Fighting the Flying Circus

by Captain Eddie V. Rickenbacker

  Number 16 and the orange-colored Rising Sun that I fancied would be decorating the walls over my sleeping cot were still leering at me from the fat sides of the Rumpler as it descended leisurely to the ground.

  As I took my melancholy yet grateful way homeward I reviewed and checked up the events of the morning. I resolved then and there never again to permit premature elation or circumstances of any kind, good or bad, to rile my temper and affect me as they had this morning. Fate had been extraordinarily good to me and I had escaped miraculously with only a few bullet holes through my wings, but I could never hope to be so fortunate again.

  It was with a chastened spirit that I confronted our armorer a few minutes later and told him about my jam. Instead of ordering severe punishment to the careless mechanics who has tested my gun and ammunition I mildly suggested that they make a more careful examination of my cartridges hereafter.

  At this time I was second in command of Squadron 94 and, as one of the privileges of the office, I could go off on voluntary patrols at any time I desired so long as such proceedings did not interfere with my required duties. I naturally preferred going by myself, for I felt no responsibility for other pilots under such circumstances and I had a much better chance of stealing up close to enemy airplanes without discovery. In formation flying the whole flight is limited to the speed and altitude of its weakest member. Formation flying is very valuable to an inexperienced pilot; but after one has learned to take care of oneself one prefers to go out with a roving commission.

  The morning following my disappointing encounter with No. 16 of the Rising Sun Squadron, I went over to my hangar at an early hour to see that all was right with my machine. Inside the shed I found the mechanics busy with my Nieuport. The gun had been dismounted and was still in the repair shop. Some defect had been discovered in the mechanism, they told me, and it has been necessary to take it to the repair shops for examination. My machine was out of commission for that day.

  Looking over the available machines I found that Lieutenant Smyth's Nieuport was in good condition, although the guns were not correctly aligned, according to Smyth's judgment. He readily consented to my using it for a little patrol, though this necessitated his remaining behind. I knew nothing of the capabilities of his machine, yet I was pleased to try the efficacy of his twin gun mounting. My own Nieuport carried but one gun.

  Flying high over Nancy and Toul and Commercy I tried first to learn the ceiling of Smyth's machine. The highest altitude, it should be explained, to which any machine can climb, is controlled by the rarity of the atmosphere. The higher one rises, the greater power is required, to enable the thinner air to sustain the weight of the airplane. Consequently, the limit of altitude for any given machine depends upon two factors: its horsepower and its weight. In order to climb an extra thousand feet, you must appreciably increase the horsepower or diminish the weight. To resume: I reached twenty thousand feet and found that Smyth's machine would go no higher. I fired a few bursts from each gun and found that they operated smoothly. Everything appearing to be all right, I headed for Germany and began to scour the hostile skies. For a time nothing appeared. Then, again coming from the direction of Metz, I observed a photographing two-seater, accompanied by two scouts acting as its escort.

  Using the same tactics that I had employed yesterday I turned back into the sun and awaited their passing over our lines. To my delight I saw the two fighting machines escort the Rumpler well across our lines and then themselves turn back into Germany. They had not seen me and evidently considered their protection no longer necessary. I hugged the sun closely and let the Rumpler sail by below me. Imagine my inner joy when I again made out the painted Rising Sun in orange colors along the side of the Rum-pier's fuselage, and the big black numerals “16” following it! My escaped prize of yesterday was again within my clutches. It would never escape again.

  The barren walls of my sleeping quarters again rose before my eyes. I choked down all the old feelings of optimism as I thought of yesterday's mishaps, but still I felt every confidence in the outcome of today's encounter. This was too good to be true.

  I followed my enemy along as he made his way still farther to the south. He had some special mission to perform, of this I was sure. I wanted to know just what this mission was. At the same time the farther back he ventured the better would be my chances for dropping him within our territory. He was now almost over Commercy. My sole fear was that some careless move of mine would draw me to the attention of the observer.

  As he left Commercy behind him I suddenly left my position in the sun and darted out to the rear to cut off his retreat. It was to be a straightforward battle in the open. Let the best man win!

  Again luck was with me, for I reached a point directly behind him and had turned toward him for my first shots before they were aware of my presence. I had decided upon my tactics. Diving upon him from a diagonal direction my first bursts would doubtless cause him to put his machine into a vrille. I would anticipate this and zoom up over him and catch him dead under my next diving attack. As I neared the Rumpler's tail from three-quarters direction I saw the observer suddenly straighten up and look around at me. He had been down in the bottom of his office, probably taking photographs of the ground below. The pilot had seen my machine in his mirror and had just given the warning to the rear gunner. As he faced me I began firing.

  Two unexpected things happened immediately.

  Instead of falling into a tight spin, as any intelligent German would certainly have done, this pilot zoomed sharply up and let me go under him. In fact I had about the thousandth part of a second in which to decide to go under rather than ram the aircraft. Thus my clever plans were upset by the refusal of my antagonist to do the maneuver that I had assigned to him. Our positions were reversed. Instead of my being on top and firing at him, he was on top and he was firing at me.

  I circled away and looked back to unravel this mystery. I quickly solved it. From out of the belly of the Rumpler a wicked looking machine gun was pumping tracer bullets down at me as fast as any gun ever fired! It was a new and hitherto unheard-of method of defense—this shooting through the floor. No wonder he had climbed instead of trying to escape.*

  To add to my discomfiture I jammed both my guns on my next attack. There appeared to be no justice in the worldl I circled away out of range and angrily cleared the jam in one of my guns. The other absolutely refused to operate. In the meantime I had not failed to keep an occasional eye upon the movements of my adversary and another swift glance at intervals to see that no other enemy machines were coming to interrupt the little duel. I sobered up completely and considered the exact chances of getting in one swift death blow with my more adroit Nieuport before the more heavily armed Rumpler could bring its armament to bear upon me. The enemy machine was flying homeward now, straight in the direction of Saint-Mihiel.

  Coming at him again from below, I got in two or three good bursts that should have made an impression upon him—but didn't.

  The lower berth I found altogether too hot a position to hold, owing to the floor gun of the enemy, so I zoomed suddenly up overhead and circled back to try to catch the observer unprepared to receive me. Several times I tried this dodge but I found one of the most agile acrobats in the German army on duty in that back seat. He would be lying face downward in the tail of his machine one second, firing at me. I would zoom up and come alongside and over him within two seconds, yet I always found him standing on his feet and ready for me. We exchanged bursts after bursts, that observer and I, and soon came to know all about each other's tricks. I do not know what he thinks of me, but I am willing to acknowledge him the nimblest airman I ever saw.

  We had been at this game for forty minutes and the Rumpler pilot had not fired a shot. I had long ago given up hope of their ever exhausting their ammunition. They must have had a week's supply for the rear guns alone. And now we were well back of the German lines again. I continued to circle in and fire a short burst of half a dozen
shots, but found it impossible to break through their defensive tactics long enough to get a steady aim upon any vital part of their machine.

  We were getting lower and lower. They were preparing to land. I fired a farewell burst and in the middle of it my gun again jammed. The pilot waved his hand “good-by-ee” to me, the observer fired a last cheery burst from his tournelle guns, and the show was over for the day. My coveted “16” would not decorate my bedroom walls this night.

  I flew thoughtfully homeward, wondering at the curious coincidence that had brought No. 16 and myself together for two days running, and the strange fate that seemed to protect it. It was unbelievable that a heavy two-seater could escape a fighting machine with all the circumstances in favor of the latter. It must have been something wrong with me, I concluded.

  Just then my engine gave an expiring “chug” and I began to drop. I leveled out as flat as possible and looked ahead. I should be able to glide across the trenches from here if Smyth's machine was any good at all. So fed up with disappointment was I that I did not much care whether I reached the American lines or not. What could have happened to the fool engine anyway?

  I glanced at my wrist watch and found the answer. I had been so absorbed in my pursuit of No. 16 that I had forgotten all about the passing of time. It had been two hours and thirty-five minutes since I had left the ground, and the Nieuport was supposed to carry oil for but two and a quarter hours' flight. The oil completely exhausted, my engine was frozen stiff and a forped landing in some nearby shell hole was an imminent certainty.

  The continued favors of Providence in keeping enemy planes away from me in that homeward glide served to restore my faith in Justice. I crossed the lines and even reached the vicinity of Menil-la-Tours before it became necessary to look for a smooth landing ground. There was little choice. Barbed wire stretched across every field in close formation. Selecting the most favorable spaces I settled down, just cleared the top of the wire with my wheels and settled without crashing into a narrow field.

  As I climbed out of my machine several doughboys came running up and inquired as to whether I was wounded. A few minutes later Major Miller drove up the road in a touring car, having seen my forced landing from a nearby town. I left a guard in charge of the stranded airplane and drove away with the major to telephone to my aerodrome for the airplane ambulance and to report that I had landed without injury. As it proved impossible to get through by telephone, the major very kindly offered to drive me home in his car. In half an hour I was back with my squadron, none the worse for the day's adventures, but, on the other hand, none the better save for a little more of that eternal fund of experience.

  But as soon as I stepped out of the car I learned of something which dispelled all thoughts of my own adventures. Douglas Campbell had just landed and was seriously woundedl

  * If so, this could not have been a Rumpler. Only the Junkers, Ji carried this tunnel gun. A.W.

  CHAPTER XV

  Campbell's Last Flight

  Shortly after I had left the aerodrome that morning for my second rendezvous with my bete noire, No. 16, Jimmy Meissner and Doug Campbell had followed me on a little expedition of their own. They had chosen the vicinity to the east of Pont-k-Mousson.

  Doug and Jimmy were two of the best pals in the world. Indeed it would be a very difficult matter for anybody to be in Jimmy Meissner's company for more than an hour without becoming his pal. Both these boys had companionable natures. They were constantly in each other's company, Jimmy and Douglas, and very frequently they went off on these special hunting parties together.

  On this occasion it appears that after a short tour together back of the lines they became separated. Jimmy went off on a wild-goose chase of his own, leaving Lieutenant Campbell reconnoitering back and forth over the same locality to the east of Pont-a-Mousson. Upon one of his patient tacks Campbell discovered a Rumpler coming from Germany and evidently aiming toward the vicinity of Nancy. He hid himself in the sun and awaited its approach.

  The actual encounter took place at about the same time I was fighting my No. 16 some twenty miles to the west of them. Douglas began his battle with everything in his favor. He caught the Boches completely by surprise and put enough bullets into the enemy craft to sink an ordinary 'bus. But the Hun wouldn't drop. He simply sailed along and continued to pot Doug's Nieuport every time he swung in for an attack. They had very much the same sort of a running fight as I was having with my antagonist, No. 16.

  Finally Meissner saw something going on over the Nancy sky and came speeding back in to take a hand in the combat. Just as Jimmy drew near to the scene of the scrap, he saw that he was diverting some of the pilot's attention to himself. Campbell saw this too and immediately took advantage of the opportunity.

  Coming diagonally in toward the observer from behind, Doug suddenly changed his course and swerved around to the front for a shot at the preoccupied pilot. He got in a fairly long burst before he was compelled to turn aside to avoid a collision. Though he had not touched the pilot, he had the good fortune to shower the engine with bullets; and to his great joy he saw that the machine was really out of control. The pilot, unable to maintain headway and maneuver at the same time, had put down his nose and was gliding northward for his lines.

  At this juncture Jimmy took a hand in the scrap, and both the pilot and observer had their hands full to prevent a surprise attack from one of the two circling Nieuports.

  But the Americans' time was short. The lines were but half a dozen miles away. With his present height the German pilot could glide his machine well behind his own lines. The coup-de-grace must be delivered at once if the Americans were to prevent the morning's photographs from falling into the hands of the enemy.

  There was no way of communicating a plan of simultaneous attack between the two Nieuports. But both pilots had the same intention and watched each other jockeying around the Rumpler until a favorable opening presented itself. Suddenly both Meissner and Campbell came in upon the enemy from opposite sides. Campbell got a faster start and braving the fire from the observer, dived below for a hundred feet, only to zoom suddenly upward and direct another long burst through the floor of the Rumpler. Swerving off to the right he again came by the side of the observer. The latter unfortunately had changed his position to fire at Meissner after Campbell had darted below him on the other side. As Doug now reappeared from below the Rumpler, he came full into range of the observer's guns.

  Doug was just coming out of his zoom and beginning a flat circle to the front when a loud explosion at the small of his back told him that he had been hit. He felt a burning pain run up the length of his spine. He was still some two miles above Mother Earth and his first thought was to retain consciousness until he could bring his machine safely to ground. He immediately flew for home, leaving the outcome of the battle to his comrade.

  Meissner saw Campbell draw away and immediately reached the conclusion that he had been wounded. He could not know for certain but there was always the chance that engine trouble had compelled Doug to withdraw. No matter what was the cause, Jimmy's duty was to prevent the safe return of the enemy machine to its own lines. He could be of no help to his companion anyway. He continued his harassing of the pilot and so occupied that gentleman with maneuvers that by the time the trenches were reached Jimmy had the satisfaction of seeing that the Rumpler could not possibly get to a safe zone for landing.

  Just a hundred yards beyond the German first-line trench the Rumpler crashed. Both the pilot and observer scrambled from their seats and ran for their lives. Our doughboys gave them a shower of bullets which accelerated their speed. The Boche soldiers in their trenches stood up and leveled machine-gun fire at our men to protect their aviators' foot race for safety. The next moment the American artillery directed a heavy shell fire of high explosive against the abandoned Rumpler. These were better marksmen than the last I mentioned. After half a dozen shots nothing but fragments remained.

  All this spectacle Jimmy gl
eefully observed before he turned his machine homeward and hastened to find out what had happened to Douglas Campbell. He reached the aerodrome just about the same time I did. Doug was safely landed and had climbed out of the machine without assistance. Although suffering much pain, he would not leave the field until he had learned just how he had been hit. A short inspection disclosed the whole story.

  An explosive bullet fired by the observer had come through the floor of Campbell's machine just at the instant he was making a turn. It had penetrated the bottom of the fuselage, gone through the bottom of his seat and then had struck a wire which had exploded the missile not three inches from Campbell's back.

  The fragments had scattered backward and to the side, riddling the framework and fabric which covered the fuselage behind the seat. Very few of the fragments had gone forward. This circumstance had undoubtedly saved Doug's life.

  Jimmy and I gazed with stupefaction at the smiling and imperturbable Doug. He stood beside us refusing all aid and appeared more deeply interested in the condition of his machine than in his own wounds. In the back of his Teddy-bear suit a long jagged tear showed us where the missile had entered his body. Frightful blood stains covered his back. Yet he was deaf to all our entreaties and refused to let us lead him away.