Flying with a British formation has its pros and cons. The food is terrible but the alcohol is cheap and plentiful, albeit inferior to the pre-war French cognacs and fine wines. What is this Guinness and Newcastle Brown Ale? My head is still thumping as I take to the air (see below):
Myself and another hungover Englishman are "Over the Front" and we soon spy the dreaded "Boche" (see below):
We close at an alarming rate, the cold air and adrenaline of combat clearing the head wonderfully (see below). "Rat-a-tat-tat" go my guns but no discernible hits for either side as a dirty yellow Albatross flashed by me:
The melee gets very confusing as Pierre "nine lives" attracts the attention of a garishly coloured Albatross (see below). Where has my English friend gone?
Escaping from the clutches of this new foe I swing my plane around to see my erstwhile yellow Albatross adversary intent on another pass (see below):
By now I have collected some pretty bullets holes in my plane. The question is "how fairs my son of a Junker opponent?" Some may say a better question would be "Where is that Englishman"?