I located Pont-a-Mousson and from there set our course for Saint-Mihiel. Four times we made the round trip between these two towns amid intermittent Archie fire but without seeing any airplanes in the sky. Then I decided we must turn toward home if we were to close our first patrol at the designated time. To my horror I discovered the whole landscape to the south of us was covered with a dense layer of fog. The whole area was covered; and under the blanket, somewhere in France, was the field upon which we were supposed to land. Land we must in a short half hour, for our fuel would be consumed and we would drop that instant. I began to realize then why Captain Peterson had gone back to the field and I felt cold chills run down my spine as I contemplated the various kinds of mishaps that were in store for Reed and me.
There was nothing for it but a dive through the thick fog clouds. I stuck down my nose, entered them and lost Chambers immediately and only hoped that he had not come in directly behind me. I flew by compass, all the while watching the needle drop down the altimeter. Cautiously I flattened out at one thousand feet, for there are high hills in this sector and some tall trees might show up ahead of me at any instant. Again I put down her nose and crept nearer the earth. At last I saw something below me and immediately zoomed up into the mist again. The tension of that foggy ride homeward I shall never forget.
By the sheerest good luck I caught a brief glimpse of a Y and a railroad tunnel that somehow seemed familiar to me. I circled back and got another view of it. Imagine my joy when I discovered it was a landmark near Commercy, that I had flown over just once before when coming from Epiez to Toul. I put about and flying only a hundred feet above ground continued straight into Toul, from which location I easily found the flying field and landed quite safely.
Captain Peterson came up to me and said I was a bloody fool for flying off in a fog, which I knew was a fact and cheerfully admitted. Then I asked about Reed Chambers and felt a return of all my previous fear when I learned they had heard nothing from him.
With a heavy heart I got out of my flying clothes and walked over to headquarters to make out my report. I was positive that someone would call within a few minutes to inform us that Chambers had crashed and killed himself in the fog. I had barely begun my writing when the telephone did ring. I stood quivering in my shoes, while the Operations Officer answered the call. Then he shouted:
“Quick! Two Boche airplanes are reported over Foug. Send in an alert!”
But at the same instant we heard two of our machines taking off the field. It was Campbell and Winslow, who had been standing by all the morning for a chance nobody had expected them to get. I started to run toward the hangars; but before I reached the field a private rushed to me saying, “A German airplane has just fallen in flames on our field!”
It was true. I could see the flames from where I stood. Before I could reach the spot, however, another yell aroused my attention and I turned and saw a second Boche machine fall nose down into a field not five hundred yards away. The first had been destroyed by Alan Winslow who had shot it down in flames within three minutes after leaving the field. The second was forced down by Douglas Campbell, and it crashed in the mist before the pilot realized how close he was to the ground. These were the first two enemy airplanes brought down by any American squadron #nd both were miraculously crashed on the very doorstep of our aerodrome on the first day we had begun operations!
Neither of the German pilots was seriously injured. Upon our questioning them as to how they happened to be flying in such weather, they informed us that they had been summoned to go up to attack two patrolling machines that were being “Archied” between Pont-a-Mousson and Saint-Mihiel. They had followed Chambers and me until they lost us in the fog. Then they tried to find their own way home to their aerodrome near Metz. They discovered our field and came down low thinking it might be their own, when Winslow and Campbell appeared and attacked them at about five hundred feet above ground.
This was indeed a wonderful opening exhibition for our squadron and had the stage been set and the scene arranged for it, could not have worked more perfectly. Then it was added to our joy to receive the congratulations and praise of the French inhabitants of Toul, who had endured so many bombing raids from these Boche machines without seeing any Allied planes on the defense of their beloved little city. When they learned that two enemy machines had been shot down on the very first day of the arrival of the Americans their delight knew no bounds. They wrung our hands, kissed us, toasted us in their best Moselle wine and yelled: “Vive la France?' “Vivent les Americains!” until they were hoarse. We each took a souvenir from the German machines, which were to be the first of our long series of “descendus” and the remains of the captured prizes we rolled into Toul, where they remained upon exhibition in the city square until the last vestiges of them disappeared. To complete our joy, we learned that Reed Chambers had landed a short distance away from our 'drome; and that night he came in to join us.
For the next few days the squadron lived upon its reputation and received the congratulations of our superior officers and the staff with ill-feigned nonchalance. Lieutenants Campbell and Wins-low were overwhelmed with cablegrams from all parts of the United States. There were dozens of telephone calls for our two heroes, many from admirers in Great Britain as well as aviation enthusiasts in France. It was particularly fortunate for the squadron that such an extraordinary success should have marked the very first day of our operations and most providential that the enemy machines had crashed in sight of us all. The episode put great confidence into all of us and we felt we were a match for the whole German air force. The date of this first American victory was April 14, 1918.
For several days following, bad weather kept us idle on the ground. But on April 18 an alert was sounded informing us that an enemy plane was seen over Pont-a-Mousson. Reed Chambers and I applied for the job of landing this fellow, and after obtaining permission we jumped into our machines, which were warmed up and ready, and off we started. I was determined to score the next victory for our squadron and had it all planned out in my mind just how it was to be done.
It was a dark day and the clouds hung about three thousand feet above ground. We plunged boldly into them and flew straight on. Finally we got above the clouds and began circling about in wide sweeps, looking everywhere for the bold German. After thirty minutes or more of desperate searching, I decided to drop back below the clouds and see where we really were. Certainly there were no Boches in this sector after all.
In ten minutes I was below the clouds and skimming along the landscape with an eye out for landmarks. Suddenly I discovered a large city ahead which looked strangely like Nancy, except that it was in exactly the wrong direction. I drew nearer and couldn't believe my eyes when a closer scrutiny proved it was true. I had been trusting to my smug sense of direction all during this flight and had not even consulted my compass. Consequently I had turned completely around and had led Chambers in exactly the opposite direction from the spot where the Boche was waiting for us. We had not been within ten miles of the lines the whole morning.
In great disgust I led the way homeward. Landing my machine I went over to the office and put in a very brief report to the effect that there were no enemy machines to be seen in our patrol. Quite true as far as I went, but I could not bring myself to state just why there were no Boches that morning. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day and have never had cause to regret the short discomfiture it gave me.
That same day a hospital unit moved into Toul and settled within a mile of our aerodrome. The nurses were all American girls, and several of us had the good fortune to meet a party of them as we were taking a walk into Toul. After seeing only the coarsest and oldest of French peasant women for so many months, we thought we had never seen anything so beautiful as these first American girls at Toul. We gave them a grand greeting, and as a reward all of us were invited over for a dance at their mess. In fact, all the boys in our squadrons were invited and we were instructed
to give them the message. Having discovered this gold mine ourselves, however, we mutually and instantly decided we should do nothing of the kind. We walked on into town, each man thinking of the girl he would ask for a dance and what a scoop we would have on the other fellows who would stay at home playing cards at camp!
However, when the time came we couldn't keep it to ourselves. We took the whole crowd and introduced them to the girls—and were of course sorry we had done so. But on the whole the presence of these girls from back home so near to our field was the second best thing that had happened to us since the war.
Major General Hunter Liggett, commandant of the First Army Corps and Colonel William Mitchell, commanding the Air Service, came over to see our Group the next day. I was sent up to do some stunting for their entertainment, and, upon landing to receive their compliments, found that I had broken a part of my engine. This malfunction put me out of the trench strafing party which our squadron carried out at four o'clock that afternoon on the enemy's lines just north of Seicheprey. It was a wonderful success and all the boys returned overjoyed with tales of ground troops that had been thrown into great confusion by the attack of the airplanes. This ground strafing is probably the most exciting sport in aviation and one that is attended with comparatively little danger to the pilot. The airplanes swoop down so swiftly and are so terrifying in the roar of their engines and the streams of bullets from two machine guns that an ordinary soldier always looks for a hole rather than for any weapon of defense.
The machine passes overhead so quickly that I imagine no gun can be aimed until we are gone. Only when a steady barrage fire is going up and a pilot happens to pass through its very path does he get injured while upon this work. I have frequently dived down upon a highway filled with marching Germans and put them to flight with one swoop. If they ever fired at me I never knew it and never have seen any evidences of a hit through my wings.
All these little details seemed very important to me at the time, for it must be remembered that every pilot in our group was fearfully inexperienced and ignorant of the escapades in store for him in the future. War to us was very much of a plunge into an unknown planet. We knew something of the wiles of the enemy and were familiar enough with the dangers that every pilot was so fond of describing. But there remained always that inner fear of a new menace. Ever constant was the impression that luck might for an instant desert us and that instant would end the war for us. We often wondered just what new danger would be thwarted by pure luck each time we went out for a patrol into enemy territory.
Each experience that came to me over those first few days of war flying, made a great impression on me, but fortunately, I grew more confident each day. Many of my old doubts were dissipated. I even sensed a disdain for the enemy and with it all came a warm spirit of confidence, and I now realized that I could cope with any threat to me or my airplane.
I was standing by on the aerodrome on April 23 when at about noon we received a warning by telephone that an enemy airplane had just been sighted between Saint-Mihiel and Pont-a-Mousson, flying from west to east. Major Huffer sent me word to get off immediately and find the Boche. No one else was ready, so I set off alone.
I took off from the field and pulling up her nose, I lifted my little Nieuport straight upward as steeply as she would climb and set a direct course for Pont-a-Mousson. The day had been rainy and cloudy and it had been several days since there had been any activity in the air. In five minutes I picked up the river and the little city of Pont-a-Mousson crowded along its bank. I was some eight thousand feet up.
The French now held Pont-à-Mousson. Enemy artillery had been doing considerable damage to the bridge and buildings, and this was now disclosed to me as I searched the details of the ground below. The enemy barrage had done heavy damage and there were few buildings with complete roofs. But my duty was in the sky and I raised my eyes and began searching for air activity now that I was heading into German territory. My heart skipped a beat when suddenly I saw at my own altitude, the knifelike edge of an airplane flying directly toward me. I began to shiver lest he had seen me first while I was joyriding over Pont-a-Mousson and had thus had time to form a plan of his own before I had formulated any of mine. Both of us continued dead ahead at each other for twenty seconds or so until we arrived almost within shouting distance, when I discovered to my great relief that he wore the blue center cocard of a Frenchman and his machine was a Spad. Fortunately neither of us had fired a shot.
Suddenly I saw the French pilot zoom up over me and attempt to get on my tail. Whether joking or not, I couldn't permit such a maneuver, so I quickly darted under him and got the best position myself. The Nieuport can outmaneuver a Spad and has a little faster climb; so the stranger soon found he had his match. But to my concern the fellow kept circling about, continually trying to bring his guns to bear on me. I wondered whether he was some idiot who did not know an ally when he saw one or whether he was a tricky Boche flying over our lines in a captured French machine. The former turned out to be the correct view, for when next I passed him I banked up sharply and gave him a clear view of the American white-center cocards on my wings. This apparently satisfied him and he swerved off and went about his business. This little episode taught me another lesson. Since that day I never took any chances with any airplane in my vicinity, whether it was friend or foe. Some friends are better shots than are casual enemies.
My real quarry had made his escape during my little tourney with the Frenchman and I found no game in the sky, though I flew a full two hours along the lines. When I returned home, however, I found myself surrounded by the whole force as soon as my Nieuport stopped rolling along the ground. They fairly overwhelmed me with congratulations for bringing down a Boche, who had been seen to fall by one of our artillery batteries. As he fell in the very sector which I was then patrolling, they naturally credited me with the victory. It was a pity to undeceive them, but it had to be done.
The curious climax to this affair was that we never did discover who shot down that Boche machine. He was never claimed by anyone. But for my part I was convinced that I certainly could not have accomplished my first victory without firing a shot or even seeing my enemy.
Thus I had all the fruits of a first victory without having won it. But what was far more important to me, I had learned something more in the art of war-flying. I had undoubtedly saved my life by keeping out of the gunsight of a friendly machine!
The very next day I learned another lesson.
Again it was about noon and I was on duty, when an alarm came in that a Boche was flying over Saint-Mihiel. It was a day of low-hanging clouds. I was absolutely determined that day to get my Boche despite every obstacle, so I flew straight into the enemy's lines at about three thousand feet altitude. At that low height my machine was a splendid target for Archie, for after the first shot at me they found exactly the level of the clouds, and they could see I was just under them. Consequently I knew I was in for a warm time with the shell bursts and I did some frantic dodging across two or three of their batteries.
I passed just north of Saint-Mihiel, and within a minute after the Archie began firing at me I sighted an enemy plane just ahead. I was coming in upon him from the rear for I had decided it would be a brilliant idea to cross the lines halfway to Verdun and catch the Boche from a quarter that might be unsuspected. It had worked perfectly, though I couldn't understand why he had been so blind as to let the black bursts of shell fire around me pass unnoticed. But still he sat there with apparently no intention of trying to get away. I began to get nervous with the idea that this was almost too much of a good thing. Was he really a Boche?
As this was in reality the first German machine I had ever seen in the air and I had judged his status from the shape of his planes and fuselage, I thought perhaps I had better actually take a look at his markings before firing and see that he really had a black cross painted on his machine. So I dropped my finger from the trigger of my gun and dived a little closer.<
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Yes! he was Boche. But instead of having a black cross he wore a black cocard! It was a black cocard with white center. This must be something new, as no such markings had ever been reported at our headquarters. However he was no friend of mine and I would now proceed to down him. Why did he linger so complacently about my guns?
Suddenly I remembered the often repeated instructions of Major Lufbery about attacking enemy observation machines. “Always remember it may be a trap!” I hurriedly looked over my shoulder —and just in time! There, coming out of a cloud over my head, was a beautiful black Albatros fighting machine that had been hiding about, waiting for me to walk into his trap. I gave one pull to my joystick and zoomed straight upward on my tail without giving a second thought to my easy victim below me.
To my delight I found that I could not only outclimb my adversary but I could outmaneuver him while doing so. I got above him after a few seconds and was again pressing my triggers to fire my first shots in the great war when again it occurred to me that I had better look again and see that nobody else was sitting farther upstairs watching this little party with a view of joining in while my attention was diverted. I shot a sudden glance over my shoulder.
Instantly I forgot all about bringing down Boche airplanes and felt overwhelmed with one immense desire to get home as quickly as possible. Two airplanes from Germany were coming head on at me not five hundred yards away. How many more there were behind them I didn't wait to determine. I was convinced that my inexperience and stupidity had led me into a race for my life.
Fighting the Flying Circus Page 4
