The chateau itself contained many palatial rooms. A dimly lighted little chapel occupied one corner of the chateau and this part of the building, we learned, dated back to the days of the Romans.
During tea the Countess very graciously invited us to make this magnificent old castle our home if at any time American aviators became worn out with work at the front. I must confess to the good Countess some day that a scandalous number of our overtired aviators and perhaps still greater a number of not-at-all tired American aviators did subsequently avail themselves of her very generous invitation.
After cordial good-bys to our hospitable hostess we motored back to Chaumont where we dined with Colonel Mitchell; and then with another long drive we finally reached home tired but happy at 3:30 in the morning. There staring me in the face was an order directing me to lead my patrol over the lines in the morning at five o'clock, sharp! An hour and a half sleep for an utterly worn out aviator!
Heaven must have heard my prayers, for the next morning when I woke up at eleven o'clock and rushed to the window I found the rain falling in sheets. The orderly had omitted to call me at the appointed hour, because he saw that the weather was too thick for flying.
Decorations for valor and heroism were coming to several of the boys in our squadron on May 15; and we all woke up that morning to find a beautiful day dawning. While we all assumed a truly American disdain for performances of this kind, we nevertheless clearly indicated by our nervousness the pride which we really felt in receiving this award.
General Gerard, Commander of the Sixth French Army, was to arrive at our field shortly after lunch. All the forenoon I tried to avoid my gallant messmates, who were continually seeking me out to advise me to shave again and to use plenty of powder on the cheeks where the General would kiss me. Both Lieutenant Jimmy Meissner and I were quite new to this decoration business and we were nicely stuffed by all the other fellows who claimed to know all about it. Major David Peterson was also receiving the Croix de Guerre, but he had been through many ceremonies of this kind and was little worried by the prospect. Captain James Norman Hall, whom we considered killed in combat, and Lieutenant Charles Chapman, who had been shot down a fortnight before, were both summoned to appear for their well earned distinctions, but neither, alas, could answer to his name.
Shortly after one o'clock three companies of a crack poilu regiment marched onto our field behind a gorgeous French military band of music. Then came several more companies of infantry from the famous U. S. 26th Division, the New England boys. They had a good snappy American band at their head. Both French and American soldiers drew up their ranks in the form of a hollow square in the center of our aerodrome.
In the meantime we had run out all the Nieuports from the hangars and they stood cheek by jowl across the field, shining brightly with their red, white, and blue markings in the sunlight. All the mechanics and enlisted men formed ranks behind the airplanes and stood awaiting the beginning of the ceremony.
Jimmy Meissner and I stood shaking in our well polished boots, while our cheery comrades came by for a last word of comforting advice. Then, with Major Peterson beside us, we waited for the fatal word of advance into the awful presence. Suddenly, mid a blare of both bands, the general's party appeared from behind one of the hangars where they had been in hiding all this time. I tried one minute to think of how proud my old mother would be of me and the next would attempt to stretch my face up to such a height that no ordinary general would ever be able to reach it with his lips. This was the last piece of excellent advice that a delegation of my oldest friends had crossed the aerodrome to give me.
Suddenly a faraway band began playing something that sounded somewhat familiar. It turned out to be the National Anthem, “Oh! Say! Can you see … ?” Everybody jerked to attention and stood at the Salute until it ended. Then from far away in front of me Colonel Mitchell, the head of our Air Service, began a brief speech congratulating us upon the honors which the French Army was conferring upon us. And then General Gerard, a kindly looking man with a businesslike military efficiency in his features and movements, approached our little line of three. He was carrying in his hands the Croix de Guerre and a printed list of citations from the French Army. Pausing immediately in front of us, he began reading them aloud in French.
The Croix de Guerre is a beautiful medal in bronze, artistically designed and executed. It hangs suspended from a ribbon of striped red and green upon which are fastened the palms or stars for each particular citation given by the army or division. If any individual soldier is mentioned for an act of heroism in especial terms by an Army Order he is presented with an additional palm for each of such citations. Some of the French airmen have received so many citations that the medal itself would hang down below the waist if the ribbon were properly lengthened to accommodate every palm awarded. I have seen Rene Fonck, the French Ace of Aces, who has been cited twenty-nine times for his victories, wearing his Croix de Guerre in two sections so as to accommodate all the palms that must be worn upon ceremonial occasions. If the citations come from a division instead of an army the decoration to be worn above the Croix de Guerre is a star instead of a palm. Colonel William Thaw wears two stars and three palms among his many other decorations.
With a quick fastening of the much prized honor upon the breast of our tunics and a hearty handclasp of congratulations General Gerard left us, with a very dignified salute which we all returned simultaneously. The discriminating commander had not made an attempt to kiss us at all!
Within five minutes the field was cleared and we were running up our engines for a prearranged exhibition in stunt flying, formation flying, farce combats, and acrobatics. We flung our lithe little Nieuports about the warm sky in every variety of contortion for half an hour, at the end of which we landed and again received a handshake and a smile of thanks from this most courteous of French officials. The troops disappeared behind the dying strains of the “Sambre et Meuse” march, the mud-splashed automobiles bore away the last of our distinguished visitors, the mechanics reappeared in their grease-covered overalls and began trundling in the machines.
Suddenly Jimmy Meissner stood by my side, grinning his most winsome grin. “Rick,” said he, “I feel that 'Hate-the-Hun' feeling creeping over me. What do you say to going up and getting a Boche?”
“Right!” I called back over my shoulder. “Come along. We'll take a real ride.”
As luck would have it, we had hardly left the ground when we saw a Hun two-seater, probably a Rumpler machine, very high above us. The Rumpler has the highest ceiling of any of the German two-seaters and frequently they sail along above us at an elevation quite impossible for the Nieuport to reach. It is maddening to attain one's maximum height and see the enemy still sailing imperturbably along, taking his photographs and scorning even to fire an occasional burst at one. We climbed at our fastest to overtake this fellow before he could reach his safety spot. Evidently he got “wind up,” for after a few minutes climbing he sheered off toward Germany and disappeared from our view. We completed our patrol of the lines without finding another enemy in the sky and returned to our field, where we landed with the mutual vow that on the morrow we would begin seriously our palm collecting shows until we might dangle our new Croix de Guerre well down below our knees.
Jimmy looked contemplatively down at my long legs.
“Have a heart, Rickl” he said softly, “think of the cost of the red tape!”
CHAPTER VIII
A Victory and a Narrow Escape
Reed Chambers and I often used to discuss new tricks and wiles by which we might hope to circumvent the crafty Hun. Take it all in all, this whole game of war aviation is so new that any day some newcomer may happen upon a clever trick that none of us has before thought of. I suppose the Huns are sitting up nights the same as we are, trying to devise some startling innovation in the still crude science of air fighting. At any rate Reed and I sat up late very often and rose very early the next morning to carry into
execution some little plan which had enraptured us the night before.
On the morning of May 17, 1918, my orderly routed me out at four o'clock sharp, in accordance with orders I had the night before waked him up to give him. I sent him into Reed's room to call him.
Over our coffee fifteen minutes later Reed and I hurriedly discussed our clever little scheme for the morning run. We intended to get away from the ground before daylight, climb clear up out of sight and out of hearing long before the Huns were out of bed. By hanging around their front yard we might pick up a stray machine venturing alone across our lines for photographs. It was a wonderful plan. We wondered why nobody had ever thought of it before.
Up over Toul and Commercy and Nancy we circled as we climbed, climbed, climbed. At nearly 18,000 feet we found we had enough climbing. It seemed about eighteen thousand degrees below zero at this great height. Still I hugged myself with much satisfaction over the thought that we surely had the upper hand of any two-seater that might come over; and as the visibility was good we had a tremendous range of view.
We waited and we waited. Up and down along the prearranged sector, where we expected any reasonable enemy might want to come to get photographs on such a fine morning as this, up and down, back and forth we went. At last I began to get rather fed up with the sport. Our plan had worked perfectly and without a single flaw. Yet the stupid Boches were trying to gum up the whole show by staying home this morning. I finally grew indignant at the thought of our early rising hour, our fortunate weather conditions, our high ceiling cleverly obtained without the knowledge of Archie —all these efforts and accomplishments honestly achieved, only to be nullified by the refusal of the fish to bite.
Major Lufbery used to remind us that it was impossible to get Boches by sitting at home in the billets with one's feet before the fire. I considered this sage advice as I turned back on my beat for the twentieth time and estimated I still had an hour's petrol left in my tank. I was nearly perishing with the cold and with hunger. Bitterly I contrasted the cozy mess fire in the breakfast room with the frigid heights at which I had spent the last hour. And there were just as many Boches to be shot at there as here. I felt I had been badly treated.
Where was Chambers anyway? During my preoccupation I had forgotten to keep an eye upon him. I examined every portion of the sky, but he was not in sight. Nothing was in sight. No other fool in the world was abroad at such an unearthly hour. But still, I had to admit to myself, Luf was right! It was just like going fishing. If there were no fish in the stream that certainly would be hard luck, but still one couldn't expect to catch any with his feet before his fire. I smiled to myself as I thought of the Alabama colored gentleman who spent the afternoon fishing in his water trough. A censorious white man walked by and watched him jerk his line out of the water half a dozen times. Finally the white man yelled.
“You rascal! Don't you know there are no fish in that mudhole?”
“Yes, boss! But it's close and handy!” replied the black.
The old story gave me an idea. Perhaps I was selecting a poor fishing place whose only merit was that it was close and handy. I pulled up my machine and started off for Metz. I knew the fishing must be good there. It was twenty-five miles back of the lines and claimed, besides the famous fortress, one of the best of the German aerodromes.
I was now at twenty thousand feet above earth and as I turned east I saw the first ray of the sun that shone over France that day. The sun lay a huge red ball behind the distant mountains of the Rhine. I headed in that direction in order to cross the enemy's lines east of Pont-a-Mousson, where I knew lay concealed several sharp-eyed German batteries. At the extremely high altitude at which I crossed the lines that early morning the sound of my engine must have been heard by the gunners below, but I am sure none of them could have seen me, even with the most powerful telescopes. At any rate not a shell was fired at me during my entire journey to Metz.
The celebrated fortifications soon lay spread below my wings. Metz herself lies deep down within a valley—the lovely valley of the river Moselle. Practically sheer bluffs one thousand feet high rise on either bank of the river, and a sudden turn of the stream a mile below the city's walls provides almost an entire circumference of fortifications about the sheltered little city below.
Beautiful as Metz appeared to me, I for once regretted that I was not mounted on a bombing machine from which I might drop a few souvenirs of my visit into the crowded camps below. Doubtless Metz contained hundreds of thousands of troops and many officers of high rank, as this secure little city was the gateway between Germany and her front line on the Meuse. My machine gun could inflict no damage from such a height. Regretfully I made a last farewell circuit over the Queen City of Lorraine and started homeward over the Frascati aerodrome, whose hangars topped the hills, and peeped down into the valley of the Moselle. No pilots from there had yet thought fit to leave the ground.
But one more chance remained to me to get a Boche this morning. I knew of an aerodrome just this side of Thiaucourt, where some activity might be expected.
My time was nearly gone, for my fuel must be rather far down. The thought of encountering engine trouble this twenty miles behind the lines made me accelerate my pace a bit. Germany would be a sad place for an enemy named Rickenbacker to land in for duration of the war. I stuck my nose down a bit more as I thought of this and further increased my speed. Ah! here comes the vicinity of Thiaucourt. Cutting down my motor, I glided on almost noiselessly and reached the town at about eighteen thousand feet altitude.
Two or three complete circles were made over Thiaucourt with silent engine. My eyes were set upon the enemy aerodrome which I knew occupied the smooth field just outside the little city. Some activity was apparent there and even as I sailed above them I noticed three graceful Albatros machines leave the ground one after the other. It was evident from their straightaway course that they were going over the lines, gaining their altitude as they flew southward. I made myself as inconspicuous as possible until the last of the three had his back well toward me. Then I returned to my course and gradually narrowed the distance between us.
By the time we reached Montsec, that celebrated mountain north of Saint-Mihiel, I estimated some three thousand feet separated me from my unsuspicious quarry. I was so eager to let them get over our lines before attacking that I quite forgot I was now a conspicuous figure to the German Archies. Two quick bursts just ahead of me informed me of my error. Without waiting to see whether or not I was hit, I put on the sauce and dived down headlong at the rearmost of the three Huns.
Again I saw the warning signal sent up ahead of the three Al-batros pilots. A single black burst from the battery below caused the German airmen to turn about and look behind them. They had not expected any attack from this quarter.
When the leader made the first swerve aside I was less than two hundred yards from the rear Albatros. I was descending at a furious pace, regardless of everything but my target ahead. Fully two hundred miles an hour my Nieuport was flying. Without checking her speed, I kept her nose pointing at the tail of the rear Albatros, which was now darting steeply downward to escape me. As the distance closed to fifty yards I saw my tracer bullets piercing the back of the pilot's seat. I had been firing for perhaps ten seconds from first to last. The scared Boche had made the mistake of trying to outdive me instead of outmaneuvering me. He paid for his blunder with his life.
These thoughts flashed through my mind in the fraction of a moment. All the while during which my fingers pressed the trigger I was conscious of the danger of my position. Either or both of the other enemy machines were undoubtedly now on my tail, exactly as I had been on their unfortunate companion. And being alone I must rely solely upon my own maneuvers to escape them.
I believe I should have followed my first target all the way to the ground regardless of the consequences, so desperately had I determined to get him. So I perhaps prolonged my terrific speed a trifle too long. As the enemy airplane fell of
f and began to flutter I pulled my stick back close into my lap and began a sharp climb. A frightening crash that sounded like the crack of doom told me that the sudden strain had collapsed my right wing. The entire spread of canvas over the top wing was torn off by the wind and disappeared behind me. Deprived of any supporting surface on this framework, the Nieuport turned over on her right side. The tail was forced up despite all my efforts with joystick and rudder. Slowly at first, then faster and faster the tail began revolving around and around. Swifter and swifter became our downward speed. I was caught in a vrille, or tail spin, and with a machine as crippled as mine there seemed not a chance to come out of it.
I wondered vaguely whether the two Albatros machines would continue to fire at me all the way down. Twice I watched them dive straight at me firing more bullets into my helpless little craft, notwithstanding the apparent certainty of her doom. I felt no anger toward them. I felt somewhat critical toward their bad judgment in thus wasting ammunition. No, that was not exactly it either. My senses were getting confused. What I felt critical about was their stupidity in believing I was playing possum. They were fools not to know when an airplane was actually falling to a crash. A great spread of my fabric was gone. No pilot ever could fly without fabric on his machine.
Where would I strike, I wondered. There were the woods of Montsec below me. Heavens! how much nearer the ground was getting! I wondered if the whole framework of the machine would disintegrate and fling me out to the mercy of the four winds. If I struck in tree tops it was barely possible that I might escape with a score of broken bones. Both Jimmy Meissner and Jimmy Hall had escaped death when betrayed through this same fault of the Nieuport. Never would I fly one again if I once got out of this fix alive! But no use worrying about that now. Either I should not be alive or else I should be a mangled prisoner in Germany. Which would my mother rather have, I wondered?
Fighting the Flying Circus Page 8
