Fighting the Flying Circus

by Captain Eddie V. Rickenbacker

  There were no beginners' training machines at Issoudun. Only the 23 Model Nieuports were there. Pilots were supposed to receive initial training on the slower Curtiss machines, or the Caudrons, before attempting to fly the Nieuports. But Campbell feared he would never get necessary permission to take this preliminary training, so he determined to get through without the beginner's course.

  Little by little he edged his way into the advanced training school. He finally considered himself well enough schooled in the principles of flying to make his first attempt at a solo flight. He went up all right, flew away all right, landed all right. In other words Lieutenant Campbell learned to fly alone on a fast scout machine—a feat I do not remember any other American pilot having duplicated.

  Douglas Campbell was always a silent and self-possessed fellow. He was popular among his fellows from his first appearance in 94 Squadron. Quiet and thoughtful in manner and gentle in speech when on the ground, Lieutenant Campbell in the air was quite a different character. He went after an enemy pilot like a tornado, often exposing himself to deadly openings. His very impetuosity usually saved him from danger unless his opponent was an old hand at the game and knew how to organize the proper amount of defensive and offensive tactics in the same maneuver.

  On May 31, the day after our big celebration just recorded, Lieutenant Campbell went out on a voluntary patrol alone—i.e., Doug went out looking for trouble. He made quite a long flight inside the German lines at a great altitude, but discovering too many enemy airplanes aloft he decided to return back to the lines. When still three or four miles behind the German front, he discerned a German Rumpler machine evidently taking photographs of our advanced positions just south of Flirey. Flirey lies just inside our lines about halfway between Pont-a-Mousson and Saint-Mihiel.

  The Rumpler airplane was the machine used by the enemy for observation and photographing. It was a two-seater and both the pilot and the observer who sat behind, had machine guns so mounted that they covered both the front and the rear. The pilot's gun was fixed secure to the top of the engine and fires through an aperture in the engine cowling. This Spandau weapon is synchronized to the whirling propeller by means of a Fokker interrupter gear, and in action, the pilot simply aims his whole aircraft by the stick and rudder to draw a bead on his target.

  The observer in the rear seat, however, is able to move his twin guns about and point them in any direction. An attack is therefore usually made upon such a machine from a position under its tail. If an attack comes from below the fuselage the observer cannot reply without cutting holes through his own tail. The pilot cannot use his guns at all. The only defense against such an attack is a quick swing to the left or right so that the observer can see the attacking enemy and bring his guns into action. This move the attacking airplane must anticipate.

  Campbell was coming into the enemy's range from a very favorable direction. He had the sun at his back and moreover, he was coming from Germany into France. His presence in that direction would not be suspected.

  Maneuvering until he was sure of his position Lieutenant Campbell first tried a diving attack, from above and behind the Rumpler. He had an excellent chance of killing the observer with the first burst long before the latter could swing his guns around and aim them. But no such easy victory awaited him.

  As he began his dive he began firing. Six or seven shots issued from the Nieuport's single gun, and then it jammed. The observer turned around and saw the diving Nieuport almost upon him. He quickly swung his own gun mount and got to work. Campbell was compelled to fly a wide circle well out of range while he worked the breechblock of the Vickers and freed the jam. Now it must be a contest between a one-man scout and a two-man fighting 'bus. The best pilotage and the coolest nerve must win.

  As Doug returned to the attack he discovered at once that he had a veteran pilot against him. The Rumpler crew showed no sign of panic or fear. The Heinies did not even propose to retreat!

  Campbell approached warily and began a study of the enemy's tactics. The Nieuport could turn and twist with much greater agility than the heavier machine. It had greater speed and a faster dive. Underneath the Rumpler was a safe position from which the American could keep out of view and occasionally point up his nose and let go a burst of bullets through the enemy's floor. Campbell darted in, braving a few hurried shots, and secured his position. But he didn't keep it long!

  With a skill that won from Campbell still greater respect, the German pilot suddenly banked over, giving his observer an excellent shot at the Nieuport below. It was no place to linger in and Douglas quickly vacated. He dived again and came away at a safe distance. Again he turned the proposition over in his mind. These fellows were evidently desirous of a real battle. Well, thought Campbell to himself, let the best man win. Here goes!

  Circling the enemy again and again at such speed that no careful aim at him was possible, Campbell smiled grimly to himself as he saw the observer frantically continue his firing. At this rate he must soon exhaust his ammunition and then Campbell's turn would come. Doug continued his maneuvers, at times firing a shot or two to tempt the Boche into still greater activity. Round and round they went, the Hun pilot attempting to kick his tail around to keep pace with the quicker circles of the flitting Nieuport. The pilot was surely a wonder. The observer, however, was not in the same class as an air fighter.

  For fifteen minutes Campbell continued these maneuvers. So far as he knew not a single bullet had struck his plane. Then suddenly he noticed that the pilot had changed his tactics. Instead of trying to keep the Nieuport within range of the observer, the German pilot was now keeping his tail behind him and sought always to get a shot himself with his forward gun. Campbell flew in closer to the tail to get a look at this situation.

  Coming in toward the observer from a diagonal direction Campbell approached to within fifty feet of the enemy and saw a curious sight. The observer was standing proudly upright and his arms were folded! From the edge of his cockpit the empty ammunition belt floated overboard and flapped in the wind. He had indeed exhausted his ammunition and now stood awaiting his doom without a thought of asking for mercy. He wore a haughty expression on his face as he watched the American approach. As Doug said later, he was so impressed with the bravery of the action that he felt he could not continue the combat against an unarmed enemy. The Prussian's expression seemed to say: “Go ahead and shoot me! I know you have won.”

  Upon second thought Lieutenant Campbell realized this was not a game. It was war. These men had photographs of our positions in their cameras which might mean the death of hundreds of our boys. They had done their best to kill him and he had avoided their bullets in order to obtain just this opportunity. And the pilot was still continuing his effort to outwit the American and get him before his guns.

  With his next maneuver Campbell began firing. After his first burst, Doug knew he had won. The enemy machine began to dive with speed and then started an erratic fall, indicating that it was completely out of control. A few minutes later, Campbell saw it crash inside our lines a few hundred yards north of the little village of Menil-la-Tours.

  Campbell returned to the field and immediately jumped into a car and drove over to the scene of the crash. Here he found the mangled Rumpler and in the midst of the debris were the bodies of the two occupants with whom he had had such a prolonged duel. Both had been killed by the crash.

  The brave observer whose demeanor had so aroused Campbell's admiration was in truth a Prussian lieutenant. The pilot held the same rank. Both were subsequently given a military funeral and their personal effects were sent back to Germany in their names.

  Lieutenant Campbell detached from the conquered Rumpler the black crosses which decorated its wings and brought them home with him as first evidence of his well-won victory. As the machine crashed within our lines it required but a few more hours in which to have Lieutenant Campbell's victory officially confirmed. It was his fifth! He had been the first American pilot to win five
official confirmations. Douglas Campbell that night received the heartiest congratulations from all the boys in the squadron as the first American Ace. The news was telegraphed abroad and for a month the congratulations of the world came pouring in upon him. Almost self-taught and equipped with not the safest machine at the front, Douglas Campbell had within six weeks of his first flight over the lines fought five successful duels with the boasted air fighters of the Germans.

  During the early hours of the same day on which Campbell was bringing this honor to the 94th Squadron an episode occurred which illustrates the great aid that airplanes give to the land forces in warfare. Sadly enough this illustration is negative rather than affirmative, for it shows the misfortune that resulted from the failure of our troops always to use our airplanes before a contemplated advance.

  Northwest of Seicheprey a small offensive movement had been planned by the American infantry. By some means or other the enemy had received advanced information of this attack and had prepared a trap for them.

  According to the prearrangements our artillery began the show with a terrific bombardment of shells along the German trenches. Something like twenty thousand shells were poured into a small area of ground inside of one hour. Then the doughboys got the word and went over the top.

  They raced across No Man's Land, dropped into the first line trenches of the Germans, crawled out of them and went on to the second. All the way on to the third line trenches of the Germans they continued their victorious course. When they arrived there they counted up their prisoners and found the whole bag consisted of but one sick Heinie, whom the Germans had been unable to remove!

  While they were scratching their heads over this extraordinary puzzle German gas shells began to drop among them. The enemy had calculated to an inch the exact positions they had just evacuated and they quickly filled the trench lines with deadly fumes. Over three hundred of our boys were gassed more or less seriously before they had time to meet the devilish menace. Then they realized they had wasted their ammunition upon vacant trenches and had blindly walked into a carefully prepared trap!

  One single preliminary airplane flight over this area before beginning the offensive would have disclosed the whole situation. In fact I believe this function of “seeing for the army” is the most important one that belongs to the aviation arm in warfare. Bombing, patrolling, and bringing down enemy airplanes are but trivial compared to the vast importance of knowing the exact positions of the enemy's forces and “looking before you leap.”

  On the morning of June first I had an interesting little fracas with an enemy two-seater Rumpler some distance within the German lines. But this pair of Boche airmen was evidently not related to the team that Doug met on the day before. They dived for the ground and continued their course homeward regardless of my earnest invitations to come back and fight it out. Much disappointed with a fruitless day's work I went home and arranged to take a little joyride by automobile over to Nancy, the principal city in this part of France.

  Nancy is a city of thirty thousand or thereabouts and is called by Frenchmen “the Little Paris of the East.” After four years of war its shops are now almost empty and its glory considerably dimmed; but a visit and walk about the city's streets did all of us good after so many weeks standing on the alert.

  We heard rumors there that the American airplane squadrons were to be moved soon to another sector of the front to meet a “big push” on Paris that was anticipated. Rumors were rife in Nancy on every topic, however, so we were not fully convinced by them. Nancy is darkened by night, as is every city or village so near the front where bombing raiders may be expected. Nothing daunted by this possibility of a raid however, we investigated the chances for a good meal as dinnertime approached. Imagine our gratification when we stepped into a restaurant on Stanislas Plaza and found a list of good old American dishes on the menu!

  Upon inquiry we found that the place was called “Walter's” and was quite the most pretentious cafe in Nancy. I called for the proprietor and learned that his name was Walter. He had formerly been the chef at the Hotel Knickerbocker in New York. Visiting his old home in France, Walter had been caught by the war, joined the infantry and after a few months at the front was wounded and retired from service.

  Being a native and a lover of France, he decided to stay and see the war out. Accordingly he selected “Little Paris in the East” and opened up a first-class restaurant which has now become the favorite rendezvous for the many American officers who find their headquarters in this vicinity.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Bumpier 'Number 16

  Lieutenant Smyth went out with me again on June 4, 1918. He had now become a valuable companion and I placed much dependence upon his reliability and good judgment. We crossed the lines near Pont-a-Mousson to take a look into the enemy territory and see if any airplane might be coming over for photographs.

  Within a dozen minutes after passing the trenches I picked up the distant silhouette of two enemy machines approaching us from the direction of Metz. I saw at first glance that these fellows had more than a thousand feet advantage of us in the matter of altitude. Without waiting to discover whether or not they had any friends behind them, I turned sharply about and began climbing for a greater height. We could neither attack the enemy nor defend ourselves advantageously so far below them.

  While flying south and climbing steeply I noticed ahead of us, in the direction of our own aerodrome, an enormous number of white shell bursts dotting the heavens at about our altitude. These were American antiaircraft shells and they told me clearly that an enemy airplane was operating over Toul; likewise they indicated that no American planes were in the sky there, else our gunners would be more cautious in firing.

  Up to this time I had downed five German airplanes, every one of them behind their own lines. Confirmation for my last victory, won on May 30 had not yet come in, so officially I was not yet an ace. That was of little consequence but the matter of dropping a Boche plane within our own territory and having the satisfaction of seeing what sort of prize I had bagged—this was a pleasure that I ardently desired. Consequently I forgot all about the late object of our attack, who presumably was still coasting along five or six miles behind us. I wigwagged my wings to attract Smyth's attention, pointed the nose of my Nieuport toward the city of Toul and forged with all speed in that direction. Smyth understood and followed close behind me.

  As we drew nearer we easily distinguished the outline of a two-seater Hun photography machine tranquilly pursuing its way amidst the angry bursts of shrapnel. I wouldn't have taken a million dollars for my opportunity at that moment. The enemy was over our very front lawn and would drop within a few kilometers of my own hangar. He hadn't even noticed my approach but was lazily circling about, no doubt photographing everything of interest in the vicinity.

  It was a Rumpler, just as I had thought. I had him in a tight position. He couldn't see me as I was exactly in line with the sun. I had just the right amount of elevation for a leisurely direct attack. Smyth stayed above me as I pushed down my joystick and began my dive.

  Painted in big black letters on the side of his fuselage was the number “16.” The outlines of the “16” was beautifully shaded from black into orange color. Just ahead of the “16” were the ornate insignia, also in orange which represented a rising sun. I pictured the spot on the wall over my sleeping cot where those insignia would hang this evening after dinner as I directed the sights of my machine gun past the rising sun, past the observer's seat, raised them a trifle and finally settled them dead into the pilot's seat only a hundred yards ahead of me. Absolutely certain of my aim I pressed the trigger.

  Words cannot describe my chagrin and rage when my gun jammed after the first two or three shots. I dashed on past my easy target at the rate of two hundred miles per hour, cursing madly at my gun, my ammunition and at the armorer at the aerodrome who had been careless in selecting and loading my cartridges. The two or three bullets that I had fired
merely served to give the alarm to the Huns in the machine. They would turn at once for home while I withdrew to repair my miserable weapons.

  Already they were headed for Germany at top speed. I directed my swifter climbing machine upon a parallel course that would soon distance them as well as regain me my former superior height; and as we flew along I removed the faulty cartridge from the chamber of the Vickers and fired a few rounds to see that the mechanism was in good firing order. With everything arranged to my satisfaction, I looked below to see how far my craft had carried me.

  I had crossed over the lines! There lay Thiaucourt below me, not more than a mile away. The enemy machine had been steadily diving for home all this time and I had a very few seconds left me for an attack of any kind. All hopes of getting a victory inside of my own lines had now disappeared. I should be lucky if I got confirmation for a victory at all, since we were now so far inside Germany and so near to the ground. I dived on to the attack.

  Most of one's troubles in this world come from something wrong inside one's self. If I hadn't been so stupidly optimistic at the outset of this engagement I should have been more cautious and my first disappointment would not have made me forget to keep an eye out for other enemy machines. Even Smyth I had forgotten, in my rage at losing the best chance for a brilliant shot that had ever come my way. I had been flying for five minutes with almost no thoughts except angry disappointment. Now I had a rude awakening.

  Even as I began my last dive upon the Rumpler I heard, saw and felt living streaks of fire pass my head. They crackled and sparkled around me like a dozen popcorn kernels, except, that they had a far more consistent and regular rhythm. I saw a number of these tracer bullets go streaming past my face before I realized what a blessed idiot I had been. Almost scared out of my wits with the dreadful situation in which I now found myself I did not even stop to look around and count the number of enemy machines on my tail. I imagined there were at least a thousand from the streaks of fire which their tracer bullets and incendiary ammunition cut through my wings. I kicked my rudder with my right foot and shoved my joystick to the right with a single spasmodic jerk. My machine fell over onto its wings and slid sideways for a few hundred feet and then, seeing a clear country between me and dear old France, I pulled her back into line and fed in the gas. The suddenness of my maneuver must have caught the Heinies quite by surprise, for as I straightened out I looked behind me and saw the two fighting single-seaters which had been on my tail still on their downward dive. I had gotten away so quickly they did not even yet know I had gone.