It was the summer of 2016. I was on holiday in northern France near the town of St Omer when I chanced upon a small, secondhand bookshop tucked away unassumingly down a narrow side street. I might never have seen it but for the need to leap out of the way of an oncoming bicycle steered erratically by an aging nun. As I dusted myself off, I looked around and spotted this shop with its inconspicuous sign. There are few better souvenirs than a good book with a bit of history to it from one's travels, so naturally I went in. I hoped to find something of local interest, perhaps with an epigraph to connect me to the book's former owner, that would inspire memories of this holiday whenever I chanced to take it off the shelf and peruse its content.
The shop was tended by a somewhat shabby, but still respectable, older man in carpet slippers. He peered over his pince-nez and greeted me in French. I deployed my schoolboy French in return and he immediately switched to English, which was a relief. I mentioned that I was travelling in France and that the Great War was much on my mind because of the centenary and also because of some photographs I had found among my grandmother's possessions.
The proprietor of the shop showed interest in my family connections to the area and we discussed the war some more before he pointed me to a section hidden away at the back of the shop. He indicated that I might find something of interest there as indeed I did. My eye chanced upon a slim volume that purported to be the wartime tale of a grandson of the Scottish poet William McGonagall by an illegitimate line called Ross McGonagall, who went by the nickname "Spud" and was a pilot with the RFC. The author, one James "Stinkers" MacDougall was his wingman, according to the introduction.
I bought the book instantly and soon found myself enthralled by the story of an RFC pilot as told in his own poetry with linking text by the author. It is clear to me that Spud aspired to emulate his grandfather's poetic skills and did so in almost every respect. I reproduce for you, Dear Reader, some highlights from this book to illustrate the wartime career of "Spud" McGonagall, an otherwise unknown ace and knight of the air.
September 1916
Spud joined 13 Sqn at St Omer flying an Airco DH2 in September 1916. He had enlisted in the RFC because he hated walking, or so he told me, when I became his wingman. He was a solid chap in every respect with a positive outlook and not prone to the blues. Nevertheless, Spud did not distinguish himself during his earliest exploits in the air, although his comrades on the ground soon learnt what it meant for him to declare "Now shall I regale you with a poetic composition of my own!" Sometimes, this sentence would contain the word "extemporaneous" and then all would cringe inside. Alas, our friend was not a great judge of his own poetic talents. I offer as evidence, this short poem that Spud composed after being forced down on our side of the lines.
There was a young pilot called Spud
Whose flying skills were not totally dud
He took to the air
A Hun to ensnare
And an Albatros fell to the mud.
With one victory under his belt, Spud was reassigned from the DH2 to a Sopwith Pup, a kite that seemed to really suit him.
October 1916
October was a busy month for Spud. He engaged a lot of enemy planes and bagged three more Gerrman planes, but it was not all plain sailing for him. His encounter with a CL III saw him walking home after an emergency landing just the right side of our lines.
The great pilot
Liked to fly a lot
But some rounds through his fuel tank
Were no kind of prank
And forced him to land
Before he had got home
Naturally, the entire squadron thought this was hilarious, especially after he told the story in verse.
November 1916
A fleeting encounter with a roving Albatros left saw Spud catch a bullet at the start of November, and he sat out most of the month in the field hospital. Despite this, he was promoted to Lieutenant and, at the end of November 1916, I joined Spud as his wingman. I got to see firsthand how his flying skills developed while his poetic skills languished.
The top brass had voted and Spud was promoted.
He would lead a flight, into the fight
From now on.
Again, he celebrated his activities in verse that was met with cheers (according to Spud) or jeers (according to the rest of us).
December 1916
December was a busy month as I followed Spud into the skies. We took on balloons and planes galore as Spud finally got his fifth victory and became an Ace.
Spad shot the Rumpler
And made it crumple
Out of the sky
No more to fly
As Spud became an Ace.
It was a hard fight that one and Spud found himself hitching a lift home again after yet another emergency landing. Between that and mechanical troubles, Spud and I missed a fair bit of flying time.
January 1917
January was a very busy month and Spud bagged four victories in this one month alone. For his skill and bravery, he was awarded the Military Cross and the Croix de Guerre. Spud went on to prove himself a good pilot and gallant, who was not willing to take unfair advantage of his foes. This gallantry saved his life on two occasions as the Bosche pilots recognised Spud's plane and showed him the same respect that he showed them.
When Spud shot his guns
The Hun came undone.
But Spud was gallant and gave quarter
From the slaughter just like he ought to
As a knight of the Air
Who plays fair and cares
How the game is played.
The Hun played a fair game
And did the same thanks to Spud's fame
As a good sport who did nought
That was not what he ought.
February 1917
Spud had built a reputation for himself as a pilot to watch and I learned much from being his wingman. It was with horror that I saw his plane disintegrate under an unexpected hail of bullets one day in early February 1917. The Halberstadt had dived right out of the sun and neither of us saw it coming. One moment we were flying along looking for the enemy, the next Spud was plummeting to the ground amid the wreckage of his trusty Sopwith Pup. I engaged the enemy plane, but it escaped unscathed rather than stay without the advantage of surprise. I composed the following poem in honour of him. I know it is what he would have done for me.
An Ode to Spud McGonagall the Poetic Pup Pilot by his wingman James "Stinkers" MacDougall
The poetic Pup pilot,
Took to the air in his plane.
He hunted the Hun
And shot down more than one.
His exploits were daring
And well he was faring
Until a dastardly Hun
Dived from the sun
And the faithful Sopwith Pup
No longer stayed up.
Spud crashed to the ground
And was no longer around
To regale his comrades
With poetical tirades
About his aerial exploits
That were so adroit.
Spud had scored 9 victories and contributed much to the war effort. He was a thoroughly good egg, even if his poetry did stink.
Afterword
I picked up Western Front Ace from Compass Games before Christmas and have now had time to play it a few times. It's quite a brutal game. My first few pilots failed to survive more than six weeks at the front. And then came "Spud" McGonagall, who survived a whole five months!
The game gives you the option of choosing or rolling randomly for nationality, starting base and starting plane. Then you send your pilot out on sorties and hope he survives. There is a little dogfighting mini-game when you encounter the enemy, and you have to dice to land again if you survive. All this involves quite a lot of dice rolling. There are a few meaningful decisions to make and there is a definite risk management element, but a lot of the game is controlled by the dice.
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