Oberleutnant Hans Baume sideslipped his Albatross DV into the small field southeast of St. Quentin where his Jasta was temporarily stationed in a chataeu alongside Jasta 22. The rest of the boys had landed already, his little diversion delaying his own return by nearly thirty minutes. Hauptmann Gruber would probably be beside himself, believing as he did that the young Oberleutnant had suffered engine trouble and therefore been unable to continue with the rest of the patrol. He would tell him the problem was fixed when he landed in a cornfield and fiddled with the carburettor. God in Heaven he was hungry!
He entered the dining room to be greeted by boisterous jeers and applause.
"I hope you pigs haven't eaten everything before I get the chance to refuel."
Otto Freidrich, his wingman and close friend, slapped him on the shoulder as he sat down.
"You missed some good fighting, Hans. We came across five French Nieuports east of Champien. Only two got away. And one of them had some holes that I put there myself." Freidrich was chewing on a bread roll stuffed with thick cheese and ham. He had five kills to his credit thus far, but was always quick to remind Baume that his score, which currently stood at twelve, had been obtained over a longer period, and that when he, Otto Freidrich, had been flying as long, his would be thirteen kills, or maybe fourteen. It was always said with great humour, the two men enjoying the rambunctious rivalry. Neither was blind to the fact that Oberleutnant Hans Baume was a gifted pilot and a remarkable shot. One of the rising stars of the Jasta, Baume seemed destined for greatness. He lived for and dreamed of the day when the Kaiser pinned the Pour le Mérite to his tunic, and with the hunting so good lately it seemed to everyone that his day would come soon.
And yet things were not quite as he had imagined. As he piled his plate high with what was left in the big serving bowls, he tried to put the slaughter of the men on that reconnaisance patrol they had intercepted out of his mind. As far as he was concerned that wasn't something they should be proud of. The two SE5's had little to no chance, and watching his comrades falling on that old RE8 had simply disgusted him. So much so, in fact, that he'd made his excuses and left the party. Initially flying off in the general direction of home, he'd circled back and gone after the high SE5 that had been heading south a few thousand feet above the previous action. With his Jasta away off to the north, resuming their patrol, he had settled in for the long tail chase, climbing just enough to reach co-altitude while holding enough speed to close the gap on his prey, who seemed oddly to be not in much of a hurry.
It was a fine duel, something he would prefer to remember than the burning RE8. The Englishman with the tusks painted on his machine had put up a good fight. But he was not good enough in the end, not even in his sturdy SE5 with its' excellent turn and climb rate; the little Albatross flicked and wheeled at his gentle touch and suddenly the kill was there for him to claim. But he had seen enough death for one day. More especially he felt a kindred spirit with the man in the other machine. Then the Englishman had spoiled the chivalry of it with his bovine response to the salutation. He should have wheeled around and shot him down for that. No matter, they would probably meet again, and next time..... Oberleutnant Hans Baume was not normally generous in combat.
Hauptmann Gruber briefed the pilots for their afternoon patrol out under the cool winter sun by their machines. An observation balloon eight kilometres south of Sissonne required a fighter screen. They had lost two balloons in the last week, with three observers killed, and were getting jumpy. One of the RFC squadrons in the area had apparently been giving them trouble. The Hauptmann made a joke about who would be giving the trouble today, and the gathered men laughed in high spirited anticipation of further action. Stamping on their cigarettes they clapped shoulders and made rude signs, climbed into their machines and prepared for takeoff.
Looking across to the north on the other side of the balloon, Oberleutnant Baume could see Hauptmann Gruber with his wingman, four pairs of deadly sentries in all, spaced 90 degrees apart flying across and back, over and over. It was boring work. Even at 1,000 metres you could see well over the lines. The observers would be getting some good intelligence on the French this fine clear afternoon. There was alot of scattered cloud about, but they were keeping an eye on it, on the lookout for any RFC machines lurking behind them intent on a lunging attack on the balloon. A flare came up from one of the Albatross to the west; it was the most likely direction from which to expect trouble. He signalled a turn to Freidrich and pulled his machine around, peering ahead into the haze over the lines trying to catch a glimpse of the enemy. There; three or four kilometres away and about 300 metres above his own height, a flight of six SE5's from the look of them, flying along the front from north to south. Another flare came up from the pair to the west, betraying the near panic of the two men between the balloon and the RFC patrol. Oberleutnant Baume smiled. Don't worry boys, we're coming. Things were looking up. He felt like a medieval knight as he charged to the rescue. It was a good feeling.
As the northern and southern pairs of Albatross moved further to the west they heard the antiaircraft fire start up behind them. Looking back over his shoulder Baume could see puffs of smoke erupting not far from where he had been just minutes before, and a second rash away to the north. Something was splitting the fire of the ground defences. Looking ahead again he could see the RFC aircraft starting their dive on his friends to the west. He was torn between protecting the balloon and assisting his comrades. Hauptmann Gruber and his wingman had already wheeled about to intercept whatever had penetrated their defensive ring. Time was slipping by and he was still unsure of what to do. Looking astern more carefully he could see a lone Spad diving fast, hurtling toward the rapidly descending balloon from the southeast. Again to the northwest a second Spad likewise diving through the antiaircraft fire, leaving it high behind as it speared unswervingly towards its' prey. He swore angrily and signalled Freidrich to continue alone, threw the Albatross around to face the oncoming Spad, which had levelled out from its' dive and apparently already opened fire on the balloon, which was just now erupting in flames. He swore again. Unused to failure, or even the threat of it, he had been temporarily off balance. Here now was a situation he understood, that was close to his heart. Two warriors facing off in a duel to the death. He would make the Englander pay.
The two machines were howling towards one another with a closing speed of over 250 mph, the Spad moving faster after its' diving attack on the balloon, and slightly lower than the Albatross. Baume c0cked his twin Spandau and waited for the range to close, the deadly aerial ballet he was about to perform already rehearsed in his mind. As they came within reasonable firing range he would skid to the right and dive to throw off the Englanders' aim. Then he would pull high well before the merge and roll off the top with a mere two or three seconds to kill the man before he was back out of range. He smiled grimly as his finger brushed the firing button. He had danced to this tune before.
The first .303 bullet pierced his skull through the shattered left glass of his goggles when the Spad was still 400 metres away. Most of the rest of them went into his engine, which quickly thrashed itself into silence, belching smoke as the broken propeller froze into immobility. The 'V' Strutter nosed over, picking up speed in the dive, until just before hitting the ground, when the lower wing spars failed in overspeed causing the wings to fold back like an umbrella in a gale.
Captain B. Williams of the Skeleton Crew, Canadian woodsman and hunter, did not witness the final moments of Oberleutnant Hans Baumes' death plunge. He was too busy checking his map for the route back to Soussons.
Otto Freidrichs' was not the only long face at dinner that evening. In addition to Baume there were three other empty places at the table. A third Spad had appeared from nowhere and blown the Hauptmans' wingman to bits as they dived after the Spad heading northwest. The pair of Albatross covering the west sector had been slashed out of the air by the diving SE5's before Freidrich could get to them. He had turned hard and run, only to see what was left of his friends' machine burning in a field below. At first he didn't believe it was Baume, but when he flew over the wreckage he saw the crosses and Baumes' colours. He'd landed nearby and gone over to see if there was any chance.... he wished now that he hadn't.
They ate in silence until he could stand it no more and rose to make his excuses and leave. Hauptmann Gruber barked at him and he sat down, so miserable he thought he might weep. With a deep sigh the Hauptmann gestured to the steward to top up their glasses, and banging the table with the end of his knife to get their attention he stood and delivered his speech.
Freidrich could hear him talking but barely heard the words. Something about brave men giving their lives, and a warning about the foolishness of engaging the enemy alone. We fight in pairs, and pairs of pairs. We protect each others' tails. Together we are strong. The days of chivalrous duels are over. That sort of thing. Hauptmann Gruber raised his glass and they all rose for the toast.
What was left of them.
Last Updated Wednesday, March 31 2010 @ 08:11 PM MDT|76 Hits 