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From the correspondence archives of the Rhys family...

France, April 1917

Dearest Ma and Da,

Well, here we are, 56 in France at last. Jolly good thing too, I think some of the old hands were growing bored back in Blighty

Diolch yn fawr for the parcel, Cook’s bara brith is a home comfort I definitely will miss out here. I shared it out in the Mess, I think I have some converts to Welsh culture!

Being out here at last has finally broken the ice for the new chaps like me. I spent some time talking to Arthur (Rhys-Davies) and picked up a few more tips. You remember I told you about him in my last letter. Sadly, he is not a relative, sorry Da!

I have to say those tips came in handy yesterday. We were on a routine patrol at eight thousand feet when we spotted a gaggle of Hun up sun at about ten. Well, Albert Ball can say what he likes about our new machines but the SE5 can certainly climb. We had a tremendous scrap, it was like Cardiff on a Friday night! I managed to get on the tail of an Albatross, painted all in black with white stripes on the tail and horrible vomit-coloured wings and put a few rounds into him until he went down – or so I thought. Then some other gaudy clown passed in front of me and I went after him. I think he was an ace though because he shook me off pretty easily, but not before I’d hit him too. Then, lo and behold my original adversary reappeared and started taking pot shots at me. As you can imagine, I wasn’t having any of that and chased him down to tree-top level, letting my guns reprimand him for his cheek. I would have had him too, if my engine hadn’t cut out and forced me to land. The ground was a little rough and I’m afraid I broke my machine. I walked away without a scratch though, so don’t worry. The sad part is that, after nearly downing my first Hun on my first day I end up putting up a bit of a black instead.

Never mind. Plenty of time yet, and I’ll remember that black Hun, he and I have some unfinished business.



Your loving Son,

[FONT=&quot]Llew

[Yes, it's arrived at last. Installed without a hitch. Loaded up, stunning graphics and no framerate issues at all. Immense kudos to the OFF developers, this is fantastic!]
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France, April 1917

 Dearest Ma and Da,

 Just a short note to let you know I’m still okay, I know Ma worries if you don’t hear from we ‘boys’.

I was hoping to be able to tell you that I’ve been over to 12 Squadron’s base to see Geraint , but I’m afraid it has proved more difficult than I thought. I really haven’t been able to get away, well, not on a 'jaunt’ anyway and it’s a bit far to take the tender. We’re supporting the battle on the ground, which is going well as you will have read – aren’t the Canadians splendid? But it means we’re flying every minute that the damn weather allows, excuse my language.

Diw! The weather! It’s truly foul. It’s past the middle of April and I think we’ve been grounded nigh half our time here in all. In fact, it’s snowing again as I write this letter and the ‘field is still slushy from yesterday’s thaw. Heaven only knows what those poor chaps in the infantry are going through, I hope they have webbed feet! When people say that Wales is wet… tell them they should try the Somme! Hopefully it will improve as we move closer to the summer otherwise I think the offensive will literally bog down.

 When we have been able to get up, things have been going quite well although I still haven’t broken my duck… fortunately I haven’t broken any more machines either! Actually, the whole squadron’s bag has only increased by a brace or so, which, after our early success, is a little frustrating for all of us. Especially so, because other squadrons are seeing plenty of the enemy, more than they would like in some cases. The ‘powers that be’ are tasking 56 with balloon-guarding duty and for some reason the Hun just doesn’t seem interested in our balloons… or maybe we’ve scared them off! Still, at least it is flying, not squelching around in freezing mud.

 For a bit of variety, we did have a bombing mission to a rail yard a few days ago (the SE5 is a scout but it can carry four 20lb bombs) and it turns out I’m rather good at bombing - I fanned two wagons and a machine gun position… three hits out of four. I’m not going to tell Geraint though. When he came to talk to us at school last year he said that it was the bomber and reccy boys that did all the hard work, if he learns I have a talent for it he’ll probably speak to my CO and I’ll end up in a BE2, Diw forbid!

I like my SE5, thank you very much!



 Love to you both,

 [FONT=&quot]Llew.[/FONT]
 
France, April 1917

Dearest Ma and Da,

What NEWS! I’m on the scoreboard!

What is it they say about ‘famous last words’? The very day after I sent my last letter I shot down my first Hun and then two days later, before I’d even started writing this one, I downed two more… and they’ve been confirmed, so I now officially have three!

The first one was decorated like a giant humbug, black and white vertical stripes. He didn't fly like a humbug though. I practically shot every bullet I had at him before he went down. The Hun was dodging and weaving, up and down, left and right. It was like playing pin the tail on the donkey from a merry-go-round at double speed! I lost sight of him a couple of times but by frantically looking this way and that managed to spot him again before he could turn the tables. We were very low over the trees and I’d almost given up for fear of crashing when my final burst must have hit his fuel tank because he exploded. His upper wing flew off and missed me by inches! I had to circle a bit then, to gain some height and, to tell the truth, I was shaking too much to fly straight and level! Once I’d calmed down, though, I was singing at the top of my voice the whole way back to the ‘field. My neck ached like billy-oh that night, mind... and I confess, my head matched it the next morning. Sorry, I know Da won't approve because of Chapel, but the squadron insisted on celebrating...

The second and third were much more straightforward. A brace of black-tailed Albatri. I dived on the first ofthem, opening fire as I closed in. I think I must have hit something vital because he just swerved off slowly to one side. I zoomed up, rolled over and down onto his tail, put another long burst into him and he dropped like a stone. Jem Spillsby, who was my wingman, had already downed one but had run out of ammunition after winging a second, which turned east trailing smoke. I thought we’d best go home with a clean slate so I finished him off. Only took a short burst, Jem must have hit him pretty hard. I suggested to Jem that he claim for it but he gave it to me... he already has seven!

Anyway, I thought you’d like a souvenir so I had the Adjutant, who is a keen photographer, take the enclosed snapshot of the log book. I wanted to rip the page out but Adj. says it’s been done too many times before and he’s tired of repairing torn edges!

So my duck is well and truly broken. It took the whole month, but now I’m three up on Jerry. And, the weather has improved so we’ll see what May brings.



Your loving Son,
Llew.
 
Great stories! Keep em coming :applause:.
I just lost my 9 kill Ace from RFC-56 by the way :crybaby:.... Flak hit him and he landed behind enemy lines. Captured for the rest of the war :banghead:
 
England, May 1917

Dearest Ma and Da,

It was good to be home for a bit. Sorry to have been a burden though, with the legs etc. I think they’ll let me return to the squadron soon, I’m mostly healed up though the nerves are still a bit shaky perhaps... if I’m honest. Probably why they haven't let me back quite yet.

My doctor tells me I should ‘get it off my chest’ about what happened. Says it’ll be ‘therapeutic’ (glad of the interminable Greek lessons so that I could spell that!). He seems like a sensible chap, so.

There’s not much to tell really though, it was all over so quickly. Basically we had a visit, from Jasta 2 as later transpired. We were off-duty, clear blue skies, no mission, all of us just relaxing about on the ‘field. In fact, Jem and I were just about to finish off Tepes and Craig on the last rubber at bridge with a five no trumps bid when our archie (that’s anti-aircraft guns) opened up. Naturally we all looked up and there were a dozen or so black specks rushing down. Well, we all ran to our machines and most of us managed to take off but it was too late, the bloody Hun was all over us. I didn’t even get a shot off before some Hun ripped my starboard wing to shreds. An SE5, great machine that it is, can’t fly on one wing and I crashed. Simple really. Diw though, but it hurt! Give me a thousand scrums against the toughest XVs, but never that ag....

Well, they’ve just told me I’m going back. It's nearly the end of May, so it'll be June before I'm 100% and in France and flying again. So be it. I wish I knew which ******* it was that shot me down. I suppose I’ll have to shoot them all. One thing is certain though, I’m never going to relax again, Jerry won’t catch me napping a second time.


Love,
Llew.
 
France, May 1917

Dearest Ma and Da,

Have you heard? Albert Ball is dead. Why did you not tell me, or show me the newspapers?

I wish I hadn't come back now, to hear such news! I wish I'd spoken to him more, but he wasn't the confiding type.

I'll not miss the violin though.

Diw! To think He's gone West!

Will write again soon, hopefully in happier times.

Love to you both,

Llew
 
France, June 1917

Dearest Ma and Da,

First off, I owe you an apology for the tone of my last letter and I’m sorry I haven’t written since. It was just such a shock to be back here and find that in my absence several of the old hands had gone West, not just Albert Ball. I also think I was still in shock from the smash I had. At least, that is what the doc here suspects. He wasn’t going sign me fit for duty until I’d had a week to settle in but I insisted. Also, Geraint flew over from Avesnes and talking to him did me a power of good. He offered to try to get me a posting to a squadron in his sector, where it’s pretty quiet, but I really don’t want to leave No. 56. Besides, I’m fine now. Thanks for being understanding.

Now, you won’t believe what happened the first time I was back in the cockpit. We were about to set off on a routine patrol over our own side of the lines, and were on the 'field running up our engines when our archie starts up again… ANOTHER BLOODY RAID! Diw! Talk about déja vu! I don’t mind telling you, I was in a bit of a funk just then. Nothing to do though but grit the teeth, gird the loins and go up and face the *******s. Fortunately for me, they swooped on ‘A’ Flight first, allowing Jem, Ollie Tepes, ‘Drew Palmer and I to get up safely. Then we laid into them good and proper. I kept a couple busy and drove them off while Ollie and Jem bagged a Hun each… so that was two down. Then I set my sights on a third, another bloody humbug as it happens, don’t know why the Hun has such a penchant for black and white stripes. Anyway, this chap was pretty good… turning into me every time I tried to get on his tail or slipping out of my sights at the last minute. I was so close at times that I could clearly see the fellow’s face - young, blond, I think and probably quite good looking without his helmet and goggles. Do you remember Huw Roberts-Pritchard in Geraint’s year at school? Well, a lot like him but possibly taller. So, it seemed as if we carried on like that for hours but it was only about ten minutes. Eventually Ollie, who was by then guarding my tail, managed to put a few shots across the chap’s nose as well and the fellow panicked and turned the wrong way, straight in front of my guns. I was fed up with the whole merry-go-round by then so I fired everything I had left into the Hun’s machine whereupon it burst into flames and smashed into a cornfield next to our base. Then Ollie shot down another by which time ourselves and ‘A’ flight had downed or driven off the lot. We certainly had our revenge for the last match, seven of them down for only two of us.

I went over to my Hun after we landed, thinking I’d grab a trophy, but there wasn’t much left either of the machine or the pilot, poor fellow, and I changed my mind. One forgets, in the heat of battle, that one is fighting men, not machines. This chap was probably only a little older than me and there he was, dead and burnt. Bad show that. One shouldn’t lose one’s compassion, even as bloody and evil as this war has become. In future I’ll try to avoid ‘flamers’ if I can, but I’m no Lanoe Hawker and it’s still my duty to bring them down.

Bagged another two days after in a messy scrap high over the trenches. It felt like every bloody Hun in France was trying to get on my tail and I’d become separated from the rest of my flight! So it was a case of snap shots when I could, and diving west as often as I had the chance. But then I managed to put half a magazine into one fellow’s wing and dove down after him… he failed to pull out of his dive and I used the extra speed to leg it for home. if the chaps in the mud can confirm that one I’ll be an ace. How about that?



Love,
Llew.
 
France, June 1917

Dearest Ma and Da,

Diolch yn fawr for your last letter. The cutting from the Ceiriog Valley Chronicle made me smile, though ‘twas a bit premature – explain later. And please thank Aunt Angharad for the lotion. It seems to help a bit with the eczema, although the doc here says it’s down to sweaty hands in fur-lined gloves... and maybe stress. Stress, ha, ha! Nothing I can do about that!

Well, it’s official. I’m now an ace. The confirmations came in a couple of days ago. Also it seems they’ve awarded me the Distinguished Flying Cross! Told you the newspaper was a bit premature! Still, at least it’s true about the ace bit now.

The squadron celebrated, naturally. I was even more blotto than usual that evening. I sometimes wonder if I’ve forgotten what it’s like to fly sober... but the alcohol certainly helps with the cold upstairs, so Da’s objections notwithstanding, I shan’t stop drinking.

Do you want to know the nicest thing about becoming an ace and the medal and all? My chief rigger, Flight Sergeant Phillips (old chap, been in the Corps forever, really knows his job) never used to pay me much respect. Stems from my first day when he reported my kite to be ‘perfectly rigged’ and I blurted ‘She’ll sing beautifully in a dive, then’ or some other crass ‘be kind to the plebs’ remark, to which he replied (I’ll never forget it) ‘Son, if she’s rigged properly, she don’t sing’. Anyway, today he saluted me properly and called me ‘Sir’ and he meant it. Then he said ‘Congratulations, Sir. You make our work worthwhile.’ I could’ve hugged the man. I’ve written off three of Phillips’ ‘brown butterflies’ so his praise means a lot. In fact, all my crew are bloody good chaps.

To be honest with you though, I feel like throwing in the towel. I’ll settle for a final score of five if it means I never see another HA ever again. It’s madness here. We go traipsing over the lines in two sections of four or less generally, but the bloody Hun is usually flying in squadron strength or better. And they’re always higher. Self-preservation has become the order of the day. The other day I had six Huns after me, Albatros DVs, new type, faster than the old DIII. I was all alone, not much sky beneath me and no wingmen. I knew I was in trouble so once I’d taken a few hits in the wings, I just plonked the crate on the ground and prayed they’d leave me be. And people called April ‘Bloody’. Diw!

Don’t want you to worry overmuch though mind, especially you, MA! I don’t take risks. Discretion really is the better part of valour. I’ve learned to take care of myself and besides, Jem, Ollie and Drew watch out for me.




Your loving son,
Llew
 
France, June 1917

Dearest Ma and Da,

End of June. Three months out here and we’re back to where we started. FOUL BLOODY WEATHER! The rain is coming down in buckets. This is low country and it’s becoming pretty soggy. Good job the SE is such a stable machine. I’d hate to try to get a Camel off of the ground like this. If this keeps up the next ‘big push’ will be breaststroke!

Sorry it’s been a while, was in hospital again. Nothing too serious, just a bit of a smash, but the legs aren’t what they were after the last one. I suppose I can kiss goodbye to a place on the Old Boys’ XV. Now the doc has me grounded, says my ‘nerves need a rest’. He’s wrong. My ‘nerves’ need to be on the tail of a certain black Hun from Jasta 30! But Doc has the CO’s ear so here I am languishing in the wet whilst the chaps go swimming in the sky.

Damn it! Sorry. I know why the doc thinks I’m on the twitch. It’s because the last smash was yet another raid on the airfield. Hun caught us napping - again, ha, last sunny day we had if I recall correctly. They picked on ’B’ Flight this time, so we had a hard time of it. We managed to get up, though, and Ollie fastened onto the tail of one of the *******s. Then a strangely decorated Hun dropped in from above, one I’ve seen before, chased me home first week of June, black fuselage, shooting star or something similar down the side in red. Anyway, this chap latches onto Ollie and won’t let go. Ollie’s manoeuvring madly, I’m taking potshots at ‘shooting star’ to try to distract him and forget to check my tail. Bang! Engine out, can’t quite level her out, smack down on the wing, shooting pain up the leg, can’t walk for a week!. Scuttlebutt says they’re Jasta 30, half a dozen aces in the squadron. Bunch of show-offs I say. According to Drew, the fellow who shot me down had his initials (probably) painted large on the fuselage. I think we’re going to have to give them a taste of their own. Ollie, Drew and Jem are okay, by the way, although Ollie landed without an airscew. They send regards.



Will write again soon,
Llew.
 
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