Fighting the Flying Circus

by Captain Eddie V. Rickenbacker

  I asked what had been done about getting an ambulance down and found that Campbell had sent for a motorcycle! I could not help laughing at this modest desire to avoid making a scene. I immediately commandeered an automobile, and, putting Douglas carefully in it, several of us accompanied him to the hospital.

  With continued fortitude Doug refused an anesthetic while the surgeon was removing the fragment. It was found that the steel nose itself had been deflected by the wire into Doug's back. By some miracle it had not touched his spinal column but had traveled up alongside it for five or six inches and finally buried itself in the muscles under the shoulder! This little memento Doug now preserves as his most cherished souvenir of the great war.

  With splendid grit Doug smiled and talked while the doctor proceeded with the operation. He drew all the details of the finish of the Rumpler from Jimmy and learned with great satisfaction that this was his sixth official victory. In reality Douglas Campbell's victories total seven, for one which was downed to my certain knowledge, he never received official confirmation.

  Had it not been for this unfortunate accident Lieutenant Douglas Campbell would undoubtedly have one of the highest scores claimed by any air fighter, for he was just entering upon his full stride. As it was, he never fought again. Upon his return in November from America, where he was sent to recover his strength after leaving the hospital, Doug rejoined his old squadron, only to find that its days of fighting were over.

  The subject of my encounter with Rising Sun No. 16 occasioned no end of amusement about the mess and many bets were laid as to the outcome. I dreamed about No. 16 at night and was up bright and early on the lookout for him every morning. I took a few of the bets myself naturally enough. I never in my life wanted anything so much as those orange-colored insignia as decorations for my quarters. I planned to build a house some day suitably designed to set off those works of art to the best advantage.

  The fates were surely laughing at me all this time. My further adventures with No. 16 would have appeared comic to me if they had not been so infuriating.

  The very next day I went up in my own machine with just the one resolve. I saw nothing else in the sky and searched for nothing else. In fact I had scarcely gained my topmost altitude and set forth in the direction of what I now knew was the favorite path of this daily visitor before I saw him coming to meet me. It was almost as though we had met by appointment.

  As I have said, I reached my highest altitude before going forth to this tryst. Some Nieuports have a higher ceiling than others. It depends upon the quality and natural fitness of the engine. My 'bus reached eighteen thousand feet that morning. It had just been fitted with two Vickers guns instead of the one it formerly carried. This additional weight of thirty or forty pounds hampered the climb somewhat and lowered my ceiling by at least five hundred feet.

  Try as I would I could get her no higher. As we approached each other, No. 16 and I, the Rumpler was at twenty thousand feet and was still climbing. My Boche friends knew perfectly well they could climb higher than any Nieuport. It might make their photographs a little indistinct but even those were better than our own taken from twelve thousand feet. They came steadily on and I turned as they passed me and continued a parallel course some two thousand feet below them.

  The railroad stations at Nancy and Toul were their objectives this morning. Without deigning to pay any attention to me they proceeded over their course and deliberately snapped their pictures. Occasionally the observer amused himself with a little target practice at me. At such times I realized that he had nothing else to do, so concluded that he did not desire photographs of this particular area.

  I too fired vain long bursts upward. I had no idea of hitting them at that long range. It merely served to keep them informed that I was still in their company. They knew they had me at their mercy as far as giving me a chance at a combat.

  So we continued along all over the northeast of France. I suppose most of the films they developed that afternoon showed the details of my Nieuport below them.

  My one chance was to keep below them and follow them until they came down. As there is no record of any German machine not coming down finally I determined to follow the Bodies back to Berlin if necessary, in order to get a shot at them when they passed my level. Thus we crossed the lines and proceeded steadily northward. I could outfly the Rumpler and outdive him, but his superior engine power and greater wing spread gave him a much higher ceiling.

  After seeing mile after mile slip away beneath my wings and still no evidence of change of heart in my antagonists I began to speculate upon the quantity of gasoline the Rumpler carried. I knew quite well the limits of the Nieuport's fuel supply. And the disadvantage again lay with me. For if we both became exhausted at the same time the Rumpler would be in his own territory while I would be many hostile miles from my own.

  With the realization that I was again defeated I turned around and took my way homeward. I could imagine my two Boche adversaries laughing at me as I gave up the chase. They began to glide downward as soon as I turned my back. I sheered back at them just to have the satisfaction of showing them I was still their master. Very obediently they altered their tactics and again climbed for their superior ceiling.

  When I reached camp I scoured the hangars for the highest climbing machine on the aerodrome. My comrades followed me about, supplying me with much gratuitous information and advice. They advised me to leave off both guns next day which might permit me to reach twenty thousand feet. Or if I took no fuel along I might go to thirty thousand feet. Uncomplimentary references to the weight of my shoes and the heaviness of my grouch aided me considerably.

  My search indicated that Captain Marr's machine had the best reputation for climbing and I set off to obtain his consent for the loan of his Nieuport on the morrow. He readily consented to let me have it, adding that he knew I could reach twenty-two thousand feet with it if I coaxed it properly. I assured him I would coax it all right and left to make my preparations.

  The ideal fighting machine is of course one that will outperform every enemy machine in every movement. And there are several kinds of performances that are almost equally valuable in combat fighting. High speed is essential. A rapid climb, the ability to dive without overstraining the structure or ripping off the fabric by too sudden a change of direction; a high ceiling, which necessitates high engine power and perfect carburetion; quick maneuverability —all these characteristics combined would make an ideal fighting machine.

  This naturally is just what the fighting nations were striving to obtain. Each machine had a superiority in some one particular but failed in another. The famous German Fokker held the skies in 1916 and 1917 for it combined more of these essential details than did any one fighting craft of the Allies. Then came the Spad which the French designed to outspeed and outmaneuver the Fokker, but still the Fokker had a higher ceiling and a swifter dive.

  The British produced the S. E. 5 in 1918 which outdove and outmaneuvered the Fokker, but could not overtake it on a flat race nor outclimb it. The Sopwith Camel likewise came from England and proved superior to the best German fighting machines except in the matter of diving and high ceiling. As for the Americans, we had to take what machines the Allied nations could spare us. Naturally they kept the best for themselves; and our squadrons of American pilots did the best they could with the second best.

  It was at this time that we heard rumors of a new English fighting machine called the Snipe. Like the Camel, it was a Sopwith production. A new engine that was shrouded in much secrecy and mystery was reputed to have carried this little scout machine to the incredible altitude of thirty-three thousand feet. And the speed with which it made this climb broke all the world's records. Our boys of 94 Squadron were naturally desirous of providing themselves with a quantity of these wonderful machines and then trying a few combats with the Richthofen Circus Fokkers.

  For the present, however, we had to take what was given to us. We felt that we were not
fulfilling the expectations of the people back home, who had been told that we had twenty thousand of the best airplanes in the world, and all made in America. The truth is that not one American-made fighting machine came to the front, until the war was ended.

  Considerably discouraged over the prospects of securing my bedroom trophies from Rising Sun No. 16 I nevertheless climbed into Captain Marr's machine the next morning at exactly 8:15 and amid the cheers of the boys who gathered to see me off I bade the mechanics to pull away the chocks. I made a direct path to our rendezvous of yesterday, climbing as I flew northward and east.

  Like every enthusiastic owner, Captain Marr had given his 'bus all the credit that he consistently could. I have driven automobiles whose owners got a regular performance of twenty miles to a gallon of gasoline, but try as one might it would make about one half that mileage for anyone else.

  I put Captain Marr's Nieuport up to a little over nineteen thousand feet that morning, and there she hung. Every artifice that ever moved an engine was tried but without increasing her performance one bit. Just as I had satisfied myself that I had exhausted her possibilities, I discovered my old friend, No. 16, winging his way calmly toward me. He was certainly prompt and businesslike in the way he kept his appointments.

  Just as yesterday, the Rumpler was some two thousand feet above my highest possible elevation. With rare magnanimity my old friends kindly came down a few hundred feet to keep me company. I joined in the procession as of yore and the two machines made another grand tour of the northeasterly cities of France where we photographed all the railroad lines and canals, took a turn over several aerodromes, French, British and American, surveyed the charming landscape in all directions and finally decided to call it a day and go home. My presence served to prevent our batteries from firing Archie shells at my friends, and they must have appreciated this act of courtesy on my part, for during the whole morning's promenade they did not fire a single shot at me from the machine gun which I could plainly see protruding out of the belly of the monster overhead.

  I accompanied them back to their aerodrome, sedulously maintaining the proper distance between us. Seeing they wanted to alight and mindful of their most delightful courtesy to me throughout the day I turned about and made for home.

  That night I came down with the fever and was immediately sent to Paris on leave.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Becoming an Ace

  Paris in wartime is well enough known to millions of my fellow countrymen, but the scene that presented itself to my eyes as I alighted at the Gare de l'Est on the morning of June 6, 1918, merits a description. That date, it will be remembered, marked probably the lowest ebb in the spirits of the Parisian populace.

  The Germans were along the Marne and but thirty miles from the capital. Chateau-Thierry was in their hands. The villagers in that vicinity who had braved four years of adjacent warfare were now swept away from their homes. Thousands of these poor refugees were arriving in Paris on the morning I entered it.

  Used as I was to the various horrors of war, there was a terror in the countenances of these homeless people that made a lasting impression on me. Old women, young women, all clothed in wretched garments and disheveled headgear wandered blindly through the streets adjoining the stations, with swarms of crying children clinging to their skirts. Pathetic as this scene was, it had its comic features in the extraordinary articles that these fleeing peasants had chosen to carry with them.

  Umbrellas seemed to be the most precious thing that they had tried to save. A little bundle, probably containing a loaf of bread and a few articles of clothing was carried by each woman. The children were loaded down with such strange treasures as axes, parrot cages, wooden buckets, and farm implements. The few old men who accompanied them hobbled along empty-handed, with the utmost patience and abandon. Evidently the whole care of the migration was left to the energetic women of France.

  They had all been walking for many miles; this was very evident. Their clothing was dusty, worn, and crumpled. Their faces were pinched and wretched and an indescribable look of misery and suffering filled every countenance. The pathos of this scene will never leave my memory.

  And here I desire to express my appreciation of the magnificent work of the American Red Cross and American YMCA organizations. In that one case of the Chateau-Thierry refugees these American societies repaid their American subscribers for the sacrifices they made to support them. Indeed, without the help of this American agency I can easily imagine that the French capital, overwhelmed and crushed under the burden and horror of these calamities would long since have abandoned all hope, and riots and disorders would have prostrated the authorities in control of the nation.

  Thousands of refugees swarmed throughout a more or less demoralized Paris. They had no money, no food, no idea of where they wanted to go. The spirit was gone from their bodies. Only the call of hunger served to remind them that they still must live.

  Preparations were immediately made to care for this new demand upon the American charitable organizations. It was a very critical period of the war. Every available soldier was at the front and these must have the undivided attention of the supply officers, the commissary department and government authorities. Refugees were of no consequence toward winning the war. They deserved pity but could not be permitted to divert the attention of the defenders of a nation.

  How dangerous this subtle menace might have been will never be known, for the American Red Cross threw itself into the situation and cared for this increasing army of unfed in Paris. Had they been neglected a day or two longer such riots might have been started in Paris as would have demoralized the whole system of the French organization.

  The secret of their success was undoubtedly due to the elasticity and absence of red tape in their organization. But whatever it may have been, the fact that the American Red Cross did successfully feed and clothe these bedraggled thousands was in itself a marvel and made me appreciate how valuable an asset our Red Cross Society was and is in war time.

  At the aerodromes and at other military camps all along the front I had abundant opportunities to appreciate this unofficial, or rather unmilitary, aid that was given to the soldiers by these organizations. At our group aerodrome the Red Cross later established a small clubroom for the pilots and officers. Here hot chocolate and toast was served in the afternoon and a cheery fire always was found to tempt us out of the mud and rain for a few minutes of recreation. Card tables and writing tables were there; and a piano and phonograph, together with all the old magazines that were sent over by American readers, whiled away many a “dud” afternoon which must have otherwise been spent in more or less solitary confinement within a dripping billet.

  The YMCA authorities provided in a similar way for the enlisted men. Candy, tobacco, and toilet articles were available at these places at a lower figure than they would have cost at home. Most of these things were absolutely unattainable at the stores in France.

  After a good night's sleep far away from the customary roar of artillery, I woke up to find the sun shining in my Paris window and a fine day well progressed. After breakfast I took a stroll along the Champs Elysees under the Arc de Triomphe and through the beautiful walks of the Bois de Boulogne. It was easy to read in the faces of the people one met the deadly fear that gripped them. Thousands had already fled from Paris. The authorities were even that morning considering again moving the seat of the government to more distant Bordeaux. The capture of Paris before the American aid could arrive was a possibility that worried every Parisian.

  I tried to fancy the exulting German officers walking down these same beautiful avenues, driving their motorcars through these splendid woods and occupying such of these magnificent palaces as happened to tempt their cupidity. Then I thought of the “Spirit of the Marne” which had so strengthened the French people in those cruel days of 1914. Studying the set faces of these passers-by I could discover that the same indomitable spirit still held them. Their faces
held something of the same expression that was pictured on that famous French Liberty Loan poster—a poilu standing with fixed bayonet defending his native land. Underneath the poster was written that immortal phrase, Ils ne Passeront Pas!

  After a few days in Paris I returned to my aerodrome by way of Army headquarters, then situated in Chaumont just south of Toul. Good news awaited me at my mess. I learned that General Foulois had been out to see us, and after hearing the repeated stories of the narrow escapes we had had with the fragile Nieuports, he had promised to secure Spad airplanes for our whole squadron. They were to be powered by the 220-horsepower Hispano-Suiza engine and would equip us second to none of the squadrons in France.

  Furthermore, confirmations had been secured for my fifth vietory and several cablegrams from America were handed me, congratulating me on becoming the second American Ace. The news had reached the States before it had found me in Paris!

  We had had another victory too. Jimmy Meissner, Alan Winslow, and Thorn Taylor had encountered a Hanover two-seater on June 13, and after a ten-minute combat had the satisfaction of seeing the enemy go down in flames and crash just north of Thiaucourt. The boys were very much elated over the additional news of our contemplated removal to a busier sector of the front. Hunting had become very poor along our old sector. The enemy machines were infrequently met and almost no fighting machines of the Germans were now opposing us. An occasional observation machine came our way and he usually fled long before we had an opportunity for an attack.

  We had been for two months on this sector and had received all the preliminary practice fighting that we desired. All the boys were restless and were anxious to get to the thick of the battle down on the Marne where the “Big Push” was now taking place. Fresh from the rumors of Paris, I naturally inflamed their appetite for the contest by picturing to them the state of affairs as I had seen it in the capital. We all felt that we could intercept the Hun invasion and save Paris, if we but had the chance.