Duel in the Skies from Foncke for Forty
Klaus Brechlin has been shot down over enemy lines and captured. He's brought to the English aerodrome where the British Officers are treating him to a Bon Voyage drink prior to his going to a prison camp for the remainder of the war . . . there was still some chivalry left . . . and indeed the Brits were curious. Klaus was a celebrated member of Manfred Von Richtofen's 'Flying Circus;' the Red Baron is known all across the front. Enter Captain Rene Foncke, the highest scoring French Ace, renowned for his skills, arrogance and his habit of claiming other pilot's kills . . .
“Ah, there is my prisoner!” it said in English, laced with a heavy French accent. The Englishmen turned in surprise at the rudeness of the interruption and looked with irritation and profound dislike at the author. A French officer, a flier by the wings on his chest, with porridge pot hat and manicured mustache entered the hut. He smiled at the assemblage and added, “It is so nice of you to detain my victim for me. I shall be happy to take him off your hands and deliver him to a more suitable situation.”
“Back from leave to claim more of our kills, eh, Captain Foncke?” the Major asked, his smooth delivery roughened a bit. “I’m afraid you’ve overstepped your bounds this time. I’ve a whole squadron of witnesses to Flight Officer Pigman’s victory. Confirmed, no less, by the German aviator himself.”
“I am not surprised our Hun foe had you fooled, Major,” the Frenchman told him. “This one especially. I have been hunting the Brechlins for quite some time. Now I have one of them. No doubt he played dead after your Flight Officer got close, but he was on his way back to his own lines when I caught him. Almost he saved himself, but I am too good a marksman. He ducked at the last moment, but too late. I placed a dozen rounds in his petrol tank so precisely that it was as if I put them there with my own hands. The resultant fire, of course, forced him to land, and so there it is. I do not discredit your valiant efforts, Major, but what I see I hit, and what I hit I bring down. It is as simple as that.”
There was a rising hubbub of angry voices countering Foncke’s claim. All had seen Pigman’s rounds hit Brechlin’s Fokker, and two of the pilot’s had seen smoke and flame trailing from the German aircraft as it began its plunge to the ground. The Major held up his hand for silence, and asked Brechlin if he might wish to clarify the situation.
“It’s an unusual request, I know, Leutnant Brechlin, but as a fellow combat flier I’m certain you can empathize with the situation.”
“Ah yes, Leutnant Klaus Brechlin, what a glorious fortieth victory for me. Yes, with the five I had this morning and afternoon you give me an even forty! A sextet, how marvelous!”
“Excuse me, Captain, but your official count is something like twenty-one, isn’t it?” the Major pointed out venomously.
“It is far lower than my actual score, Major. Military snafus, if you like. Yet my five prior to this have already been confirmed. Leutnant Brechlin is number six, which I’m certain is a record.”
“Not by our count,” the Major informed Foncke.
“Nor by mine,” Brechlin told them, and he related the entirety of his experience with the interloping French SPAD. The account made the British officers even more surly, but it did nothing to dissuade Foncke’s confidence in his claim.
“I’m certain when you realized the hopelessness of your plight you became unnerved. Such is to be expected. You should be rather pleased to have met your match in me and not at the hands of an unknown pup. It is no dishonor to be vanquished by your betters, Brechlin.”
“You are no Gunmeyer,” Brechlin told him.
“I am his better. I took the standard when he fell, but I would have taken it nonetheless.”
“You cannot bear his standard, or that of your fellow countrymen. They would not have such a craven coward in their fold! Baron Von Richtofen would not allow you to fly in his squadron, on his wing, or in his service!”
The hut went silent.
“I would watch your words if I were you, Brechlin. You are not amongst friends.”
“Perhaps not, but I am with honorable foes.”
“Not for long,” Foncke told him as he handed the Major a written order. “You see the French Command in this sector has already approved my claim, with the concurrance of the British. It is all quite proper and official I assure you. You are, therefore, my prisoner and subject to French incarceration. You will enjoy our prisoner of war camps much more than the British camps I am sure. Especially, after I put in a good word for you. So you see it would be better for you to take great care with what you say.”
The Major took a close look at the document and grudgingly accepted it. “The French are desperate for heroes after Verdun. With Gunmeyer dead and Nunguesser in the hospital again Captain Foncke is more than willing to put himself forward. I’m sorry Pigman. He’s taken your claim. I’m sorry for you too, Brechlin.”
Brechlin shrugged. “It’s enough to know the truth of the matter. Captain Foncke could never have brought me down in a fair fight, or an unfair one for that matter.”
Foncke took the orders from the Major and jovially slapped them on the German’s chest. “That has the audacity of a challenge! Well, well does our Hun match the bravery of his words, or do you speak them only from the cover of an unarmed prisoner of war?”
“If Flight Officer Pigman’s aim was not so much the better of yours we could find out.”
“Oh this is too intriguing! Why not twice in a day? I’ve not yet scored a seven! It would be truly marvelous, would it not? Could not the Major aid me in this matter? Come now, in the name of French chivalry have you not a plane you are willing to sacrifice?”
“Captain Foncke be serious, I can’t give this man an aeroplane! Although he is our guest he is also a prisoner of war. There would be serious repercussions should I do any such thing.”
“Remember, my dear Major, you are on French soil and Leutnant Brechlin is my prisoner. Therefore, he is my responsibility. I shall have to obtain either a lorry and some troops from you as an escort, or an aeroplane. I myself flew here. The decision is yours, but it would be in better standing with your vaunted image of the English sportsman to accede to my request.”
“I don’t have any problem with your fighting Brechlin here, Captain Foncke, but I don’t have a Camel to spare.”
“We do have the old Pup, Major,” Flight Officer Pigman offered.
“True. Etheridge here cracked it up a few months back. I wrote it off as a total loss so its not officially on the books anymore. Staff Sergeant Pothkin’s been using it to train the new mechanics and he’s worked his usual magic to get it flyable again. Of course the old gals obsolete, and seen its best days. I’d certainly not like to stand it up against Foncke’s SPAD, mind you, but there it is. If Foncke here will take the responsibility for losing a prisoner I don’t see why not. If you want it, Brechlin, I’m agreeable.”
“It would be my honor, sir.”
“Excellent!” cried Foncke, slapping Brechlin on the shoulder with his flying gloves. “You’ve pluck, for a Hun, Brechlin. I shall enjoy shooting you down again!”
Brechlin smiled, “Captain Foncke, you are a braggart and a boor. I must admit, however, there is no pressing need to put yourself at peril. Your opinion of yourself is quite enough to satisfy you, and yet you will undertake this combat. That says something about courage, at the least. I shall not, I think, name you a coward.”
“A grudging but transparent admission of inferiority, Brechlin. So much the better. Shall we about it?”
The party quit the hut and proceeded to the field where the planes were parked. Foncke’s stout SPAD waited alongside the British Camels. The old Sopwith Pup which Brechlin was to fly had to be brought out of the hangar. It was streaked with oil and age, but the docile old veteran seemed fit enough. The Major was somewhat concerned that the combat of two aircraft sporting British and French insignia might cause undue consternation, as the front in this sector bordered the French and British areas of responsibility. United as they were against the Hun, there were age old arguments between the allies, and he wanted no part in furthering them. He instructed the mechanics to put a field of white paint over the British insignias, and then add a hasty black cross. They also painted over the red, white, and blue rudder. As a sign of respect, the Brits gave it a mix of blue and red, and so Brechlin had his purple tail. The process took but fifteen minutes and though the crosses turned out rather grey the point was taken.
Brechlin saluted, and thanked the Major and his men for their sportsmanship and courtesy. “I think this war is much older than us Major, and that is unfortunate. Glory should not be bought by the bad blood of our ancestors. Life is difficult enough without throwing old arguments into the fire. I wish you all the best. If ever we run across each other in the sky again may it be a good fight, and a fair one.”
The Major saluted and shook the German’s hand.
Brechlin climbed into the cockpit, but Flight Officer Pigman approached him. “Leutnant Brechlin, it wouldn’t be right for you to fly without this.” He held out the German’s Blue Max.
Brechlin smiled and took back the medal, putting it back around his neck. “I take it from my conqueror! Maybe we shall meet again in better times, Pigman. Preferably after the war. Then I can tell your children how you brought down your first Hun!”
A mechanic cleared the propeller, priming the engine, and Brechlin started the motor. Alongside, Foncke’s SPAD sprang to life. The British audience drew away from two aircraft and the machines bounded down the field. Brechlin’s Pup got airborne first, being the lighter of the two, but he waited, pacing the faster SPAD until it finally joined him in the air. The planes climbed for several hundred meters, side by side, then Foncke pointed back towards the airfield. The Frenchman wanted an audience. Brechlin nodded and waved, turning to his left. Foncke turned to his right and the combatants separated by about two hundred meters. They came abeam the British aerodrome on opposite sides at three hundred meters of altitude. The Frenchman waggled his wings and turned towards Brechlin.
The German ace got the feel of the Pup quickly. Having fought against it he knew the plane to be light and quick, if underpowered, but it was far more friendly to the pilot than he could have hoped. Unlike its more deadly cousin the Pup had no treacherous tendencies. It was docile, more like a sport plane than a weapon, but that was also its greatest advantage. Brechlin could never match the speed or ruggedness of Foncke’s SPAD, but he could out-turn it. He rolled into the aerodrome, heading straight for Foncke.
Instantly the two closed. Brechlin was cautious, and fully aware that the SPAD’s twin guns overmatched his one. A head on pass was much more to Foncke’s liking than his own, so he danced the Pup around to frustrate the Frenchman’s aim, and contented himself with squeezing off a few cursory rounds. Foncke fired two short bursts in response, but though the tracers came close they did not hit. In a flash they passed. Brecklin pulled up and around, the Pup turning full about in scarcely a hundred meters. The Frenchman was no beginner. He zoomed on by in a lazy climbing turn, fully aware that the Pup couldn’t follow. Brechlin followed the SPAD with his nose, climbing the Pup as he could, but Foncke gained altitude at will. With its powerful Hispanio-Suiza engine the SPAD could separate itself from the fight allowing Foncke to prepare for each pass on the Pup. It was not a classic dogfight, but it was the intelligent fight.
Foncke forced Brechlin on the defensive; he wasn’t fool enough to try and turn his speedy but heavy SPAD with the nimble Pup. Still, the German was neither surprised or unprepared. He’d fought the same fight against this aircraft in his Albatross. While the Albatross fighters were not as speedy as the SPAD the principle was the same, and having flown from the other side of the fight he knew how best to make life miserable for his French counterpart. He turned his back on the SPAD and headed towards the center of the aerodrome.
Foncke instantly dove on the Pup, but before he got within range Brechlin was turning into him forcing the SPAD into a turn and foiling the high speed pass. The trick was to bait the faster aircraft close and then make him maneuver, thereby bleeding off his speed and making him vulnerable. The patient pilot would break off the attack, but eventually he’d be forced to either close the fight or abandoning it altogether. This was no different despite Foncke’s cavalier manner.
Foncke made half a dozen abortive passes on the Pup, each time being forced into a high angle shot with the Pup ready to pounce on him. Each time he elected to abort the pass. For ten long minutes not a shot was fired. The fight was taking on a routine, and becoming a stalemate. Brechlin couldn’t run in his slower aircraft, but Foncke refused to come to close quarters. The frustration of the Frenchman was fed by another bit of subtle baiting by the German. By design or fortune the center of the fight began on the west end of the aerodrome, but as the fight wore on it gradually drifted east, and towards the German lines. The Frenchman saw his quarry escaping, so on his next passes he relied on his marksmanship and took difficult shots at the Pup. The bursts from the SPAD were well aimed, and succeeded in putting a dozen holes in the fabric of the Pups wing, but Foncke suffered for it. At his slower speed and with the extra few moments to align his foe Brechlin made his single gun apparent. He stitched a neat row of holes along the SPAD’s upper wing on the first pass, and another row uncomfortably close to the cockpit on the second. Each time Foncke broke off the pass violently, extricating himself from the sights of the Pup with a high speed dive.
Finally, it seemed, the Frenchman had enough and threw caution to the wind. He dove into the fight with the sole purpose of getting on the Pups tail and staying there. This was Brechlin’s fight now, and he flew it just as he would in his triplane. He cut off every thrust by Foncke placing himself dangerously close to the Frenchman’s tail again and again. He held his fire, though, for a certain shot. SPAD’s were incredibly tough planes, and he had limited firepower with the single gun. Foncke didn’t panic, using his powerful SPAD to out climb the Pup and retournament for firing passes, but try as he might he couldn’t draw a bead on the Pup.
Brechlin followed Foncke’s every gyration, using the Pup’s nimbleness to cut off turns both vertical and horizontal. He was careful, but with each turn or flip he closed with a better angle. Finally he had a window of several seconds where Foncke was committed to turn or present his tail. There was no where for the Frenchman to go. Brechlin fired. The bullets ripped through the fabric of the upper wing and disappeared into the aluminum cowling. He caught the encouraging splash of sparks: bullets encountering the metal of the engine block. Then much to Klaus’s amazement the stuttering of his gun stopped.
#
On the ground the British spectators had enjoyed the show. The German’s display of prowess and patience was impressive. Their universal dislike of Foncke made it all the more enjoyable to watch. The French ace was good, very good, but he was outclassed at every turn by his German counterpart. When Brechlin set the SPAD up for the kill the Major voiced the general opinion that it would be capital if Foncke survived, if only for the opportunity to needle him over the encounter for the remainder of the war. Then Brechlin stopped firing. A look of surprise clouded the English airman, and again the Major uttered the general opinion.
“Now why on earth did he do that?”
The answer was immediately obvious. The Pup stayed tight on the SPAD’s tail, but now it trembled as it flew. Brechlin could be seen standing half up in his seat pounding on his gun with his gloved fist. The temperamental weapon had jammed, an all too frequent occurrence, but one which could not have occured at a worse time.
“Let him go, Foncke, he’s beaten you,” the Major growled, chewing on the stem of his pipe.
The French ace obviously had other ideas. Realizing his adversaries handicap he leveled his wings, no longer concerned about the Pup being on his tail, and dove the SPAD. The stout machine swiftly outpaced the Pup and then pulled up and around for a pass. Guns rattling Foncke swooped down on the defenseless Pup. The tables were turned.
Completely helpless, Brechlin could only hope to avoid the SPAD’s bullets. As the British watched, the German danced the Pup about making it as difficult a target as possible while Foncke made passes on him. He couldn’t put himself behind he SPAD, the French scout was simply too fast for him. The only recourse was to work his way east, but Foncke knew this as well and worked to cut him off. After five minutes, Brechlin had still not cleared his gun. After yet another pass he leveled his wings and began to climb.
“What the devil is he doing now?” was the outstanding question.
“Doesn’t much matter does it? Foncke’s got him now. Not bloody sporting, but there it is.”
#
Klaus Brechlin was also wondering just what he was doing. Still, he kept the nose of the Pup pointing skyward until the wings began to shudder. He eased the stick back out of the stall, but kept his climb just short of it. It wouldn’t be the easiest shot for Foncke, even though the SPAD could out climb the Pup. There was only one reasonable way at him and even as Brechlin fumbled with the flare cartridge Foncke followed it. The Frenchman watched the Pup from a distance for a moment, and then climbed up the Pup’s tail. The SPAD was the heavier of the two aircraft by far and though it could out climb the Pup it couldn’t hang in the air at so slow an airspeed. Foncke would have a single burst at the Pup before the SPAD would overshoot or be too slow to fly, so he waited.
Brechlin expected Foncke’s patience. The Frenchman had him, but even as he climbed up his tail the German kicked the rudder and stirred his stick, subtly altering the Pup’s path. He didn’t have much to work with. The Pup was sluggish at this slow speed, and if he over controlled he’d stall the little plane out. Then he would be a sitting duck. As it was he kept the crate right on the edge of the buffet, but climbing. He wobbled around just enough for Foncke to hold his shot. The Frenchman would have to close to point blank range to be sure of him. Fifty meters. Forty meters. Thirty-five. He could feel the sweat popping from his brow in nervous beads. He took the stick in his left hand and turned about. Twenty-five meters. He could read Foncke’s smile. Twenty meters. Fifteen meters. He could see the grills on the big SPAD radiator. Ten meters. Foncke nodded and smiled, showing a flash of yellow teeth. At that instant Brechlin whipped the flare pistol out and fired. A flash of sparks erupted from the muzzle. The white hot flare shot past the tail of the Pup and buried itself in the SPAD’s radiator only seven meters back.
An expression of complete shock drained Foncke’s face to an alabaster white. A split second he froze, but then fired his guns in anger. His tracers swept through clear air as Brechlin immediately hauled the stick full aft and kicked the rudder hard over. The Pup rose above the SPAD and stalled out. Foncke overshot the Pup harmlessly, missing the British plane by a scant few meters. Brechlin dropped away to Foncke’s right, and the Frenchman rolled to follow.
#
The French ace was beside himself with fury. How dare he! Brechlin would not get away so easily! The SPAD quickly gained on the falling Pup, but Foncke’s vision was cut by thick mists, as if he were going through a cloud. He puckered his brows, determined not to let the Pup out of his sight. He had every intention of finishing Brechlin off once and for all. No shooting to disable, though, there would be no mercy—he wanted blood.
It was funny, though, the cloud was getting thicker and it was strangely warm. The scent of hot oil was what snapped him out of it. Foncke finally glanced down to see that he was not flying through a cloud, but trailing a cloud of steam. Brechlin’s flare had punctured his radiator. Without the water to cool that huge engine the block was getting dangerously hot. There was nothing for it. Foncke throttled back to idle and set his glide for the British aerodrome.
#
Down below the British airman watched Foncke’s discomfiture with unrestrained glee. To see the gloating ace so thoroughly trounced in skill and chivalry made an unhappy war, for the moment, almost bearable. They could temporarily forget that the hun was their enemy. It was not so fantastic that they could do so. They’d been wrestling with Richtofen’s Flying Circus for so long that they knew their planes and pilots by name, reputation, paint scheme, and tactics. There was a familiarity on both sides coupled with tremendous respect and that blunted the edge of hatred. There were losses, which always strained the emotions, but the losses were on both sides. As long as the fight was a good one and a fair one what more could be asked or expected?
As the SPAD glided into the field the Pup trailed on its left wing. The Major puffed his pipe with great contentment, awaiting the obligitory greeting. His adjutant asked whether or not a sortie should be generated to go get Brechlin. The Major laughed, answering to the negative. Brechlin was Foncke’s prisoner. Let the Captain go an get him if he so wished.
“Besides, do any of you really want to tangle with both the Brechlin brother’s?” The Major asked, pointing with the stem of his pipe to a garish triplane which now appeared behind the Pup. The Fokker had a red dragon snaking the length of the fuselage, and purple wings trimmed with gold. There was no mistaking Klaus’ brother Thor, another ace with a somewhere around forty kills to his credit. “No gentleman, I think we’ll let the Brechlin’s have their day, and be satisfied with Foncke’s disgrace. That should be quite enough I think.”
“There’s only the one, Major, with the Pup’s guns jammed.”
“Oh come now! Don’t you know Brechlin has two more flares?” the Major laughed. Still chuckling the Major ordered his car to take him out to where the SPAD was now rolling to a stop. The fliers all piled on in a heap, each and every one eager to greet Foncke after his defeat.
#
Thor Brechlin escorted Klaus back to Cappy, and there enjoyed a detailed description of his brother’s day. Baron Von Richtofen, at once concerned that he might lose two of his best pilot’s in one day, took Brechlin’s combat report affably. The Baron himself poured a round of cognac. Handing them the drinks he briefly admonished the brothers.
“You have both of you flaunted the consideration of fortune this day. You, Klaus, in your unwarranted pursuit of enemy aeroplanes behind their lines. You, Thor, in your pursuit of your brother. Each of those acts of reckless disregard could have cost the Fatherland, and myself, dearly. You don’t have to demonstrate your bravery to me, gentlemen. I know it well enough. I value you too well to watch you put yourself in undue peril. If you continue to fly in such a manner I shall have no choice but to assign you to my own patrols, where I can better keep an eye on you. That’s right, there will be no more of your Brechlin and Brechlin patrols. Consider yourselves warned, gentlemen.
“There. Now, that that’s over with shall we drink to your adventure? Cheers, gentlemen! Klaus, I congratulate you. It was a wonderful victory. Especially the manner in which you accomplished it. I’ve heard and seen many strange things in this war, but yours is worth remembering. I’m afraid it’ll be hard to confirm, however, seeing as it was so far behind the lines. That Thor didn’t see your shooting doesn’t help, but we’ll submit it. Maybe an observer in a balloon can confirm it. The "fee" shouldn’t be too difficult to count. For the time being from earlier in the day has already been confirmed. You are stuck at thirty-nine then.”
The three officers were just finishing their cognac when the Squadron Adjutant walked in. He was carrying a small rolled up piece of canvas. The paint was red, white, and blue.
“Excuse me, Herr Rittmeister, but a couple of British Camels just buzzed the aerodrome. They didn’t fire, but they dropped this.”
Richthofen took the canvass and spread it on his desk for all to see. It was a French tricolor with the aircraft serial number. Scrawled across the paint was a note signed by Major Wilkes-Williams of the Royal Flying Corps. It read, "1353 hours, 20 April 1918. Leutnant Klaus Brechlin shot down Captain Rene Foncke over Morlancourt aerodrome, France. The victory was witnessed by myself and thirteen members of Squadron 23."
Around the edges of the tricolor were the signatures of the British squadron.
“Well, well, that’s awfully polite of the Brits. Congratulations Brechlin. That’s splendid. Foncke for forty!”
“Ah, there is my prisoner!” it said in English, laced with a heavy French accent. The Englishmen turned in surprise at the rudeness of the interruption and looked with irritation and profound dislike at the author. A French officer, a flier by the wings on his chest, with porridge pot hat and manicured mustache entered the hut. He smiled at the assemblage and added, “It is so nice of you to detain my victim for me. I shall be happy to take him off your hands and deliver him to a more suitable situation.”
“Back from leave to claim more of our kills, eh, Captain Foncke?” the Major asked, his smooth delivery roughened a bit. “I’m afraid you’ve overstepped your bounds this time. I’ve a whole squadron of witnesses to Flight Officer Pigman’s victory. Confirmed, no less, by the German aviator himself.”
“I am not surprised our Hun foe had you fooled, Major,” the Frenchman told him. “This one especially. I have been hunting the Brechlins for quite some time. Now I have one of them. No doubt he played dead after your Flight Officer got close, but he was on his way back to his own lines when I caught him. Almost he saved himself, but I am too good a marksman. He ducked at the last moment, but too late. I placed a dozen rounds in his petrol tank so precisely that it was as if I put them there with my own hands. The resultant fire, of course, forced him to land, and so there it is. I do not discredit your valiant efforts, Major, but what I see I hit, and what I hit I bring down. It is as simple as that.”
There was a rising hubbub of angry voices countering Foncke’s claim. All had seen Pigman’s rounds hit Brechlin’s Fokker, and two of the pilot’s had seen smoke and flame trailing from the German aircraft as it began its plunge to the ground. The Major held up his hand for silence, and asked Brechlin if he might wish to clarify the situation.
“It’s an unusual request, I know, Leutnant Brechlin, but as a fellow combat flier I’m certain you can empathize with the situation.”
“Ah yes, Leutnant Klaus Brechlin, what a glorious fortieth victory for me. Yes, with the five I had this morning and afternoon you give me an even forty! A sextet, how marvelous!”
“Excuse me, Captain, but your official count is something like twenty-one, isn’t it?” the Major pointed out venomously.
“It is far lower than my actual score, Major. Military snafus, if you like. Yet my five prior to this have already been confirmed. Leutnant Brechlin is number six, which I’m certain is a record.”
“Not by our count,” the Major informed Foncke.
“Nor by mine,” Brechlin told them, and he related the entirety of his experience with the interloping French SPAD. The account made the British officers even more surly, but it did nothing to dissuade Foncke’s confidence in his claim.
“I’m certain when you realized the hopelessness of your plight you became unnerved. Such is to be expected. You should be rather pleased to have met your match in me and not at the hands of an unknown pup. It is no dishonor to be vanquished by your betters, Brechlin.”
“You are no Gunmeyer,” Brechlin told him.
“I am his better. I took the standard when he fell, but I would have taken it nonetheless.”
“You cannot bear his standard, or that of your fellow countrymen. They would not have such a craven coward in their fold! Baron Von Richtofen would not allow you to fly in his squadron, on his wing, or in his service!”
The hut went silent.
“I would watch your words if I were you, Brechlin. You are not amongst friends.”
“Perhaps not, but I am with honorable foes.”
“Not for long,” Foncke told him as he handed the Major a written order. “You see the French Command in this sector has already approved my claim, with the concurrance of the British. It is all quite proper and official I assure you. You are, therefore, my prisoner and subject to French incarceration. You will enjoy our prisoner of war camps much more than the British camps I am sure. Especially, after I put in a good word for you. So you see it would be better for you to take great care with what you say.”
The Major took a close look at the document and grudgingly accepted it. “The French are desperate for heroes after Verdun. With Gunmeyer dead and Nunguesser in the hospital again Captain Foncke is more than willing to put himself forward. I’m sorry Pigman. He’s taken your claim. I’m sorry for you too, Brechlin.”
Brechlin shrugged. “It’s enough to know the truth of the matter. Captain Foncke could never have brought me down in a fair fight, or an unfair one for that matter.”
Foncke took the orders from the Major and jovially slapped them on the German’s chest. “That has the audacity of a challenge! Well, well does our Hun match the bravery of his words, or do you speak them only from the cover of an unarmed prisoner of war?”
“If Flight Officer Pigman’s aim was not so much the better of yours we could find out.”
“Oh this is too intriguing! Why not twice in a day? I’ve not yet scored a seven! It would be truly marvelous, would it not? Could not the Major aid me in this matter? Come now, in the name of French chivalry have you not a plane you are willing to sacrifice?”
“Captain Foncke be serious, I can’t give this man an aeroplane! Although he is our guest he is also a prisoner of war. There would be serious repercussions should I do any such thing.”
“Remember, my dear Major, you are on French soil and Leutnant Brechlin is my prisoner. Therefore, he is my responsibility. I shall have to obtain either a lorry and some troops from you as an escort, or an aeroplane. I myself flew here. The decision is yours, but it would be in better standing with your vaunted image of the English sportsman to accede to my request.”
“I don’t have any problem with your fighting Brechlin here, Captain Foncke, but I don’t have a Camel to spare.”
“We do have the old Pup, Major,” Flight Officer Pigman offered.
“True. Etheridge here cracked it up a few months back. I wrote it off as a total loss so its not officially on the books anymore. Staff Sergeant Pothkin’s been using it to train the new mechanics and he’s worked his usual magic to get it flyable again. Of course the old gals obsolete, and seen its best days. I’d certainly not like to stand it up against Foncke’s SPAD, mind you, but there it is. If Foncke here will take the responsibility for losing a prisoner I don’t see why not. If you want it, Brechlin, I’m agreeable.”
“It would be my honor, sir.”
“Excellent!” cried Foncke, slapping Brechlin on the shoulder with his flying gloves. “You’ve pluck, for a Hun, Brechlin. I shall enjoy shooting you down again!”
Brechlin smiled, “Captain Foncke, you are a braggart and a boor. I must admit, however, there is no pressing need to put yourself at peril. Your opinion of yourself is quite enough to satisfy you, and yet you will undertake this combat. That says something about courage, at the least. I shall not, I think, name you a coward.”
“A grudging but transparent admission of inferiority, Brechlin. So much the better. Shall we about it?”
The party quit the hut and proceeded to the field where the planes were parked. Foncke’s stout SPAD waited alongside the British Camels. The old Sopwith Pup which Brechlin was to fly had to be brought out of the hangar. It was streaked with oil and age, but the docile old veteran seemed fit enough. The Major was somewhat concerned that the combat of two aircraft sporting British and French insignia might cause undue consternation, as the front in this sector bordered the French and British areas of responsibility. United as they were against the Hun, there were age old arguments between the allies, and he wanted no part in furthering them. He instructed the mechanics to put a field of white paint over the British insignias, and then add a hasty black cross. They also painted over the red, white, and blue rudder. As a sign of respect, the Brits gave it a mix of blue and red, and so Brechlin had his purple tail. The process took but fifteen minutes and though the crosses turned out rather grey the point was taken.
Brechlin saluted, and thanked the Major and his men for their sportsmanship and courtesy. “I think this war is much older than us Major, and that is unfortunate. Glory should not be bought by the bad blood of our ancestors. Life is difficult enough without throwing old arguments into the fire. I wish you all the best. If ever we run across each other in the sky again may it be a good fight, and a fair one.”
The Major saluted and shook the German’s hand.
Brechlin climbed into the cockpit, but Flight Officer Pigman approached him. “Leutnant Brechlin, it wouldn’t be right for you to fly without this.” He held out the German’s Blue Max.
Brechlin smiled and took back the medal, putting it back around his neck. “I take it from my conqueror! Maybe we shall meet again in better times, Pigman. Preferably after the war. Then I can tell your children how you brought down your first Hun!”
A mechanic cleared the propeller, priming the engine, and Brechlin started the motor. Alongside, Foncke’s SPAD sprang to life. The British audience drew away from two aircraft and the machines bounded down the field. Brechlin’s Pup got airborne first, being the lighter of the two, but he waited, pacing the faster SPAD until it finally joined him in the air. The planes climbed for several hundred meters, side by side, then Foncke pointed back towards the airfield. The Frenchman wanted an audience. Brechlin nodded and waved, turning to his left. Foncke turned to his right and the combatants separated by about two hundred meters. They came abeam the British aerodrome on opposite sides at three hundred meters of altitude. The Frenchman waggled his wings and turned towards Brechlin.
The German ace got the feel of the Pup quickly. Having fought against it he knew the plane to be light and quick, if underpowered, but it was far more friendly to the pilot than he could have hoped. Unlike its more deadly cousin the Pup had no treacherous tendencies. It was docile, more like a sport plane than a weapon, but that was also its greatest advantage. Brechlin could never match the speed or ruggedness of Foncke’s SPAD, but he could out-turn it. He rolled into the aerodrome, heading straight for Foncke.
Instantly the two closed. Brechlin was cautious, and fully aware that the SPAD’s twin guns overmatched his one. A head on pass was much more to Foncke’s liking than his own, so he danced the Pup around to frustrate the Frenchman’s aim, and contented himself with squeezing off a few cursory rounds. Foncke fired two short bursts in response, but though the tracers came close they did not hit. In a flash they passed. Brecklin pulled up and around, the Pup turning full about in scarcely a hundred meters. The Frenchman was no beginner. He zoomed on by in a lazy climbing turn, fully aware that the Pup couldn’t follow. Brechlin followed the SPAD with his nose, climbing the Pup as he could, but Foncke gained altitude at will. With its powerful Hispanio-Suiza engine the SPAD could separate itself from the fight allowing Foncke to prepare for each pass on the Pup. It was not a classic dogfight, but it was the intelligent fight.
Foncke forced Brechlin on the defensive; he wasn’t fool enough to try and turn his speedy but heavy SPAD with the nimble Pup. Still, the German was neither surprised or unprepared. He’d fought the same fight against this aircraft in his Albatross. While the Albatross fighters were not as speedy as the SPAD the principle was the same, and having flown from the other side of the fight he knew how best to make life miserable for his French counterpart. He turned his back on the SPAD and headed towards the center of the aerodrome.
Foncke instantly dove on the Pup, but before he got within range Brechlin was turning into him forcing the SPAD into a turn and foiling the high speed pass. The trick was to bait the faster aircraft close and then make him maneuver, thereby bleeding off his speed and making him vulnerable. The patient pilot would break off the attack, but eventually he’d be forced to either close the fight or abandoning it altogether. This was no different despite Foncke’s cavalier manner.
Foncke made half a dozen abortive passes on the Pup, each time being forced into a high angle shot with the Pup ready to pounce on him. Each time he elected to abort the pass. For ten long minutes not a shot was fired. The fight was taking on a routine, and becoming a stalemate. Brechlin couldn’t run in his slower aircraft, but Foncke refused to come to close quarters. The frustration of the Frenchman was fed by another bit of subtle baiting by the German. By design or fortune the center of the fight began on the west end of the aerodrome, but as the fight wore on it gradually drifted east, and towards the German lines. The Frenchman saw his quarry escaping, so on his next passes he relied on his marksmanship and took difficult shots at the Pup. The bursts from the SPAD were well aimed, and succeeded in putting a dozen holes in the fabric of the Pups wing, but Foncke suffered for it. At his slower speed and with the extra few moments to align his foe Brechlin made his single gun apparent. He stitched a neat row of holes along the SPAD’s upper wing on the first pass, and another row uncomfortably close to the cockpit on the second. Each time Foncke broke off the pass violently, extricating himself from the sights of the Pup with a high speed dive.
Finally, it seemed, the Frenchman had enough and threw caution to the wind. He dove into the fight with the sole purpose of getting on the Pups tail and staying there. This was Brechlin’s fight now, and he flew it just as he would in his triplane. He cut off every thrust by Foncke placing himself dangerously close to the Frenchman’s tail again and again. He held his fire, though, for a certain shot. SPAD’s were incredibly tough planes, and he had limited firepower with the single gun. Foncke didn’t panic, using his powerful SPAD to out climb the Pup and retournament for firing passes, but try as he might he couldn’t draw a bead on the Pup.
Brechlin followed Foncke’s every gyration, using the Pup’s nimbleness to cut off turns both vertical and horizontal. He was careful, but with each turn or flip he closed with a better angle. Finally he had a window of several seconds where Foncke was committed to turn or present his tail. There was no where for the Frenchman to go. Brechlin fired. The bullets ripped through the fabric of the upper wing and disappeared into the aluminum cowling. He caught the encouraging splash of sparks: bullets encountering the metal of the engine block. Then much to Klaus’s amazement the stuttering of his gun stopped.
#
On the ground the British spectators had enjoyed the show. The German’s display of prowess and patience was impressive. Their universal dislike of Foncke made it all the more enjoyable to watch. The French ace was good, very good, but he was outclassed at every turn by his German counterpart. When Brechlin set the SPAD up for the kill the Major voiced the general opinion that it would be capital if Foncke survived, if only for the opportunity to needle him over the encounter for the remainder of the war. Then Brechlin stopped firing. A look of surprise clouded the English airman, and again the Major uttered the general opinion.
“Now why on earth did he do that?”
The answer was immediately obvious. The Pup stayed tight on the SPAD’s tail, but now it trembled as it flew. Brechlin could be seen standing half up in his seat pounding on his gun with his gloved fist. The temperamental weapon had jammed, an all too frequent occurrence, but one which could not have occured at a worse time.
“Let him go, Foncke, he’s beaten you,” the Major growled, chewing on the stem of his pipe.
The French ace obviously had other ideas. Realizing his adversaries handicap he leveled his wings, no longer concerned about the Pup being on his tail, and dove the SPAD. The stout machine swiftly outpaced the Pup and then pulled up and around for a pass. Guns rattling Foncke swooped down on the defenseless Pup. The tables were turned.
Completely helpless, Brechlin could only hope to avoid the SPAD’s bullets. As the British watched, the German danced the Pup about making it as difficult a target as possible while Foncke made passes on him. He couldn’t put himself behind he SPAD, the French scout was simply too fast for him. The only recourse was to work his way east, but Foncke knew this as well and worked to cut him off. After five minutes, Brechlin had still not cleared his gun. After yet another pass he leveled his wings and began to climb.
“What the devil is he doing now?” was the outstanding question.
“Doesn’t much matter does it? Foncke’s got him now. Not bloody sporting, but there it is.”
#
Klaus Brechlin was also wondering just what he was doing. Still, he kept the nose of the Pup pointing skyward until the wings began to shudder. He eased the stick back out of the stall, but kept his climb just short of it. It wouldn’t be the easiest shot for Foncke, even though the SPAD could out climb the Pup. There was only one reasonable way at him and even as Brechlin fumbled with the flare cartridge Foncke followed it. The Frenchman watched the Pup from a distance for a moment, and then climbed up the Pup’s tail. The SPAD was the heavier of the two aircraft by far and though it could out climb the Pup it couldn’t hang in the air at so slow an airspeed. Foncke would have a single burst at the Pup before the SPAD would overshoot or be too slow to fly, so he waited.
Brechlin expected Foncke’s patience. The Frenchman had him, but even as he climbed up his tail the German kicked the rudder and stirred his stick, subtly altering the Pup’s path. He didn’t have much to work with. The Pup was sluggish at this slow speed, and if he over controlled he’d stall the little plane out. Then he would be a sitting duck. As it was he kept the crate right on the edge of the buffet, but climbing. He wobbled around just enough for Foncke to hold his shot. The Frenchman would have to close to point blank range to be sure of him. Fifty meters. Forty meters. Thirty-five. He could feel the sweat popping from his brow in nervous beads. He took the stick in his left hand and turned about. Twenty-five meters. He could read Foncke’s smile. Twenty meters. Fifteen meters. He could see the grills on the big SPAD radiator. Ten meters. Foncke nodded and smiled, showing a flash of yellow teeth. At that instant Brechlin whipped the flare pistol out and fired. A flash of sparks erupted from the muzzle. The white hot flare shot past the tail of the Pup and buried itself in the SPAD’s radiator only seven meters back.
An expression of complete shock drained Foncke’s face to an alabaster white. A split second he froze, but then fired his guns in anger. His tracers swept through clear air as Brechlin immediately hauled the stick full aft and kicked the rudder hard over. The Pup rose above the SPAD and stalled out. Foncke overshot the Pup harmlessly, missing the British plane by a scant few meters. Brechlin dropped away to Foncke’s right, and the Frenchman rolled to follow.
#
The French ace was beside himself with fury. How dare he! Brechlin would not get away so easily! The SPAD quickly gained on the falling Pup, but Foncke’s vision was cut by thick mists, as if he were going through a cloud. He puckered his brows, determined not to let the Pup out of his sight. He had every intention of finishing Brechlin off once and for all. No shooting to disable, though, there would be no mercy—he wanted blood.
It was funny, though, the cloud was getting thicker and it was strangely warm. The scent of hot oil was what snapped him out of it. Foncke finally glanced down to see that he was not flying through a cloud, but trailing a cloud of steam. Brechlin’s flare had punctured his radiator. Without the water to cool that huge engine the block was getting dangerously hot. There was nothing for it. Foncke throttled back to idle and set his glide for the British aerodrome.
#
Down below the British airman watched Foncke’s discomfiture with unrestrained glee. To see the gloating ace so thoroughly trounced in skill and chivalry made an unhappy war, for the moment, almost bearable. They could temporarily forget that the hun was their enemy. It was not so fantastic that they could do so. They’d been wrestling with Richtofen’s Flying Circus for so long that they knew their planes and pilots by name, reputation, paint scheme, and tactics. There was a familiarity on both sides coupled with tremendous respect and that blunted the edge of hatred. There were losses, which always strained the emotions, but the losses were on both sides. As long as the fight was a good one and a fair one what more could be asked or expected?
As the SPAD glided into the field the Pup trailed on its left wing. The Major puffed his pipe with great contentment, awaiting the obligitory greeting. His adjutant asked whether or not a sortie should be generated to go get Brechlin. The Major laughed, answering to the negative. Brechlin was Foncke’s prisoner. Let the Captain go an get him if he so wished.
“Besides, do any of you really want to tangle with both the Brechlin brother’s?” The Major asked, pointing with the stem of his pipe to a garish triplane which now appeared behind the Pup. The Fokker had a red dragon snaking the length of the fuselage, and purple wings trimmed with gold. There was no mistaking Klaus’ brother Thor, another ace with a somewhere around forty kills to his credit. “No gentleman, I think we’ll let the Brechlin’s have their day, and be satisfied with Foncke’s disgrace. That should be quite enough I think.”
“There’s only the one, Major, with the Pup’s guns jammed.”
“Oh come now! Don’t you know Brechlin has two more flares?” the Major laughed. Still chuckling the Major ordered his car to take him out to where the SPAD was now rolling to a stop. The fliers all piled on in a heap, each and every one eager to greet Foncke after his defeat.
#
Thor Brechlin escorted Klaus back to Cappy, and there enjoyed a detailed description of his brother’s day. Baron Von Richtofen, at once concerned that he might lose two of his best pilot’s in one day, took Brechlin’s combat report affably. The Baron himself poured a round of cognac. Handing them the drinks he briefly admonished the brothers.
“You have both of you flaunted the consideration of fortune this day. You, Klaus, in your unwarranted pursuit of enemy aeroplanes behind their lines. You, Thor, in your pursuit of your brother. Each of those acts of reckless disregard could have cost the Fatherland, and myself, dearly. You don’t have to demonstrate your bravery to me, gentlemen. I know it well enough. I value you too well to watch you put yourself in undue peril. If you continue to fly in such a manner I shall have no choice but to assign you to my own patrols, where I can better keep an eye on you. That’s right, there will be no more of your Brechlin and Brechlin patrols. Consider yourselves warned, gentlemen.
“There. Now, that that’s over with shall we drink to your adventure? Cheers, gentlemen! Klaus, I congratulate you. It was a wonderful victory. Especially the manner in which you accomplished it. I’ve heard and seen many strange things in this war, but yours is worth remembering. I’m afraid it’ll be hard to confirm, however, seeing as it was so far behind the lines. That Thor didn’t see your shooting doesn’t help, but we’ll submit it. Maybe an observer in a balloon can confirm it. The "fee" shouldn’t be too difficult to count. For the time being from earlier in the day has already been confirmed. You are stuck at thirty-nine then.”
The three officers were just finishing their cognac when the Squadron Adjutant walked in. He was carrying a small rolled up piece of canvas. The paint was red, white, and blue.
“Excuse me, Herr Rittmeister, but a couple of British Camels just buzzed the aerodrome. They didn’t fire, but they dropped this.”
Richthofen took the canvass and spread it on his desk for all to see. It was a French tricolor with the aircraft serial number. Scrawled across the paint was a note signed by Major Wilkes-Williams of the Royal Flying Corps. It read, "1353 hours, 20 April 1918. Leutnant Klaus Brechlin shot down Captain Rene Foncke over Morlancourt aerodrome, France. The victory was witnessed by myself and thirteen members of Squadron 23."
Around the edges of the tricolor were the signatures of the British squadron.
“Well, well, that’s awfully polite of the Brits. Congratulations Brechlin. That’s splendid. Foncke for forty!”
