Fighting the Flying Circus

by Captain Eddie V. Rickenbacker

  Upon landing I found very bad news awaiting me.

  On the previous afternoon Lieutenant Sherry and Lieutenant Nutt, both of 94 Squadron, had gone out on patrol and had failed to come in. Long after dark their mechanics remained on the field pooping up Very lights, in the hope that they might still be trying to find their way home. At last we abandoned all hope ourselves and waited for the morning's news from outside sources.

  Now it had arrived and to my great joy it was in the form of a telephone call from old “Madam” Sherry himself. But his next message informed us that Nutt had been killed in combat! And Sherry himself had been through an experience that might easily have turned one's hair gray. Just before lunchtime Sherry came in by automobile and told us the story of his experiences.

  He and Nutt had attacked an overwhelming formation of eight Fokker machines. They had stolen up on the Heinies and counted upon getting one or two victims before the others were aware of their presence. But the attack failed and suddenly both American pilots were having the fight of their lives. The Hun pilots were not only skillful and experienced, but they worked together with such nicety that Sherry and Nutt were unable either to hold their own or to escape.

  Soon each was fighting a separate battle against four enemy machines. Sherry saw Nutt go crashing down and later learned that he had been shot through the heart and killed in air. A moment later Sherry's machine received several bullets in the engine which put it out of commission. Dropping swiftly to earth, Sherry saw that the Hun pilots were not taking any chances but were determined to kill him as he fell.

  He was two miles and more in the air when he began his forced descent. All the way down the enemy pilots pursued him, firing through his machine continuously as it glided smoothly toward earth. Only by miracles a dozen times repeated did he escape death. He saw the lines below him and made desperate efforts to glide his machine to our side of the fence despite the furious attempts of the Bodies to prevent this escape. At last he crashed in one of the million shell holes that covered No Man's Land of last week. His machine turned over and broke into fragments, Sherry being thrown some yards away where he landed unhurt at the bottom of another shell hole.

  While he was still pinching himself to make sure he was still alive he discovered his implacable enemies diving on him with their Fokkers and firing long bursts of bullets into his shell hole with their machine guns!

  Sherry clung as closely to the sides of his hole as he could and watched the dirt fly up all around him as the Fokkers made dive after dive at him. It must have been like watching a file of executioners firing dozens of rounds without hitting one. Except that in Sherry's case, it was machine guns that were doing the firing!

  Finally the Fokkers made off for Germany. Crawling out of his hole, Sherry discovered that a formation of Spads had come to his rescue and had chased the Germans homeward. And then he began to wonder on which side of the trenches he had fallen. For he had been too busy dodging Fokkers to know where his crippled machine was taking him.

  One can imagine Sherry's joy when he heard a doughboy in perfectly good United States yell from a neighboring shell hole:

  “Hey, guy! Where the hell's your gas mask?”

  Madam didn't care for the moment whether he had a gas mask or not, so glad was he to learn that he had fallen among friends and was still in the land of the living.

  He quickly tumbled into the next shell hole, where he found his new friend. The latter informed him that he was still in No Man's Land, that the German infantry were but a hundred yards away and that gas shells had been coming across that space all the afternoon. He even gave Madam his own gas mask and his pistol, saying he guessed he was more used to gas than an aviator would be! He advised Sherry to lay low where he was until nightfall, when he would see him back into our lines. And thus Lieutenant Sherry spent the next few hours reviewing the strange episodes that mark the career of an aviator.

  Sherry finished his story with a grim recital of what had occurred when they went out next morning to recover Nutt's body. It too had fallen in No Man's Land, but the Americans had advanced a few hundred yards during the night and now held the spot where Nutt's body lay. Sherry accompanied a squad of doughboys out to the spot where Nutt's smashed machine had lain during the night. They found poor Nutt, as I have said, with several bullets through the heart.

  They extricated the body from the wreckage and were beginning to dig a grave when a shot from a hidden Hun sniper struck one of the burial party in the foot. The others jumped to their guns and disappeared through the trees. They soon returned with a look of savage satisfaction on their faces, although Sherry had not heard a shot fired. While they continued their work he strolled off in the direction from which they had returned.

  Behind a trench dugout he found the German sniper who had had the yellowness to fire upon a burial party. The man's head was crushed flat with the butts of the doughboys' gunsl

  “Frank Luke, the marvelous balloon strafer of the 27th, did not return last nightF'

  So reads the last entry in my flight diary of September 29, 1918. Rereading that line brings back to me the common anxiety of the whole Group over the extraordinary and prolonged absence of their most popular member. For Luke's very mischievousness and irresponsibility made every one of us feel that he must be cared for and nursed back into a more disciplined way of fighting—and flying—and living. His escapades were the talk of the camp and the despair of his superior officers. Fully a month after his disappearance his commanding officer, Alfred Grant, Captain of the 27th Squadron, told me that if Luke ever did come back he would court-martial him first and then recommend him for the Medal of Honor!

  In a word, Luke mingled with his disdain for bullets a very similar distaste for the orders of his superior officers. When orders were given him to come immediately home after a patrol Luke would unconcernedly land at some French aerodrome miles away, spend the night there and arrive home after dark the next night. But as he almost invariably landed with one or two more enemy balloons to his credit, which he had destroyed on the way home, he was usually let off with a reprimand and a caution not to repeat the offense.

  As blandly indifferent to reprimands as to orders, Luke failed to return again the following night. This studied disobedience to orders could not be ignored, and thus Captain Grant had stated that if Luke ever did return he must be disciplined for his insubordination. The night of September 27 Luke spent the night with the French Cigognes on the Toul aerodrome.

  The last we had heard from Luke was that at six o'clock on the night of September 28 he left the French field where he had spent the night, and flying low over one of the American Balloon Headquarters he circled over their heads until he had attracted the attention of the officers, then dropped them a brief note which he had written in his airplane. As may well be imagined, Luke was a prime favorite with our Balloon Staff. All the officers of that organization worshiped the boy for his daring and his wonderful successes against the balloon department of their foes. They appreciated the value of balloon observation and knew the difficulties and dangers in attacking these well-defended posts.

  Running out and picking up the streamer and sheet of paper which fell near their office they unfolded the latter and read:

  “Look out for enemy balloon at D-2 and D-4 positions.—Luke.”

  Already Luke's machine was disappearing in the direction of the first balloon which lay just beyond the Meuse. It was too dark to make out its dim outline at this distance, but as they all gathered about the front of their “office” they glued their eyes to the spot where they knew it hung. For Luke had notified them several times previously as to his intended victims and every time they had been rewarded for their watching.

  Two minutes later a great red glow lit up the northwestern horizon and before the last of it died away the second German balloon had likewise burst into flames! Their intrepid hero had again fulfilled his promise! They hastened into their headquarters and called up our operations
officer and announced Frank Luke's last two victories. Then we waited for Luke to make his dramatic appearance.

  But Luke never came! That night and the next day we rather maligned him for his continued absence, supposing that he had returned to his French friends for the night. But when no news of him came to us, when repeated inquiries elicited no information as to his movements after he had brought down his last balloon, every man in the Group became aware that we had lost the greatest airman in our army. From that day to this not one word of reliable information has reached us concerning Luke's disappearance. Not a trace of his machine was ever found! Not a single clue to his death and burial was ever obtained from the Germans! Like Guynemer, the miraculous airman of France, Frank Luke was swallowed by the skies and no mortal traces of him remain!*

  * Captain Rickenbacker's book was originally published in 1919, but it was later learned that Luke had destroyed three kite balloons on that patrol, and had had to force-land in enemy territory with a dead engine. He tried to escape but was trapped in a church graveyard where he attempted to make a stand against a German infantry platoon, armed only with his automatic pistol. He was killed resisting capture. A.W.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  A Night Mission

  Aviators are conscious of an antagonistic feeling toward them in the minds of the infantrymen in the trenches who, covered with mud and trench insects, frequently overworked and underslept and always facing imminent death from enemy gunfire, find an ironic pleasure in contrasting their lot with the life of ease and excitement led by the young officers of the flying corps.

  To see an airplane cavorting about over their heads fills them with bitterness at the thought that these well dressed men are getting paid for that pleasant sport, while they are forced to work like beasts of burden in the rain. Infantry officers have told me that rarely have they seen an American airplane nearby when it was needed to chase away enemy machines, and that Huns repeatedly came over them at low altitudes strafing the troops with machine-gun fire, adding to their peril and demoralization.

  It is not difficult to understand this bitterness. Much of this feeling might be cleared away, however, if the infantrymen realized that while German machines are strafing them, our airmen are retaliating probably twofold upon the enemy troops beyond the lines. Every day our machines were engaged in this hazardous work of trench strafing. Much of the success of our infantry advances was due to the cooperation of our air forces behind the front and beyond the vision of our doughboys in the trenches. Admitting as they do the disastrous effect of airplane attacks upon their own lines, they should easily imagine how terrified their enemy infantrymen became at the daily appearance of our fighting planes over their heads.

  As to the comparative risks of injury in these two arms of warfare, I believe even the most skeptical doughboy would admit after reflection that an airman's daily duties surround him every moment with the possibilities of death. Comfort and dress, entertainments and good food are all in our favor, of course. But I have yet to meet a pilot of any nation at war who does not try to balance this advantage with a wholesouled admiration and praise of his less fortunate brother-in-arms, who does so much more than his share of the “dirty work.”

  Much of this jealousy and misunderstanding is due to the fact that the man on the ground can never see and never know anything of the things the airman is doing for him. It is a pity that such must be the case, for, while rivalry between different branches of the Army may be beneficial, ill feeling is not.

  While sitting at dinner about sundown on the evening of September 30, discussing the latest victory claimed that afternoon by Lieutenant Kaye and Lieutenant Reed Chambers who had destroyed a Fokker airplane over Romagne, an orderly brought me a note from the CO of the Group, requesting me to select two volunteers for a most important mission and report at headquarters with them forthwith. It was then 6:30 and quite dark.

  We were naturally excited at this summons and I wondered what necessity called for airplanes at this late hour. I selected Ham Coolidge and Wier Cook out of the men who volunteered for this unknown mission, and setting off with our flying kit in our hands we hastened over to Major Hartney's office.

  There to our great surprise we found General Billy Mitchell impatiently pacing the floor while awaiting our coming. He immediately welcomed us and began at once to explain the object of our hurried summons.

  Our troops were at that time engaged in the attack on Mont-faucon and were advancing up the ten-mile valley that runs between the edge of the Argonne Forest and the river Meuse. Mont-faucon occupied the crest of the loftiest hill in this valley and was situated almost in its exact center. From this favorable spot the Crown Prince of Germany had viewed the battles for Verdun and the country to the south during those fierce days of 1916. Later I visited the massive headquarters of the Crown Prince and marveled at the extensive view of the surrounding landscape one obtained from this site.

  For four days our doughboys had flung themselves courageously upon the well prepared defenses of the enemy along this valley. Costly gains were made and valuable territory was slowly yielded to our victorious troops by the Germans. Between the old line and the new line from Grand Pre to the Meuse two different U. S. Infantry Divisions named the defile through which they had separately fought, “Death Valley.” From their superior heights beyond the Meuse the enemy artillery swept their roads with a pitiless hail of shrapnel. An occasional rush was made by isolated regiments of our men, which gained them the shelter of intervening hills. And thus just under the crest of Montfaucon our airplanes had discovered a force of several thousand American doughboys who had been marooned for thirty-six hours, entirely without food or ammunition, except the small supply they had carried in with them. A thick curtain of artillery fire had been placed behind them by the enemy, cutting all the roads in several places and rendering even a retreat difficult.

  Major Hartney had already discussed with our Group captains the advisability of carrying food to these troops by airplane on the morrow. The Army Headquarters expected confidently that they would be able to break through to the relief of these starving troops during the night. If this failed we should devote ourselves to their victualing by airplane, beginning at daybreak.

  And now General Mitchell had motored over to impart to us some startling news. The Army Intelligence Bureau had reported that eleven troop trains had left Metz at noon carrying to the Montfaucon front the famous Prussian Guard for an attack upon our trapped doughboys. Immediate confirmation of this fact was desired, and late as it was, airplanes were the only means of obtaining this confirmation and they must be sent. Owing to the darkness the flight would be an extremely hazardous one and only experienced pilots should be permitted to go. The searchlight would throw its beam up into the night during the entire time we were away and we should be able to see its signal for many miles within Germany. It was imperative that the aviators should know the location of all the railway lines leading to the front from Metz and likewise necessary that they should succeed with their mission and return safely with the desired information. He would not order any individual to go, but would be pleased to have two volunteers.

  I replied that every man in the 94th Squadron was anxious to go. I had selected Coolidge and Cook as two of my best men and both were not only familiar with the enemy railroad lines but could find their way home if anybody could.

  “Very well,” said the general. “Strike the main railroad line on the Meuse, follow it up as far as Stenay and from there go to Montmedy and on to Metz. Note carefully every moving thing on that route if you have to fly as low as the treetops. Locate the time and the place of every train, how many cars it has, which way it is headed and the nature of its load, if you can. I will wait here until you return.”

  Three would be better than two, I thought to myself as I accompanied Cook and Coolidge out to their machines. I saw them off and then ordered the mechanics to run out my Spad. A few minutes later I taxied down the field, turned and
headed for our row of signal lights. The engine roared as I opened up my throttle and sped swiftly for a take-off. The tail lifted, the wheels skimmed the ground, then cleared and slightly elevating the controls I saw the ground lights disappearing under my lower wing.

  Above all was blackness. Away to the north fitful flashes of fire dotted the ground. Over my head our aerodrome searchlight cut a yellow slice of ever widening sky, until it lost itself among the stars. Several other searchlights were also playing about the heavens. I noted carefully the angle ours made with the horizon so that I should recognize it from any distance.

  “How are those boys faring tonight, I wonder?” thought I to myself as I flew at a five-hundred-foot level over the marooned doughboys' heads. For I had left Verdun to my right and was on a route straight over Montfaucon. I must have passed over the marching thousands who were advancing under cover of the night to get a favorable position for the next day's work. On the roads below me I saw occasional lights where bridges were being expertly repaired and shell holes refilled with earth and rock by our engineers. So congested were these roads and so badly torn by the enemy's fire that our supplies could not be brought up fast enough to keep our front line going. Our own artillery was well advanced but had no shells to fire! Even during the pauses in the enemy's barrage no food could be taken to those regiments that were cut off, because the roads had been almost obliterated by the bursting shells of the enemy.

  Later on I heard of the herculean efforts made by our Engineer Corps to repair these roads by night. Enlisted men were sent up from miles behind the lines to assist in this emergency. Even one elderly colonel, who happened along and discovered the situation, took the post of an able-bodied MP and ordered the younger man to work on the roads. And all through the night the German shells continued to drop in their midst, undoing their frantic construction and killing many of the workers in the process.