Winged Warfare

by William Avery Bishop

  From Arras I could see the British Channel, and it resembled more a river of liquid gold than a sea. Across the Channel it was possible to make out England and the Isle of Wight. The chalk cliffs of Dover formed a white frame for one side of the splendid picture. Toward Germany one could see a tremendous wooded country, a stretch of watered lowlands beyond the trees, and the rest indistinct. To the South I could make out a bit of the River Seine, while to the North lay the Belgian Coast. The marvellous beauty of it all made the war seem impossible. We flew peacefully along for miles in the full enjoyment of it all, and I shall be glad always we did not have a fight that evening. It would have brought me back to stern reality with too sudden a jerk.

  A few days later I was away from the beauties in life and after the grossly hideous balloons again. Success rewarded one of my earnest efforts. It happened one morning when we had been patrolling the air just above the trenches. It was a very dull morning, the clouds being under 3,000 feet. Well across the lines I could make out the portly form of a German balloon sitting just under them. The sight of the “sausage” filled me with one of those hot bursts of rage I had so often in these days against everything German in the world. After the finish of the patrol, I had my machine filled up with petrol, and with a good supply of special ammunition started out on a voluntary expedition to bring down that fat and self-satisfied balloon. Upon nearing the lines I flew up into the clouds, having taken a careful compass bearing in the exact direction of my intended victim. Flying slowly at a rate of sixty miles an hour, I crept steadily forward, taking reckonings now and then from the compass and my other flying instruments. I figured the balloon was six miles over the lines and as I had climbed into the clouds about one mile behind our own lines, I figured that seven minutes should let me down just where I wanted to be. I popped out of the clouds with every nerve tense, expecting to find the sausage just beneath me. Instead, I found nothing, not even a familiar landmark. I felt pretty sick at heart when I realised I had lost myself. My compass must have been slightly out of bearing, or I had flown very badly. At that moment I had no idea where I was. I flew in a small circle, and then spied another balloon quite near me. The balloon had seen me first, the “S. O. S.” had gone out, and it was being hauled down with miraculous swiftness. I dived for the descending German as hard as I could go and managed to get within fifty yards while it was still 800 feet up. Opening fire I skimmed just over the top of the balloon, then turned to attack again when to my great joy I saw the bag was smoking. I had seen no one leap from the observer’s basket hanging underneath, so I fired a short burst into it just to liven up anybody who happened to be sitting there. The sausage was then smoking heavily, so I flew south in the hope of finding some landmark that would tell me the way home.

  Suddenly another balloon loomed before me, and at the same time I recognised by the ground that it was the “sausage” I had first set out to attack. I fired the remainder of my ammunition at it at long range, but had no effect so far as I could see. I then came down to fifteen feet of the ground and flew along a river bank that I knew would lead me home. I had found this low flying over enemy land quite exhilarating and rather liked the sights I used to see.

  During the next week I had three or four very unsatisfactory combats. My work consisted mostly of sitting patiently over the lines waiting for an enemy to appear. Then, after it would put in an appearance, I would carefully watch for an opportunity and attack, only to have the Hun escape. I was mostly concerned with my old friends, the enemy two-seaters, especially the ones that would fly at low altitudes doing artillery observation work. I would try to get behind a cloud, or in one, and surprise them as they went by. I managed to pounce upon several machines from ambush, but had no luck at all in the succeeding combats. On such occasions I would return much disgusted to the aerodrome and put in more time at the target.

  I began to feel that my list of victims was not climbing as steadily as I would have liked. Captain Ball was back from a winter rest in England and was adding constantly to his already big score. I felt I had to keep going if I was to be second to him. So I was over the enemy lines from six to seven hours every day, praying for some easy victims to appear. I had had some pretty hard fighting. Now I wanted to shoot a “rabbit” or two. Several times while sitting over the lines I was caught badly by antiaircraft fire, and had to do a lot of dodging and turning to avoid being badly hit by the singing shrapnel shells. As it was I frequently returned with scars, where bits of shell had pierced my planes and fuselage.

  One day I saw a two-seater flying calmly along about three miles high. I started to climb up under him and it seemed to me I was hours on the way, for he had seen me and was climbing as well. Eventually I reached his level, but we were then nearly four miles from the earth. The air was so thin I found it difficult to get my breath. It was coming in quick gasps and my heart was racing like mad. It is very difficult to fly a single-seater at such altitudes, much less to fight in one. The air is so rare that the small machines, with their minimum of plane surface, have very little to rest upon. The propeller will not “bite” into the thin atmosphere with very much of a pull. But despite all this I decided to have a go at the big German two-seater, and we did a series of lazy manoeuvres. I realised I was unable to put much energy into the fighting, and the only shot I got at the Hun I missed! At the height we had met, the Hun machine was faster than mine, so in a few minutes he broke off the combat and escaped.

  I spent half an hour under another enemy machine, trying to stalk him, but he finally got away. During the time I was “hiding” under the two-seater I was quite happy in the belief that he could not bring a gun to bear on me. But when I landed I found several bullet holes in the machine close to my body. After that I kept a sharper lookout on the fellows upstairs.

  One day, after climbing slowly to 17,000 feet and still finding no victims, I flew fifteen miles inside the German lines, hoping to catch some unwary enemy aloft. At last, about half a mile beneath me, I saw a lone scout. I carefully manoeuvred to get between him and the sun, for once there I knew he could not see me and I would have all the advantage of a surprise attack. I was within twenty yards and going about 130 miles an hour, when I opened fire. Not more than ten shots had sped from my gun when the Hun went spinning down in a nose dive, seemingly out of control. I dived after him firing steadily, and we had dropped something like 3,000 feet when the enemy machine burst into flames.

  During my dive I had seen a black speck in the distance which looked as though it might be a Hun. So I climbed again and made in the direction of the speck, hoping it would turn out to be an enemy machine. It did, and I succeeded in getting in another surprise attack, but my shots hit no vital spot and the German slid away in safety.

  A few minutes later I saw a third Hun and again I manoeuvred for the advantage of the sun position. But the pilot either saw me before I got into the blinding rays, or else he saw the other machine diving away and thought something was wrong, for he, too, dived steeply before I could get within effective range.

  However, I was very well pleased with the day’s work, for I had sent my second machine down in flames. Such an incident has never failed to put me in a good humour. It is so certain and such a satisfactory way of destroying Huns.

  Chapter XI

  The thirtieth of April was a red letter day for me. I celebrated it by having a record number of fights in a given space of time. In one hour and forty-five minutes I had nine separate scraps. This was during the morning. Before we had tea that afternoon, the Major and I had a set-to with four scarlet German scouts that was the most hair-raising encounter I have ever been mixed up in.

  This very pleasant fighting day started when I led my patrol over the lines, and dived so steeply after an enemy machine which suddenly appeared beneath me, that I nearly turned over. The remainder of the patrol lost me completely. I kept putting the nose of my Nieuport down until I got beyond the vertical point. I fell forward in
my seat and struck my head against the little windscreen. I was going down so fast I upset my aim completely, and allowed the Hun, by a quick manoeuvre, to escape me altogether. The patrol had disappeared so I climbed up as fast as I could to have a look around.

  Five minutes later I saw two huge Huns directly over our lines. They were easily mammoths of the air. I wanted to have a look at the strangers, so started in their direction, keeping my own level, which was a little beneath the big Germans. They grew rapidly in size as I approached, and I took them to be some new type of two-seater. From later experiences and diagrams I have seen, I think now they must have been the three-seater Gothas—like the machines that later flew over London so often, many of them coming to grief as the penalty of their daring.

  This was probably the first appearance of the Gothas over our lines. A few days later I had another glimpse of two of them in the distance, but that was the last I saw of the monstrous Germans. This day they seemed rather keen for a fight, and one of them came down in a slow spiral to get at me. I, at the same time, was trying to stay in the “blind spot” just beneath him, and hoped eventually to get a steady shot at some vital point. We must have made a ludicrous picture, little me under the huge Hun. I felt like a mosquito chasing a wasp, but was willing to take a chance.

  While manoeuvring with the first monster, the second one dived at me from a slight angle and seemed to open fire with a whole battery of machine guns. I dived to gain a little more speed, then pulled my nose, straight up into the air and opened fire. When I had got off about fifteen rounds the gun jammed, and I had to dive quickly away to see what was wrong. I found I could do nothing with it in the air, but my aerodrome was only a few miles away, so I dived down to it, corrected the jam, and was away again in a few minutes in search of more excitement.

  I was very peevish with myself for having missed a chance to bring down one of the big new German machines, and was in a real fighting temper as I recrossed the lines. I had not gone far on my way when I saw three of the enemy about two miles away, doing artillery work. I dived for the nearest one and opened fire. Then I had the somewhat stirring sensation of seeing flaming bullets coming from all three of the Huns at once in my direction. The odds were three to one against me, and each enemy machine had two guns to my one, but suddenly they quit firing, turned, and fled away. I went after them, but suddenly saw the game they were attempting to play. They were trying to lead me directly under five scarlet Albatross scouts.

  These scarlet machines, as I have explained before, all belonged to von Richtofen’s squadron. I saw them just in time to turn away. I drew off about a mile then easily outclimbed my brilliant red rivals. Having gained the advantage of position I decided to have a go at the crack German flyers. I dived toward them with my gun rattling, but just before reaching their level I pulled the machine up and “zoomed” straight up in the air, ascending for a short distance with the speed of a rocket. Then I would turn and dive and open fire again, repeating the performance several times. The Huns evidently had expected me to dive right through them, but my tactics took them by surprise and they began to show nervousness. After the third “zoom” and dive, the formation broke up and scattered. Then I turned around to look for the treacherous two-seaters who had sought to lead me into a veritable death trap. I had searched several minutes before I picked them out of the sky, and I can still remember the thrill of joy with which I hailed them. It had seemed such a rotten trick, when they were three to one, not even to show fight, but simply try to trick me. I felt I must have vengeance, and went after them with the firm conviction that this time something was going to happen. I got into position where they would pass in front of me and dived at the second Hun. His observer was firing at me, and pretty soon the other two Huns chimed in. Add to this staccato chorus the healthy rattle of my own gun and you may gain some idea of the din we were making in midair. My first twenty shots silenced the observer in the machine I was attacking, and as I passed over it, it suddenly slipped to one side, then stood on its nose, and fell. I did not have time to watch this machine down, but turned to attack the third Hun in the line. He had seen his comrade’s fate, however, and, losing heart, had begun to dive away. I poured fifty rounds after him, then let him go. The leading machine had now disappeared, so I was left free to dive down and see what had happened to the Hun who had fallen out of the fight. He crashed in the most satisfactory manner. I turned and flew south, feeling very much better.

  But I was not idle long. The five scarlet scouts had gotten together again and were approaching our lines further south with the evident intention of attacking isolated British artillery machines. This particular squadron had made a habit of sneaking across our lines during the spring, and its leader had become known among our infantry as the “Little Red Devil,” and one still hears him spoken of by the people who were in the trenches at that time. We had often tried to catch him on one of these expeditions, but he and his scarlet followers always chose a moment when our fighting patrols were engaged on another sector of the front. Then, dashing across the lines, the red Albatrosses would shoot down one of our older machines which we were employing then on observation work.

  This morning I had an extra feeling of bitterness toward the Richtofens for their mean attempt to trick, and I went after them again with a feeling of exalted strength. I was above them as before and after one dive, they turned away east and gave up their idea of setting upon our artillery workers. I considered it unwise to go down and actually mix it in the middle of them, as they were all good men. So I contented myself with harassing them from above as I had done in the previous fight with the quintet that morning. They were apparently much annoyed at this and kept steadily on their way east. I followed for quite a distance and then sat over them as one by one they all went down and landed.

  On the way home I had a skirmish with two German artillery machines, but we did not get within very close range of each other and nothing happened. They were frightened a bit, none the less, and sped away. In a little while, however, they plucked up courage and came back to resume their work of spotting for the German guns. This time I tried going at them from the front, and it proved exciting to say the least. I approached the leading Hun of the pair head on, opening fire when about two hundred yards away. He also opened fire about the same time. We drew nearer and nearer together, both firing as fast and direct as we could. I could see the Hun bullets going about three feet to one side of me, passing between my upper and lower planes. My own were doing better work, and several times it seemed certain that some of them were hitting the front of the enemy machine. On we came, each doing over a hundred miles an hour, which would have meant a colliding impact of more than two hundred miles an hour. With big engines in front of us for protection we were taking the risks of each other’s bullets. Thirty yards away we were both holding to our course, and then, much to my relief, be it confessed, the Hun dived, and I thought I had hit him. I turned quickly, but in doing so lost sight of him completely. Then a second later I saw him, some distance away, going down in a slight glide, evidently quite under control, but I think badly hit. The other machine followed him down and neither of them returned. I had very little ammunition left but stayed on the lines another fifteen minutes hoping for one more fight.

  It came when I sighted one of my favourites—an enemy two-seater—at work. I got directly above him, then dived vertically, reserving my fire until I was very close. The enemy observer had his gun trained up at me and the bullets were streaming past as I came down. I missed him on my dive, so shot by his tail, then “zoomed” up underneath and opened fire from the blind spot there.

  I don’t know what was the matter with my shooting this morning, for with the exception of the machine I hit from the side, it seemed to have become a habit with my enemies to dive away from me and escape. I did not seem to be able to knock them out of control. This one, like the others, dived steeply, and though I followed and fired all of my remainin
g bullets after him, he continued in his long straight dive and landed safely in the corner of a field near the city of Lens. Two or three “Archie” batteries took “bites” at me as I crossed the lines for luncheon.

  Then came my thrilling adventure of the afternoon. The many experiences of the morning had put me in good humour for fighting, and immediately the midday meal was finished, I was up in the air again, with my squadron commander, to see if there were any Huns about looking for a bit of trouble. We patrolled along the lines for twenty minutes, but saw nothing in that time. Then, as I was leading, I headed further into enemy territory, and presently, to the south of us, we saw five Albatross scouts. We went after them, but before we had come within firing distance, we discovered four red Albatrosses just to our right. This latter quartette, I believe, was made up of Baron von Richtofen and three of his best men.

  However, although we knew who they were, we had been searching for a fight, and were feeling rather bored with doing nothing, so after the four we went. The Major reached them first and opened fire on the rear machine from behind. Immediately the leader of the scouts did a lightning turn and came back at the Major, firing at him and passing within two or three feet of his machine. In my turn, I opened fire on the Baron, and in another half-moment found myself in the midst of what seemed to be a stampede of blood-thirsty animals. Everywhere I turned smoking bullets were jumping at me, and although I got in two or three good bursts at the Baron’s “red devil,” I was rather bewildered for two or three minutes, as I could not see what was happening to the Major and was not at all certain as to what was going to happen to me.