Reconnaissance Escort

Sometimes a day filled with very complex and involved actions must be boiled down to only a few brief statements in a diary. To be limited to reading only what is scribbled in a diary at the end of the day is to miss out on a huge amount of information. To illustrate this point I present the following with the diary entry FIRST, followed by the narrative first person account from which it was derived.

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DIARY ENTRY - March 18th 1918, [Monday]

Flying from Chalons. Dawn escort of French recce Caudrons from Grand Pre to Rheims. Caudrons limited in altitude. They cannot fly above 6,000 ft. so archy is a problem. Attacked by German fliers. Captain Hunter’s machine struck by dud archy shell, but he made it back safely. Germans planning some sort of offensive. Informed we will be moving to Epiez soon. I made my first kill.

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTION - March 18th.

A French poilu awakened us early and we ate a quick meal in the mess tent before making our way to the waiting line of aircraft and donning our flying kit. It was cold and damp, and while I was anxious to confront the Boche, I was not anxious to experience the intense and bitter cold which was the mark of higher altitudes.

Our morning flight was to escort photographic reconnaissance machines which would cover the area behind the Boche lines from Neufchatel on the northwest of Rheims to the vicinity of Grand Pre. The 94th contingent would be escorting recce machines which would photograph Boche activity from Grand Pre to the Argonne Forest and Verdun. Our recce charges were flying from the vicinity of Epernay, and we were to rendezvous with them at sun rise, continue northwest to Neufchatel, and then turn east. With the rising sun low on the eastern horizon, even those objects on the ground which might be difficult to see at other times of day could be expected to cast particularly long and conspicuous shadows.

I have obtained a map of the region, trimmed off the excess bits, and drawn in the approximate location of the front lines as they stand at this date, and the sector of responsibility which we have been assigned. It extends from Verdun at the east end of the line to just north of Rheims on the west. This map was printed in America, and some of the names are spelt a bit differently than here in France. I note that the French spelling of “Rheims” has been printed on the American map as “Reims”.

By flying toward the rising sun, from which we might expect seasoned Boche fliers to appear, we would be facing toward potential antagonists rather than offering them an opportunity to find our backs due to our inattention. We have all been issued a small square of smoked glass in a leather pouch, to be fastened at the center of the chest on our flying coats, which we have been directed to utilize when looking toward the sun. This will permit us to discern enemy machines which might otherwise be masked by the blinding light of the sun.

It was still dark when we took off, and it was necessary for the Spotlight Company crews to direct their spotlights onto the field in order for us to get off the ground without colliding with one another. Once we had cleared the tree tops and the lights below us had been extinguished, we took up our formation and began climbing for altitude. It took several minutes for us to climb sufficiently to clear the clouds and find clearer air. The stars were fading to the east, but were still clearly visible above our heads and ahead in the west.

Although the eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten with pre-dawn, it was still insufficient to allow anything but a general perception of the horizon and dark silhouettes of the other machines around me. I set my eyes upon the glowing exhausts showing around the cowling of Captain Hunter’s machine ahead of mine as a point to follow in the dim predawn light. Within what seemed like mere minutes the sky had lightened significantly, and the eastern horizon behind us had begun to take on a dim golden tone. The air was frigid and the little triangular windscreen at the forward edge of the cockpit did little to reduce the sting of the freezing air in my nostrils. The sharp odor of castor oil from my engine added a pungent smell to the experience which I cannot wholly describe, but which was altogether wonderfully invigorating and which, at the same time, filled me with a combined sense of dread, adventure, and expectation.

We made our appointed rendezvous with two French Caudron R.11 machines over Epernay just as the first golden glow of sunrise illuminated our wings. The ground far below still lay swathed in broken clouds and darkness. The Caudrons are truly monsters compared to our tiny N28s. Powered by twin engines, they carry two observers as well as the pilot, are 34 feet from nose to tail, and have a wing span of 54 feet. Two of our N28 chasse machines, placed nose to tail, would fit easily across the span of those huge wings. The pilot has one fixed forward- firing machine gun at his command, while each of the two observers has in his charge a dual mounted machine gun. The forward observer has the ability to direct his fire through the entire arc of the sky, as well as the capability to fire vertically downward over the sides or front of his office. The rear observer sits behind the pilot in a more conventional accommodation, with yet another dual machine gun. He, too, may direct his fire downward over the sides of his office, as well as in a full circle above the machine. There is an upward curve in the rail of the gun mounting at the rear of his office which prevents him from shooting into the tail of his own machine.

Unlike most observation machines and bi-place bombers which can fly higher than chasse machines, these large Caudrons have a limited ceiling and can fly no higher than about 5,500 feet. It is for this reason that we are to provide an escort during their survey of the front lines. As we fell into formation around the Caudrons I could see the observers in both machines working to ensure their cameras were in proper working order; each resting his camera on the edge of his office at a steep angle, sighting through the viewfinder, and adjusting the lens to ensure a proper focus.

We passed over Rheims which was still partially obscured by thin clouds, and leveled off at just a bit higher than 5,000 feet. The eastern sides of the clouds were laced with gold light, and the tallest structures in the city below were likewise traced in gold. The clouds thinned significantly the further north we flew, and I anticipated that by the time we turned to head east the heat of the sun would reduce them further.

We crossed the lines, heading toward Neufchatel, just as sunlight began to wash across the fields below us, casting long shadows to the west. No Boche machines in sight yet, but the German archy was active, shooting off great motes of black popping corn in the skies around us. Although they seem able to do a credible job of shooting at targets which are coming straight at them or moving straight away from them, they are dreadfully inaccurate when shooting from the side as they do not seem to have the knack of leading their target. Still the bouncing and jostling their explosions gave us made me a bit apprehensive.

We reached the southern outskirts of Neufchatel and turned east, facing into the rising sun. I made frequent use of the small bit of smoked glass as it eased the strain of looking into the bright sunlight. The Caudrons settled upon their new easterly course and the observers in both machines went to work with their cameras. Below us the Boche scurried about in response to our presence, occasionally managing to turn an archy battery in our direction, but more often turning their rifles and machine guns in our direction. Of course those actions had no effect upon us at our altitude, and our photographers continued on about their task. The area behind the lines was thick with trucks and masses of troops, and there could be absolutely no doubt that they were preparing to mount a massive effort; the French had got the right of it after all, and the two observers in each of the Caudrons were busy capturing it all on film for detailed study.

Suddenly Captain Hunter’s machine began wing wagging, and I spun my head right and left in an attempt to discover what had alarmed him. His N28 pitched up a bit in just the sort of manner which a man might raise his chin as a way of directing someone’s attention to an object up a hillside. I snatched the smoked glass pane from the leather pouch tied across my chest, dropped the nose of my machine slightly, and leaned back in my seat to look across the top of the wing. Perhaps 3 miles distant were 5 machines bearing straight for us. They were too distant to determine precisely what sort of aeroplanes they were, but there was absolutely no mistaking their intentions. They were bent upon denying us the intelligence resident within those photographic images.

By previous agreement two of us had been designated to stay close to the Caudrons while the other four would move to engage attackers. The luck of the draw had placed Chubb and myself with the Caudrons. Thus it was that Captain Hunter and the others poured on the sauce and surged forward to meet the approaching Boche, while Chubb and I did nothing more than move slightly forward of our respective Caudrons that we might better intercept any Hun that managed to get past our fellows and attempt to despoil the photographers.

Ahead of us the two groups of machines closed ranks and commenced firing, with Captain Hunter’s Nieuport a good distance in the lead of the other three men of the squadron. They raced past each other as jousters were wont to do, shield to shield, flashing tracer bullets standing in the stead of lances. Then every machine, friend and foe alike, suddenly swooped upward in great sweeping arcs. As they swept upward we could now see that they were Albatros “V strutter” machines; these were some of the best machines the Boche had in the air. At the top of their climb, each pilot threw his machine over onto wing end, kicked his rudder round to reverse his direction, and began a downward swoop back toward his opponents, gun blazing away.

Once the initial swooping and renversement had been accomplished, the various machines of both groups had lost a great deal of their momentum and the fight settled down to a tangled cluster of machines engaged in tight banking turns, both right and left, each trying desperately to get inside the turn radius of his opponent and bring his gun to bear. The noise of my engine quite drowned out the sounds which might have otherwise reached my ears, and it was as if I watched a moving picture show, lacking only dramatic piano music to complete the scene. Save, of course, that this moving picture show was in full color, not black and white, and filled with deadly earnest.

The tangled mass of turning machines drifted to the north, and though we chafed at the necessity to stay with the Caudrons and desired greatly to join our fellows, we continued to escort them as we had been directed. Archy began blasting upward around us again as the Boche gunners decided that we were sufficiently distant from their flying compatriots to ensure that they would not hit one of their own machines. Great black puffs of acrid smoke accompanied the buffeting of the archy detonations and it was immediately apparent that some of the shrapnel from the exploding shells had struck both of the big ships.

Rents appeared in the canvas along the body and wings of both the machines, and our Caudron pilots decided they had collected sufficient photographs to satisfy the higher command. A quick wag of a small red flag by one pilot was sufficient to signal his intentions to the other, and both ships leaned over in unison upon their right wings, turned south for home, and poured on the sauce. The observers in both machines tucked away their precious cargo and stood to their guns, directing the double barrels of their machine guns downward over the sides of their machines at the scurrying antagonists below. Whether or not their efforts made any significant impact upon the Boche was impossible to determine, but unlike the bullets fired upward from below which must surely fall short of reaching the Caudrons at their mile high altitude, gravity ensured that all of the bullets which they fired downward reached the enemy.

Chubb and I followed them as far as the German lines, and then with a wave and salute, both were gone over friendlier territory while we turned sharply to race back to our fellows. Again the Boche archy popped around our machines, buffeting us in our passage over their lines, and faded as we continued to the northwest where we had left our compatriots. Ahead of us there were twisting streaks of smoke in the sky; tell tale evidence that at least one machine had been damaged, though the smoke itself failed to reveal the nationality of its origin.

As we closed with the still turning ball of combatants we discovered that one Boche was gone, apparently down, and another was trailing thick, dark smoke from his engine cowling, though no flame yet showed. The Hun was rocking his injured machine alternately right and left as he dove for safety in a desperate effort to avoid being struck by the bullets of his pursuer. They both passed below us as we climbed toward the circling machines. Ahead of us three Boche machines raced round opposite our three compatriots, each spitting out a stream of tracers whenever the opportunity momentarily presented itself. Chubb pulled off to the left and ducked in close behind one of the Boche, his machine gun muzzle spewing flames. I pulled up and a bit to the right and tucked into the tangle near Captain Hunter, his machine easily discerned by the snapping red pennons attached to his struts. Our guns blazed in unison as the Boche did his best to avoid both of us at the same time.

In the center of the turning mass a black ball of smoke erupted; the German archy crews had apparently decided to disregard the danger to their own machines and do all within their power to prevent our being victorious in the match. Several more black puffs erupted, and my bus was buffeted violently by the concussions. We continued to turn after the Boche machine, firing in short bursts, when the nose of Captain Hunter’s machine suddenly gave a great bounce upward, and instantly rocked onto its wing to pull away from the fight. I dared not surrender the superior position in which I found myself, and had to trust that others would render assistance to the Captain whilst I pursued my target. I dropped the nose of my bus and then pressed hard on the rudder pedal. Although I had lost a small amount of altitude, the maneuver was sufficient to turn my machine more tightly than my opponent. As I pulled back on the stick I found his machine sliding directly across the pins of my gun sight. I blazed away and was gratified to see my tracers race along the side of his machine, stitching across the upper edge of his office. He slumped visibly, and the nose of his machine drooped downward. It rolled slowly onto its right wing, then continued over until it was completed inverted and plunged downward.

I had my first kill and I was completely elated. The fight was still on, however, and I did not have the luxury of following the Boche machine downward. I pulled the nose of my little bus upward to climb toward the nearest Hun, and at that moment the remaining two machines flipped over, spinning round deftly upon their tails, and dove for the safety of the ground. I searched around quickly and spotted Captain Hunter’s machine angling toward friendly territory with two other 95th machines as escort. Just then Chubb’s machine dropped into formation on my left. Within a heartbeat the other remaining 95th member pulled up on my right wing. I gave him a wave and he responded by pulling up his goggles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and grinning broadly. Though the lower half of his face was darkly streaked with castor oil and soot, I recognized the smiling countenance of 1st Lieutenant Eric Dandridge. He gestured over the edge of his office with a jerk of his thumb, then pulled his goggles back onto his face and banked sharply away. I turned to look at Chubb and mimicked Dandridge’s thumb gesture. He answered with a nod and we turned in unison to follow Dandridge, heading for the south and safety.

The flight home included a few harrowing moments above the lines as the Boche archy made one last attempt to despoil our machines. Once we had gotten beyond the range of their guns we dropped lower, watching for the Marne River which would then lead us to our field on the outskirts of Chalons. The glitter of reflected sunlight below us soon marked the twisting path of the Marne, and we followed it easily enough to our destination.

Upon landing we found the other three members of our Flight had preceded us to safety. Upon investigation it turned out that a dud archy shell had struck Captain Hunter’s machine, ripping upward entirely through his bus without exploding, and passing through just forward and a bit to the right of his seat. It was only sheer luck which had prevented the projectile from smashing into the underside of his engine or severing the control wires which ran from his control stick and pedals. As it was the shell had severely damaged the anchor point for his lower wing and it was only due to his incredible flying skills that he had managed to bring the little bus safely home.
Captain Hunter’s mechanics set to work on his machine while we went to the communications tent to contact the French at Epernay. We were delighted to learn that both Caudrons had returned safely to their lines, and that the photographs which had been taken were even now being processed. The Captain quizzed each of us briefly on what we had seen below us at the various stages of our passage over Boche territory, and then left us to complete a report for HQ. His trademark insistence on re-enacting the encounter by walking through our actions on the ground was overridden by the urgent nature of the intelligence we had gathered and his need to pass it along to higher command.

We retreated to the mess tent to discuss the encounter and relieve a bit of the stress we had accumulated on the morning’s outing. Captain Hunter had shot down the Boche machine which Chubb and I realized had gone missing when we returned to the fight. Lieutenant Jerry Falkenhan had shot up the machine that left the fight trailing a line of black smoke, and he had followed it down, peppering it with short bursts from his gun until the archy recommenced. Though he had been forced to break off his pursuit and climb quickly, he had kept his eye upon the falling Boche and was pleased to report that the machine had crashed very nicely into matchwood and splinters. We congratulated him on his triumph, thumping his back soundly with comradely blows.

I, too, was congratulated on my first kill; both Chubb and Dandridge had seen the Albatros smash into the ground. We still had to await confirmation from independent ground observers, but whether or not we were officially credited with the victories did not seem important at that moment. Captain Hunter joined us at about that time, telling us to pack our kit and prepare to move once more. Once the officials at higher headquarters had received his report they did not wait for further information from the French photographers. The Boche were planning a major offensive and our makeshift aerodrome was far too close to the lines for their liking. With only some 18 miles separating us from the front lines, they determined that when the Boche began to move, our position might very quickly come under artillery fire, or worse. We were told that the entire collected 94th and 95th Squadrons were to be relocated to Epiez, some 30 miles behind the lines. The Boche would be on the offensive in a short time, and our efforts would most certainly be needed.We returned to our makeshift billets and began packing our kit. We’d only been here a day and a night and we were moving again. Little did it matter to me at that moment, however. We had struck the Boche a telling blow and left him worse for the encounter. They had lost three of their pilots and three of their machines, and there was absolutely no chance that the survivors would misidentify the nationality of the machines which had struck them down. The Americans were here, and they could fly. The 95th had drawn blood!

War at Ground Level

The set-piece, static, trench warfare of WWI presented a scenario not seen in previous wars. The war on the ground was often more a war against the elements of nature than it was a war against enemy soldiers. The fight against the enemy was a daily affair for those at the front lines, but for all those who were further back, the daily war was one of survival in the face of the harshest living conditions and continuing deprivation. The demands of military regimen may have been necessary for good order and conduct, but those demands often made a miserable situation all the worse. In this brief examination a pilot whose war takes place in the skies, and who views his aerodrome as a refuge from that war has a chance to see the war as it is being experienced by others who are dealing with the daily grind of war under the worst of conditions. Survival in the harshest conditions of cold, rain, mud and disease were often more dangerous than enemy bullets.

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NARRATIVE DESCRIPTION - March 16th, 1918

Rain and fog. We did not fly today; the skies opened shortly after midnight and the entire area of our aerodrome is soaked. The field bears the long drag marks made by the tail skids on our machines and the parallel depressions made by our wheels, and all are now filled with water reflecting the dull light of the overcast skies. Thick fog blanketed the entire region during a brief respite from the rain which lasted for roughly two hours shortly after dawn. It was then washed away by a second downpour which degraded to a monotonous, steady rainfall lasting through the entire afternoon.

The infantry troops encamped along the perimeter of our field and billeted in canvas tents set upon wooden pallets are awash in mud and misery. There was a brief row just before lunch which I witnessed as I made my way from the mechanic sheds to the squadron mess. A grizzled Army sergeant had half a dozen doughboys braced up in the pouring rain, berating them for using their bayonets to dig the thick, viscous mud from their boots. His argument looked to be falling upon deaf ears, and I could well sympathize with the men as I looked at the thick clods adhering to their feet. It was impossible to see their boots for the massive pack of sticky clay lumped at the base of their legs. I continued on to the mess, glad that I was not subject to the wrath of the towering and intimidating sergeant. When I returned to my quarters a short time later, two of the men were sitting on the running board of a lorry and using metal tent stakes to dig the clay from their feet. The other two were engaged in stacking crates of ammunition atop wooden pallets to keep them out of the pooling water. A tarpaulin lay nearby, ready to be used to cover the stacked crates.

We’ve heard that the French and British made a push today, somewhere north of Rheims, but we’ve not yet heard any details. The mechanics are working to repair my bus, but the lacquer does not dry particularly well in a humid atmosphere. Still, I am told that I may expect my faithful #5 to be ready to take the air again when the weather clears.

DIARY ENTRY - March 16, 1918 [Saturday]

Rain and fog. No flying today. Airfield is awash. Learned of French and British push north of Rheims. Mechanics trying to make repairs to canvas on my #5 are hindered by dampness.

The First Voluntary Patrol

This entry continues the comparison between a descriptive narrative of events as with the earlier narrative and matching diary entry for 5 March 1918. The details must be sacrificed in order to fit the day's news into the small space in the diary; the all-too terse entry does little to convey the nature of the day's events.

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NARRATIVE DESCRIPTION - March 13th 1918

Sadly we have heard that Captain Phelps Collins of the 103rd Squadron was killed in action today near Rheims, although we have no details. I met the man when we were attending training in Issoudun and he was a fine American. I am certain his loss will be strongly felt among his fellows.

We have also learned that the 27th Squadron has proceeded from Winnall Downs Rest Camp to Romsey Rest Camp, and will be coming to France very soon.

Our Second Flight made a patrol in force along the far eastern end of our assigned sector without seeing a Boche machine close enough to intercept. We all returned safely to the aerodrome with only vapors of petrol left in our tanks. Captain Hunter is determined to make an impression on the Hun and chafes greatly at not having any dust-ups with their fliers.

I then joined Captain Hunter on a voluntary patrol shortly past midday. On the off chance that we might find a particularly flammable object for our attentions, we loaded our ammunition boxes with incendiary bullets. We raced toward Pont-a-Mousson, climbing to 15,000 feet, flew on past the village and into German territory for some five miles, and then turned west. There were no Boche machines in sight, however, a slow-moving train caught our eye about a mile further back of the German lines.

I followed Captain Hunter in a smooth virage that brought us to a position directly behind the train, and we were delighted to see that it was a freight loaded with vehicles on flat cars, as well as what appeared to be very large fuel canisters or barrels. There was a curve in the tracks ahead, and we took the opportunity to pique down upon the train as it began to slow in preparation to take the curve. Our flaming bullets rent the air with streams of fire and quickly brought about a series of delightful explosions as the fuel containers burst in brilliant yellow and orange detonations, and then began streaming massive clouds of thick black smoke. We continued forward over the train, spraying our bullets along the long line of rail cars as we went, obtaining many additional small detonations from the vehicles mounted on the flat cars.

Apparently the engineer was also hit or killed by the flaming projectiles we sent into his office as the train lurched forward and picked up speed. Perhaps he pressed the throttle lever the wrong way, or fell dead against it. We shall never know. The train increased its speed toward the curve and when just a bit past the halfway point it slowly pitched over on its side and crashed from the tracks, pulling several of the cars over with it. The remaining rail cars were jerked to a halt, flaming and smoking.

Hunter flashed me an all-American thumbs up gesture and I gave him an answering wave, then we turned south and headed for home. When we arrived over the field there was a small crowd gathered outside the command building, and they came to greet us as we rolled up to the mechanics’ hangar. Word had already come back from the front lines through the telephone connection regarding our strike against the train; our efforts had also been seen by French observation balloons and a celebratory crowd of our fellows was waiting to congratulate us. I don’t know what Boche outfit was supposed to receive those vehicles and fuel canisters, but they shall have to make do with what they already have on hand for the present as their expected shipment has been indefinitely delayed.

DIARY ENTRY - March 13, 1918 (Wednesday)

Captain Phelps Collins 103rd Sqdn killed over Rheims. Informed 27th Sqdn has moved from Winnall Downs Rest Camp to Romsey Rest Camp. Coming to France soon. 2nd Flight morning patrol over eastern sector. No luck. Flew a voluntary patrol with Capt. Hunter later in day. Strafed a German supply train which then crashed. Uneventful return.

Diary Entries versus Reality

Typically a person's diary entries are brief and sparse, often in sentence fragments, revealing little of the excitement and reality of what actually took place as they attempt to compile a full day (or more) into a few short sentences or descriptive notes. As an exercise in demonstrating the huge differences which might exist between real actions and events and the summary descriptions which might result in a diary, I penned the following.

This is the first of several individual diary entries from the daily journal of the fictional Steve Robinson Pilot Officer, 1st Lieutenant, American Expeditionary Force, 1st Pursuit Group, 95th Pursuit Squadron “Kicking Mules”, Western Front – France. They take the form of a detailed "verbal" narrative description of a day’s events, followed by the extremely brief/terse diary entries used to record those same events for those same days.

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NARRATIVE DESCRIPTION - March 5th 1918

We have completed our combat flight training at Issoudun and the Squadron has been posted to Villeneuve-Les-Vertus. With us at the aerodrome is the 94th Pursuit Squadron.

We have been told that our assigned patrol area will eventually be located nearly west-to-east along the front lines from St. Mihiel on the Meuse River at the west end to Pont-a Mousson on the Moesselle River on the east end. Our aerodrome is to be some twenty miles from the front lines, lying almost dead south of the center of the east-west line.

There is a Boche observation station atop Montsec, just a bit to the north of the lines, which provides them with a commanding view of the entirety of our sector, and a Boche aerodrome at Thiacourt which lies some seven miles behind the lines and some twelve miles northeast of Montsec.

We have been told to expect our flying machines before the end of the week. The French are to provide us with Nieuport N28 machines. I’ve heard that both the French Escadrilles and the British RFC have rejected these machines in favor of others. I must wonder what quality our mounts will have against the Huns if they have been summarily dismissed by our allies.

Our pilots occupy several houses near the edge of the field which have been abandoned by their former residents. The hangars are the sort used by the French, having metal and wooden frames over which are stretched canvas sheathing. The enlisted men occupy tents along the border of the field, each rigged atop wooden flooring so that they might keep out of the mud on wet days. The pilots of the 94th occupy similar quarters with us, though their members are not actually berthed with ours.

We have all the necessary mechanic sheds, fuel tanks, trucks, and equipment, and look to all outward appearances to be a working aerodrome… save for the conspicuous lack of flying machines. The Boche seem very interested in our activities and sent over a low-flying machine to have a look. I could actually see the observer in the rear seat leaning over the edge of his office to use a large camera. The black silhouette of his mounted machine gun was clearly outlined against the sky beside him.

The French sent two machines aloft after the Boche reconnaissance machine from their field two miles to the east, but the Hun quickly turned and climbed back toward his lines before they could engage him. I feel a bit like a mouse that has been discovered by a hungry cat.

DIARY ENTRY - March 5th 1918, [Tuesday]
Flight training at Issoudun complete and we are posted at Villeneuve-Les-Vertus with the 94th Sqdn. Ultimately we will patrol St. Mihiel to Pont-a-Mousson. Our Nieuports will arrive soon. Germans are aware of our presence. Sent recce machine with photographer. French chased it unsuccessfully. I feel like a mouse watched by a cat.
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WWI aviation is of great personal interest to me, and I really enjoy writing that involves that tremendous conflict. Stay tuned for more examples of NARRATIVE vs DIARY ENTRY comparisons as the fictional 1st Lieutenant in the 95th Pursuit Squadron (a very real unit in the war) continues to encounter THE BOCHE and deal with all that THE GREAT WAR entails.

Through Their Eyes

When writing a story as seen through the eyes of a protagonist experiencing a past era, I have two options; I can write the story as I might describe it in my own modern terms, or I can write the story as the protagonist might have written it. The second option is much more difficult than the first, and the writer needs to research the manner of writing and speaking in that bygone era, as well as the level of technology and the social/cultural norms the protagonist will encounter. In the case of this particular writing effort it was necessary for me to become conversant with shipboard routines as were observed by British mariners in the mid-1700s. The manner in which a writer of that time might describe his daily routine, and the manner in which he would spell certain words, or express certain ideas, also adds greatly to the "authentic flavor" of the narrative.

Here is an excerpt from a story I've been working on for some time. It is the personal journal of a British seafarer in the 1700s who has found himself in dire straits. Working his way to the American colonies as a deckhand on a small barque, he finds the Master of the ship to be not only a cruel taskmaster, but also a sadist whose idea of discipline leads the ship's company to mutiny. The title of the work is "Nigel Wolfe ~ Mariner".

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I am but recently come to the island of Grand Bahama and yet my notoriety is already the subject of some discussion in the taverns here. It is but two months since I gained my freedom from the villainous Master of the ill-fated barque “Revenge”. I had been committed under his hand by fate, there to learn the disciplines of command and navigation. There it was I saw instead the most inhumane conduct one man may visit upon another. That unworthy Master, having taken to flaying the backs of the crew for the slightest imagined contravention of his sensibilities, was removed from authority at the point of a cutlass, and I was installed in his place by my shipmates despite my lack of experience.

Having been thus invested with their command, and against their murderous cries for vengeance, I deposited the former Master on an uninhabited shore with food and water sufficient for several weeks of frugal living. I countered the angry objections of the crew with assurances that such humanitarian conduct would assure them a pardon for taking the ship… once the facts of the matter were made known to the authorities. I then made sail for the English settlement at Grand Bahama, secure in the knowledge that the Governor of that community was a fair minded nobleman by reputation; one who would surely see the true justice in our actions.

My confidence was not misplaced. The entire crew of the Revenge has been granted pardon for their actions in the recent unpleasantness with her former Master, and that worthy vessel is now turned to the profitable undertakings of the English Governor of this place. I, too, am rewarded with pardon, and as testament to my good judgment in not visiting death upon the former Master of that barque, I have been given command of the Governor’s ship “Harrier”, an aging brigantine, and provided with a Letter of Marque authorizing my taking of Spanish prizes. As yet I am neither Master nor Commander, and bear no formal rank save that of general privateer at the leave of my lord Governor. In my hands I hold authority over a barely adequate crew whose collective skills and experience leave much to be desired.

Harrier herself is a rather small brigantine, sporting two masts as do all in her class, and a simple bowsprit. Her foremast is square-rigged with main course, top sail, and t’gallant. For’rd she bears rigging for a foretop staysail and a foretop t’gallant staysail, and she sports a modest spritsail below her bow spar. Harrier’s mainmast stands greater than her for’rd sister by the measure of three tall men, bearing a square-rigged topsail, with fore-and-aft main staysail and topmast staysail. Her mizzen course is oversized, and I warrant she’ll turn handsomely with proper handling and the right wind. She draws a moderate draft and should be able to give respectable account of herself in all but the shallowest of inshore waters.

The Lord Governor of the English settlement on Grand Bahama has further displayed his belief in my judgment, his confidence in my abilities (and his expectations of profitable consequences) by making me a gift of some 350 gold doubloons. At his urging I will venture northwest, into Spanish waters around the Florida peninsula, there to take such prizes of that nation as fate permits. Naturally I understand that the Lord Governor expects a fair return on his investment, and I shall do my utmost to multiply his gracious gift by several fold. I shall use the majority of the funds he so generously awarded me to bring the Harrier into full seaworthy condition, and fill out her straggling crew. They are as yet an ill-trained yet eager lot; I can but hope that the promise of plentiful prize monies will maintain their spirits during the hard times ahead. The Lord Governor has assured me that there are a great plenty of Spanish prizes to be taken if I am venturous and if the crew be of stout hearts. I sincerely doubt he has ever been under sail except as a passenger under conveyance, and I have but little confidence that he is aware of the sizeable difficulties with which he has so casually graced myself and my crew. Yet his heart is good, and his purse sizeable. Who am I to argue with such a worthy?

Tho’ she bears ports and carriages for 20 guns, Harrier carries but 10 iron cannon at present, and her magazine is burdened with only enough powder and round shot for a short expedition. I fear this stock is barely enough to permit the rudest of gunnery practice before we must exhibit our skills and expend our powder in more earnest actions. I must remain hopeful of taking additional powder and shot stores from prize ships.

July 30th
Wind: Moderate and steady, 2 points north of due east
Weather: Clear, increasing clouds and a falling glass – storms approaching from the east
Sea: Light chop

Outward bound, standing West North West from Grand Bahama on the morning tide at 3 bells on the morning watch. The crew is high in spirit, and I am pleased to have a fine navigator as my assistant. I have also managed to acquire the services of an excellent sail maker and skilled carpenter. With the addition of these three worthies, the crew of Harrier is well apportioned for our future undertakings. As we weighed anchor and left port, we sighted the sloop Sea Tiger returning from three months of raiding against Spanish interests along the peninsula. Her rigging is haggard and her hull bears testimony to hard fighting and ill treatment under Spanish guns. We can but wonder what awaits us over the horizon.

Going Native

When writing about the more recent past, I feel that I have some degree of common ground with the characters in my stories. Cultures and societies change, often more swiftly than we are aware, but social values and norms from two or three generations in the past are pretty close to my own, and I feel like I'm on "familiar turf".

I've found that writing about historical settings with little or no common ground can be treacherous without some measure of first hand experience. At the very least I need to do some serious research before attempting to put the reader into the head of a protagonist in antiquity.

Even more difficult for me is writing about primitive cultures. While most readers won't have any common ground with the protagonist in a primitive situation, they will invariably be able to differentiate between "realistic" and "artificial" situations and responses. I've got to make my story believable enough to convince both casual readers, and readers who might have some knowledge of the situation.

This excerpt is from a short story I wrote entitled TO DREAM PERCHANCE TO SLEEP.

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Fog hung like thick moss in the cold morning air. Individual trees poked up through the white blanket, rising above the heavy carpet that filled the shallow valley. No sound disturbed the stillness save for the soft dripping of dew in the tall grasses. No breeze stirred the thick white vapors. A fur-clad body appeared briefly, only partially revealed by the heavy mists which swirled around him, stirred to motion by his movements. The figure moved silently through the damp growth, paused with head turned – apparently listening intently for a moment – then moved again and was gone. Moments later another body parted the grass and paused to listen. A third joined the second; both waited, then moved noiselessly and were lost again in the smothering fog.

A deep-chested snort disturbed the stillness of the early morning; a huge shadow loomed. A gigantic bison stopped, raised his muzzle to the sky and snuffed the heavy wet air. White plumes of damp exhalation jetted from his nostrils as he cast his massive, shaggy head from side to side. Failing to detect the scent of predators, the monstrous bull half turned and delivered a short grunt. The sound had not yet faded when a second bison appeared, followed closely by a third, a fourth, and then many as a herd of the enormous beasts moved slowly through the hanging fog. Young bulls moved with alert posture, breathing heavily, eyes rolling, their noses up and ears pivoting to catch every scent and sound. Cows moved silently, looking from side to side; the wet grass paint-brushing their bellies and soaking the tangled mats of their shaggy coats. Silent calves, shorter and all but hidden in the tall grasses, ranged among the cows on slender, shaky legs. The herd bull snorted, whuffed, and turned to trot ahead of the ambling cows and their calves. His thickly matted hide made an odd wet sound as he pushed forward through the fog-damp grass.

The first graying light of the dawn changed the texture of the fog and it began to thin rapidly. The first breezes of the day blew whispers through the soughing grass; fitful gusts tore the thinning whiteness into long ragged streamers. The cows perked their heads and stepped more quickly; the calves trotted faster to keep up. The first rays of yellow sunlight peeked over the horizon, pierced the rapidly fading haze and were sparkled into dazzling starbursts by countless dewdrops; the grasses blazed with shimmering brilliance. The cows moved in a single file, each following in turn the wet path of the heavy bull.

The last vestiges of the fog died a silent death under the yellow eye of the rising sun. The lead cow stopped for a moment and lowered her head to crop a tender clump of grass; others following closely behind her were forced to stop momentarily.

A harsh, ragged shout broke the crisp air, followed almost immediately by a second from a separate location. A blur of motion cut the sparkling light and a heavy wooden spear sank into the barrel of the lead cow. Stunned, the cow staggered, coughing hoarsely. A second spear leapt from the grass, arced low through the cold air, and buried itself behind her left shoulder. Other cows, bellowing in confusion and fear, surged forward in a mass and swept around the wounded cow like a rushing stream around an immovable boulder. Startled calves bleated and scattered. At the head of the procession the herd bull bellowed in anger, wheeled, and thundered back to protect his harem.

More shouts crackled in the cold and dancing figures rose from the grasses waving spears and ragged fur cloaks. More spears flashed through the gathering breezes and sank deeply into the sides of the wounded cow. She staggered and wobbled, and braced her forefeet wide to keep from falling. An anguished cough racked in her throat and frothy, bloody foam bubbled from her muzzle. The dancing brown figures moved in, yelling and brandishing their deadly lances.

A hundred yards away the herd bull pawed the damp earth. The instinct for preservation, product of countless generations of successful survival, overwhelmed the massing herd. The terrified cows and calves gathered quickly in a tight circle; calves in the center, and cows facing outward. Young bulls broke from the circle to paw the ground beside the herd leader, tossing underdeveloped manes and snorting their adolescent defiance. The herd bull raised his massive head to examine the scene; his nostrils flaring as he watched the brown figures around the dying cow. A sound like rushing storm winds rumbled deep in his throat and he turned to face the circled herd. A bellow broke from his massive barrel and the formation fell apart. The herd turned as one and raced away across the valley like brown leaves driven by a high wind. The big bull followed last, nipping the flanks of the slower cows. The tremor of their passing died as they swarmed up a distant hillside, topped the ridge, and were gone. The wounded cow staggered again, her legs shaking violently as she tried to raise her head. Blood poured from her muzzle and sides, matting her thick coat and puddling in the trampled grass. Disregarding the danger presented by her wickedly curving horns, one of the attackers, a big hulking man with shoulder length hair and a badly scarred chest, bent for a moment and then straightened slowly, a massive rock in his hands. He moved toward the cow and muscles stood out like thick cords on his arms as he raised the rock high over his head. Uttering a fierce cry of determination, he brought it crashing down on the head of the cow. All four of her legs buckled at once, and the beast crumpled to the ground. In an instant a dozen spearmen rushed forward and thrust their lances deep into the mountain of matted fur. A final hoarse cough escaped the throat of the cow; a violent shudder shook her body, and she was still.

A Deadly Business - WWI Aviation - an excerpt

Attempting to write about a past era is difficult enough in descriptive terms. But writing about a past era as it was seen through the eyes of another requires extensive research into the technical matters of the story, and a familiarity with the manner of writing and speech used at that point in history. It can be difficult to capture the "feeling" of looking out through someone else's eyes and thinking with someone else's thoughts. The following excerpt is from a story involving WWI Aviation/Combat which I've been working on for many months entitled "A DEADLY BUSINESS".

This is a portion of a daily journal entry by an American pilot in the story.

"Our orderlies awoke us early this morning, just after 4 AM. With hot coffee, generous quantities of eggs, bacon, and biscuits to fortify us for the frigid temperatures of high altitude, we mounted our machines and took off. The field was still dark, but the sky was lightening with the anticipatory glow of dawn. First Lieutenant Robert “Bob” Chubb was recently posted to Second Flight and joined our number this morning on our dawn patrol to the eastern portion of our patrol sector. As he had not yet made a flight in hostile territory, he was assigned to fly on my right wing and I was given the task of watching over him.

We climbed toward the sun, now creeping above the horizon, then turned our noses northward toward Pont-a-Mousson. With our noses now facing Germany we each triggered our guns briefly to ensure they were functioning correctly. When that conurbation of humanity which lay upon the river had passed beneath us and we were well within Boche territory, we turned our machines westward and flew parallel to the front lines. At our altitude of 15,000 feet the sounds of our engines must have been fairly miniscule to those on the ground, and I warrant we went all but unnoticed unless a gaze happened to fall upon us by chance. The air was clear with almost no clouds; we had the sun to our backs and anyone attempting to discern us against that blazing backdrop would be all but blinded.

We had patrolled thus for nearly three quarters of an hour when I perceived a number of machines at a distance of some two miles to the west, flying in a formation at a slightly lower altitude. I wagged my wings to alert Captain Hunter, then pointed over the forward edge of my office at the distant fliers. By gestures he indicated that he had also seen them, and then with a wag of his own wings he signaled that we should stoop to investigate. By prearrangement we did not initially increase our throttles, but simply put our noses down a bit in a shallow dive.

Within moments we discerned the distant aeroplanes to be five German Albatros D.V machines. For the moment they seemed totally unaware of our presence and continued in their flight at an angle away from us toward the south west. A sudden burst of white smoke ahead of the D.Vs proved to be a warning to then regarding our presence from their own archy. It was too late, however, and we burst through their formation with guns blazing. Chubb and I had concentrated our fire on the same machine and I was gratified to see it burst into flames, roll onto one wing tip, then plummet downward as we swooped past.

I pulled my control stick back and climbed quickly to regain the altitude I had lost in the dive, spinning my head around to the right and left in an effort to keep from colliding with my fellows whilst maintaining an awareness of the Boche machines. Below their group, spiraling slowly downward, I saw another Hun with smoke streaming from his engine cowling. He was apparently attempting to regain control of his machine and turn away from the front lines and the dangers of no-man’s land, though I doubted from the smoke that he would do so under engine power. He was beyond immediate reach, however, and no longer presented any threat to us, so I turned my attention back to the remaining three Boche D.V machines.

One of the Albatros machines had pulled up in a steep renversement and was diving back down toward us with guns blazing. The other two Boche had split up, one going left and one going right, each with a member of our Flight in close pursuit. Captain Hunter turned his own machine to face the diving Boche, and at the last second before they would have collided he flipped his N28 upward and over onto its back, then snapped it into a tight reversed loop. Finding himself below and behind the diving Albatros, he fired a line of blazing bullets which stitched the entire length of the enemy machine. From my higher point of view I could see the canvas erupting upward along the length of the Boche machine as Hunter’s bullets tore through.

The Albatros ceased firing, but it continued its downward plunge unabated, beginning to rotate slowly over as it went. One or more of Captain Hunter’s bullets must have found the Boche pilot; he was either dead or entirely disabled and certainly doomed either way. I banked my machine in order to watch the machine as it fell and could see that no efforts were being made to interrupt its plunge; the pilot must certainly be dead in his office. It stuck the ground less than a mile behind the German lines. Surprisingly there was very little in the way of an explosion, although it did burst entirely to small bits upon impact. "

First Steps

I'm a writer and I have been actively engaged in documenting thoughts and ideas for nearly 60 years. I am consumed by a personal interest in history which has lasted as long as my ability to put pen to paper. Had I not pursued a military career, I feel certain I would have followed my childhood passion and become an Archaeologist, an Anthropologist, a Paleontologist, or a combination of these and other related disciplines. I am obsessed by what went before, and I have an unquenchable thirst for details.

While viewing the evening news or reading the latest news bulletins online, I am regularly reminded of that notable and often-quoted sentiment offered by Spanish-born, American-educated poet George Santayana (B:1863-D:1952) - "Those who cannot remember the past, are condemned to repeat it.”

I am constantly amazed at how little our more recent generations appears to know or care about the past; not just the recent past - the last 50 years - but the whole past... everything that has gone before. There are all too many who will willingly memorize sports statistics, and the details of past performances on the athletic playing fields of our culture, and yet will care not a whit for even the most rudimentary facts related to major events which shaped the civilized world as we know it. There are all too many who will commit to memory the complete and convoluted interactions and professional efforts of a favorite TV or film personality, and yet will be unable to correctly identify the century in which the American Civil War took place, or the year when colonial Americans declared their independence from Britain.

This lack of even the most basic awareness of what went before has become so widespread that it is a regular subject of comedy and ridicule on the late night television program The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Mr. Leno's "Jaywalking All Stars" regularly demonstrate that history is no longer considered an important part of our culture.

I not only enjoy history, but I savor the chance to write about it... both factual history, as an archivist, and fiction which involves historical themes. I hope to offer some of both here in this blog space in the days, weeks, and months ahead. I'll post them here, along with occasional thoughts which are prompted by current news events and cultural occasions.

I hope you'll stop by often to read what I've jotted.