You are a birdman in July 1918 , the Battle Of Europe is raging. What aircraft of either side would you choose to waft about the high and empty blue in? You want to both survive and make a name for yourself. Let's be having it chaps.

Here is an inpirational example.........
Ginger strolls out into the dawn's early light, his CO orders him to take thr RAFs' last SE 5a for an engine test. Ginger gulps, then manfully climbs aboard. Over the White Cliffs Of Dover our Hero is bounced by the Bratville Boys. In an epic battle two yellow nosed bastards collide, laughing at him, a third is brought down as Ginger empties his 1911 Colt into it's cockpit. Taking advantage of this situation The Baron riddles the SE from stem to stern, and saws the wings off

Climbing from the wreck atop the white cliffs Ginger muses.
"Why does this always happen to me? I'll never make old bones at this rate!"

"It's a cruel world, and I should know," moans The Baron in the field next door as he clambers from his faithful old Alb. D.V. . ."
Get my drift?
Carry on chaps.

High above the Cumulo-nimbi the combatants spot a small red spec. Suddenly as an eagle decending on its prey a modern Fokker Dr.I replica (powered bt a 230 hp supercharged Lycoming) slices its way through SE 5a and Camel machines, firing twin fangs of super heated laser light.

Without regard to political adgenda or nationality the New Baron twists and turns inside the circle of death cutting and slashing with an unlimited amount of ammunition. Oh the hun-anity (yes, I said 'hun'.) sawed off wings and tails Fluttering to earth in a maelstrom of sunlit glitter. Hans von Hammer the 'Hammer of Hell' pounds out the 'dance of death' on the 'anvil of war' above the 'war torn skies of the channel'.

Now the battle subsides and the lone figure of the Baron cruises back to base for a round at the local Starbucks and the local talents of the fullbreasted bar maids. 'Strange how the last 10 were all burned up. Here I am sitting eating and drinking and the food tastes as good as ever.'

Algy dives the F2B towards the enemy field the Vickers chattering. Behind, from out of the sun comes a white DVII Spandaus spitting. Bertie swings the twin Lewis up and lets fly, streams of lead crossing between the aircraft, the Fokker lurches, dives under the Bristols tail and explodes into the ground in a million pieces. Algy fights for control of the shot up Bristol and crash lands back at his own airfield on the last of his fuel. As the extract themselves from the wreck Bertie says "That White Fokker old boy, I believe that is a chap called Goering, doesn't look as though he'll cause any more trouble now

Then Ginger woke up from his delirium realizing that it had all been a fantasy. Then it comes back to him...that last roll... my wings came off... There's a tent over my mid section... no, not that... the male night nurse Big Ollie the Swed shows up for Ginger's sponge bath. Over the hospital a Bright Red Fokker Dr.I does a wingover for home...Fade to black.

Nothing in the air can equal the diving power of a Bristol F2.b with the Rolls Royce 500hp Eagle engine. At full throttle the Baron pushed his damaged Fokker Triplane to the limit. 'That bridge below is my only hope' says the Baron. Tytanium ribs & struts strain as the Baron's Blood red triplane pulls out of the dive skimming under the bridge.

'Now, its my turn I am in ther kill position.' The Baron trips his twin laser heated Spandau's. Like long fingers of flame they lick the overshooting Brisfit's belly from cowl to tail skid. He could see the pilot's face illuminated from the flames of his now stricken machine. The Brisfit falls in a tempest like a fiery torch in the night only to be snuffed out by the river beneath.

The Baron's Jagdstaffel members had lit bonfires on the fields runways...enabling him to land. Switch off... I need some coffee... I hope the barista is open late.

German Daily report : Das Blatter
Ltn. Max Nichts was detailed to test the Baron's reserve triplane and was brought down by what appeared to be an electric discharge from what forward observers called a Black bolt of lightning. Ltn. Nichts rec'd a wound of considerable coverage on his ego. The strange machine appeared to implode after trying to land presumably to collect a souvenior.

In a hanger near Kenilworth England, Col. Powell mourns the loss of the waxed ends of his moustache. A team of crack engineers are working on fitting a 37mm howitzer to a Spad XIIIb. A second team of armourers are preparing special rounds of canister shot full of Titanium Carbide balls. The sparks is tuning up the Oboe radar system and the FLIR sights. "Curse you Baron. . ." he mutters under his breath.


Meanwhile back in Germany, Sitting in the local Starbuchs/Weinerwald the Baron sits quietly drinking his Quad latte with sugar free vanilla flavoring. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Someone is plotting my death...

Somewhere in England a dark shadow slips between two hangars. Its the highly touted tart Mata Hari. She distracts then decommissions the guards, leaving her trademark lipstick kiss on their bedazzled forheads. She make her way to the Top secret Spad that she has been gathering intel on for weeks.

Climbing into the cockpit she warms its powerplant and as it comes to life, she clears the runway with a final chandelle heading for Germany and her Lover the Baron. Mata arrives within 40 minutes and another 10 finds her at her Lovers side. Unfortunately she is a double agent but it will be morning before she finds herself enroute to the Schloss Glockenspeil und Bustenhalteren for love lorn double agents. Yet, she can't shake the feelings and she can't control her total Love for the Baron.

Guess that means no patrols tomorrow old man. The Baron throws some bags in the back of his limosine and is driven to the aircraft trials at an undisclosed location. That Spad will make a beautiful addition to my collection. I'll have it painted that Blood Red color too. What a wonderful gift. And I didn't even fire a shot.

In a cell deep inside the schloss glockenspiel Mata Hari pines for the gallant British pilot Col. Powell, with his handsome (if singed) moustaches. She wonders if the altitude activated booby trap bomb in the prototype Spad has detonated yet. . .

Incidentally folks, it was the Schloss Glockenspiel und Bustenhalteren that was later to become the permanent home of the Glencoe Institute. For the studies of AMS (Advanced Modelers Syndrome.)

Back at Kenilworth the next day, Col. Powell howls orders -"That Damned woman. Put all of the guards on three weeks latrine duty"

"Right we'll have to use that one instead". Richard points to the aircraft at the back of the hanger.

"But Squadron Leader, she'll never take it. Ye can'ne change the laws of physics"

The aircraft is wheeled out into the cold light of dawn. Revealed is a BE 12 in reconnaisance pink. Improbably fixed to the port wing is a 6 cm chain cannon with rounds being fed from a magazine on the starboard side. A hastily rigged up gunsite extends almost to the prop. The aircraft sags dangerously on its landing gear.

"Never mind, she'll have to do. Armourer, how many rounds infared mercury have we got?"

"Three Sir"

"Right, get her fuelled up, I'm off in fifteen minutes"

Col. Powell takes his life in his hands and nips off to the NAFFI for a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea...


At Dawn The overloaded BE 12 drags itself into the air, narrowly missing number four hanger. As the airspeed increases the plane glides across the South Downs and out over the channel.

"This time, Baron, This time..."

War...is a one-sided game played by Death...A game in which that gaunt spectre is the only winner!

The tokens he uses are flesh & blood...and the penalty he demands for one false move is ultimate and final!

He was present at a time when brave young men mounted wood ribbed , paper mache' coffins to do battle in the war torn skies above the channel. At a time when they had only one shield HONOUR!!!!

Clouds were low that day as the Baron's Red Triplane pulls out of the cloud ceiling. Incredulously he spots the image of an enemy fighter in what appears to be a pink colored bird heading for home.

The Baron's had seen both his new trophies perish that day. The new prototype Spad and the escaped Mata Hari. She had freed herself to return the Spad, not for love but a reward. Strange how it seemed consumed from within as if booby trapped. The Baron had been sent to intercept her. Pulling up behind the 'pink lady' over the channel was a chance for easy meat. Somehow though it seemed too easy.

No wingman above or below the clouds. He's faster than me so if I give him quarter he'll turn on me. I can't take that chance. No salutes old man. With a precise aim the Baron cuts the oil leads and saws off 2 wings with his super heated lasers and sends the unwary pilot to the channel. Another one I gave a bath to, smiles the Baron. Within minutes the Baron is back on his side of the lines strolling from his Blood Red Triplane. Now for that quad latte I've been thinking about and that new Barmaid sweet Schatzi! I'll bet she's a spy too.

Col. Powell drops the Sopwith Triplane into position behind The Baron. He had been confident that the radio controlled pink SE 5a would have been the lure to draw out his prey. At the last moment having his enemy in his grasp, he hesitated. The game had been good, the hunt satisfying, his opponent skilful. To kill him now as he climbs from the Fokker seems too easy, almost cruel, however...

Cock the Vickers, 60 yards range, strafing run,

RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT.. and up into an Immelman for the return run.

As the plane dives back towards the airfield, over the cowling he can see The Baron lying in a pool of his own blood. . .

As the Baron sips his latte he hears the chatter of twin Vickers high above his field. As he peers from his window seat in the local Starbucks he sees his new Triplane burning on the field. Several dead and wounded around the now burning wreckage. The bureau Spiese had come running in with the report. 'Ltn. Whipple that you had allowed to take my your new machine up for familiarization is kaput.'

The Baron nods quietly. He looks at the First Sgt. and says 'give the signal.' The 1st sgt runs out of the hut to the field observation tower and barks an order. The wireless funk is cranked and high above the field the Baron's waiting Jasta dives upon the hapless Sopwith Tripehound. While the Britisher fought like a wild man, his controls overstressed, too far from home and out of fuel it was not to be a swift end.

The Jasta en mass took turns raking the broken hulk of the now wingless Tripe Hound. From 1000ft it twirlled down in sickly spirals. The last quiver from the broken hound was remincent of the first bear the Baron had felled as a young boy in the Black Forest. He had used his hunting dogs in much the same way even then. The tactic had served him well even in those early days.

The Baron turns to the adjutant and speaks. 'If you can find anything left of the 'englisch lord' bury him where he fell.' (Internal dialogue) 'I guess he thought that old wreck would satisfy my blood thirst. Pink Lady indeed.'

"Down the deserted road a square black object bumps and lurches as it trundles out of a fly-specked field. The pigs, still nervous after being roughly strip-searched, only stare at it as it squeaks and rattles onto the road, its overloaded springs protesting each movement. The steady clip-clop of the swayback mare pulling this strange black object is the only other sound. The orange triangle on the back is the only color on this strange, black contraption.

And inside, holding the reins in a death-grip, a grizzled and bearded figure stares with crazed, reddened eyes out from under a black round-brimmed hat. Sweat stains discolor the man's white shirt and his black suspenders are frayed and dirty. As the crazed man throws back his head and brays out a peal of maniacal laughter we can now see it is him.....Osama von Yoder, the Amish terrorist. His overloaded buggy is filled with fertilizer and fuel oil and a thick wick rests near him. Ready to be lit. Ready to turn his buggy into a thunderous, deadly explosion.


In the back of the buggy Secret Agent Bobby Wick waited for the right moment to make his move. A stout fellow ("Thick" to his friends) he was the counter-Amish terror expert of Scotland Yard.

He had seen this one coming - for about forty years. He had replaced the chemical fertilizer with local fertilizer from the nearest fumier - with the pigs around the smell wouldn't be noticed. The real wick he had replaced with rice paper, folded according to a pattern taught him by a Japanese geisha.

"Just wait," Wick thought, "until the fan hits the s**t!"

Squeaking and clattering in the deserted countryside, the black buggy moves to its destiny. As the wheels roll by the plants on the roadside, a faint whisp of green cloud spirals gently down and over them. Suddenly the leaves turn brown and curl up, and the plants shrivel like seedlings before a fire. Osama von Yoder ignores the gagging stench that follows in the wake of his buggy of death, and pays no heed to the swath of brown he leaves in his wake. Even blow-flies flee in terror from the smell as it oozes out from the buggy. Bobby Wick smiles to himself under his gas mask as he watches Osama take out a box of kitchen matches, and takes one out as the convoy coming up the road grows closer and closer. Giggling to himself, Osama von Yoder presses the match to the striker surface on the side of the matchbox, while foam speckles his lips. But then Bobby remembers his boyhood days where the children would amuse themselves after bean-laden dinners by lighting the music the "musical fruit" had made. As his eyes scanned the toxic fumes pouring off the foul load in the buggy he realizes that he may become "music" himself.
And behind him he hears a tinkling little laugh. The FUBAR Fairy has arrived to bless his little operation.

Suddenly out of the sky streaks a pink and black Wszjnsk D.Ib !! Mata Hari had finally cleaned the NAAFI tea off of herself. She had sworn to get revenge. Trading in her dancing body stocking for a fleece flight suit she had "borrowed" the Wszjnski DI. Typical Jasta 38DD markings of pink wheels and cowling together with red "Schüssel für das Führen des Wassers" (cone-de-penetration) are in evidence. This single prototype was built by the Dzerkov Aufwerfung Puderbeutel und Chirurgische Stützfabrik to Wszjnski's own specification and had several unusual features in addition to the black leather fuselage. The seat harness in particular was unique, including as it did wrist restraints and a bridle.

Spotting her target on the road below, she swooped and opened fire.

Unfortunately the flying helmet was too large for her, and her vision was obscured. Osama's buggy erupted into blue flame, barbecuing the Amish terrorist. Wick was thrown clear, and landed in a noisome pond of pig ordure, which extinguished the flames, and his pride.

The phenomenon was widely reported as angelic intervention.

Richard and the IO made it safely to HQ - hence W.A.B.'s VC. Mata Hari, in mortification turned herself over to the French authorities. The rest is history.

The Baron calls to his batman, 'Tell my mechanics to ready my new bird, I have a delivery to make.' With in about 60 minutes time the Baron was over the Kenilworth aerodrome. The Baron tossed out an object that fluttered to the ground hitting an erk in the head. On his way home the Baron downed 2 Sopwith Camels and an 'Harry Tate'. They probably won't be confirmed but thats war. 'Unconfirmed by army means unconfirmed.'
The Baron lands at the depot airfield for his usual quad latte. One of the pilots awaiting assignment asks, '...what was it you had to deliver sir?' The Baron replies - '...Hip Waiders, if they're going to go fishing they should keep their feet warm or they might get a runny nose.'

On a quiet Sunday moring after 9am the Baron sits by a fireplace as the snow gently falls outside. The Baron is seen drinking an expresso coffee with a rasberry croissaunt reading the newest allied dropped propaganda. Smiling the Baron sees the crudely drawn picture of his severed head. (Internal monologue) Well I guess I'm in good company. 'The Englisch lords cut the heads from only their highest royalty.'

'The sky is graü with a touch of silber. The Baron thinks what a wonderful colour for camouflage... That gives me an idea.'