February 14 1915
Incongruous day today! First hop was a jaunt to the front to drop some hate on the poor old Hun. Made it a few miles from the field when, as fate would have it, I began to lose revs, and I had to scarper back with my tail between my legs. I know the poor devils in the workshop are at their hardest keeping our buses running, but I can’t help but ponder if a quick jaunt in a faulty aircraft might improve their efficiency a bit! Rather unworthy of me to think so but one never knows.
Thought I finished for the day, and would have began this missive sooner but “the powers that be” decided it was my lot to go up again later in the day. This time is was another one of those beastly assignments that have one drilling holes in the air over the front, on the watch for “the movement of men and vehicles”. At least with arty spotting one gets a jolly thrill as the guns let loose on the observer’s command. Still, one does his duty and I was up again, hoping that the new bus would prove better than the last one!
I had no idea that today would be a day of days – I’ve marked one month and a fortnight with the lads, and during that time the only Hun flyer I’ve seen was on the ground, during airbase raids. But today, roughly fifteen minutes into my Purgatory over the trenches, what did I spy but a Good Old Hun! Intrigued despite myself, I approached to verify the sighting, and, sure enough, the he was above me, performing the Boche version of what I was doing at the moment, no doubt. Curiosity satisfied, I bent my machine in another direction and watched my erstwhile opposite disappear into the distance.
I barely gave the Hun another thought as I meandered throughout the sky, giving The Great Observer all the viewing he could wish for. Turning my bus for home after the assigned period, who should appear again but the aforementioned Hun! I must admit that I’d been slowly climbing for some time, in the hopes of meeting up with him again; but now, there he was, and not a mile away!
I must admit now, dear Sister, that at this point I was overcome by a very Wicked Notion; that of engaging the Hun in mortal combat. It is true what they say that we airmen are alike, no matter what our Allegiances, but as you know, I have never been one to back down from Duty, and – although it shames me to admit it – the thought of putting on a show for our lads in the trenches below gave me thrill.
Thus that I was I threw all previous decorum aside, and sped off (if anything in the Parasol could be called “speedy”) toward the Hun. Engaged as he was in spotting for his own side, it wasn’t long before I’d pulled alongside of him. We spent long moments admiring each other’s machines (well, I at least admired the clean lines of his Avatik double-decker; what he saw in my own machine is, of course, not included in this Account), before I indicated to The Great Observer that I wished to bring our opposite number down.
Now, I’d like to think that T.G.O.'s hesitation was the result of a natural hesitancy to perform such a ungentlemanly action, rather than case of LMF. (Come to think of it, after much reflection, I now believe the lengthy delay was more the result of the T.G.O’s unfamiliarity with his weapon, rather than emotional causes), but it took several minutes of shouted exhortation before my passenger understood my dastardly intent and gave the good old Hun the gun.
Dear Sister, I would of course never offend your tender ears with a post mortem description of the affair that followed, but – promising you will never repeat this to Mother – I must tell you that T.G.O. referred to it later as something comparable to two aged pensioners engaged in, shall we say, activities wholly inappropriate to those in advanced aged. I trust you can use that wicked suffragette’s imagination of yours to postulate my meaning!
In any event, the Parasol certainly is a desultory waltzer, and my opposite in the Avatik no better. However, after many long minutes – and many imprecations from my furiously-firing backseater – I am proud to say that the Hun was last seen fleeing East toward his own lines, tail between his legs… and, more importantly, smoking heavily from the engine. Upon this, my no-doubt bemused wingman and I headed back to our Aerodrome, where the T.G.O. and myself astonished an appreciative audience with tales of audacity and fighting spirit. I will say that the story has grown somewhat in the telling, no doubt helped along by a few rounds of the vin ordinaire so favored by the locals.
As I write this later, however, my thoughts turn toward the Hun. What I rotter I feel like now, having spoiled (for both of us) a grand day in the air unmarked by the barbaric violence in the trenches! I can suffer the justification of Doing One’s Duty, but, after all, neither one of us was involved with each other in any way. I am aware the day is coming when the blood will spill from the skies, and that the lassez faire (as the froggies call it) cannot last, but I somehow feel disheartened that I have been some Cog in the Infernal Machine bringing that day about. I hope that I didn’t give the Hun too big of a jolt, and that he was able to bring his bus down safely.
Anyway, Dear Sister, that is all the time I have to write for today! Give all of my love to Father and Mother, and please, get me those wool sweaters right away! Flying in Winter is absolutely beastly beyond imagining!
All love,
2nd Lt. Lewis Roald Warsham
RFC 3
