I was ordered after my particular balloon and tad climbed to about 5,000 feet before heading for the lines. On my way there I had to pass over one of our own observation balloons. I don’t know what it was that attracted my attention, but looking down I saw what appeared to be two men descending in parachutes. A moment later the balloon below me burst into flames. I saw the enemy machine which had set it on fire engaged with some of ours, but as I had definite orders to proceed straight to the lines and destroy the hostile balloon which had been allotted to me, I was unable to join in the fighting.
Just about this time an amusing incident was in progress at our aerodrome. A Colonel of the Corps was telephoning my squadron commander, informing him that one of our balloons had just been destroyed.
“Well, if it is any consolation, young Bishop, of my squadron, has just gone over to get one of theirs,” replied my commander.
“Good God,” said the Colonel, “I hope he has not made a mistake in the balloon and set ours on fire.”
At this moment I was serenely sailing over the enemy trenches keeping a sharp lookout for some sign of my own balloon. After flying five miles over the lines I discovered it and circled around as a preliminary to diving down upon it. But just then I heard the rattle of machine guns directly behind me and saw bullet holes appear as if by magic in the wings of my machine. I pulled back as if to loop, sending the nose of my machine straight up into the air. As I did so the enemy scout shot by underneath me. I stood on my tail for a moment or two, then let the machine drop back, put her nose down and dived after the Hun, opening fire straight behind him at very close range. He continued to dive away with increasing speed and later was reported to have crashed just under where the combat had taken place. This victory I put down entirely to luck. The man flew directly in line with my gun and it would have been impossible to have missed him.
I proceeded now to dive for the balloon, but having had so much warning, it had been pulled down to the ground. I would have been justified in going home when I saw this, for our orders were not to go under 1,000 feet after the sausages. But I was just a bit peevish with this particular balloon, and to a certain extent my blood was up. So I decided to attack the ungainly monster in its “bed.” I dived straight for it and when about 500 feet from the ground, opened fire. Nothing happened. So I continued to dive and fire rapid bursts until I was only fifty feet above the bag. Still there was no signs of it catching fire. I then turned my machine gun on the balloon crew who were working frantically on the ground. They scattered and ran all about the field. Meantime a “flaming onion” battery was attempting to pelt me with those unsavoury missiles, so I whirled upon them with a burst of twenty rounds or more. One of the onions had flared within a hundred yards of me.
This was all very exciting, but suddenly, with a feeling of faintness, I realised that my engine had failed. I thought that again, as during my first fight, the engine had oiled up from the steep diving I had done. It seemed but a moment before that I was coming down at a speed that must have been nearly 200 miles an hour. But I had lost it all in turning my machine upon the people on the ground.
There was no doubt in my mind this time as to just where I was, and there appeared no alternative but to land and give myself up. Underneath me was a large open field with a single tree in it. I glided down, intending to strike the tree with one wing just at the moment of landing, thus damaging the machine so it would be of little use to the Huns, without injuring myself.
I was within fifteen feet of the ground, absolutely sick at heart with the uselessness of it all, my thoughts having turned to home and the worry they would all feel when I was reported in the list of the missing, when without warning one of my nine cylinders gave a kick. Then a second one miraculously came to life, and in another moment the old engine—the best old engine in all the world—had picked up with a roar on all the nine cylinders. Once again the whole world changed for me. In less time than it takes to tell it I was tearing away for home at a hundred miles an hour. My greatest safety from attack now lay in keeping close to the ground, and this I did. The “Archies” cannot fire when you are so close to earth, and few pilots would have risked a dive at me at the altitude which I maintained. The machine guns on the ground rattled rather spitefully several times, but worried me not at all. I had had my narrow squeak for this day and nothing could stop me now.
I even had time to glance back over my shoulder, and there, to my great joy, I saw a cloud of smoke and flames rising from my erstwhile bête noir—the sausage. We afterward learned it was completely destroyed.
It was a strange thing to be skimming along just above the ground in enemy territory. From time to time I would come on groups of Huns who would attempt to fire on me with rifles and pistols, but I would dart at them and they would immediately scatter and run for cover. I flew so low that when I would come to a clump of trees I would have to pull my nose straight up toward the sky and “zoom” over them. Most of the Germans were so startled to see me right in their midst, as it were, they either forgot to fire or fired so badly as to insure my absolute safety. Crossing the three lines of German trenches was not so comfortable, but by zigzagging and quick dodging I negotiated them safely and climbed away to our aerodrome. There I found that no bullets had passed very close to me, although my wingtips were fairly perforated.
That evening I was delighted to get congratulations not only from my Colonel, but my Brigadier as well, supplemented later by a wire from the General commanding the Flying Corps. This I proudly sent home the same evening in a letter.
Chapter VII
Easter Sunday was one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen, and we felt that at last the gods of the weather were going to smile on a British offensive. The sky was a wonderful blue, flecked only here and there with bits of floating white clouds. There was a warmth of spring in the sunshine that filled one with the joy of living. Hundreds of our machines were aloft to demonstrate anew the fact that we were masters of the air. They carried the fighting wholly into the enemy’s territory, sought out his aerodromes, his military headquarters, his ammunition dumps, his concentration camps and challenged him in every possible manner to come up and fight. Some of our reconnaissance machines flew from sixty to ninety miles behind the German lines.
It used to amuse and amaze me to think on days like this of the marvels that modern flying had accomplished. Our machines were not only called upon to fly faster by far than the swiftest birds, but to do “stunts” that no bird ever thought of. Whoever heard of a bird flying upside down?
Yet there were plenty of our pilots who rather delighted in doing this. There are trick flyers just as there are trick bicyclists and trick riders in the circus. I belonged to the steady flyers’ class, but someday soon I am really going to learn to fly—to do aerial acrobatics, and everything. I remember crossing the lines one day in the hottest sort of “Archie” fire and suddenly seeing below me one of the most remarkable sights of my flying career. The shape of the machine looked a little familiar, and the colour was certainly familiar. But there was something queer about the rigging. My curiosity was aroused, and in spite of the whistling “Archie” shells I determined to have a nearer look at this stranger of the air. As I approached I made out something that looked like wheels stuck up toward the sky. I was more puzzled than ever for a moment, then realised it was a machine upside down. The wingtips bore the red, white and blue target markings of the British service, so I flew very close to see if anything was wrong. When I got near enough I recognised my squadron commander at the time. He was out having an afternoon stroll and had deliberately sailed over the lines upside down just to show his contempt for the Hun “Archies,” and also in the hope that he might attract the attention of a “headhunter” and thus bring on a little excitement.
With the great attack scheduled for dawn the next morning, we went at our work on Easter Sunday with an added zest. At nine o’clock, just after the early morning mist had been dri
ven away by the mounting sun, I was due for an offensive patrol—in other words there were six of us going over the lines in search of trouble. Our squadron commander was in the flight, and he had been leading us inside Hunland for about twenty minutes before anything happened. Then a two-seated machine with the enemy markings on it, appeared underneath us. Our commander dived at him like a hawk and his first burst of fire clearly hit home. The enemy machine dived toward the ground, but thinking this might be a trick I dived after it, firing all the way. I soon saw, however, that the Huns actually had been hurt and were doomed. So I pulled my machine out of the dive and looked around for the rest of the patrol. They had all disappeared. A moment or two later I sighted a pair of our machines engaged in a helter-skelter fight to the left of me, and had just started in their direction when seemingly out of nowhere at all, an enemy scout dived at me. I turned quickly and avoided him. Then for several minutes we had a running fight, firing occasionally, but neither one of us being able to manoeuvre into a position of real advantage. Finally the enemy flew away eastward and escaped.
In the excitement of the fighting I had not noticed it before, but now looking downward I saw a Boche sausage just beneath me. I plunged at it just as the crew began to pull it frantically down. I kept diving and firing at the big bag, but as no smoke appeared I gathered I had either missed it all the while, or my bullets had failed in their duty as “fire-bugs.”
I had dropped to 800 feet in my chase after the bag and could plainly see German troops marching toward the support and reserve lines at the front. Evidently they were preparing for our assault. The way our artillery had been going for a week past left them little room for doubt. I flew about watching these troops for some time, despite the telltale rattle of the machine guns on the ground, but at last decided I had better get out of it. I saw a cloud some distance above me and decided to climb into it and lose myself. I had just about reached the edge of the cloud when another enemy scout decided to have a go at me. I had fired about a hundred rounds at him when my gun jammed. I dodged away to have time to correct this and the enemy, immediately seeing his advantage, dived after me. He was using explosive bullets and I could see them burst near me from time to time. One hit the machine about three feet from where I was sitting and exploded, but did no material damage. A little more dodging from these ungentlemanly missiles, and a little more work, and my gun was right again. So I turned upon my pursuer. We fought round and round each other for a seemingly interminable time, when at last I saw my chance, darted behind him and gave him a short burst of fire. No effect. A second later I got him within my sights again and this time I fired very carefully. His machine gave a shiver, then began tumbling toward the earth completely out of control. I followed to within a few hundred feet of the ground, and as it was still plunging helplessly—I turned away.
The sky around me now seemed entirely deserted. It gave me time to speculate as to whether I should climb up to a nice, safe height of about two miles and then fly home, or whether I should streak it across the trenches as I had done the day before. Recalling some incidents of yesterday’s adventures, however, I decided to climb! I proceeded upward in wide sweeping circles, looking all the time for any trace of my missing comrades. They were not visible, even at ten-thousand feet, so I flew around a bit more in the hope of finding them.
My search was rewarded, not by meeting my friends, but by the sudden appearance of two Hun machines flying in the direction of our lines. Drawing a little to one side so as to have a good look at them I discovered they were being escorted and protected by three other machines flying well back of and above them. By quick thinking I estimated I could make a running attack on the lower two before the upper three could get into the affair. I closed in and fired a burst at the nearer of the two, but the second one got on my tail, and firing very accurately, gave me some of the most uncomfortable moments of my fighting career. One of his bullets grazed my cap as it passed my head, then crashed through the little windscreen just in front of me. This was too much, so leaving my pursuit of the first machine, I turned and paid attention to number two. Hun number one, in the meantime, evidently decided he had had enough, for he kept flying away as fast as he could. In turning on the second machine I chanced to find myself in an ideal position, and my first burst of fire sent him spinning in an uncontrolled nose dive, which ended a few seconds later in a “crash” just beneath me.
I figured that by this time the upper three were due, and, turning, found all of them diving for me, firing with all their guns. There was no time for any choice of tactics on my part, so I headed for the enemy machines and flew directly under them, managing to get in a good burst of fire upward at the leading two-seater that seemed particularly anxious for a fight. He wasn’t so anxious as I had thought, however, for after the first exchange of shots he kept diving away and did not return. The other two, however, remained on the “field” of battle. I estimated by this time that I had only about forty rounds of ammunition left for my gun, but again there was no real choice for me. I had either to fight, or be attacked in a very nasty position; so I fought. My two adversaries had seen the previous combats, and when I showed fight toward them they seemed none too anxious to prolong the fray. I had just finished my last bullet when the two of them dived away in opposite directions and left me—“Lord of all I surveyed.”
There was not another machine in the sky now, and thankful for that fact, I headed for home with my throttle pushed wide open and landed without any more excitement. When I turned in my report, especially the part dealing with the fight with the formation of five enemy machines, some of the squadron looked on me as some sort of wild man, or fire-eater just escaped from the Zoo. The Colonel telephoned up and said that I had better not fly any more that day, so I was given the afternoon off.
As we had to be ready to fly with the dawn next morning, we were early to bed on Easter night. As we turned in the British guns were roaring all along the far-reaching battle line. The whole horizon was lighted with their flashes, like the play of heat lightning on a sultry summer evening. I knew the meaning and the menace in the booming of the cannon, but I slept the sound slumber of a little child.
Chapter VIII
Dawn was due at 5:30 o’clock on Easter Monday and that was the exact hour set for the beginning of the Battle of Arras. We were up and had our machines out of the hangars while it was still night. The beautiful weather of a few hours before had vanished. A strong, chill wind was blowing from the east and dark, menacing clouds were scudding along low overhead.
We were detailed to fly at a low altitude over the advancing infantry, firing into the enemy trenches, and dispersing any groups of men or working troops we happened to see in the vicinity of the lines. Some phases of this work are known as “contact patrols,” the machines keeping track always of the infantry advance, watching points where they may be held up, and returning from time to time to report just how the battle is going. Working with the infantry in a big attack is a most exciting experience. It means flying close to the ground and constantly passing through our own shells as well as those of the enemy.
The shell-fire this morning was simply indescribable. The bombardment which had been going on all night gradually died down about five o’clock, and the Germans must have felt that the British had finished their nightly “strafing,” were tired out and going to bed. For a time almost complete silence reigned over the battlefields. All along the German lines star shells and rocket lights were looping through the darkness. The old Boche is always suspicious and likes to have the country around him lighted up as much as possible so he can see what the enemy is about.
The wind kept growing stiffer and stiffer and there was a distinct feel of rain in the air. Precisely at the moment that all the British guns roared out their first salvo of the battle, the skies opened and the rain fell in torrents. Gunfire may or may not have anything to do with rainmaking, but there was a strange coincidence between the shock o
f battle and the commencement of the downpour this morning. It was beastly luck, and we felt it keenly. But we carried on.
The storm had delayed the coming of day by several minutes, but as soon as there was light enough to make our presence worthwhile, we were in the air and braving the untoward elements just as the troops were below us. Lashed by the gale, the wind cut the face as we moved against the enemy. The ground seemed to be one mass of bursting shells. Further back, where the guns were firing, the hot flames flashing from thousands of muzzles gave the impression of a long ribbon of incandescent light. The air seemed shaken and literally full of shells on their missions of death and destruction. Over and over again one felt a sudden jerk under a wingtip and the machine would heave quickly. This meant a shell had passed within a few feet of you. As the battle went on the work grew more terrifying, because reports came in that several of our machines had been hit by shells in flight and brought down. There was small wonder of this. The British barrage fire that morning was the most intense the war had ever known. There was a greater concentration of guns than at any time during the Somme. In fact, some of the German prisoners said afterward that the Somme seemed a Paradise compared to the bombardments we carried out at Arras. While the British fire was at its height the Germans set up a counter barrage. This was not so intense, but every shell added to the shrieking chorus that filled the stormy air made the lot of the flying man just so much more difficult. Yet the risk was one we could not avoid; we had to endure it with the best spirit possible.
The waves of attacking infantry as they came out of their trenches and trudged forward behind the curtain of shells laid down by the artillery, were an amazing sight. The men seemed to wander across No Man’s Land, and into the enemy trenches, as if the battle was a great bore to them. From the air it looked as though they did not realise that they were at war and were taking it all entirely too quietly. That is the way with clockwork warfare. These troops had been drilled to move forward at a given pace. They had been timed over and over again in marching a certain distance, and from this timing the “creeping,” or rolling barrage which moved in front of them had been mathematically worked out. And the battle, so calmly entered into, was one of the tensest, bitterest of the entire world war.
Winged Warfare Page 5
