Fighting the Flying Circus

by Captain Eddie V. Rickenbacker

  “Where do you want to go?” asked Lufbery.

  “Wherever you go!” I replied.

  My answer evidently pleased the major, for he grunted his customary chuckle and said, “Come ahead.”

  I was delighted at the opportunity of accompanying Lufbery anywhere, and was inside my flying clothes as soon as he was. As we walked out to our Nieuports, he told me we might get a Boche. All I had to do was to follow him and keep my eyes open.

  We flew over Montsec for half an hour without getting a sign of a Hun. Thick as the day was, we would have been able to see the French antiaircraft shells bursting if any enemy airplanes had been in that sector. So after cruising about once more over the German lines, Lufbery started for home in the direction of Pont-a-Mousson. We passed directly over the town at an altitude of six thousand feet.

  Suddenly Lufbery started diving directly down. I immediately nosed over and followed in hot pursuit, thinking he had spotted an enemy below and was about to open an attack. But a minute later I saw that the major was very evidently in trouble. His propeller had stopped turning and he was anxiously looking about and circling away for a favorable landing place.

  Following him at a little distance behind I saw him settle down into a very respectable field just south of Pont-&-Mousson. His machine dropped gently down to the mud, rolled along a few feet, then to my astonishment it stuck its nose into the mud, stood with tail pointing heavenward, hesitated there for a second or two and, as I passed about a hundred feet overhead, his Nieuport turned gently upside down and lay there on its back. I dare say Lufbery was swearing softly to himself as he saw. me streak past.

  Circling back I was highly amused to see the major crawling out on his hands and knees through the mud. He waved a dripping hand to me to indicate he was all right. I put on speed and hurried on home to send him help. His machine had somersaulted less than three miles from the enemy's lines.

  Major Huffer himself took down from my description the exact location of the “panne,” and jumping into a motorcar he ran up to the spot I had indicated. There he found Lufbery, none the worse for his forced landing, excepting a slight scratch alongside his nose. One of his cylinders had blown out and he had found himself at just a sufficient height to glide down and land at a spot safely behind the observation of the enemy.

  It was on the very next day that Lieutenant Jimmy Meissner of Brooklyn had another very trying experience with the Nieuport machine. About noon he and Lieutenant Davis were sent out to protect a French observation machine which had been ordered to take photographs of the enemy's positions back of Pont-a-Mousson. The photography machine went down to seven or eight thousand feet and was proceeding calmly on its work, leaving the matter of its defense to the two American pilots sitting upstairs some four or five thousand feet overhead.

  Suddenly Jimmy Meissner discovered two Albatros fighting machines almost upon him, coming from out of the sun. They were already on the attack and were firing as they dived swiftly upon the two Nieuports.

  Jimmy made a quick maneuver and zoomed up above the nearest Albatros. Instantly he utilized his advantage, now that he had the upper floor, and in a trice he headed downward upon the tail of the enemy, firing long bursts from his machine gun as he plunged after the fleeing Hun. But the Albatros pilot was an old hand at this game, and before Meissner could overtake him he had thrown his machine into a tailspin which not only presented a target difficult to hit, but almost persuaded Jimmy that the machine was falling out of control.

  Jimmy had heard many stories of this sort of “playing possum” however. He determined to keep after the spinning Albatros and see the end of the combat. Accordingly he opened his throttle and dived headlong down. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand feet he plunged, regardless of everything but the occasional target that whirled periodically before his sights. At last he got in a burst that produced immediate results. The Albatros sent out a quick puff of smoke that was immediately followed by a mass of flames. One of Meissner's tracer bullets had set fire to the fuel tank of the enemy's machine. The plucky victor pulled up his Nieuport and took a self-satisfied look about him.

  There scarcely a thousand feet below him were the enemy's lines. From various directions machine guns and Archies were directing their fire upon him. He grinned at them contemptuously and looked away for the expected view of Lieutenant Davis' Nieuport and the other Albatros. Neither was to be seen. Perhaps they were on his other wing. One glance around to the left and Jimmy's heart was in his throat.

  He saw that the entire length of his left upper wing was stripped of fabric! And as he turned a horrified gaze to the other wing, he saw that its fabric too was even at that moment beginning to tear away from its leading edge and was flapping in the wind! So furious had been his downward plunge that the force of the wind's pressure had torn away the fragile covering on both his upper wings. Without this supporting surface his airplane would drop like a stone. Although it couldn't make much difference whether it dropped into German fines or within his own so far as his life was concerned, Meissner admitted later he always wanted a military funeral; so he eased off his speed and tenderly turned about his wobbling machine and headed back toward France.

  Giving the slightest possible engine power and nursing his crippled little 'bus with great delicacy, Meissner succeeded in gaining No Man's Land, then passed over the American trenches. He did not dare to alter either his direction or speed. Less than half a mile farther his machine glided into the earth and crashed beyond repair. Meissner crawled from the wreckage and felt himself all over carefully, to try to make himself understand that he was in reality in the land of the living—and free.

  Such was the climax of James A. Meissner's first victory, and the squadron's fourth. Meissner lived to repeat his success many times and to add much luster to the reputation of his squadron. But a narrower escape from death has rarely favored any pilot at the front.

  Again the news of the squadron's victory preceded the arrival of the victor. When Meissner arrived at the aerodrome by automobile an hour or two later, the American photographers and newspapermen were already on hand and he was begged to stand for his photograph. Like an embarrassed schoolboy Jimmy pushed them away exclaiming:

  “Nobody saw the machine fall in flames but myself. It may not be confirmed.”

  Great was his surprise when he learned that a French observation post had witnessed the whole combat and had already telephoned us, not only the result of the fight, but where Meissner had been forced to land. We all took a hand then and forced the embarrassed pilot to stand and face the camera. It was a custom with which most of 94's pilots had to become acquainted within the next six months.

  But our happiness and satisfaction were short-lived. Later in the afternoon Captain Peterson returned from his patrol over enemy's lines and brought back with him but two of the three companions who had gone out with him. We all walked out to get the news. Peterson had shot down another enemy airplane in flames, totaling five for the squadron with this double in one day. But during his combat, in which five Pfalz monoplanes* had been attacked by our four pilots, Captain Peterson saw one of his Nieuports pass swiftly by him, ablaze from stem to stern. He collected his patrol quickly about him and checked their markings. Charley Chapman's was missing! All were present but Chapman's well-known machine.

  Then Peterson remembered seeing Chapman leave the fight to attack a two-seater German machine below him. Other pilots later filled in the details that were lacking. Chapman had no sooner dived to the attack than one of the hostile fighting machines was upon his trail. Chapman turned to meet his pursuer and in doing so he brought himself full into the range of fire of the two-seater. Set on fire by the first burst, the mounting flames soon were quickly swept over the whole structure of Chapman's machine by the force of the wind.

  It was our first defeat in combat and sadly did we feel that loss. Charley Chapman was one of the best loved of our little band and the realization came to each one of us tha
t we would never see his jolly good-natured smile again. The horror of his fate was not lost upon us, one may be sure. No form of death is so dreaded by the pilot as falling to the earth in flames. Later on our most noted member leaped overboard to his death to avoid the slower torture of being burned alive.

  One of the queerest boys who had been wished into our squadron by an all-wise Air Staff was one we will call “T. S.” He was the source of constant amusement to the rest of us—amusement sometimes tinctured by a secret desire to turn him over to the enemy where he might amuse the prison camps with his drolleries. We will call him T. S. because that is not his name. T. S. came to us early in the training season and was immediately marked as a pilot afraid of his medicine. He was frankly a coward and he didn't try to conceal the fact. His very frankness on this subject was very amusing to the rest of us, who were every bit as much afraid of bullets and war as he was but who had a certain shame about admitting the fact. But T. S. could see no sense in playing the hypocrite about so deadly a business as getting shot down from on high. Naturally it required some little attention to keep T. S. up to the scratch when it came to patrol work over the lines. The boy was a fair pilot and was a strapping big fellow who always was in the best of health and spirits. But he did object to guns and ammunition.

  The first occasion of his fluking a military job was one day when he was left on the alert at the aerodrome. All the patrols were out and he had the secondary responsibility of responding to a hurry call. The telephone sergeant came running out to the hangar and confronted our shameless reserve:

  “Who is on duty here this afternoon, sir?” inquired the man.

  “I believe I am,” returned Lieutenant T. S., languidly eying the inquisitive sergeant. “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Two enemy airplanes have been spotted over our lines, sir, in the vicinity of Saint-Mihiel. They are two-seater machines sent over by the Germans to observe our positions.” The sergeant saluted and made room for the rush of events that usually followed the receipt of such intelligence.

  But T. S. never moved an eyelash. He looked the sergeant up and down, finally speaking deliberately and with finality.

  'Well,” he said, “let them observe! If you think I am going over there to get shot down myself, you are mistaken!”

  When questioned later by the commanding officer, the lieutenant unblushingly repeated his statement.

  “I am simply scared to death at the thought of getting into all those Archies and things over the lines,” he admitted, “and I'm not going to do it if I can get out of it. There are plenty of fellows here who do not mind them and they are the ones you ought to send.”

  The officer stared at T. S. in amazement, unable to criticize the faultless logic of this frank soldier. After thinking it over, it was decided to send T. S. out in patrols with veteran leaders until he had somewhat accustomed himself to the terrors of Archie. By this means a valuable pilot might be saved for the government.

  Accordingly, one afternoon Lieutenant T. S. was ordered to accompany Captain Hall and myself, in response to an alert that had just come in. Two enemy observation planes had been reported crossing our lines north of Nancy at an altitude of only eight thousand feet. Captain Hall directed T. S. to stick in formation close behind his left wing, while I was to occupy the same position on his right. The captain was the flight leader and we were to obey his signals and directions.

  We got away from the field without delay and streaked it across the sky in a perfect V formation. Straight toward the lines we flew, climbing as we advanced. As we neared the lines, we searched the neighboring skies but could discover no airplanes in sight, enemy or otherwise. So over the lines we went. We had reached a spot almost two miles behind the front, when all of a sudden a dozen magnificent Archies burst simultaneously under, above and all around us. The Germans had planned the whole show, to catch us in just this kind of trap. They had counted upon our coming over at the same altitude at which the two decoy planes had traveled and had prepared their antiaircraft guns and time fuses thoroughly to drench this certain spot with flying shrapnel.

  Fortunately no direct hits were made. But I noticed one shell explode under the tail of T. S.'s machine, lifting his 'bus suddenly and violently into the air, where it hung suspended for a moment with the tail pointing heavenward. The next moment he had recovered control of his Nieuport and making a short half turn, he headed for home and opened up his throttle to its full. Straight for Nancy he flew, looking neither to the right nor the left. Captain Hall and I followed after him, the captain making desperate efforts to overtake him, all the while dipping his wings and trying to summon the frightened airman back to the formation. But it was no use. In two minutes T. S. was out of sight, with an unusually vigorous engine turning up at least 1700 revolutions of his propeller per minute. We abandoned our pursuit and continued on our patrol.

  An hour later we landed at our aerodrome and inquired for T. S. Nothing had been seen or heard of him. Somewhat alarmed at this strange climax to the afternoon's performance, we telephoned all over the country for news of him, but only to learn that he had not landed at any of our aerodromes near the front. Dinner passed and still no news of T. S. We decided he had become confused in his location and had landed by mistake on an aerodrome of the Germans. The lines from Nancy to Switzerland ran in such an irregular fashion that such a mistake would be quite possible.

  Not until late the following afternoon was our anxiety relieved. Then came a telephone call from Lieutenant T. S. himself. He had landed quite safely at a French aerodrome just south of Nancy and but a dozen miles from our own field. He informed us that he would fly back to us at the earliest possible moment. Pressed as to why he had kept us in such long suspense about him, he replied with great indignation that he considered he was doing pretty well to have sufficiently recovered from shell shock within twenty-four hours to get to the telephone!

  The very rarity of such an example in American aviation makes this story worth the telling. Heroic conduct in war has become so usual and ordinary a thing that such a career as that of T. S. seems incredible and even amusing. The very contrast indicates how thoroughly American boys have smothered their natural desire for “living through the war” and have hurled themselves with supreme self-sacrifice into the thick of dangers over the battle lines.

  * This type of aircraft was of 1915 vintage. A.W.

  CHAPTER VI

  Jimmy Hall's Last Fight

  On Monday, May 6, 1918, the monotony of another “dud” day was happily broken by the arrival at our aerodrome of our old comrades of the 95th Squadron, who had been with us at Epiez. They had just completed their gunnery training at Cazeau and were now ready for the great war. From that day to the end of the conflict Squadrons 94 and 95 continued to occupy the same aerodrome. No other two American squadrons in France ever equaled their victories and number of hours flying over the lines.

  Squadron 95 contained much the same quality of material as was found in my own squadron. John Mitchell of Boston, now the Captain of the Squadron, was an old boy from Fay School, St. Mark's, and Harvard.

  Quentin Roosevelt was one of the newly assigned pilots in 95. Both the enlisted men and his fellow pilots found that Quent relied upon his own attainments rather than upon the reputation of his celebrated father; and it is safe to say that Quent Roosevelt was easily the most popular man in his squadron. To indicate Quentin's love for square dealing and fairness, I may divulge a little secret that were Quentin still living might not be told.

  His commanding officer, moved perhaps by the fact that Quentin was the son of Theodore Roosevelt, made him a Flight Commander before he had ever made a flight over the lines. Quentin appreciated the fact that his inexperienced leadership might jeopardize the lives of the men following him. He accordingly declined the honor. But his superiors directed him to obey orders and to take the office that had been assigned to him. A trio of pilots, all of whom had had more experience in war flying than had Quentin so
far received, were placed under his command. And an order was posted directing Lieutenant Roosevelt's Flight to go on its first patrol the following morning.

  Quentin called his pilots to one side.

  “Look here, you fellows, which one of you has had the most flying over the lines? You, Curtis?”

  Curtis shook his head and replied:

  “Buckley, or Buford—both of them have seen more of this game than I have.”

  Quentin looked them all over and made up his mind before he spoke.

  “Well, any one of you knows more about it than I do! Tomorrow morning you, Buckley, are to be Flight Commander in my place. As soon as we leave the ground, you take the lead. I will drop into your place. We will try out each man in turn. They may be able to make me Flight Commander in name, but the best pilot in my group is going to lead it in fact.”

  Until the day he died a gallant soldier's death, Quentin Roosevelt continued to fly under the leadership of one of his pilots. He himself had never led a flight.

  Sumner Sewell of Harvard, Bill Taylor, later killed in combat, old Heinie Heinrichs, later shot down with ten wounds and made a prisoner in Germany, and a dozen other choice spirits combined to make of Squadron 95 an aggregation second to none other in the world—excepting that of my own, the 94th.

  About eight o'clock in the morning of May 7, 1918, the French alerted us by telephone. Four enemy airplanes were flying over Pont-a-Mousson and were headed for the south. The First Flight— my own—was on duty at the time—very luckily for us, as Jimmy Hall, Eddie Green and I thought. We jumped for our machines and anxiously watched the mechanics swinging the propellers.

  “Switch off!” yelled the mechanic.