As Mr. Taylor and I were scudding along over these smooth roads through the forests of the Vosges we noticed a family of wild boars rooting in the edge of a field. We backed up the car and I asked the reporter to be good enough to wait for me a minute while I went over and picked up one of the little pigs for a mascot for our squadron. He very kindly complied. I did not notice the expression on his face until I returned a few minutes later.
Armed with my walking stick I made a detour, so as to come upon the enemy and surprise them from their rear. My plans were to make a sudden attack and divert one of the youngsters from the formation, then close in upon him and complete the capture. My tactics were unusually successful and I bore down upon my prize and was just stooping over to pick him up when I heard a rush from the rear.
I hesitated for the fraction of a second. Old Mother Boar was about ten yards abaft my stern and was piquing upon me at some sixty miles per hour. Further delay upon my part would have been a mistake. I performed a renversement, put on the sauce and zoomed for the roadway at sixty-one miles per hour. Amid the enthusiastic cheers of Mr. Taylor, I successfully escaped the charge of the enraged enemy by putting myself through two or three virages en route to the car. The beast rushed by me, snorting fire from both forward guns and covering me with a shower of dirt from her hoofs.
I finally made a leap for the running board of the car, minus my walking stick and a good deal of breath.
“What's the trouble, Rick?” inquired Taylor, enthusiastically. “Did you come back to tell me something?”
“Yes,” I panted. “I looked them over and decided they were too young to be torn from their mother. Let's go on.”
“But you forgot your stick,” retorted Taylor. “I'll wait for you while you go back and get it.”
“Oh, never mind the stick,” I answered. “It didn't belong to me anyway.”
A few weeks later I had an opportunity to see how the French sportsmen proceed in their wild boar hunts. The mayor of a little French village invited several of us to come over one Sunday morning and take part in the hunt.
By nine o'clock there were fully a hundred persons gathered together in the little plaza facing the village church. About twenty carried guns; the balance were duly sworn in by the mayor to act as beaters-up. It was a very impressive ceremony and the whole village stood by to witness the scene.
After walking a mile or two through the woods we were halted. The mayor addressed us and gave explicit orders for further proceedings.
There was one old boar in these woods, he informed us, who had now three dumdum bullets inside his anatomy. He was a very tough and very dangerous customer. The mayor strongly advised us to first pick out a convenient tree and take our positions in its immediate vicinity. If the boar came along we could take a shot at him, or not, just as we happened to view the situation. Personally he advised us to climb the tree and let some other fellow do the shooting.
The beaters-up, who were all standing at attention, thereupon saluted and disappeared within the forest. We lighted our pipes and measured the distance to the adjacent overhanging limbs. For an hour nothing happened to relieve the monotony. Someone made the brilliant suggestion that we take our cartridges out of our rifles and make dumdum bullets out of them. This we all did, thereby regaining something of our former jaunty composure.
At last we heard hoots and yells from the forest. The party of beaters-up were advancing toward us, beating the saplings with their sticks and uttering strange cries. I took a last glance at my tree overhead and then crouched down to have a look between the tree trunks at the approaching enemy. It was a strange sight.
There, not fifty feet in front of me, I saw a motley gathering of animals of all descriptions. Red foxes, black foxes, wildcats, two or three innocent-eyed deer, a number of partridges and grouse and quite a flock of wild boars stood stock-still, gazing back at me. Not fifty feet in their rear came the village boys, hooting and yelling to let us know where not to shoot. They were bringing us our game along ahead of them like a flock of barnyard fowls!
It seemed quite impossible to fire in that direction without inflicting casualties among the beaters-up. I therefore continued staring at the animals, until they tired of posing for me and turned their procession en masse toward the south.
One of the Frenchmen shot a fox that Sunday morning and we all returned to the village tavern for a glass of wine, highly delighted with the successful day's sport. The mayor especially congratulated us upon our fortunate escape from the savage wild boar.
Upon my suggesting to His Honor that his beaters-up had occupied a somewhat dangerous position at the crucial moment for firing, he shook his head sorrowfully and replied:
“Yes, it is too true! They are unfortunately wounded at times.” Then clearing up his countenance, with a gleam of pride he added:
“But they are good boys. They have accustomed themselves to the danger and they do not shrink.”
And thus is the great national sport of the Vosges carried on. Upon the occasional victory over the toothsome wild boar of the forest a triumphant procession follows behind the champion, who strides gallantly through the village street with his trophy hanging head down over his back. If the village is not too densely populated every inhabitant within it dines upon a delicious meat that night.
CHAPTER XVIII
Strafing the Drachen
Observation balloons, or “Drachen” as the Boches call them, provide a most valuable method of espionage upon the movements of an enemy and at the same time are a most tempting bait to pilots of the opposing fighting squadrons.
They are huge in size, forming an elongated sausage some two hundred feet in length and perhaps fifty feet in diameter. They hang swinging in the sky at a low elevation—some two thousand feet or under, and are prevented from making any rapid effort to escape from airplane attack by reason of the long cable which attaches them to their mother truck on the highway below.
These trucks which attend the balloons are of the ordinary size —a three-ton motor truck which steers and travels quite like any big lorry one meets on the streets. On the truck bed is fastened a winch which lets out the cable to any desired length. In case of an attack by shell fire the truck simply runs up the road a short distance without drawing down the balloon. When it is observed that the enemy gunners have again calculated its range another move is made, perhaps back to a point near its former position.
Large as is its bulk and as favorable and steady a target as it must present to the enemy gunners three miles away, it is seldom indeed that a hit from bursting shrapnel is recorded.
These balloons are placed along the lines some two miles back of the front-line trenches. From his elevated perch two thousand feet above ground, the observer can study the ground and pick up every detail over a radius of ten miles on every side. Clamped over his ears are telephone receivers. With his telescope to his eye he observes and talks to the officers on the truck below him. They in turn inform him of any special object about which information is desired. If our battery is firing upon a certain enemy position, the observer watches for the bursts and corrects the faults in aim. If a certain roadway is being dug up by our artillery, the observer notifies the battery when sufficient damage has been done to render that road impassable.
Observation balloons are thus a constant menace to contemplated movements of forces and considered as a factor of warfare they are of immense importance. Every fifteen or twenty miles along the front both sides station their balloons, and when one is shot down by an enemy airplane another immediately runs up to take its place.
Shelling by artillery fire being so ineffective it naturally occurs to every airplane pilot that such a huge and unwieldy target must be easy to destroy from the air. Their cost is many times greater than the value of an airplane. They cannot fight back with any hope of success. All that seems to be required is a sudden dash by a fighting airplane, a few shots with incendiary bullets—and the big gas bag bursts into flames. Wha
t could be more simple?
I had been victorious over five or six enemy airplanes at this time and had never received a wound in return. This balloon business puzzled me and I was determined to solve the mystery.
I lay awake many nights pondering over the stories I had heard about attacking these Drachen, planning just how I should dive in and let them have a quick burst, sheer off and climb away from their machine-gun fire, hang about for another dive and continue these tactics until a sure hit could be scored.
I would talk this plan over with several of my pilots and after working out all the details we would try it on. Perhaps we could make 94 Squadron famous for its destruction of enemy balloons. There must be some way to do it, provided I picked out the right men for the job and gave them a thorough training.
After discussing the matter with Major Atkinson, our commanding officer, who readily gave me his approval, I sought out Reed Chambers, Jimmy Meissner, Thorn Taylor, and Lieutenant Loomis. These four with myself would make an ideal team to investigate this situation.
First we obtained photographs of five German balloons in their lairs, from a French Observation Squadron. Then we studied the map and ascertained the precise position each occupied: the nature of the land, the relative position of the mountains and rivers, the trees and villages in the vicinity of each, and all the details of their environment.
One by one we visited these balloons, studying from above the nature of the roadway upon which their mother trucks must operate, the height of the trees along this roadway and where the antiaircraft defenses had been posted around each Drachen. These latter were the only perils we had to fear. We knew the reputation of these defenses, and they were not to be ignored. Since they alone were responsible for the defense of the balloons, we presumed that they were unusually numerous and accurate. They would undoubtedly put up such a heavy barrage of gunfire around the suspended Drachen that an airplane must actually pass through a steady hailstorm of bullets both in coming in and in going out.
Major Willy Coppens, the Belgian ace, had made the greatest success of this balloon strafing. He had shot down over a score of German Drachens and had never received a wound. I knew he armed his airplane with flaming rockets which penetrated the envelope of the gas bag and burned there until it was ignited. This method had its advantages and its disadvantages. But another trick that was devised by Coppens met with my full approval.
This was to make the attack early in the morning or late in the evening, when visibility was poor and the approach of the buzzing engine could not be definitely located. Furthermore, he made his attack from a low level, flying so close to the ground that he could not be readily picked up from above. As he approached the vicinity of his balloon he zoomed up and began his attack. If the balloon was being hauled down he met it halfway. All depended upon the timing of his attack and the accuracy of his aim.
On June 25, 1918, my alarm clock buzzed me awake at 2:30 o'clock sharp. As I was the instigator of this little expedition, I leaped out of bed and leaned out of my window to get a glimpse of the sky. It promised to be a fine dayl
Rousing out the other four of my party, I telephoned to the hangars and ordered out the machines. The guns had been thoroughly serviced during the night and special incendiary bullets had been placed in the magazines. Everything was ready for our first attack and we sat down to a hurried breakfast, full of excitement and fervor.
The whole squadron got up and accompanied us to the hangars. We were soon in our flying suits and strapped in our seats. The engines began humming and then I felt my elation suddenly begin to dissipate. My engine was stubborn and would not keep up its steady revolutions. Upon investigation, I found one magneto unserviceable,leaving me with but one upon which I could rely! I debated within myself for a few seconds as to whether I should risk dropping into Germany with a dud engine or risk the condolences of the present crowd which had gathered to see us off.
The former won in spite of my best judgment. Rather than endure the sarcasm of the onlookers and the disappointment of my team, I prayed for one more visitation of my Goddess of Luck and gave the signal to start.
At 4:30 o'clock we left the ground and headed straight into Germany. I had decided to fly eight or ten miles behind the lines and then turn and come back at the balloon line from an unexpected quarter, trusting to the discipline of the German army to have its balloons ascending just as we reached them. Each pilot in my party had his own balloon marked out. Each was to follow the same tactics. We separated as soon as we left the field, each man taking up his own course.
Passing high over Nancy I proceeded northward and soon saw the irregular lines of the trenches below me. It was a mild morning and very little activity was discernible on either side. Not a gun was flashing in the twilight which covered the ground and as far as my eye could reach nothing was stirring. It was the precise time of day when weary fighters would prefer to catch their last wink of sleep. I hoped they would be equally deaf to the sounds of my humming Nieuport.
Cutting off my engine at fifteen thousand feet over the lines, I prayed once more that when the time came to switch on again my one magneto would prove faithful. It alone stood between me and certain capture. I could not go roaring along over the heads of the whole German army and expect to conceal my presence. By gliding quietly with silent engine as I passed deeper and deeper within their territory I could gradually lose my altitude and then turn and gain the balloon line with comparatively little noise.
“Keep your Spunk Up—Magneto, Boy!” I sang to my engine as I began the fateful glide. I had a mental vision of the precise spot behind the enemy balloon where I should turn on my switch and there discover—liberty or death! I would gladly have given my kingdom that moment for just one more little magneto!
At that moment I was passing swiftly over the little village of Goin. It was exactly five o'clock. The black outlines of the Bois de Face lay to my left, nestled along the two arms of the Moselle. I might possibly reach those woods with a long glide if my engine failed me at the critical moment. I could crash in the treetops, hide in the forest until dark and possibly make my way back through the lines with a little luck. Cheery thoughts I had as I watched the menacing German territory slipping away beneath my wingsl
And then I saw my balloon! The faithful fellows had not disappointed me at any rate! Conscientious and reliable men these Germans were! Up and ready for the day's work at the exact hour I had planned for them! I flattened out my glide a trifle more, so as to pass their post with the minimum noise of singing wires. A mile or two beyond them I began a wide circle with my nose well down. It was a question of seconds now and all would be over. I wondered how Chambers and Meissner and the others were getting on. Probably at this very instant they were throbbing with joy over the scene of a flaming bag of gas!
Finding the earth rapidly nearing me, I banked sharply to the left and looked ahead. There was my target floating blandly and unsuspiciously in the first rays of the sun. The men below were undoubtedly drinking their coffee and drawing up orders for the day's work that would never be executed. I headed directly for the swinging target and set my sights dead on its center. There facing me with rare arrogance in the middle of the balloon was a huge Maltese Cross—the emblem of the Boche aviation. I shifted my rudder a bit and pointed my sights exactly at the center of the cross. Then I deliberately pressed both triggers with my right hand, while with my left I snapped on the switch.
There must be some compartment in one's brain for equalizing the conflicting emotions that crowd simultaneously upon one at such moments as this. I realized instantly that I was saved myself, for the engine picked up with a whole-souled roar the very first instant after I made the contact. With this happy realization came the simultaneous impression that my whole morning's work and anguish were wasted.
I saw three or four streaks of flame flash ahead of me and enter the huge bulk of the balloon ahead. Then the flames abruptly ceased.
Flashing bullets were cu
tting a living circle all around me too, I noticed. Notwithstanding the subtlety of my stalking approach, the balloon's defenders had discovered my presence and were all waiting for me. My guns had both jammed. This, too, I realized at the same instant. I had had my chance, had shot my bolt, was in the very midst of a fiery furnace that beggars description but thanks to a benignant Providence, was behind a lusty engine that would carry me home.
Amid all these conflicting impressions which surged through me during that brief instant, I distinctly remember that I had failed in my mission! With the largest target in the world before my guns, with all the risks already run and conquered, I had failed in my mission simply because of a stupid jamming of my guns.
I had swerved to the right of the suspended gas bag and grazed the distended sides of the enemy Drachen. I might almost have extended my hand and cut a hole in its sleek envelope, as I swept by. The wind had been from the east, so I knew that the balloon would stretch away from its supporting cable and leave it to the right. More than one balloon strafer has rushed below his balloon and crashed headlong into the slim wire cable which anchors it to the ground.
I had planned every detail with rare success. The only thing I had failed in was the over-all result. Either the Boche had some material covering their Drachens that extinguished my flaming bullets, or else the gas which was contained within them was not as highly inflammable as I had been led to beheve. Some three or four bullets had entered the sides of the balloon—of this I was certain. Why had they failed to set fire to it?
Later on I was to discover that flaming bullets very frequently puncture observation balloons without producing the expected blaze. The very rapidity of their flight leaves no time for the ignition of the gas. Often in the early dawn the accumulated dews and moisture in the air serve to dampen the balloon's envelope and hundreds of incendiary bullets penetrate the envelope without doing more damage than can be repaired with a few strips of adhesive plaster.
Fighting the Flying Circus Page 17
