25 April 1917
No. 15 RFC Field Hospital, Somewhere in Flanders
"Aufwiedersehen ins Massengrab
Wir sehen uns wieder ins Massengrab"
The Jerry PW in charge of the burial detail here was singing that yesterday as he made his rounds. His English and my German are good enough for me to understand that he'd been all through Verdun last year, where he learned the song. He did some instruction back in Hunland, was posted to Flanders, and was captured on the 1st day of our current "push". I envy him. Not a mark on him, although he's nearly deaf, coughs a lot from gas, and talks to invisible entities all the time. I've got the same afflictions, but am also missing the ends of my last 3 left fingers. Plus, unlike him, I don't yet know if I'll make it through this war...
At least I'm still somewhere IN Flanders instead of somewhere under it. The MO's say I'll be fit for duty in a few more days and I hear 20 Squadron's moved while I've been under repair. I'm none too anxious to return--chaps are calling this month "Bloody April", and it's been bloody enough for me already, with still some days left in it. But the clean upper air, with all its terrors, is preferrable to the stench of gangrene and excrement here. I still feel the guns rumbling in the air, and the occasional wisp of gas drifts by, bringing the charnal reek of the trenches. Besides, that Welsh tart of a nurse is starting to take our relationship too seriously. Best I was up and doing. I've no doubt left her some crabs to remember me by...
My last entries being all about said Welsh tart, I suppose I'd best record why it is I'm laid up now. It was the 15th inst. that we set out to raid the Hun aerodrome at Coolkerke with 8 Fees. We never came close to it, however, because we were bounced from high above by at least an equal number of Albatri about 5 miles this side of the front. A tremendous dogfight ensued that quickly spiraled down to near the ground.
A Hun was on our tail and put a few holes in the old crate but I twisted hard and he overshot me. I got on his tail and my observer, Sgt. Stackrock, got him with a couple of good bursts. He was obviously hurt and tried half-heartedly to weave around to throw me off, but the old Fee wins that game and Stackrock got him a couple more times. The Albatros burst into flames and crashed immediately, we being only about 200 feet up at the time.
Immediately another Hun got on my tail and more holes appeared, but Stackrock jumped to the rear gun and made him break away. Then I saw another Hun on the tail of Major Dillingham, so closed in on him. As Stackrock was beginning to hit him, suddenly my hand got knocked off the throttle by the bullet that took off the ends of my left fingers. Other bullets apparently took off something important from our old Fee, too, because she started tumbling and there was nothing I could do about it.
So down we went, and it looked like our number was up, but we landed in the top of a tree. And there we remained, upside down and soaked in leaking petrol, twenty feet off the ground, until the PBIs scrounged up a ladder about an hour later. I've been here ever since, with some broken ribs to go with my maimed hand. Good thing I don't play the guitar. Stackrock came through without a scratch, though, and was back on ops the next day.
Stackrock managed to smuggle me some gin, which as I've related elsewhere improved various relationships hereabouts. He also told me the honors were even in our scrap: 3 planes down on each side. Captain Chapman and his observer were killed, as were all the Huns, but our other plane force-landed without casualties. Apparently the Huns were from Jasta 2, one of their crack outfits. I suppose they'll give us old Fees a bit more respect now.
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