B00D2VJZ4G EBOK

by Jon E. Lewis

  And now for an explanation from this idiot behind! I spun round angrily, but words were impossible. He was sitting there strapped as usual to his seat, but with his face a mass of blood, while his gun hung uselessly from its mounting!

  After a rapid spin to earth and a landing at the first favourable spot, he told me what had occurred.

  We had not been hit by Archie’s shrapnel. I had seen him quite fit after that. The disaster had befallen him before we engaged in the air duel.

  It was that silence after the first gun-test which should have told its tale. He had decided to test the gun-mounting also, but, being accustomed to the poorly kept machines at home, had expected to find it equally difficult to move. He had not thought that here on active service, where the space between life and death is measured in hundredth parts of a second, each mounting is kept thoroughly oiled, and will spin round at a touch. Consequently he had seized the mounting, pulled it round quickly, and the heavy gun, resenting such rough treatment, had revolved on its easy bearings, and had smitten him violently over the head, knocking him out completely.

  Well might I have waited for the sound of his gun. He had not even been aware of the fight!

  Rev. J. H. Haswell enlisted as a private in the Royal Welch Fusiliers in 1916, became corporal, and in 1917 commissioned in Royal Flying Corps as second lieutenant. Promoted lieutenant in May 1918, and proceeded to France. Served there until 1919 (May) with the Royal Air Force. Became missionary in West Africa (Primitive Methodist).

  AUGUST TO NOVEMBER 1918

  H. F. Taylor

  August 8th, 1918. Who of those who were on the Somme will forget that day when we started to push the enemy back along the long, straight road which leads from Amiens to Peronne?

  I had just joined my squadron as spare pilot. It happened that an observer had been wounded the previous day, and my flight commander asked if I would act as an observer for a time. Of course I said ‘Yes.’ What else could I say?

  Thus it was that on August 8th I had my first experience of a bombing expedition over the lines. The objective was an ammunition dump somewhere along that same long, straight road. Fourteen machines flew in V-shaped formation, so close that an observer on one side could make faces at his friend flying on the other.

  For an hour we circled on our own side of the lines, gaining height. Referring to my map, I found I could look down on the Forest of Crecy, where centuries ago another army of ours had fought, but with what different weapons!

  Now we were heading east, sweeping along at ninety miles an hour, three miles up. At such an altitude, details below cannot easily be picked out, and because of my lack of experience we were over the target and dropping bombs before I realized we had crossed the lines. At a signal from my pilot, I pulled the two wires and released the bombs from their rack below the fuselage. Then I leaned over the side to watch them fall.

  Have you ever looked down from a high building and felt as though you must throw yourself down? As I watched those two bombs falling, second after second, getting smaller and smaller until they became invisible, I felt an almost irresistible impulse to slip over the low wall of three-ply wood that was the side of the cockpit, and follow them. I had to turn away.

  So far, we had had the sky to ourselves, but as we turned for home I became aware of a number of black specks on our left, rapidly growing into a flight of enemy scouts. They did not dive on us, but hung behind, peppering away at the end machines of the V formation.

  Everyone of us opened up with his two Lewis guns, and I had my first sight of a machine sent down in flames. Who hit him it was impossible to say, since he was the foremost in the attack, and the target of at least six guns. He suddenly dived. Petrol vapour streamed out like smoke behind him, then burst into flames. I watched as he rushed downwards, to fall to pieces 1,000 feet below.

  His companions disappeared, and we were left to go home in peace. In the distance I noticed a number of machines carrying out most wonderful evolutions. There must have been twenty, twisting and turning like worms writhing in a fisherman’s bait tin.

  At the lines we dived and broke formation. My pilot flew low, perhaps 100 feet up, and we looked on the ground that had been fought over that morning. The earth was tom up. Here a tree stump, there a heap of ruins, a wrecked gun, a dead horse, a deserted tank half buried in the mud. It is impossible to describe how desolate the scene appeared. Soon we were back at the aerodrome, taking off our flying suits.

  ‘Poor old Baker’s done,’ said my pilot. ‘Didn’t you’ see him go down?’ I had not noticed any of our men drop out, but it was true. Only thirteen buses landed. I was no longer a spare pilot.

  ‘Those fellows were having a good time stunting, just before we got to the line, weren’t they?’ I asked.

  ‘Stunting?’ said Johnson grimly. ‘That was a dog fight. Our bombers and Jerry’s scouts. That’s what would happen to us if we didn’t keep formation.’

  ‘Why didn’t we go and give them a hand?’

  ‘Nothing to do with us. Our business is to drop bombs and get home as quickly as possible.’

  One soon gets to know people in an Air Force squadron. There was Mills, who always stayed in bed until the last possible moment, and at the cry ‘Raid on!’ would hastily don his flying kit over his pyjamas and climb into the machine.

  There was Macdonald, who, unknown to the C.O., was so short-sighted as to be unable to judge his height, and had to give the controls to his observer when about to land. Biddard, who rouged his cheeks and reddened his lips; and Machin, whose father was a boot manufacturer, and kept his son supplied with an extraordinary collection of footwear.

  I was soon to see changes. One by one as the days went by, familiar faces disappeared, and new ones came.

  Mills went off one day alone, on a photographic expedition, returned with a dud engine, and was well cursed by the C.O. for not getting the job done. He went off again, and never came back. Whether he was killed or spent the rest of the war roaming a prison camp in pyjamas, I never knew. It was not the C.O.’s fault. He was being hurried by the wing commander, who in turn, no doubt, was responsible for the photos to someone higher up. One machine and its occupant was a small price to pay for them.

  Macdonald was lucky. He went home after six months’ flying with ‘nerves.’ Biddard came down one day in a raid on Namur, and was taken prisoner, unhurt, but no doubt sadly missing his rouge and lipstick, which he had left behind. That evening in the mess, raid orders were posted up just like the football teams we used to put up at school only a few months before. Machines, with pilot and observer, were set out each in its position in the formation. Being a new pilot, I was given a comparatively safe position near the front.

  At dawn next morning we were awakened by the cry ‘Raid on!’ and hurried out for a quick breakfast of boiled eggs. The engines were being run up by mechanics, and we were soon in. A heavy mist hung over the ground. One by one the engines were opened out, the machine moved forward, gained speed, and at last rose up.

  Soon we were in formation, circling to gain height. Below us stretched a sea of cotton wool, the earth being obscured by ground fog. Ahead, we steered into the rising sun, straight for the lines. I had no difficulty in keeping in formation; we had practised that when in the training squadron.

  Nothing happened as we crossed the lines and neared our objective. Then suddenly, a dirty yellow cloud unrolled itself about 20 yards on my right, and a hoarse ‘Woof’ followed. It was ‘Archie,’ an anti-aircraft battery.

  Another and another followed, and we were soon flying through slowly dispersing clouds of smoke. It seemed impossible to avoid being hit, and before I realized it, I had soared 200 feet above the rest. I was no better off. As I turned to avoid one burst, I would see another appear in front of me.

  The range had been changed, and while the formation sailed peacefully below I was catching the lot. However, we left it behind, and I resumed my place. On several subsequent occasions, I have seen young pilot
s do the same thing, to fall easy prey to Fokkers lurking above waiting for ‘Archie ‘to disrupt the formation.

  Over the target we dropped our cargo, then as we turned, we met the enemy scouts as before. Why they did not dive on us from the front and split us up I do not know, but their policy was always to hang on behind. Our observers opened fire. Streams of tracer bullets shot out from each gun, and our machines began to sway from side to side, and up and down, yet still keeping in the V shape, which it would have been fatal to lose.

  For fifteen minutes it went on. Above the roar of the engine could be heard the sharp rattle of machine guns. Little rags of fabric would spring up in the wings as bullets tore them, and all the time the pilot must keep his hand on the throttle and his eyes on the machine ahead, swinging and dipping until collision, seemed imminent, yet always keeping a little above and to one side, so that the guns in front might protect his blind spot under the tail.

  We reached the lines, and our attackers vanished. We could fly steadily now, and I had time to look behind. My observer was leaning on the side, white-faced, and gazing longingly at the ground below. I realized he had been wounded, and the awful thought flashed through my head that he might fall across the controls, setting the machine into a dive from which I might be unable to pull out.

  Hastily I motioned to him to sit down, and dived steeply for home.

  Every minute I expected to feel his weight on the elevator wires, and I was never more thankful than when my wheels touched the aerodrome. My engine stopped as I landed, and I stood up and waved. The ambulance, always ready, dashed across, and my observer was carefully lifted out. I never saw him again: wounded men were always hurried away, lest the sight of them should affect the nerves of the rest.

  I looked at my bus. The planes were torn, and the ailerons sagged loosely.

  It was half an hour before the next man came in, then one by one the stragglers arrived. Three messages came later, reporting forced landings up and down the country, but four of our machines were never heard of again. That was my first air raid as a pilot.

  Of course it wasn’t always like that. We made two and sometimes three raids a day. Sometimes we had trouble with aircraft or ‘Archie’ or both; often we had none. Twice we took over new aerodromes, following our slowly advancing infantry. New faces appeared and old friends dropped out, and in three months I found myself senior pilot of my flight.

  It was late in the afternoon of a day in October. We had done our two raids, and imagined our work was over for the day, when a message came from the wing commander, asking for volunteers to bomb Peronne, the possession of which our troops were stoutly contesting.

  Everybody volunteered; we couldn’t refuse. We were assured that it was an easy job, that there would be no ‘Archie’ left in the town, and that we should be back before dark. There was no time to gain height and we must do our job at 2,000 feet, a most unusual thing for us, with our engines specially designed for use at high altitudes.

  We approached the lines as dusk was falling. All around us guns flashed incessantly. It seemed that the air must be full of projectiles. I have no idea how high a shell travels, but I went in fear of being knocked to pieces any minute.

  Then ‘Archie’ started. At such a range he could be very effective, and we had experienced nothing like it before. Still we kept steadily on, to meet a new horror as we approached the town.

  Long strings of balls of fire began to float up. Sometimes slowly, then accelerating, one could not judge their speed. Sooner or later one must become entangled and fall to a hideous death.

  Now we were over the town. I signalled to my partner to drop his bombs. As he did so, the engine began to splutter, and the nose dropped. I looked at the revolution indicator: the engine had fallen off to half its speed. Hastily I swung round, so hastily, indeed, that for some seconds my compass card continued to swing and I could not be sure in which direction we were flying. Our only hope now was to clear the lines. We could no longer fly horizontally, the only thing was to glide at as small an angle as possible and trust to luck.

  Now we were alone ‘Archie’ recommenced, and so near were his shots that in the disturbed air we were tossed like a leaf in the wind. Tracer bullets pelted from below as we crossed the lines only a few hundred feet up.

  We kept up as long as possible, but a very convenient field not badly scarred by shell holes enabled us to make a safe landing. Even then we were not really sure we were among friends until a khaki uniform appeared. My observer was so overjoyed that he wrung the hand of this bewildered artilleryman, then complained of a wound in the head. Gingerly we untied his helmet. Not a scratch! It was a case of shell shock. ‘Archie’ had been a bit too close. ‘

  I spent the night with a battery of howitzers near by, and after phoning up my squadron got my engine repaired, it was a minor mishap, and I flew back next day.

  As I say, these particular flights were exceptional. The one I remember best was the last one I ever did. It was uneventful, but I was panic-stricken the whole time. I was to go on leave next day, and I could not drive away the fear of catching a stray bullet on this raid, after having done over 100 without a scratch. However, I did come back safely, and next morning, as I waited for the car to take me on leave the C.O. popped his head out of his hut and said, ‘The war’s over!’

  It was November 11th.

  Harold F. Taylor was commissioned in the R.F.C. in January 1918 at the age of eighteen, and after the usual training was sent in July 1918 to 205 Squadron, operating on the Somme. He flew the DH4 and the DH9 daylight bombing machines, carrying out reconnaissance, photography, and bombing, sometimes doing two and three raids a day, and visiting St. Quentin, Busigny, Namur, and Dinanl among other towns. Richthofen’s famous ‘Circus’ was still lively. Though three observers were wounded when flying with him, Lieutenant Taylor came out unscratched to the end of the War. Moving up after the Armistice, his squadron was engaged: on the earliest air mail, carrying mails from Cologne to the French coast. He was demobilized in April 1919.

  AUGUST 1914

  Esmée Sartorius

  Like so many others when war was declared, I applied at once to the St. John Ambulance, to which I belonged, to know if there was any possibility of their making use of me, my only recommendation being three months’ training in the London Hospital.

  I was told that only trained nurses were wanted, and so gave up hope, but three days later the British Red Cross got an appeal for forty nurses to be sent out to Belgium; five St. John Ambulance nurses (V.A.D.s later on) were being sent, and I was asked if I would go. I naturally accepted with alacrity, and August 14th found us in Brussels. Most of us were taken to the Hotel Metropole, where we were to await orders. As there was a big battle expected any day, we should all be badly wanted.

  Next day some of the nurses were sent to hospitals outside Brussels, and others, including M., my cousin (who was a fully trained nurse), and myself, were given posts in the Royal Palace, which posts, however, we never filled, as the next thing we heard was that the Germans were outside the gate of Brussels, and all the allied wounded were to be evacuated to Antwerp.

  We were then given the option of returning to England at once; some returned, but we, M. and I amongst others, elected to remain, as we were told we were wanted outside Brussels.

  At 3 p.m. next day the Germans marched in; it was a soul-stirring sight, seeing these impassive and tired-looking troops marching in to what seemed like a deserted town, every door and window shuttered and barred, and not a civilian to be seen, or a sound to be heard, save the steady tramping of the German troops, regiment after regiment, guns, cavalry, Uhlans with their fluttering pennons on their lances. One felt that thousands of Belgians were waiting and watching behind their shuttered doors and windows, with bated breath and terrible anxiety lest anyone or anything should cause a disturbance, and so bring down the punishment of the enemy. However, nothing happened, owing to the notices which had been posted up everywhere, and the w
onderful influence of Burgomaster Max, who had implored everyone to be careful and to give no cause or excuse for trouble.

  Brussels being an unfortified town, he had begged the people to help in a peaceful occupation. His words had the right effect and, after a time, doors and windows were opened, and cafes put their chairs and tables outside again, and the town gradually resumed its everyday life, but with a strong undercurrent of fear and consternation at the terrible feeling that the enemy was really in occupation, and Brussels under German rule.

  Panics were easily started these days, and one sometimes met a crowd tearing down a street terror-stricken, crying that the French were outside the gates and a battle beginning, and one had to turn and run with the crowd till the panic was over.

  We heard there were a number of wounded lying not far outside Brussels, and M. and I tried to get a car to take us out there to pick them up, but the Germans would not allow a car outside the gates just then, so we took a tram as far as we could, then walked, but could find no trace of them.

  On our return from a trip out beyond the gates we heard we had been applied for, M. and I, to go to Charleroi to join a matron and two nurses who had gone there a few days before. We were given ten minutes to get ready, and were very glad to leave the hotel (which by this time was full of German officers), and to feel we were at last wanted. As there had been no fighting in Brussels, there was very little need for nurses.

  We were raced off in a car by the Belgian Red Cross, and were dumped down late in the evening at one of the hospitals in Charleroi; but could find no trace of our compatriots, though we searched all the hospitals, nor could we get any news of them. The town was still burning, and most of the houses were shelled, and had gaping windows and large shell holes, and the streets were littered with broken glass and bits of furniture; but every house flew a white flag of some sort, which had been no help to them, as the Germans said they had been fired on.