Against this point the Prussian Guards were coming for an attack! I wondered how headquarters got that information and how the Huns knew we were in such a bad situation in Death Valley! Airplanes, probably, had brought the information to both sides. Grimly I assured myself that airplanes would prevent some of the Prussians from ever reaching their objective, if we should discover their coming this night.
Turning east I soon discerned the river Meuse shining in the starlight, and following its course at three or four hundred feet above its surface I flew on deeper and deeper into hostile territory. Barring engine failure, I had little to fear. No enemy searchlights appeared ahead of me and so far as I know not a bullet was fired at me. There is a distinctive sound to the Hispano-Suiza engine that should have betrayed its nationality to any Hun ear familiar with airplane engines, but despite this fact and the low altitude at which I was compelled to fly to find my way, my passing seemed to arouse no interest. Soon I passed the wide lagoons of Mouzay and realized that I was almost forty miles behind our lines. And there between me and the next town of Stenay I saw the glare of an engine box on the tracks ahead of me. Dropping still lower down, I prepared to count the coaches as they passed under me when I discovered it was only a short freight train which was proceeding away from the front instead of toward it. Paying no further attention to its progress, I continued along over the tracks until I reached the station at Stenay. Back and forth over the sidings and switches I flew, one eye upon the dusky ground and one in the direction of the enemy aerodrome which I well knew occupied the hilltop just east of the town. No unusual marshaling of railroad cars could be seen and no activity whatever in railroad circles appeared in Stenay this night. Picking up the main line to Montmedy, I cast one more glance behind me at the Fokker aerodrome and faded away into the night unpursued.
Over Montmedy ten minutes later I found one train going toward Stenay and one toward Metz, but neither was a troop train. No other coaches whatever occupied the sidings. I began to think that Intelligence Bureaus might be mistaken, and in spite of myself I felt a little disappointed. For I had an extra supply of machine-gun ammunition with me and had pictured to myself the amount of damage one small airplane might do to the gentlemen of the Prussian Guard through the windows of their troop trains. All the way along the main line from Montmedy to Metz I hoped rather than feared that I would meet the expected guests of the evening. But I was doomed to disappointment. The nearer to Metz I got the more I realized that if their trains had left Metz at noon, as advertised, they must certainly have reached or passed Montmedy by now. I was absolutely positive that not a single coach had slipped under me unnoticed, for most of the way along I had flown scarcely high enough to clear the telegraph wires that occasionally crossed the tracks.
Glancing at my compass I swung off to the right and left the tracks. It was quite evident that the Prussian Guard scare was a false alarm. In five minutes I should be over Verdun.
Ten minutes passed—and then twenty, and still no Verdun. If I had been misled by my compass and had kept too far to the west —even so I should have crossed the Meuse long ago. I reached forward and shook the compass. It whirled a few times, then settled itself in exactly the opposite direction! Again I shook it and again it pointed to a new direction. Never have I seen a compass—except those captured from Boche machines—that even pretended to disclose the direction of north! Mingled with my rage was a fear that was getting almost panicky. I searched the horizon for our searchlight but not one was in sight. Thinking I might be in ground mist I rose higher and circling about scanned the horizon and blackness below. Not even the flash of a gun that might direct me to the battlefront was visible!
Three-quarters of an hour of gasoline remained to me. And a much overrated sense of direction—and no compass. Then I thought of the north star! Glory be! There she shines! I had been going west instead of south and would have had two hundred miles or so of fast flying before reaching the British lines near Ypres on my present course. Keeping the star behind my rudder I flew south for fifteen minutes, then dropping down, almost immediately found myself above a bend in a stream of water that resembled a familiar spot in the river Meuse. With a sudden return of self-confidence I followed the river until I struck Verdun—picked up our faithful searchlight and ten minutes later I landed safely below the row of lights that marked the edge of our aerodrome.
My mechanics assured me that both Coolidge and Cook had returned. Hastening to the operations office I made my report that no Hun trains were coming our way, which General Mitchell received with a simple, “Thank God!” The next day our advancing troops caught up with the marooned doughboys and sent them for a much deserved rest to the rear.
As I walked across the field to my bed I looked up and recognized my friend the North Star shining in my face. I raised my cap and waved her a salute and repeated most fervently, “Thank God!”
On the following day, which was October 1, a large formation of 94 pilots crossed the lines and cruised about for nearly two hours in German lines without a fight. We scared up one covey of Fokkers, but were unable to get them within range.
Changing machines, I went back alone late in the afternoon and hung about the lines until it began to grow dusk. I had spotted a German balloon down on the ground back of the Three-Fingered Lake and was convinced that it would be inadequately guarded since it was not doing duty and was supposed to be hidden from view. Sure enough, when I arrived at its hiding place I found no antiaircraft gunners there to molest me. It was too easy a job to be called a victory, for I merely poked down my nose, fired a hundred rounds or so and the job was done. The balloon caught fire without any trouble and I calmly flew on my way homeward without molestation.
Without molestation, that is, from the enemy. I turned back across our lines at Vigneulles and there on our own side of the trenches I met the attention of two searchlights and a furious barrage of flaming projectiles from our own guns. The latter all passed well behind my tail, as I could see them plainly leaving the ground and could trace their progress in my direction. The American gunners had not had the long experience of the Hun Archie experts and I saw at a glance that they were all aiming directly at my machine instead of the proper distance ahead of me. Their aim was so bad that I did not even feel indignant at their overzealousness. Later I learned that this area was forbidden to our airplanes and the gunners there had been ordered to shoot at everything that passed overhead after dark.
My successful expedition against the balloon was known at the aerodrome when I arrived. The glare of its fire had been seen on the field and later telephonic reports from our observing posts duly confirmed its destruction.
That night around the mess one of the boys read aloud from the Paris Herald that the British Independent Air Force had sent a large formation of planes over Cologne-on-the-Rhine the night before and had dropped hundreds of heavy bombs into the city.
Jimmy Meissner, the Captain of 147 Squadron, was with us, paying a visit to the old squadron that he has always considered his own. Jimmy appeared to be pondering deeply over the reading of this particular news. When it was finished he exclaimed:
“Gee whiz! I hope they didn't kill my aunt! She lives in Cologne!”
For a moment everybody looked at Jimmy in astonishment. Then we roared with laughter. Jimmy Meissner, with his German name and his aunt in Cologne, had shot down eight enemy airplanes! How many such anomalies must have amused our mess halls now that American soldiers of German ancestry found themselves fighting against the former fatherland of their grandfathers.
CHAPTER XXX
A Day's Work—Six Victories
With the beginning of October, 94 Squadron took on a new phase of air fighting. We were taken away from the General Orders affecting the 1st Pursuit Wing and were delegated to patrol the lines at low altitude—not exceeding two thousand feet. This meant serious business to us, for not only would we be under more severe Archie fire, but we would be an easy target for the higher Hun formations, who could
dive down upon us at their own pleasure.
These new orders were intended to provide a means of defense against the low-flying enemy machines which came over our lines. Usually they were protected by fighting machines. Rarely did they attempt to penetrate to any considerable distance back of No Man's Land. They came over to follow the lines and see what we were doing on our front, leaving to their high-flying photographic machines the inspection of our rear.
On October 2 Reed Chambers led out the first patrol under these new orders. He had five machines with him and I went along on a voluntary patrol, to see how the new scheme was going to work out. In order to act somewhat in a protective capacity, I took a higher level and followed them back and forth over their beat at two thousand feet or more above them.
The course of this patrol was between Sivry-sur-Meuse and Romagne. We had turned back toward the west at the end of one beat and were nearing the turning point when I observed a two-seater Hanover machine of the enemy trying to steal across our lines behind us. He was quite low and was already across the front when I first discovered him.
In order to tempt him a little farther away from his lines I made no sign of noticing him but throttled down to my lowest speed and continued straight ahead with some climb. The pilots in Chambers' formation were below me and had evidently not seen the intruder at all.
Calculating the positions of our two machines, as we drew away from each other, I decided I could now cut off the Hanover before he reached his lines, even if he saw me the moment I turned. Accordingly I turned back, aiming at a point just behind our front, where I estimated our meeting must take place. To my surprise, however, the enemy machine did not race for home but continued ahead on his mission. Was this brazenness, good tactics mixed with abundant self-confidence, or hadn't the pilot and observer seen me up above them? I wondered what manner of aviators I had to deal with, as I turned after them and the distance between us narrowed.
A victory seemed so easy that I feared some deep strategy lay behind it all. Closer and closer I stole up in their rear, yet the observer did not even look about him to see if his rear was safe. At one hundred yards I fixed my sights upon the slothful observer in his rear cockpit and prepared to fire. He had but one gun mounted upon a tournelle and this gun was not even pointing in my direction. After my first burst he would swing it around, I conjectured, and I would be compelled then to come in through his stream of bullets. Well, I had two guns to his one and he would have to face double the amount of bullets from my Spad. Now I was at fifty yards and could not miss. Taking deliberate aim I pressed both triggers. The observer fell limply over the side of his cockpit without firing a shot. My speed carried me swiftly over the Hanover, which had begun to bank over and turn for home as my first shots entered its fuselage.
Heading off the pilot, I braved his few shots and again I obtained a position in his rear and had him at my mercy. And at that very critical moment both of my guns jammed!
Infuriated at this piece of bad luck I still had the thought to realize that the enemy pilot did not know I could not shoot, so I again came up and forced him to make a turn to the east to avoid what he considered a fatal position. And at that moment I saw Reed Chambers flying directly toward me, the rest of his patrol streaming in along behind him. Reed was firing as he flew. His first bursts finished the pilot and the Hanover settled with a gradual glide down among the shell holes that covered the ground just north of Montfaucon—a good two miles within our lines.
It was the first machine that I had brought down behind our lines—or assisted to bring down, for Reed Chambers shared this victory with me—in such condition that we were able to fly it again.
A few minutes' work with my guns cleared both jams. I had paid little attention to the rest of my pilots during this operation—and indeed had scarcely noticed where my airplane was taking me —for I had to work with one hand holding the lever and the other pressing back the feeding mechanism of the guns, and the Spad was taking care of herself. Now after clearing out the faulty cartridges, I had just fired a few rounds into Germany, to see that the guns were both in working order, when suddenly not fifty yards in front of me I saw a whole flock of enemy Fokkers passing through a thin stratum of clouds. It was an ideal hiding place for a surprise attack, and they had been lying in wait for our Spads without noticing me until I almost bumped into them.
The next instant I was over on my wing and nose performing a double-quick spin out of their range. All eight of them were on top of me firing as they followed my gyrations. Tracer bullets went whizzing past me every second and, try as I might, I could not select an opening that would permit me to slip through them with any hope of safety. The earth was rapidly coming up to meet me and the Fokkers were bent on my destruction when I opened up my engine and dove vertically toward the ground with throttle wide open. As I did so I was conscious that other machines were coming in from behind me and that the Fokkers had suddenly left off firing their tracer bullets. Glancing back I saw my own Spads had arrived in the very nick of time. Reed Chambers was in pursuit of the fleeing Huns and the whole circus was climbing southward to gain the shelter of the low-hanging clouds.
Reed saw they would reach their protection before he could overtake them. With his usual good judgment he let them proceed until the last man was swallowed up within them, then he turned suddenly to the north and sought a place between them and their lines where they might be expected to come out and make for home. Climbing for all I was worth, I arrived at the northern edge of the cloud bank at the same time Reed reached there. We had made one or two circles just beneath the billowy mass of white, when out burst the leader of the Huns over our heads and one by one his formation followed him.
In a trice Reed and I were under the last Fokkers' tails. Reed took the left and I took the right and at almost the same second we both began firing. I had let go two hundred rounds when I saw my man falling; and again at almost the same instant Reed ceased firing and his man too dropped out of line and began his last landing. The rest of the formation fled straight on into their own lines and we were unable to overtake them. As we turned back we saw our two victims crash almost simultaneously fully a mile back of our lines.
Before we reached the aerodrome official confirmation of our three victories had been telephoned in.
Lieutenant Cook, who was now looked upon as our most successful balloon strafer had gone out this morning with Lieutenant Crocker as helper, to get an enemy balloon that hung over the eastern edge of the town of Grand Pre. Cookie now had three balloons and was becoming quite fastidious in his methods of shooting down these disagreeable targets. He naturally insisted upon especial attention being given his ammunition and his guns, for he believed in making one straight dash through the circle of Archie and getting in one long burst of incendiary bullets into the balloon and then breaking off. This returning again and again through the Archie barrage for several attacks is simply a foolish method of suicide.
At 5:30 in the morning Cook and Crocker left the field and proceeded to the Argonne. Here they located Grand Pre but could not discover the balloon. Finally after arousing the whole neighborhood Cook found his gas bag resting on the ground where it was tied down into its bed. It was in a bad place for an attack, but Cook unhesitatingly stuck down his nose and began firing as he dived.
About twenty or thirty shots left his guns—and then both jammed. With a string of burning words Cookie turned around as he zoomed up over the balloon and hurled at it the small hammer or tool used by pilots for clearing gun jams. He was so enraged over his bad luck that he did not even wait for Crocker to overtake him, but made straight for home, climbed out of his machine and marched into the armorers' office, mad as a hornet. What language he used there neither Cook nor the armament officer would afterward repeat, but in the midst of his abusive description of guns, ammunition, mechanics and armament officers in general, in walked Lieutenant Crocker, whom Cook had left behind him at Grand Pre!
“Congrats, Co
okie!” said Crocker triumphantly. “That was certainly fine work! You got him with his truck, office and all, this time.”
Cook looked at Crocker with some anger and much mortification. “Got what?” he shouted rather violently. Ordinarily Cookie was the sweetest tempered man in the outfit, barring Jimmy Meissner.
“Why, the Hun balloon!” replied Crocker, looking at him indignantly. “Didn't you see him go up in flames? He hung fire for a half minute owing to the dew and dampness on the outside, but when he started he went with one burst!”
Cook stood looking at his friend anxiously for a moment. There was no question about his seriousness and truth. Then Cookie said slowly:
“Well, I'm damned! That's the first time I ever heard of getting a balloon with a jam hammer and hot language!”
The next day, October 3, a carefully planned attack on an enemy balloon back of Doulcon was carried out in the middle of the afternoon by our squadron. Montfaucon was still the center of operations for the American Army. The country was extremely difficult owing to the hills and forests along the river Meuse, all of which the Germans had amply prepared for stubborn defense. The presence of their observation balloons added another benefit to them which we knew could be destroyed. So we were sent out in full daylight to accomplish this end.
Thorn Taylor led our formation. Practically our whole squadron left the aerodrome at three o'clock, Ham Coolidge and Crocker who were selected as the two balloon strafers for the day flying with us on the patrol. At 3:30 precisely we were to find ourselves over the Hun balloon at Doulcon and there these two pilots were to make a sudden dash down at the balloon, one behind the other. It was a new daylight dodge we would try to put over the Germans before they suspected the object of our mission.
We expected to find enemy planes guarding this important observation post of the enemy and it was necessary to take along enough machines of our own to sweep them away from the path which our two strafers must take to get to their balloon. Therefore, I had all the pilots set their watches exactly with mine and gave them all instructions to cross the lines precisely at 3:45 and fly between Coolidge and Crocker and any hostile aircraft that might intercept them. With every man fully schooled in his part of the game we all took off.
Fighting the Flying Circus Page 28
