Winged Warfare (9 page)

Altogether, there were five Huns in the attacking force, against the four of us. We were flying in diamond formation, and the pilot bringing up our rear had seen the Huns just before the attack, but not in time to warn us. Counting the five enemy pilots he wondered which one of us was going to be attacked by two Huns instead of one? The next moment he saw the Germans split up as they dived at us, and he was the unfortunate one to draw the two. It was a lucky thing for the rest of us, taken wholly by surprise, that we each had but a single machine to deal with. Our rear guard was better prepared, and although we all had our troubles, we managed to clear away without injury.

Next day we had rather a dramatic touch. After the morning's work we were sitting at luncheon, and the second course had just been served when a telephone message came through that two enemy machines were at work on the lines. They were directing artillery fire of several hostile batteries on some of our important points. The request came through from the front line to send somebody out at once and drive the undesirables away. Talk about Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo! This had that beaten in every way. We felt like a lot of firemen, and in a very few minutes after we got the message, another pilot and I were out over the trenches. Five minutes later we were engaged in deadly combat with the two enemy machines. They had seen us as we approached. We were hungry, and were anxious to get back to our muttons. So there was no shilly-shallying about the fight it was a case of going in and finishing it in the shortest possible order. So the two of us waded in side by side, opening fire on the rear enemy. With our first burst of fire, it dived on its nose, did a couple of turns as it fell, and finally crashed into a field beside the river. We then turned our attention to Hun number two, but he was a mile away by this time and winging it for home as fast as ever he could. We were willing to waste ten minutes more away from the festive board to have a go at him, but he showed no sign of returning, and we streaked home to our interrupted meal. It had all been very short and sweet, and most successful.

I had now come to the conclusion that to be successful in fighting in the air, two things were required above all others. One was accuracy in shooting, and the second was to use one's head and take no unnecessary risks. Consequently my plans from about this time forward, were to take a minimum of risks, and whenever things looked at all doubtful, or bad, to immediately make my escape, and wait patiently for another opportunity. The patience part in carrying out this campaign was the hardest, but I managed to control myself, and found it much more effective than constantly blundering into danger like a bull in a china shop.

For instance, one day I saw a single enemy scout flying at a tremendous altitude. I climbed up carefully some distance from him, and got between him and the sun, then waiting until he was heading in exactly the opposite direction, I came down with tremendous speed and managed to slip underneath him without being even seen. I could make out each mark on the bottom of his machine as I crept closer and closer. My gun was all ready, but I withheld its fire until I came to the range I wanted—inside of twenty yards. It was rather delicate work flying so close under the swift Hun, but he had no idea that I was in existence, much less sitting right below him. I carefully picked out the exact spot where I knew the pilot was sitting, took careful aim, and fired. Twenty tracer bullets went into that spot. The machine immediately lurched to one side and fell.

I had to quickly skid my machine to one side to avoid being hit by the falling Hun. After he had passed me a little way, I saw him smoking. Then he burst into flames. That pilot never knew what happened to him. Death came to him from nowhere.

Shortly after this, learning by accident that a patrol from another squadron was going across to take photographs, I offered to accompany them as escort, and was accepted. The antiaircraft fire that day was really terrible. I flew well above the photographers and was more or less out of reach of the “Archies,” but the other machines were getting it hammer and tongs. All got through the barrage, however, and we proceeded to get our pictures. Then we headed straight for home. About this time I noticed several of the “little red devils” flying about underneath us, so I watched them carefully, suspecting they were climbing to attack some of the photography machines. I also began to climb so as to be practically out of sight in the blue sky, and I managed to fool them altogether. Two of the devils soon came at one of our machines, and at the same time I dived into them. One of the pair turned away, but I managed to get in a good shot at the second one at thirty yards. He immediately flew out of control and I watched him falling for what seemed to be a long time. I was now down to the level of the photographers and remained with them for the rest of the trip. The “Archies” gave us another hot greeting as we recrossed the lines. I kept dodging about as quickly as I could, for the fire was too close to be pleasant. Shells were bursting everywhere. There was no use turning to the right, for you would stick your nose into two or three exploding shells in that direction. And there was no use turning to the left, for three or four would be bursting there. They seemed to fill every nook and corner of the air. I was greatly tempted to put my engine full out and leave the patrol to get home by itself, but I did not. I stuck with the heavier machines, dodging around them like a young sparrow among a lot of crows.

The photographic machines were badly hit, and three of them had been so damaged they could not be used again. My own machine was hit in several places, and I never looked back upon that volunteer excursion as one of the pleasant experiences in my young life. This was the last fighting I had for two weeks, as the next day I went to England on two weeks leave.

When I left for my leave to England, I was not very keen on going. The excitement of the chase had a tight hold on my heart-strings, and I felt that the only thing I wanted was to stay right at it and fight, and fight and fight in the air. I don't think I was ever happier in my life. It seemed that I had found the one thing I loved above all others. To me it was not a business or a profession, but just a wonderful game. To bring down a machine did not seem to me to be killing a man; it was more as if I was just destroying a mechanical target, with no human being in it. Once or twice the idea that a live man had been piloting the machine would occur and recur to me, and it would worry me a bit. My sleep would be spoiled perhaps for a night. I did not relish the idea even of killing Germans, yet, when in a combat in the air, it seemed more like any other kind of sport, and to shoot down a machine was very much the same as if one were shooting down clay pigeons. One had the great satisfaction of feeling that he had hit the target and brought it down; that one was victorious again.

When I reached England, however, I found I was in a very nervous condition. I could not be still. After a week there, in which I enjoyed myself tremendously, I found I was getting quieter, and realised that my leave was probably doing me a world of good. My last week of leave I enjoyed without stint, every minute seeming better than the one before. To make it still more ideal I did not have the usual dread of going back to France—I was looking forward to it. I realised that this short rest had quieted my nerves, and had left me in a much better state of health, so that when the two weeks were up and the day came for my return I gladly got on the train leaving Charing Cross, and all day looked forward to my return to the squadron. By great luck, I managed to catch an automobile going in my direction from Boulogne, and arrived at the aerodrome the same night I had left London. I felt like a small boy returning home for his holidays. I was plied with questions as to what “Good old England” looked like, what I had done and what was happening in “Blighty,” and in my turn I was full of questions as to what had happened in the squadron while I was away. Many things had; several people had been killed, and quite a number of Hun machines had been shot down by our pilots. A great many exciting and a great many amusing fights in the air were related.

It was typical of the attitude of these comrades of mine that when a man had been in an exceedingly tight corner, and had managed to squeeze out of it, it was later related as a very amusing, not as a very terrible incident, and as the narrator would tell his story the others would shriek with laughter at the tale of how nearly he had been hit and how “scared” he had been. It was such a wonderful way to take life that upon looking back at it I feel that nothing the future can ever hold for me can excel those wonderful days. Face to face with death every day, but always with the best of comrades and the most tried of friends, it has left a wonderful memory with me.

The day after rejoining the squadron, I did my first job at nine o'clock in the morning. I must admit I felt very funny in the machine. I seemed to have lost all “feel” of it and could not turn or fly it properly at all. However, that day I had two jobs, and by the end of the second luckily had run into no exciting episodes.

Then came the reaction. I felt a wonderful thrill at being back in the air again, and handling my beloved Nieuport. It seemed that nothing was dangerous, and that to throw this machine about in the air, was just the best sport that had ever been invented. I remember racing along close to the ground, seeing how close I could make my wing tips come to the sheds and trees without hitting them. It was all just a wonderful thrill, and no thought of peril entered my head. That evening I went up and spent an hour in flying, just for the pure pleasure of it. Life was as sweet as it could be, and I saw the world through rose-coloured glasses.

That night the romance of our life at the front was brought home to me again. We spent the evening after dark standing around a piano, while one of our number played popular songs, the remainder singing in loud and varied keys, going on the principle that if you cannot sing at least you can make a joyful noise.

About nine o'clock a party of ten others arrived from a squadron stationed near us, and we had more music and songs with them. Everybody was happy; flying and fighting had been forgotten for the moment, and war was a thing far, far away. Toward the end of the party we went to the farmyard nearby, appropriated some small pigs only a few months old, and placed them in the room of one of our pilots who was dining out. Then, about eleven o'clock, when he had come back, we went into the next room to listen through the thin partition to his remarks when he entered his pig-filled boudoir. In a small space about ten by six, over fifteen of us were jammed anxiously waiting for the climax of the evening. In the other room the little pigs were grunting away merrily, and it was all we could do to keep from roaring with laughter. It was pitch black, and with the funny little squeals coming through the partition, there would occasionally be a bit of a scamper, for although we at first placed the pigs on the bed, on looking over the partition I saw they were moving around the room in formation, one of their number evidently having assigned himself the position of leader of the pork patrol.

Unfortunately, the episode fell through miserably, as the pigs took up a station near the door, and when the owner of the room returned and opened it he walked across to light his lamp. The pigs, seeing the opening before he had seen them, made a dash and managed to get out, with a great chorus of squealing. They hid under the huts, and it took the rest of us several hours to find them and take them back to their mother.

After going to bed, I was awakened by one of my dogs scampering out of the hut. I listened for a minute and heard voices outside, got up and walked out in my pajamas. It was a perfect moonlight night, without a breath of wind, and bright as could be. Outside two or three others were standing in pajamas, and after asking what was the matter I was told there was a German machine overhead. Listening carefully, I could hear the beat of a Mercedes engine about a mile away. We could not see the Hun but could hear him quite distinctly as he flew past. Then came the explosions as a few bombs were dropped, and then more explosions as the anti-aircraft guns located the moonlight marauder and began to fire. We could see little bursts of flame as the shells exploded high in the air. It was a beautiful show. The light was too bright even to see the stars, but these fierce little bursts of flame dotted the sky first in one spot, then in another, and gradually travelled in a line towards the trenches, as the enemy made in that direction. He got away safely, however, and we returned to bed.

In our home in a beautiful green orchard, our life was full of the most extraordinary contrasts. One minute we were as far removed from the war as if we were in South America, and an hour later we would be fighting for our lives or carrying on in some way directly connected with the mad world struggle. It all added to the lure of life and somehow made the real fighting, when it came, seem less real and tragic.

The second day after my return, I began another three months of strenuous battles. The squadron had been assigned a new kind of work to do, in addition to regular patrol. This lasted throughout a great part of the month of June, and gave us some very strenuous mornings, although the afternoons were generally easier.

My first fight occurred in the early morning, about seven o'clock, when I was leading a patrol. The clouds were very low, being about four thousand feet, the lower part of each cloud having a thin hanging mist about it. This made it possible to fly just in the mist, without being seen at more than two hundred yards.

I had been gazing far into enemy territory, and suddenly saw five enemy scouts dive out of the clouds; then after coming in our direction for a moment or two, dive back into the mist. I thought they were trying to surprise us, and crawled up as close to the clouds as I could, heading in their direction. Suddenly they loomed up just in front of us, and evidently were more surprised than we were. I only managed to get in a short burst, when my machine gun jammed hopelessly, but the remainder of the patrol gave chase to the Huns, as they turned to run and scattered them helter-skelter. One man appeared to be hit, and one of my men went after him in a vertical dive to one thousand feet from the ground, when the enemy suddenly regained control, and darted across his own lines, escaping.

Later in the day I went out by myself, and, flying over Vimy Ridge and Lens, was watching a ground battle taking place there, when suddenly I saw a single scout of the enemy, underneath me. He did not see me, and I dived at him and managed to fall into the much desired position just behind his tail. I opened fire, and my tracer bullets could be seen going all around the pilot's seat. I had considerable speed from my dive, and was going much faster than he was, so whirled past him. Then, to avoid getting him behind me, I “zoomed” up, and after reaching five hundred feet above, made a quick turn to see what had happened. To this day, I have not the faintest idea what happened. My enemy entirely disappeared from view. I looked all around underneath, and everywhere else, but could not see him. Later, I telephoned to the anti-aircraft batteries and infantry stations near the front line trenches, but they could give no information. That particular Hun must have dissolved.

Ten minutes later, I had another fight. I had seen, some distance away, two of the enemy. They were fighting machines, so I reconnoitered carefully, and a little later discovered two more Huns were flying two thousand feet above them. I climbed up, and looked carefully from a distance at these; then climbed a little higher, with the idea of attacking them, when I suddenly saw two more Huns, 3,000 feet above the second pair. It was a layer formation, and a favourite trap of the Huns, their idea being that our machines would come along and attack the lower pair, in which case the middle pair would come down on top of them leaving the highest pair in reserve. This had been tried innumerable times, and had been more or less successful, but, long since, our people had become wise and always watched for anything of that sort. By pure luck, that morning, I saw the top pair, and, flying away off to one side, climbed as fast as I could until two thousand feet above them; then followed along. I was quite certain there was no fourth pair, and also knew that the third pair would be very keen on watching underneath them to see that their comrades were not attacked. It was a case of the trappers trapped; and, successful on this occasion, I was always on the lookout for the same sort of thing after that day, and succeeded in bringing down some of the top-side people on several other occasions.

This day I dived down at the top pair, one of which was flying directly behind the other. I did not touch my trigger until I was fifty yards from him; then opened a stiff fire. This machine, as on the previous time I had used a similar trick, knew nothing of what was coming to him at all. He also probably never knew what hit him, because, slipping to one side, his machine went into a spin and fell completely out of control. I did not wait to attack the other man, as I was underneath him, and by the time he had turned to see what was happening, I was a quarter of a mile away, and going for home as fast as possible. It was the first machine to my credit since my return from England, and I was greatly pleased.

By this time I had become very ambitious, and was hoping to get a large number of machines officially credited to me before I left France. With this object in view, I planned many little expeditions of my own, and, with the use of great patience, I was very successful in one or two.

The next day I was out with my patrol again in the morning, and met six enemy scouts. There were six of us, as well, but, in the earlier part of the “scrap” which immediately followed, my gun, which seemed to be causing me a lot of trouble, again jammed, and I signalled to the others that I had to leave the fight. I dived away, and landed on an aerodrome nearby to correct the jam.

Three quarters of an hour later I was again in the air, but could not find the patrol, so I flew up over Vimy Ridge. There was one of my old friends, a big, fat two-seater, and I went after him with joy in my soul. Three times I managed to get in a burst of fire diving once from straight above, and once from either side, but I did not seem to be able to hit him at all.

Glancing suddenly over my shoulder, I saw two enemy scouts coming to the rescue from above. They had been sitting away up in the blue sky, in order to protect this machine, and, luckily for me, had not seen me sooner. I cleared off, and carefully thought how I was to get my revenge. Nothing in the world but that fat-two seater attracted my attention. I was annoyed at having missed him, after such good chances, and was determined I was at least going to have another good go at him before giving up. The only trouble was the two enemy scouts above, and I did not know how to get rid of them. They had seen me, and probably had their eye on me at the moment.

I flew away, and came back in five minutes. Luck was with me; another one of our machines had flown slightly above the two enemy scouts, who had turned and fled from him. He had chased them, and they had made a detour, evading him. All this I took in at a glance, and saw that they were trying to get back to protect their two-seater comrade, and had no desire to fight, themselves. Seeing my opportunity, as the two-seater did not seem to know that the scouts had temporarily deserted him, I dived at him again, and this time closed up to within fifty yards before opening fire. Then, taking an accurate aim, I pulled the trigger. I can remember to this day how carefully I aimed that time. I was dead behind him, and I picked out the finest point in the pilot's body where I wanted my bullets to hit. The observer in the two-seater ceased firing at me a moment before I opened, and began to work frantically at his gun. It had the jamming habit, too. A few rounds were enough. The machine put its nose down, dived vertically a short distance, then went into an uncontrolled spinning dive, and I watched it as it fell racing down towards the ground, with the engine full on. As is always the case, it seemed to take an age before it reached the ground. Finally it crashed into the centre of a village, striking between two houses.

Ten minutes later I had climbed up and was above the two scouts, so decided to give them at least a scare. I opened fire at long range, and, for a moment, thought I had hit one of them. He went into a spin, but two thousand feet below flattened out and flew away. The other one climbed, and I could not catch him, so turned and flew north.

Another two-seater, who had been flying along the lines, was now three thousand feet above me. I opened fire at him from underneath, at very long range, but, of course, could not hit, the range being too long.

Many exciting fights occurred with the machines doing artillery observation. They were a very difficult proposition. They knew for a certainty they would be attacked, and would fly in threes and fours, or more, going about on their beat all together, and helping their own lines, and at a height of three thousand feet. It made it very difficult for us to attack, as, the height being low, we would have to make a dash across the lines at them, and then back again. Over and over again one would carefully figure out where they would be nearest the lines, then, at that moment, dash across at full speed. The enemy, immediately upon seeing the anti-aircraft shells burst around you, would turn east and fly towards home, going as fast as they could, and at the same time losing height. It meant that to really destroy or damage them, one had to fly ten or twelve miles in to catch them; then they would only be at a height of some five hundred or a thousand feet. This was our task. The anti-aircraft fire was terrific; going in not as bad as coming back, but the moment we turned to come home all the guns in the neighbourhood would open at us, and, if we were low enough, we would also be subjected to the most intense machine-gun fire from the ground.

This did not occur once a week; it was a thing that happened to each one of us three and four times, or even more, in the course of a morning's work, and was the most trying job we had to do. Most of the fights followed the same lines, three or four of us crossing at full speed, zigzagging slightly in our course to upset the aim of the “Archies,” and then following closely the enemy machines, which were all the time directing a steady machine-gun fire at us. Our object was more to frighten them away than really to bring them down. Then would come a quick turn, and a dash back home. This would be very hard to do. One would turn suddenly to the right or left, trying to evade the bursting shells, but they were cracking on all sides. It would seem that one could not possibly get through them, and the thought that one little bit of shell in the engine would put the whole machine out of business, was enough to give anybody nerves. As it was, we were nearly always hit by small fragments, but this was considered nothing, and, of course, no reason for not liking the job. My previous experience in escorting the photography machines had taught me that other people have to stand anti-aircraft fire, as well as ourselves, and for them, being larger and slower, it is a thousand times worse.