This time. We have the Pilots and Planes to do the job. This time, its our turn TO KICK SOME A$$ !!"
The projectors shutter winded down.
Its last flicker, revealing and out stretched arm in the darkness at the
rear of the room. A small snapping sound and the light broke the dark veil
and pilots squinted and shuffled, their eyes adjusting to the intrusion
after enduring an hour or more of near total dark.
"Any Questions?" The C.O. asked
as he took the opputunity to survey the faces of the men before him.
As he expected, there were none.
He expected nothing less from the pilots of the Skeleton Crew. As the din
of scraping chairs and pilot chatter rose in the room and pilots began
pulling on jackets over faded blue shirts and moving out of the Briefing
room, the C.O. was confident of one thing.
Come Hell or High Water, the Jasta Crews were in for ...
THE FIGHT OF THEIR LIVES !
Author: SC-Sp00k
AKTimberWolf
"Posted by SL*Thorn:
Personal Journal of Skylord Executive Officer Thorn, Flying Circus detachment - Forward field command, Cambrai station. August 16th, 1917.
Summer. A maddening season! Each night the sulty, warm breezes beckon the pilots of this squadron to wander the countryside in search of gambling, women and drink. The duty officer manages to man daily flights at bare minimums with what pilots he can find to rouse each morning. The more adventurous of our ranks skirt dangerously close to desertion, tempting the wrath of the Kaiser's tribunals. The chill air of Fall will be welcome, the better to keep the men near their stoves and bunks by nightfall.
Morale soars with each sweeping victory, yet begins to ebb before the flames from the accursed Camels die out. Hospital reports our Commander may be released within the week. That day cannot come too soon. Blast her, what was she thinking. Was not JG72 Commander Menckhoff himself downed and captured after flying off alone a few scant weeks ago? Still... Those souless Little Monkeys will have to find themselves yet another Chateau to base their headquarters, should they dare to impugn our honor again. For I will fly a solo bomber myself and flatten it just as she did. Brashness in defense of honor makes fools of the best of us.
Each sunset one of the returning pilots drops a single red rose onto the field before landing to mark her absence.
The upstart Americans continue to harass our the Axis fields in ever increasing numbers. Not two days ago all of our patrols were forced to barricade the front in order to intercept a ceaseless stream of bombers intent on razing our fields. All bases remained operational yet the fires from their munitions lit the horizon until morning. Without doubt there will be more Spads coming. Will we fare as well when next they come hunting for our homes? Cambrai Intelligence informs us this was the work of the upstart Americans, the 94th Aero Squadron. This seemingly endless parade of 94th pilots is supplied by the French with sturdier versions of the Nieuport and Spad. Last April, when the air war was all but over, the arrival of the Yankees was much cause for joking and laughter among the ranks. The Group Leaders deride the 94th to this day, much to the delight and cheers of the men, but they are gravely concerned as the American threat grows more ominous with each passing day. Their leader has painted a large white numeral One on the fuselage of his plane. He has killed four of my men within the span of three weeks and he must not be allowed to remain on the front. With Commander Rose absent, the last thing I need is a legend to be born to strike fear and doubt within our ranks. I have detached Realm, our most fiercest warrior, from his wing. He will hunt alone each day with but one purpose, to see Rickenbacker's plane fall from the sky in flames.
It is the opinion of Cambrai staff officers, when plied with drink, that the Yankee Industrial Revolution will be the death of us all, lest we take too long in capturing the soil between here and the English Channel.
The Operations officer still reports no word from Vockerman's Vultures, last known to based along our southern flank. Bless those men! We warily look west and north whenever aloft, never south, for we know the Vultures will not let a square inch of green canvas escape their clutches without a bullet hole in it.
The men are restless and edgy as they await news of a massive Axis offensive masterminded by the Vultures. Defending the lines is a thankless job, we yearn to fly eastward, deep into Allied territory. Payment in full for these worrisome strikes against our fields. Only the Kaiser knows how many women the pilots have secreted away in the tents at night. A strike against any one of our fields would cause the deaths of innocent civilians. The Arabian Knights are seldom seen of late, we venture south as far Chateau-Thierry in search of their patrols. Those gangsters wield death and sorrow wherever they choose to haunt. I would place the VV on a level with the famed Jagstaffel 11 and its invulnerable wizard Richtofen, but the silence from the south is foreboding and troublesome. The Knights are capable of any treachery.
Tomorrow before dawn, we will send a patrol southward to ascertain the fate of Vockerman's men. I have dispatched a courier to the northwest to locate the headquarters of Jasta 18, asking them to launch a flight to accompany us at dawn. Sagging numbers and missing men plague both our camps, with combined forces we will be able to safely push south as easily as we could last spring. A flight from 56 squadron is rumored to have moved into the area, led by that wily bastard McCudden. We will fly above the clouds and keep a constant vigil. Should he show his face, I have no doubt Draken will kill him in three passes.
End journal entry, August 16th, 1917"
