I fired one long burst. I saw my tracer bullets go straight home into the pilot's seat. There came a sudden burst of fire from his fuel tank and the Fokker continued onward in its mad flight—now a fiery furnace. He crashed a mile inside his own lines.
His five companions did not stay to offer battle. I still held the upper hand and even got in a few bursts at the next nearest machine before he threw himself into a spin and escaped me. The sight of one of their members falling in flames evidently discouraged them. Abandoning all their designs on the unsuspecting Spads below they dived away for Germany.
I returned to my field, secured a car and drove immediately up to our Balloon Section. I wanted to get my victories confirmed— both this one of today and the Fokker that I had brought down yesterday in the same sector. For no matter how many pilots may have witnessed the bringing down of an enemy plane, official confirmation of their testimony must be obtained from outside sources on the ground. Often these are impossible to get. In such a case the victory is not credited to the pilot.
Upon the tragic death of Major Lufbery, who at that time was the leading American Ace, with eighteen victories, the title of American Ace of Aces fell to Lieutenant Paul Frank Baer of Fort Wayne, Indiana, a member of the Lafayette Escadrille 103. Baer then had nine victories and had never been wounded.
Baer is a particularly modest and lovable boy, and curiously enough he is one of the few fighting pilots I have met who felt a real repugnance in the task of shooting down enemy aviators.
When Lufbery fell, Baer's commanding officer, Major William Thaw, called him into the office and talked seriously with him regarding the opportunity before him as America's leading Ace. He advised Baer to be cautious and he would go far. Two days later Baer was shot down and slightly wounded behind the German lines!
Thereafter, Lieutenant Frank Baylies of New Bedford, Massachusetts, a member of the crack French Escadrille of the Cigognes, Spad 3, held the American title until he was killed in action on June 12, 1918. Baylies had thirteen victories to his credit.
Then David Putnam, another Massachusetts boy, took the lead with twelve victories over enemy airplanes. Putnam, as I have said, was, like Lufbery, shot down in flames but a day or two before my last victory.
Lieutenant Tobin of San Antonio, Texas, and a member of the Third Pursuit Group (of which Major William Thaw was the commanding officer), now had six official victories. He led the list. I for my part had five victories confirmed. But upon receiving confirmation for the two Fokkers I had vanquished yesterday and today, I would have my seven and would lead Tobin by one. So it was with some little interest and concern that I set off to try to find ground witnesses of my last two battles above Saint-Mihiel.
Mingled with this natural desire to become the leading fighting Ace of America was a haunting superstition that did not leave my mind until the very end of the war. It was that the possession of this title—Ace of Aces—brought with it the unavoidable doom that had overtaken all its previous holders. I wanted it and yet I feared to learn that it was mine! In later days I began to feel that this superstition was the heaviest burden that I carried with me into the air. Perhaps it served to redouble my caution and sharpened my fighting senses. But never was I able to forget that the life of a title-holder is short.
Eating my sandwiches in the car that day I soon ran through Saint-Mihiel and made my way on the main road east to Apremont and then north to Thiaucourt. I knew that there had been a balloon up near there both days and felt certain that their observers must have seen my two combats overhead.
Unfortunately the road from Apremont to Thiaucourt was closed, owing to the great number of shell holes and trenches which crisscrossed it. After being lost for two hours in the forest which lies between Saint-Mihiel and Vigneulles, I finally emerged just south of Vigneulles. I was about one mile south of our trenches. And standing there with map in hand wondering where to go next to find our balloons, I got an unexpected clue.
A sudden flare of flames caught my sight off to the right. Running around the trees I had a view of one of our balloons between me and Thiaucourt completely enveloped in flames! Halfway down was a graceful little parachute, beneath which swung the observer as he settled slowly to earth.
And as I watched I saw a second balloon two or three miles farther east toward Pont-a-Mousson suffer the same finish. Another of our observers was making the same perilous jump! A sly Heinie had slipped across our lines and had made a successful attack upon the two balloons and had made a clean getaway. I saw him climbing away from the storm of antiaircraft fire which our gunners were speeding after him. I am afraid my sympathies were almost entirely with the airman as I watched the murderous Archie all around his machine. At any rate I knew exactly how he was feeling, with his mixture of satisfaction over the success of his undertaking and of panic over the deadly storm of shrapnel about him.
In half an hour I arrived at the balloon site and found them already preparing to go aloft with a second balloon. And at my first question they smiled and told me they had seen my Fokker of this morning's combat crash in flames. They readily signed the necessary papers to this effect, thus completing the required confirmation for my last victory. But for the victory of yesterday that I claimed, they told me none of the officers were present who had been there on duty at that time. I must go to the 3rd Balloon Company just north of Pont-à-Mousson and there I would find the men I wanted to see.
After watching the new balloon safely launched with a fresh observer in the basket, a process which consumed some ten or fifteen minutes, I retraced my steps and made my way back to my car. The observer whom I had seen descending with his parachute had in the meantime made his return to his company headquarters. He was unhurt and quite enthusiastic over the splendid landing he had made in the trees. Incidentally I learned that but two or three such forced descents by parachute from a flaming balloon are permitted any one observer. These jumps are not always so simple and frequently very serious, if not fatal injuries, are suffered in the parachute jump. Seldom does one officer care to risk himself in a balloon basket after his third jump. And this fear for his own safety limits his service in that trying business. The American record in this perilous profession is held, I believe, by Lieutenant Phelps of New York, who made five successive jumps from flaming balloons.
On my way to the 3rd Balloon Company I stopped to inquire the road from a group of infantry officers whom I met just north of Pont-&-Mousson. As soon as I stated my business, they unanimously exclaimed that they had all seen my flight above them the day before and had seen my victim crash near them. After getting them to describe the exact time and place and some of the incidents of the fight I found that it was indeed my combat they had witnessed. This was a piece of real luck for me. It ended my searches on the spot. As they were signing their confirmation I was thinking to myself, “Eddie! You are the American Ace of Aces!” And so I was for the minute.
Returning home, I lost no time in putting in my reports. Reed Chambers came up to me and hit me a thump on the back.
“Well, Rick!” he said, “how does it feel?”
“Very fine for the moment, Reed,” I replied seriously, “but any other fellow can have the title any time he wants it, so far as I am concerned.”
I really meant what I was saying. A fortnight later when Frank Luke began his marvelous balloon strafing he passed my score in a single jump. Luke, as I have said, was on the same aerodrome with me, being a member of 27 Squadron. His rapid success even brought 27 Squadron ahead of 95 Squadron for a few days.
The following day I witnessed a typical expedition of Luke's from our own aerodrome. Just about dusk on September 16 Luke left the major's headquarters and walked over to his machine. As he came out of the door he pointed out the two German observation balloons to the east of our field, both of which could be seen with the naked eye. They were suspended in the sky about two miles back of the Boche lines and were perhaps four miles apart.
“Keep your eyes o
n these two balloons,” said Frank as he passed us. “You will see that first one there go up in flames exactly at 7:15 and the other will do likewise at 7:19.”
We had little idea he would really get either of them, but we all gathered together out in the open as the time grew near and kept our eyes glued to the distant specks in the sky. Suddenly Major Hartney exclaimed, “There goes the first one!” It was true! A tremendous flare of flame lighted up the horizon. We all glanced at our watches. It was exactly on the dot!
The expectancy of our gaze toward the second Hun balloon may be imagined. It had grown too dusk to distinguish the balloon itself, but we knew the exact point in the horizon where it hung. Not a word was spoken as we glanced at our watches and then at the eastern skyline. Almost on the second our watching group yelled simultaneously. A small blaze first lit up the point at which we were staring. Almost instantaneously another gigantic burst of flame announced that the second balloon had been destroyed! It was a most spectacular exhibition.
We all stood by on the aerodrome in front of Luke's hangar until fifteen minutes later we heard through the darkness the hum of his returning engine. His mechanics were shooting up red Very lights to indicate to him the location of our field. With one small circuit of the aerodrome he shut off his engine and made a perfect landing just in front of our group. Laughing and well pleased with his success, Luke jumped out and came running over to us to receive our heartiest congratulations. Within half an hour Frank Luke had destroyed a hundred thousand dollars' worth of enemy property! He had returned absolutely unscratched.
A most extraordinary incident had happened just before Luke had left the ground. Lieutenant Jeffers of my squadron had been out on patrol with the others during the afternoon but did not return with them. I was becoming somewhat anxious about him when I saw an airplane homing from the lines toward our field. It was a Spad and evidently intending to land at our field, but its course appeared to be very peculiar. I watched it gliding steeply with engine cut off. Instead of making for the field, the pilot, whoever he was, seemed bent upon investigating the valley to the north of us before coming in. If this was Jeff he was taking a foolish chance, since he had already been out longer than the usual fuel supply would last.
Straight down at the north hillside the Spad continued its way. I ran out to see what Jeff was trying to do. I had a premonition that everything was not right with him.
Just as his machine reached the skyline I saw him make a sudden effort to redress the plane. It was too late. He slid off a little on his right wing, causing his nose to turn back toward the field— and then he crashed in the fringe of bushes below the edge of the hill. I hurried over to him.
Imagine my surprise when I met him walking toward me, no bones broken, but wearing a most sheepish expression on his face. I asked him what in the world was the matter.
“Well,” he replied, “I might as well admit the truth! I went to sleep coming home, and didn't wake up until I was about ten feet above the ground. I didn't have time to switch on my engine or even flatten out! I'm afraid I finished the little 'bus!”
Extraordinary as this tale seemed, it was nevertheless true. Jeffers had set his course for home at a high elevation over the lines and cutting off his engine had drifted smoothly along. The soft air and monotonous motion had lulled him to sleep. Subconsciously his hand controlled the joystick or else the splendid equilibrium of the Spad had kept it upon an even keel without control. Like the true old coachhorse it was, it kept the stable door in sight and made directly for it. Jeff's awakening might have been in another world, however, if he had not opened his eyes in the nick of time!
The next day, September 18, our Group suffered a loss that made us feel much vindictiveness as well as sorrow. Lieutenant Heinrichs and Lieutenant Mitchell, both of 95 Squadron, were out together on patrol when they encountered six Fokker machines. They immediately began an attack.
Mitchell fired one burst from each gun and then both weapons jammed. He signaled to Heinrichs that he was out of the battle and started for home. But at the same moment Heinrichs received a bullet in his engine which suddenly put it out of action. He was surrounded by enemy planes and some miles back of the German lines. He broke through the enemy formation and began his slow descent. Although it was evident he could not possibly reach our lines, the Huns continued swooping upon him, firing again and again as he coasted down.
Ten different bullets struck his body in five different attacks. He was defenseless against any of them. He did not lose consciousness, although one bullet shattered his jawbone and bespattered his goggles so that he could not see through the blood. Just before he reached the ground he managed to push up his goggles with his unwounded arm. The other was hanging limp and useless by his side.
He saw he was over a piece of woodland and some distance within the German lines. He swung away and landed between the trees, turning his machine over as he crashed, but escaping further injury himself. Within an hour or two he was picked up and taken to a hospital in Metz.
After the signing of the armistice we saw Heinrichs again at the Toul Hospital. He was a mere shell of himself. Scarcely recognizable even by his old comrades, a glance at his shrunken frame indicated that he had been horribly neglected by his captors. His story confirmed this suspicion.
For the several weeks that he had lain in the Metz hospital he told us that the Germans had not reset either his jaw or his broken arm. In fact he had received no medical attention whatsoever. The food given him was bad and infrequent. It was a marvel that he had survived this frightful treatment!
In all fairness to the Hun I think it is his due to say that such an experience as Heinrichs suffered rarely came to my attention. In the large hospital in which he was confined there were but six nurses and two doctors. They had to care for several scores of wounded. Their natural inclination was to care first for their own people. But how any people calling themselves human could have permitted Heinrichs' suffering to go uncared for during all those weeks passes all understanding. Stories of this kind which occasionally came to our ears served to steel our hearts against any mercy toward the enemy pilots in our vicinity.
And thus does chivalry give way before the horrors of war—even in aviationl
CHAPTER XXVI
Captain of the Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron
The Three-Fingered Lake is a body of water well known to the American pilots who have flown over the Saint-Mihiel front. It lies four or five miles directly north of Vigneulles and is the largest body of water to be seen in this region. The Germans have held it well within their lines ever since the beginning of the war.
At the conclusion of the American drive around Saint-Mihiel, the lines were pushed north of Vigneulles until they actually touched the southern arm of Three-Fingered Lake. Our resistless doughboys, pushing in from both directions, met each other in the outskirts of Vigneulles at two o'clock in the morning. Some fifteen thousand Boches and scores of guns were captured within the territory that had thus been pinched out.
With this lake barrier on the very edge of their lines, the Huns had selected two vantage points on their end of the water from which to hoist their observation balloons. From this position their observers had a splendid view of our lines and noted every movement in our rear. They made themselves a tremendous nuisance to our Staff Officers.
Frank Luke, the star balloon strafer of our Group, was, as I have said, a member of the 27th Squadron. On the evening of September 18 he announced that he was going up to get those two balloons that swung above the Three-Fingered Lake. His pal, Lieutenant Joseph Fritz Wehner, of the same squadron, accompanied Luke as usual.
There was a curious friendship between Luke and Wehner. Luke was an excitable, high-strung boy, and his impetuous courage was always getting him into trouble. He was extremely daring and perfectly blind and indifferent to the enormous risks he ran. His superior officers and his friends would plead with him to be more cautious, but he was deaf to their entreaties. He att
acked like a whirlwind, with absolute coolness but with never a thought of his own safety. We all predicted that Frank Luke would be the greatest air fighter in the world if he would only learn to avoid unwise risks. Luke came from Phoenix, Arizona.
Wehner's nature, on the other hand, was quite different. He had just one passion, and that was his love for Luke. He followed him about the aerodrome constantly. When Luke went up, Joe usually managed to go along with him. On these trips Wehner acted as an escort or guard, despite Luke's objections. On several occasions he had saved Luke's life. Luke would come back to the aerodrome and excitedly tell everyone about it, but no word would Wehner say on the subject. In fact Joe never spoke except in monosyllables on any subject. After a successful combat he would put in the briefest possible report and sign his name. None of us ever heard him describe how he brought the enemy machine down.
Wehner hovered in the air above Luke while the latter went in for the balloon. If hostile airplanes came up, Wehner intercepted them and warded off the attack until Luke had finished his operation. These two pilots made an admirable pair for this work and over a score of victories were chalked up for 27 Squadron by this team.
On the evening of September 18, Luke and Wehner set off at five o'clock. It was just getting dark. They flew together at a medium level until they reached the lake. There they separated, Luke diving straight at the balloon which lay to the west, Wehner staying aloft to hold the sky against a surprise attack from Hun airplanes.
Luke's balloon rose out of the swampy land that borders the upper western edge of Three-Fingered Lake. The enemy defenses saw his approach and began a murderous fire through which Luke calmly dived as usual. Three separate times he dived and fired, dived and fired. Constantly surrounded with a hail of bullets and shrapnel, flaming onions and incendiary bullets, Luke returned to the attack the third time and finally completed his errand of destruction. The huge gas bag burst into flames. Luke zoomed up over the balloon and looked about for his friend. He was not in view at the moment, but another sight caught Luke's searching eyes. A formation of six Fokkers was bearing down upon him from out of Germany. Perhaps Wehner had fired the red signal light which had been the warning agreed upon, and he had failed to see it in the midst of all that Archie fire. At any rate he was in for it now.
Fighting the Flying Circus Page 24
