In one week I had no less than three engine failures although I have hardly ever had one at any other time. But, as luck would have it, I was always able to glide down and just reach the same aerodrome. I got to know it quite well by the end of the week.
On the eighth of June fortune favoured me. I had had two indecisive combats, when to my great joy I saw, in the distance, another layer formation of six Huns in groups of two. So I manoeuvred again, to attack the top pair. After creeping up slowly and carefully behind one of them, I opened fire, and he went straight away into a spinning nose dive, which he could not come out of, and crashed into the ground. The other machine of the top layer saw me, but had no desire to fight, and dived away immediately toward the rest of his formation. I pointed my nose down at him, and fired, but he was too far away and escaped.
This was again my day off, so I had deserted my own part of the lines and flown away up north where the battle of Messines was raging, and I had heard there were more German machines up in that direction. It was a good tip, and I was glad I had come.
A little later I saw the same, or another formation of four, flying about in a group. I did not feel like going down and getting into the middle of them, so I stayed above and tried the old game of diving and coming up again, just to worry them. It evidently did, as they only stood for it twice, and then, losing height, made away as fast as they could go.
Over a week passed now before I had another fight at all. Many times I sighted enemy aircraft, but they were always in the distance, and after a hot chase I would have to give it up. Then would come the disagreeable return journey against the anti-aircraft fire. By this time I was getting to hate the German guns, as they often caught me at low altitude, and made the way home so nasty. One night when a shell burst near me, I happened to see the flash of the gun that was firing, and as it was almost directly beneath me, I threw my machine out of control, with a sudden inspiration, and let it fall for several thousand feet. Then, about two thousand feet from the ground, I opened fire at the battery on the ground. I was too high to see just what effect my fire had, but it evidently silenced them, and from later results certainly annoyed them very much, because every time I crossed the line on “Blue Nose,” this gun would open fire fiercely, concentrating on me, no matter how many other machines were in the air.
About five miles south of this position, on another day, I was flying at a height of two thousand feet, and saw another “Archie” firing, so I dived down to about five hundred feet from the ground, and scattered some flaming bullets around him. This battery also gave “Blue Nose” special attention from that day on.
It became a favourite habit of ours, about this time, when there were no enemy machines up above, to come down low and attack the enemy trenches, from a height of from one hundred to five hundred feet. We would come down behind them, and, diving at them that way, open fire. It evidently frightened the Huns very much, from reports which we later heard.
In the June evenings the sky was a beautiful sight, at sunset. If there was any wind blowing at all, the mist would be cleared away, and one could see almost to the end of the world. The ground was a riot of beautiful colours, and the dusty roads stretched away like long white ribbons.
Chapter XVI
All of June was marked by the most perfect weather. The prevailing strong west winds stopped and a light breeze blew constantly from the east. Some days there was hardly a stir in the air. From dawn until sun-down there was rarely a cloud in the sky, and although the heat waves from the effect of the sun on the earth made flying very rough, when near the ground, the days were wonderful, and we all felt like kings.
The mornings were very busy, as there were many calls to chase away hostile aircraft, but the afternoons we generally had to ourselves, and although it was necessary to stay right on the aerodrome, we found many amusements there.
The mess was situated on the very edge of the aerodrome and about twenty yards from a farm house, which possessed the most extraordinary farmyard I have ever seen. There were pigeons by the hundreds and all kinds of fowl possible to imagine. A small pond in the middle of the farmyard afforded exercise and amusement for a flock of ducks. The raising of pigs, however, seemed to be the farmer’s great specialty, and to these pigs I owe many amusing hours.
One afternoon, while looking through the farmyard, three of us decided to capture a large hog and trail it back to our quarters to shoo into the room of a friend, who was at the moment sleeping. It was very easy to get the idea, but for inexperienced people it was a difficult job to get the porker.
After much mature deliberation we decided upon our victim the largest and dirtiest one in the farmyard. It was lying half buried in the mud near the pond, so with a few small pebbles we woke it up, and frightened it on to dry land. Then began the chase. Two or three times we managed to corner it, but with a series of grunts and squeals it would charge one of us and make a clean get-away. Finally, seeing no other course open, we drove it into a small pig-pen which had only one outlet, an opening with a door covering it up to about three feet high. Opening the door, we shooed the pig in. It seemed to have no objection, and after it went one of my comrades with a rope. I carefully closed the door and bolted it from the outside, so that the pig could not force it open. Then, peering over the top, I witnessed a remarkable scene. The hog was now desperate and tearing around in a circle squealing for all it was worth. My companion with the rope was trying to fix a noose on one of the hind legs. In doing so the pig kicked him and turning, nearly knocked him over, as it rushed past. The next phase were cries of “Open the door and let me out.” The airman was as badly frightened as the hog. Suddenly, with an extra squeal, our supposed victim made a leap up the door and firmly fastening fore legs on to the top of it, worked up like a fat gymnast and fell over on the outside. By this time we were all laughing so hard we could not interfere and the pig got away.
Refusing to be beaten, we employed the services of a small French boy to help us, and he sneaked up behind another huge pig, and fastened the rope to a hind leg. I then took hold of it to drive it home, but the poor beast upon learning that he was tied up had no intention of giving in, and immediately started away at a furious gallop, dragging me after it. Once around the farmyard we went, and half again, before I tripped on a stone and fell flat, and this pig also escaped. You see I was having no luck with Huns.
Again the French boy came to our rescue and secured Mr. Pig, showing us how to drive it properly. This we did, and managed in the course of the next three-quarters of an hour to get the pig as far as the officers’ quarters. To drive him in was a difficult matter, but with numerous assistants, and much noise and shouting he finally entered, hut, of course, the sleeping man had been awake long since. However, we got the pig into his room, where he was standing in his pajamas, and to see a brave man frightened is a rare sight, but the rest of us had the chance then.
We took the pig into the mess to show him about, putting him in a little cage made of the fire fender. He seemed quite satisfied here for a moment, then, deciding that he would like to get away, stuck his nose under the edge of the fire fender, heaved it over his back and with a disgusted grunt walked out. Feeling that he had earned his freedom, we let him go.
Every afternoon after that we found much fun out of the different animals in the farmyard. The French people were as pleased as we were until some of their ducks stopped laying, when, of course, we made good the value of the eggs that came not, and a great many more that would never have come.
One afternoon we secured three ducks and a lot of paint. One duck we painted with circles around it of red, white and blue, just like the Allied markings on our machines. Of the other two we painted one red and one bright blue. They did not seem to appreciate it, but they were distinguished looking ducks until about two months later, when they began to moult. Then one would see wandering through the grass a weird sight looking like a moth-eaten bird, a dirty scar
let in some places and a dirty white in others. It would be a horrible sight close to, but from a distance quite pretty, resembling some bird of paradise.
These ducks we tried hard to train, trying to teach them to walk on the ground in formations the same as we flew in the air. They were not very adept pupils, however, and instead of walking at correct distances apart, would keep looking behind at us, and jostling into the men on the right and left.
One afternoon we got as many as sixteen ducks, and after giving them a good luncheon, by way of celebration for their outing, we put them on the roof of the mess, where they all sat in a stately row, quacking in spasms.
These incidents, though simple to tell now, at that time afforded us the greatest amusement, and as we were in no way cruel to the animals, the French people who owned them did not seem to mind.
However, perhaps one day we carried it a little far, as we tried to find the effect of alcohol upon the ducks. This was most amusing with two or three, because, although they did not like the first drop of it, when they had been forced to swallow that, they eagerly cried for more. Their return home was a ludicrous sight, sitting down on the ground every minute or two, and always walking in a “beaucoup” zigzag course, as the French would say. Once we got hold of the head drake of the flock, and, imagining him to be able to stand a little more than the rest, gave him a bit too much, with the result that he unfortunately died. It took quite a bit of broken French and more expressive French notes to reconcile the owner to his loss, but after a long and painful conversation of nearly half an hour he was in a better humour and, incidentally, a richer man. With that our attention to the ducks ceased, although by this time three quarters of the flock had been painted various hues.
We now returned to the pigs, and found much fun with the smaller ones. These also were painted, always referring to their different parts in aeronautical terms, such as calling their legs their “undercarriage” and their body their “fuselage.”
One little pig we had was a most successful picture. His legs and the under part of his body were all painted scarlet, his nose and tail as well. On his back were huge red, white and blue circles. The rest of his body was touched with red, white and blue, his ears being blue. It was very good paint, and the result was a beautifully-shining, coloured pig. When he returned that night to the others they stood off and gazed at him in amazement, and for days would not associate with him. It was indeed a red-letter day in his existence, as he was certainly the pig amongst all pigs.
Using the French boy on another occasion, we again secured a large sow. Upon her we painted black crosses; a huge black cross on her nose, a little one on each ear and a large one on each side. Then on her back we painted Baron von Richtofen. So that the other pigs would recognise that she was indeed a leader, we tied a leader’s streamer on her tail. This trailed for some three feet behind her as she walked, and is exactly the same sort of thing that the leader of a patrol of aeroplanes uses so he can be identified.
When the “Baron” returned to the farmyard everything else there immediately concentrated its attention upon the weird sight. Chickens, ducks, pigs and geese all followed the big sow as she walked around. It was certainly a successful circus for our friend von Richtofen, and every time she moved around that farmyard she had a good following of multi-coloured admirers.
Upon the express condition that we would not paint them, the farmer let us have his rabbits in the afternoon. He must have had over two hundred, and we would go in with a blanket and get about twenty-five small ones, then take them out and drop them in the green grass, where we would sit around under a tree, and play with them or watch them eat. They were amusing little things and passed away many hours for us.
However, dogs were our special favourites, as far as pets were concerned, and every stray dog we could find we would pick up and bring it home. Finally we had a huge collection of them, with a variety of names ranging from “Kate,” “Rachel” or “Horace” to “Black Dog” and “Nigger.”
They were all good dogs, and I remember well when little Kate, whom we had raised from a puppy, was lost. We all felt very badly for days. She was reported in the squadron books as “missing,” as she had gone out, and had not returned. Poor Kate, her life had indeed been hard. As a puppy, her first accident was when she had “crashed” off the top of a piano, and had broken one of her fore legs. This was no sooner mended than somebody walked on her, when she was sitting in front of the fire, and broke another. A month later an automobile ran over her on the road, and broke a third and badly injured her body, so that she was a little cripple, and hopped along on three legs, although how she ever used them nobody knows. Her body was all twisted and she had no good points except a very charming manner, which made us very fond of her.
“Nigger” was one of my own dogs. One night, returning after having dined with some other unit, I found “Nigger” outside my hut. He was a big dog looking very much like an Airedale, only black. It was pouring rain and very cold, so I took him in and let him sleep on my bed with me. He had a most affectionate way about him, and although quite the smelliest dog I have ever known, it was a pleasure to have him about.
The other dogs each had their good points. Rachel, who was a little deformed fox terrier, we had picked up on the road simply because she was the ugliest looking thing we had ever seen, turned out to be a wonderful ratter, frequently taking on rats twice as long as she was, and, although getting badly bitten herself, she would invariably come out of the scrap victorious. Nobody would claim Rachel, but she got fed somehow, and also got quite a lot of attention, so she stayed with us.
By way of sports, we played tennis a great deal, and did considerable riding, two good horses having been lent to the squadron for that purpose. Then, too, as the place seemed to be infested with rats, we managed to get together some good ratting parties, and with the help of some of the dogs, had many successful hunts.
Carefully blocking all the holes in the ground, with the exception of one or two, we would send smoke down one of these, and with a little preliminary squeal three or four rats would rush out of the other. One afternoon, inside of half an hour, we caught eighteen rats.
Another sport, and a very good one, was to take a 22-calibre rifle and try to shoot individual pigeons on the wing. It was a very hard thing to do and required much practice. Luckily we did not hit too often, as we paid well for each pigeon we shot down. I remember one afternoon firing five hundred rounds and only hitting one pigeon, and I considered myself lucky to hit that one. This sport was much encouraged, as it was the very best practice in the world, for the eye of a man whose business it is to fight mechanical birds in the air.
Every now and again we would be given a day off. This day would be spent, usually, in either sleeping all day or roaming about the orchard in silk pajamas, or else one would go and visit some friends, who possibly were stationed near. It was a great thing, as it always left us keen for work the next day.
Chapter XVII
By this time I had learned nearly all of the fundamental principles of fighting in the air and had more or less decided upon exactly what tactics were best for me to use. I also realised the exact limit of my ability in carrying these various tactics out, and in fighting acted accordingly. I was more than ever firmly resolved now that having got so far in the game, and past its most dangerous stages, I would take no foolish risks, but continue to wait for the best opportunities. It was very hard to restrain one’s self at times but from the middle of May until I left France in August, I lost only one man out of my patrol killed, and he was shot down on an expedition when I was not with him.
When flying alone, on a day off or something like that, I took queer chances, it is true, but flying with the patrol often let opportunities slip by because they were not quite good enough but when the right ones came, we were quick to seize them and were nearly always successful.
I had learned that the most important
thing in fighting was the shooting, next the various tactics in coming into the fight, and last of all flying ability itself. The shooting, as I have said before, I practised constantly and became more and more expert at it, with the result that finally I had great confidence in myself, and knew for a certainty that if I only could get in a shot from one of two of my favourite positions, I would be successful in downing my opponent.
To those who have never seen a war machine I would explain that to control one, the pilot has to manipulate but a single lever which we call the “joystick.” It is very much like the lever with which you shift gears on an automobile but it moves in four directions. If you would want your machine to go down, the instinctive move would be to lean the body forward. Therefore, the fighting aeroplane is so rigged that when the pilot pushes the “joystick” forward, the nose of the machine points down. In the same way, if he pulls the “joystick” back, the nose goes up and the machine climbs at any angle he wants it to. In turning, it is necessary to bank the machine otherwise it will skid outwards. It is also just as necessary that the machine is not banked too much. This is one of the first things a pupil is taught when learning to fly.
The “joystick” also controls the banking. By moving it to either side you can tilt up whichever wing is desired. At his feet the pilot has a rudder bar which controls the horizontal direction of the machine. If he pushes his left foot forward and banks slightly, the machine turns slowly to the left. To go to the right, there is only necessary a push with the right foot and a slight bank. The pilot thus has both feet on the rudder bar; holds the “joystick” with his right hand, and with his left controls the engine of the machine by holding the throttle in his hand. He is always able to do anything he wishes either with the engine or the machine itself. When firing the gun he simply moves his thumb slightly along the “joystick” and presses the lever which pulls the trigger.
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