Diary of Lt S. Williams.

S

Siggi

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14th December 1916.

Well, I arrived finally at my operational squadron, about three weeks after completing my flying training. Just in time for Christmas, mater was so pleased by the timing. She packed all my presents for me, which included a rather spiffing all-leather waterproof flying suit with sheep-skin lining. She had it made up by one of the chappies in Saville Row. Pater gave me a rather fine silk scarf after I'd mentioned one of the instructors telling me it would be indispensable over the front.

I'm up for some orientation flights over the next few days, then I'll be taking over a flight. I'm not sure I'll have enough experience for that, but men are in short supply apparently so I'll have to do.

We have Sopwith Pups, which are supposed to be a doddle after the DH2 on which I trained. They do look nice, very modern and with a much more powerful engine. Still only the one gun though.

Right ho, time to go and make myself known in the mess.
 
28th December 1916.

That was a jolly Christmas. I flew my first mission on the 24th, Christmas eve, and I was so pleased with myself. They'd put me in charge of the 2nd flight and after the 1st flight went astray the navigation was up to me. Three chaps following me and undoubtedly assuming I had half a clue what to do.

Well, I got us there alright, and I shot down the balloon we were tasked to destroy. It rained the whole way, but between my nice new suit and concentrating so hard on the compass I hardly noticed.
I followed a simple reciprocal course to get us home, and damn me if it didn't work! Or so I thought. And that was after chasing a plane for a while, until I realised it was one of the 1st flight, still on his way to the balloon. All with no map I should add.

But then the landing, at the wrong base (at least ten miles short of ours) and I clipped a tree just as I came over the end of the field. What blithering idiot leaves trees at the end of a field? Anyway, the old bus was wrecked and I took a nasty knock to the head which laid me out cold for a while. I'm on light duties until the 7th or so.

Never mind though. I have my first combat hour in the logbook and the plane was the old squadron hack anyway. Now I'll be getting a new one, fresh from the factory. Pip pip!
 
5th January 1917.

Maps! We have some. A jolly fine fellow by the name of Mns Gousgounis rescued an old press from one of the derelict buildings up by the front and ran off some copies of a staff map. We each of us have a full pack, which should make navigation a lot easier.
 
8th January 1917.

Today was a balloon-defence mission. I saw the balloons, two German ones after I led the flight over the front without even knowing it. Blasted maps were useless at the altitude we were forced to fly, due to the dreadful weather. Archie going off all around us, I thought it was our stuff firing at hun kites. After twirling around like tops trying to find them I realised it was their stuff protecting their balloons. I sank as low as I could into my cockpit so my chaps couldn't see me blushing like Rudolph's nose and headed due west lickety split.

We spent the next forty minutes going around in circles while I tried to make sense of the landscape and my maps. What a bloody fiasco. I eventually put down on a field and discovered we were about twenty miles north of Bertangles.

The chaps aren't impressed and words have been said. The major is now deciding whether or not I'm fit to lead the flight anymore, but officers with experience are short. Personally I'm more than happy to wait until a competant replacement can be had, a one-point-twoer as they're called.

Other than that, what else is up? My back is giving me jip and my legs ache fit to bust. Rudder vs wind, it's no treat.

And still haven't seen a hun kite. Probably just as well, I'm still 'wet behind the ears' as I heard one of the mechanics mutter to his pal. Should have put him on a fizzer I suppose, but as he's one of the erks assigned to my kite I thought better of it.

Now I'm going to get jolly well sozzled.
 
Thank you very much. :)

9th January 1917.

The major decided to give me one more chance, much to my annoyance. I thought my biggest fear would be of the hun, but it's the fear of getting lost and flying us all out to sea that's giving me sleepless nights.

But...today wasn't so bad at all. We had another balloon defence mission and this time I got us into the right general area, though I believe we were a good few balloons down the line. We circled them for a good half an hour in driving snow and dreadful visibility. I could hear air-raid sirens constantly but not a sniff of a hun. On the way I'd managed to make sense of the map and tally it with a road and river. We came over Bapaume on the wrong side, but as I'd been pretty hot on the compass I thought the map was probably out. There are a lot of features missing on it. But as we guarded the wrong balloons it must have been me that was out.

The way home was relatively straight forward, but I became a little over-confident and thought I'd take a shortcut east of Amiens and nearly got lost again. I backtracked to the main road and followed it into Amiens and then headed up the north road. The airfield was right where the map said it would be, except it was one about five miles before ours. Never mind, they had excellent kippers and char.

We lost one of the chaps, but one we lost a few days ago turned up alive and well. None the less we've lost about half our strength in just a couple of weeks and we're not seeing replacements yet.

The chaps are saying I'll be sure to see action once the weather clears up. No blighter can see any other blighter in this soup, but that's probably a good thing so far as I'm concerned. All this practice will stand me in good stead, I have over three hours logged now.
 
9th Jan Mission two.

We'd just got our feet toasty-warm when the CO told us we were on again, escorting a pair of Be2s over the lines to bomb an airfield. Blizzard outside, visibility practically nil, I made that bugger-o'clock.

Just over two hours in all and not a hun sighted, but we lost the Be2s and one Pup over the target, Omar Clapp was flying the Pup. I hope he's ok, I was just getting to know him and he seemed like a splendid chap.

The CO is pleased with me though, I actually got us back this time to the correct airfield (ours).

Over five hours total combat time and not a hun to be seen so far. Plenty of action elsewhere though, we lost a lot of Be2s and DH2s today. But plenty of claims for hun kites too. Hope I stand up ok when the time finally comes.
 
10th January 1917.

The squadron transfered to Chipilly today, though I was late. Got in the kite, took off and found my neck seized up suddenly and I couldn't turn my head. Put her straight back down and had the doc check me out. A quick bit of massage and right as rain.

Still snowing so hard one can barely see ones nose, which caused me to miss the huge ding-dong that took place about five miles north of the flight-path. Six Albatrosses were brought down, though a few Pups were lost also. One of our chaps made it back to the field but crashed onto the grass and burned, poor devil. While all this was happening I was turning circles at 9000ft trying to spot some fun of my own.

I'll be glad when this beastly weather clears up so I can spot something.

Chipilly is a nice little place. I didn't like Bertangles, too many fields, people and generally too big. Very impersonal. It's very cosy here, and the woods around haven't been scoured already for firewood. We have a pot-bellied stove and we send the batmen out into the blizzard to collect the wood. Oh how we laugh at their muttered curses! They should complain, miles from the trenches. It's a cushy billet they've got here.
 
11th January 1917.

Another fruitless hour's flying, combat patrol behind our lines. First attempt was aborted after two minutes due to the engine running a bit rough. After the mechanics had taken all morning sorting that out we took off again and I determined to get up nice and high, in the hope I'd have a better chance of spotting the hun against the clouds below. Well, they were there all right, directly below at around 2000ft taking fire from our MGs on the ground, and I never heard or saw a thing. Funny how I can hear those bloody air-raid sirens all the way up there though.

The weather was very peculiar, heavy to light snow, on and off, and at the furthest reach of our patrol we got into a sort of bowl of clouds. It was truly breathtaking. I had no problem spotting my chaps about 3000ft lower (I was at 11000ft), but the hun was invisible.

Plenty of action elsewhere, near Lille and Amienville and a couple of other places. I'm starting to feel like the war is passing me by. And nobody seems to have any idea when this damnable weather will clear off.

Anyway, to vent our frustration we sent the batmen out to collect firewood again, and told them in no uncertain terms that there were to be no more piddling little sticks. Logs by jove, and plenty of them! Alverston took particular umbrage with one of the blighters when he heard him complaining and asked him if he'd rather be up in the trenches going out into no-mans land collecting tags from corpses. I swear I saw the chap's face go grey. I advised Alverston he better take care checking his soup later on. "I say old chap, soup's a bit lumpy tonight, what?!"

Other news, we hear quite a lot about one of their chaps, a Mr Von Richthofen who's quite the ticket apparently. Giving our lot a bloody nose. But we have some top chaps too.
 
12th January 1917.

This morning we flew a patrol behind the enemy's lines. We saw nothing, as usual. The CO has decided we're to stand down on a day-by-day basis so long as the weather remains foul. I'm not at all sorry to hear it, it's an absolute misery going up in that muck.

We're going to Albert tonight, to drink and make merry with the ladies. I think we shall have more luck with them than with the hun.
 
24th January 1917.

After twelve days of unofficial leave the weather finally broke! We woke up to bright blue skies and sunshine, though the sun is still low in the sky and it's bitterly cold. But it's that dry cold and the air smells wonderful. "Go fill your lungs with it!" we said to the batmen as we ordered them to go fetch wood. "Logs by jove, don't you go getting lazy on us again!" Scoundrels.

Well, we set off on a patrol over the lines, fully expecting to find the sky chock full of kites of all types and nationalities, lined up to the horizon and back. But not a bit of it! Nothing! Not a bally pip! We trailed our coats up and down the line and even flew around a couple of their aerodromes. Still nothing! Not a hun, not a one of our own, just us three nearly falling asleep it was so damnably dull. We could see balloons though, absolutely miles away, otherwise I would have suspected a blue mist was obscuring our sight. Or my eyes were wonky. No friendly archie either. Has the hun surrendered and nobody has thought to inform RFC-54?

I'm so miffed I'm contemplating a transfer to the bloody navy. But I get seasick, so I probably won't. I shall go and kick one of the batmen instead, impudent little buggers deserve it anyway.
 
25th January 1917.

All is quiet on the western front. The weather is cold but beautifully clear. Still not seen a hun. Reports from the front-line wallahs suggest he's sneaking around on the deck trying to avoid us chaps. And doing a bloody good job of it too! Well, we're going to see if we can't catch the blighter napping.

Mater sent some cake. It's a bit dry, but delicious none the less. Spotted one of the batmen giving it the eye. Dream on, you grubby little oik! And fetch some wood, lively mind!
 
15th February 1917.

Back from my hols! Fine wine, good food and a lovely room with a splendid view.

The blazes!

Nineteen days ago we were tasked with attacking an enemy aerodrome. So off we went, two flights, and just over the lines at 3000ft at the very moment I was wondering about the use of Archie and I took what must have been a very close or direct hit. From quiet contemplation to sheer terror in less than a second as everything went mad in front of my eyes, then redness and blackness followed by flames and heat and what must have been my own voice screaming with shock. This is it I thought, this is how it feels...

Then the old kite settled down, but pointing vertically earthwards. The flames abated, thankfully before they'd made it through my suit (thankyou mater), but I had no elevators. Speedo showed 70mph and getting no faster, so I can only guess that something was hanging off and arresting my speed. The rudder still worked however, so I used that in desperation to put the length of the wings between me and the ground. KA-BANG! The noise and impact was truly dreadful. And then I was still alive, and unhurt. I don't know how, I really don't. I should have been dead or at least smashed up, but I wasn't. And no fire either. Maybe the tank had emptied on the way down.

As my senses came back to me I became aware of the aweful din of shells exploding and bullets going off all around me and voices shouting. I crawled out of the wreckage and slithered down into a crater, the inward slope of which the kite had come down on. I spent the rest of the day in there and all night too, probably suffering from shock. The next morning the hun got me and took me back from crater to crater into their own trenches. I think they must have been cut off themselves, or somehow unable to take me further back, because they shoved me into a dugout and there I stayed until they became so used to me I was able to slip away a couple of weeks later. I shall save further details for a book I may someday pen.

So here I am, back at Chipilly. The chaps seem a little in awe of me, especially Jack, who saw me hit and go down. He thinks I'm a ghost, I'm sure. I've lost at least a stone in weight, so that might help account for it. The CO wants me to take some leave, but I'm not having any of that nonsense. If I don't get back up right away I fear I may never.
 
15th Feb 1917.
Lt Jack Xavier.
Chipilly.
Flanders.

Sidney asked that one of us should update his diary, for the sake of his family and that they should know what happened to him if he was confirmed to have died. It is my unfortunate duty to be that person.

We flew this morning to mount an air defence against possible German air raids over nearby airfields. The Germans did indeed show up, in some strength, flying two seaters. Sidney, leading our flight of three, spotted them first when they were already quite close and waved us in to attack. We dived at speed on them from the rear and were met by MG fire, largely inaccurate. I saw Sidney coming up very close on one of them and he was hitting it very well, about 500ft off the ground. Then his plane pitched down and he flew straight into the ground. We recovered his body and he had taken a bullet straight through the head. I mention this only so that you reading this will know he didn't suffer at all.

Sidney was a sterling fellow and we will miss him dreadfully. Our best wishes and heartfelt prayers go to you all.

Sincerely

Jack Xavier, Lt, RFC-54.
 
Tragic. Another promising flyer lost to the random chance of war.
 
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