by Jon E. Lewis
At the end of a fortnight he was told to be ready to be one of three for a two hours’ ‘show’ over the lines. As he gazed up at the blue sky, broken from time to time by drifting clouds, which the enemy well knew how to use as a hiding place, the young officer pondered over his first outing. There was his ‘bus,’ a scout which needed delicate handling, and instruments which required occasional watching. He must keep a wary eye all round and at the same time look out for landmarks; he must also keep his place in formation, and an eye on the leader’s plane for the ‘waggle’ which should tell of hostile aircraft.
Once up aloft, all apprehension left him and the clear spring air acted as a tonic. The sense of adventure became uppermost. In a close triangle the machines climbed to gain height before crossing into enemy territory, and after an hour’s flying the planes of the front machine rocked.
Enemy! Another waggle, more violent! He looked in front…behind…above…and then over the side he saw them. A few hundred feet below cloud vapours were drifting across the sky and as the machines circled above a gap in the golden mist he could see an old R.E. 8 lumbering along with three ‘tripes’ buzzing round like hornets. Only the ‘Circus’ flew triplanes, and here were three of them, their variegated colours turned into gold by the brilliance of the sun, playing about with one of the slowest machines then on the Front. Why didn’t his leader dive into them and give him a chance of using his guns on a live target, instead of letting the unequal battle go on?
Suddenly across the sun shot some black specks, and a flight of Camels streamed down on to the scene below. There was a mix-up of red and blue circles and black crosses, and one machine went down in flames, but the three machines above flew straight on, and finished their patrol.
When they came down S. asked the leader why he had not taken them into it, for they had been in a good position and the numbers were even.
‘Say, youngster, do you realize who they were? If we had mixed it, you would have been dead meat before now. They are not new hands! And I had seen our chaps – even if you hadn’t!’
A few weeks afterwards he met the ‘Circus’ again, not three of them, but the whole bunch.
For several days things had been quiet on the Front, and the absence of hostile planes, which was attributed to a threatened offensive against the French south of Moreuil, had engendered a greater boldness in our young flying lads. Miles beyond the trenches they would fly, a few feet from the ground, bombing dumps and ‘shooting up’ anything moving. There was no opposition whatever until a certain Sunday in mid-June when, at a height of 15,000 feet, three of them had ventured about eight miles into the enemy’s territory. The clear sky, the absence of noise beyond the hum of the engine, the apparent peace all round, made it seem really a day of rest. Once during the patrol S. had noticed about a mile away and 1,000 feet below a large flight of machines. Since his arrival at the squadron he had learned how to identify all types of machines in the air, and now, with the momentary thought ‘Bristol Fighters,’ he dismissed them from his mind.
For a few minutes only!
Suddenly, without any preliminary waggle, the leader climbed sharply to the right. S., flying on the right corner of the triangle, climbed at an even steeper angle to keep formation, and what happened then was recorded as a series of blurred impressions. As he turned, the air was filled with tracer bullets and before he was on an even keel his partner on the left burst into flames, fell, and went out. He had heard such happenings reported by others, but the quickness of it appalled him. There was by now no sign of his leader, and coming straight at him was the ‘Circus!’ His mind, in a flash, remarked the bizarre appearance of these triplanes with the sun behind them; they resembled so many sets of empty bookshelves as they flew at him, the first a blood-red one. Only Richthofen flew a blood-red machine!
The air seemed alive with white-hot bullets passing over his head, beneath his wheels, and even between his planes. Instinctively he pressed his gun controls, there was no time to use telescopic sights. He blazed away in a vain effort to stop these flaming specks which were streaming past like fiery hail, and forgot that he had been told to fire always in short bursts. His guns stopped – jammed; the ‘Circus’ all round and he helpless at a height where the thin air made his controls slow to act. There was one thing he could do, dive – and the ‘tripes’ could not dive steeply for long without a plane lifting off!
Pulling the joy-stick over to the right, he kicked the rudder bar hard with his right foot. Up and over came the nose of the little Camel, then down, down, engine full on. The pointer on his air-speed moved rapidly round 150, 170, 200, and still he kept his nose down. Even as he had begun his dive he had seen four enemy machines dive out of the crowd and give chase. Could he go more steeply? He had heard of his own type of bus sometimes not coming out of a vertical dive. By this time the rush of cold air would have cooled his guns, and he could scrap again, but one against four of Germany’s best! A backward glance revealed the enemy beginning to flatten out and lose distance, so he himself flattened out. By the time he was out of the dive and had turned his machine back, only two of his attackers were at all near. He climbed after them, but instead of turning to fight they simply flew eastward. His own bus, built more for rapid manoeuvring than for great speed, was gradually outdistanced and all he could do was to fire a burst in farewell.
On his return home he found his flight leader awaiting him, unhurt.
‘Gee, that was a warm two minutes,’ the captain said.
‘There were well over thirty of the blighters.’
Two minutes! To S. it had seemed a lifetime!
July came in and was very hot, and in that part of the Front, both on the ground and in the blue, there was great activity. No longer did our young pilots seek adventure in threes or sixes, a ‘squadron show’ was now the rule.
Every evening at 7 the whole of the eighteen machines went up together, and as soon as they were high enough and formation was made, the three triangles, each of six machines, flew east in quest of trouble with the red sun behind them. Nor did it take much looking for. Invariably about the hour of 8, the ‘Circus’ was there, always waiting at the same spot, and a perfect formation dive soon developed into a ‘dog-fight.’ It was then a case of every man for himself, singling out an enemy ‘bus,’ and sticking to it until one or the other went down or ammunition gave out.
In the twilight of the evening our machines returned singly or in pairs; names were checked and the pilots gathered together by a hangar, looking out for those not yet in. Soon all but one were back, and as long as light permitted them to discern anything moving in the sky, so long they stood there, cap, goggles, and gloves in hand, just as they had climbed out of the cockpit. But something strange was happening, and as the days wore on a gloom settled upon the squadron. Every night with unfailing regularity one of the lads did not return, and this went on for the greater part of a fortnight. On no occasion had a Camel been seen to go down in flames or out of control. In the excitement of a ‘dog-fight’ this was to be expected, but there seemed something uncanny in the monotonous regularity with which just one failed to return. A less buoyant air was to be noticed among the pilots on the ’drome and in the mess, and unconsciously everyone knew the unspoken question uppermost in every mind, ‘Whose turn to-night?’ Something had to be done and quickly.
One evening during the middle of that month, the men in the trenches must have looked up when they heard the roar of more than fifty English scouts crossing over like three great arrowheads.
The boys in those machines that evening were feeling ‘bucked,’ for that self-same morning another squadron had met a section of the ‘Circus’ and satisfactorily disposed of ten of them. With this knowledge and no time to think of the nightly missing pilot, they sailed across to their evening tryst.
Of the scrap that followed, one of the largest ever seen over the lines, one vivid picture remains to S.
He is on the tail of a small, fast German scout, barel
y 100 feet away and, even while keeping an eye on it until he cannot fail to hit it, he is able to glimpse in the sky all round him countless specks of different sizes, wheeling, ‘split hairing,’ half-rolling, diving, at times spitting flame. To his right and just above him there are five balls of fire falling earthwards, a moment ago swiftly moving machines guided by living minds. As he watches, flames lick out of the side of a bus not far away; in a fraction of time it is consumed with fire and hurtles down, leaving streaks of flame behind. No shrieks are heard, the comfortable hum of the engine removes any sign that a boy has gone to his death.
His own quarry is doing its level best to escape, but, although actually faster, it is inferior at stunting, and the crowd of eighty odd specks makes straight flying impossible. Suddenly; during a short dive, the German pilot’s neck fills the ring in his sight. S. presses his gun controls. There is a short burst, a wisp of grey smoke, but before he can see the result the nose of his machine rises quickly and turns to the right. Why he never knew; he hears the rattle of machine guns, and, looking to his left, sees within a few feet a black bus with tiny white crosses on the upper plane streak past in a headlong dive. The pilot’s head is turned towards him, so near that he would recognize him again. In a flash he pushes the joy-stick forward to the left, rudders in the same direction and dives after this new adversary. Comes another burst of bullets, more prolonged, and an S.E.5, in a vertical dive, shoots between them and separates them.
How he went into the fight, what else happened in it and the flight home, have gone from memory.
Back at the hangars, pilots related individual experiences, and there was great satisfaction when it was clear that the Camels alone, apart from the other two squadrons, had accounted for eleven of the ‘Circus.’ But no one had downed a red machine. That honour fell to Brown of 209 on the following Sunday morning. On the evening of the same day S. saw the dead body of the famous German pilot. As a doctor cut open the leather flying suit, Richthofen’s underclothing was of the same blood-red colour as his triplane.
F. Suckling joined Army, April 1917, at eighteen years of age. Served in infantry training battalion for three months. Became an officer cadet in Royal Flying Corps. Received Commission in October 1917, and ‘wings’ as flying officer in March 1918. Went to France in April 1918, and served with 65 Squadron until October of the same year. From April to August 1918, engaged on the Somme front, chiefly against hostile fighting machines. Did first ‘show’ before nineteen years of age. August to October 1918, on the northern section of the front, chief duty being the escorting of bombing machines to Bruges and other Belgian towns. Returned to England for brief period of Home service, during which time the Armistice was signed.
THE CASUALTY
Rev. John H. W. Haswell
It happened over Ypres.
I was a member of a Royal Air Force unit, nineteen years of age.
The infantryman was one in a tiny circle of pals, each circle but one wavelet in a huge-sea. His was a hard life – mud and blood and losing chums, and ever conscious of being but a cog in a mighty and soulless machine.
We, on the other hand, were neither wavelets nor cogs. We were it. Our squadron was, like a battleship, a unit in itself, and every individual was important.
We were a small family of officers living in decent huts, partaking of decent meals, sleeping in, clean pyjamas, and generally living in comfort for eighteen hours of the twenty-four. In the remaining six we might plunge into the welter of war in which the infantryman lived, but we did our particular job in a clean atmosphere in a clean way, and when we killed or were killed it was done in that same inevitable and highly respectable manner.
The infantryman looked up from his rathole and said, with his hair on end, that he wouldn’t have our risky job for anything, while we looked down on his muddy wastes and said, ‘Poor devils!’ (or words to that effect), and flew home to a hot dinner served on a clean tablecloth while he cut his fingers opening bully-beef tins.
The family were, of course, occasionally bereaved, and we talked rather awkwardly at dinner and avoided each other’s eyes, and were relieved when, at the end of the meal, the O.C. briefly called us to silent remembrance, But coffee, smokes, and piano quickly saved us from overmuch thought. When these bereavements became frequent, we had to receive others into the family, and every few days there would arrive a number of strangers looking very self-conscious and humble, as well they might before us hardened warriors of two or three months’ experience! Only a few hours after their arrival each one was instructed to report to a senior pilot, and the process of initiation began. ‘The observers had revision of the mysteries of maps, machine guns, cameras, and many other strange things with which these poor benighted ones deal, while the pilots, to whose skill (or lack of it) the former entrust their lives, were told to memorize the map of the sector until they knew it better than anything else on earth, and then were taken to ‘have a look at the War.’
I was a senior pilot of about ten weeks’ standing, and to me there was detailed a new pilot, a youngster of about twenty-one (two years older than I!) and, after a serious conversation on what London looked like when he left and what ‘shows’ were running at the time, we agreed to go and have a peep at the front line.
My machine stood waiting; we put a couple of bombs in ‘’for luck,’ and in a few minutes were heading eastward towards that horror of mud and waterlogged trenches. We soon caught sight of the flooded area which had been the Yser Canal, and then of that dark blotch called Ypres and, being now about 10,000 feet up, I beckoned my ‘pupil’ to lean over from his seat behind me, and, shutting off the engine and falling into a glide, I pointed out to him the various beauty spots of the district, Ypres, Poperinghe, the Menin Road, etc., yelling the names at the top of my voice, lest the fierce wind should snatch them out of hearing. He nodded, glancing at his map, and I saw with joy that he was keen.
For some little time we flew up and down the line (but keeping on our own side of it!), waved our hands to some kite-balloon folk who occupied lofty positions in a row behind Ypres, while at the same time I took the opportunity to indicate the cables mooring the balloons, for it is not wise to collide with them. Then came the second stage of the initiation – to go over the line and receive a baptism of fire from ‘Archie,’ the enemy anti-aircraft batteries.
There is an art in this game. On a cloudy day one can hop in and out of the clouds, greatly to the annoyance of some Archie commander who, just when he has got range and direction and is about to let fly, finds that his bird has disappeared into a cloud. He fills that cloud with H. E., but his quarry emerges from another near by with a gesture of derision which the gunners below may imagine, though cannot see.
On a sunny day, Archie is up early, for he knows that aircraft will be silhouetted against a blue sky. Then the experienced pilot hops in and out of the sun, there being no clouds, while the Archie commander rubs his smarting eyes and uses strong words.
To-day favoured the latter game, which we played with zest for some little time. Then, having carefully spotted the A. A. position, we got it carefully on our bomb sights, and sent our greetings in the form of the two bombs we had brought.
I was about to swing round and head for home and tea, when I espied a spot on the horizon towards the south-east. It might be an enemy raider coming to pounce on our helpless balloons, or it might be one of our own. Anyway, we would see, and, pointing out my intention to my companion, we speeded off in pursuit. We were in luck! From far off the shape of the aircraft showed its alien origin, and we began to prepare for chasing him home again.
First I pressed the trigger of my forward gun, which loyally answered with a rapid ‘Ta-ta-ta-ta,’ a noise which, my companion told me afterwards, nearly made him jump overboard with fright. I had forgotten him and he had forgotten my front gun! Then quickly I beckoned him, quietened down the engine and shouted a series of instructions, and, as the engine roared out again, I heard a few rounds fired from his r
ear gun and knew that all was well.
The next minute we had come to grips with the enemy, a wicked looking single-seater, much lighter and faster than us, and with every advantage except that his one gun fired only forwards, while, in addition to my similar gun, my companion had one on a swivel mounting which revolved easily and allowed him to fire in almost every direction.
Our plan of campaign, therefore, was that I should manoeuvre the machine so as to keep the enemy in a position where he would be a good target for the rear gunner, who could give all his attention to firing.
We circled round each other looking for an opening. Then I suddenly reversed my direction, bringing the other alongside us, and within easy range where he would be simply raked from stem to stern, while his fixed forward gun pointed harmlessly away from us. I waited to hear my companion’s gun as he took advantage of the position, but not a sound came, and the next fraction of a second I was swinging round for dear life with the ‘Zip-zip!’ of bullets round my ears. The second’s delay had given the other the chance he wanted, for he was now under our tail out of reach of both of our guns and it was some seconds more before I could shake him off.
However, I got him once more in a good position, waited for the sound of gun-fire, but again silence, and again I dived desperately out of a stream of bullets.
‘Fire, you fool!’ I yelled, though not a word could reach him, and I dare not turn round, while all the time the darting little wasp, who seemed aware of my plight, came buzzing behind and resisted all my efforts to avoid him.
There was only one thing left to do. I must try to fight him off with my forward gun, and I turned to do so, when, wonder of wonders, I saw him fall into a steep dive and make for home, having seen a triangle of our machines appearing out of the blue.
