The Courage of the Early Morning

by William Arthur Bishop

  But now the British airmen on the Arras front were to play their part as a sort of airborne artillery in close support of the ground forces. The British and the Canadian Corps were driving for control of two ramparts from which they could dominate the Artois Plain—Vimy Ridge to the north of Arras and Monchy-le-Preux directly east of the cathedral city.

  Artillery paved the way. The great cannon laid down a furious carpet of fire—a “creeping barrage”—in front of the attacking British and Canadian infantry to hammer the German infantry. Here and there stubborn machine-gun posts refused to yield and their efforts at times seriously slowed down the Allied advance. It became the duty of British fighter planes to search them out, swoop down and rake the gun posts with a rain of fire. It was a risky job. Artillery shells screamed through the air and machine-gun bullets peppered the planes as they dived. In spite of the danger, Bishop realized the importance of the job.

  “I had reached a height of only thirty feet,” he recalled of one incident, “so low I could make out every detail of their frightened faces. With hate in my heart I fired every bullet I could as I swept over, then turned my machine away. A few minutes later I had the satisfaction of seeing our line advancing and before the time came for me to return to my patrol our men had occupied all the German positions they had set out to take.”

  During that first week of battle, Bishop’s blue-nosed Nieuport was a familiar sight along the front line. Time and time again the troops, crouching in the muck and mire of no-man’s-land, saw the silver machine streaking down to harass the enemy in front of them.

  Sometimes Bishop led as many as four patrols a day. And when not leading his flight, he was out flying alone, in search of Richthofen’s scouts. But the hunting was poor. Only once did he encounter an enemy plane—a two-seater Aviatik observation machine—and that got away from him before he could get close enough to open fire. For twelve days he had no opportunity of adding to his score.

  But Richthofen and his Jagdstaffel were not hiding. Bishop’s flight ran into it one day when he was not leading the patrol. Only one man returned out of five planes—Graham Young, a bush-haired, moustached Scotsman from Perth. In a furious fight over Monchy-le-Preux, Alan Binnie, who was leading the flight, was badly wounded in his arm, forced to land behind German lines, and was captured. Two others, W. O. Russell and L. C. Chapman, were also forced down and captured, while another pilot, J. H. Cook, was killed.

  After the war, Russell told of his encounter with Richthofen:

  Unfortunately it can scarcely be termed a combat. By the time Richthofen arrived on the scene I had lost the use of my engine and so I had not the honour of putting up a show against him. Five of us were on offensive patrol in the neighbourhood of Douai in Nieuport Scouts at 12,000 feet. My flight commander suddenly dived. I followed him down and at 8000 feet I sighted two enemy planes on my right. I attacked one of these machines and then discovered to my horror that I had lost my engine. After descending another thousand feet I was attacked by two enemy scouts and I was obliged to make a zigzag descent to the ground and landed at Bois Bernard. A red scout followed me to the ground and I learned the pilot was Richthofen. Our flight was hopelessly outnumbered by Richthofen’s squadron. I afterward met my flight commander, Capt. Binnie, in a German prison camp. He had accounted for four enemy machines before being hit in the arm while changing his ammunition drum. He remembered nothing more until he woke up in a German hospital, although somehow he had landed his plane safely. Three of my companions were killed and I believe one succeeded in reaching our lines.

  Richthofen’s own claim of victory was less than insistent: His “request of acknowledgement of my 44th victory” merely stated: “Above Harleux, one of our observer planes was attacked by several Nieuports. I hurried to the place of action, attacked one of the planes, and forced it to land south of Bois Bernard.”

  In another battle with the Richthofen fighters, 60 Squadron’s A Flight lost four men: Robertson, Languill, Elliott and Kimbell: all of them killed.

  By mid-April, in fact, 60 Squadron had lost thirteen pilots within two weeks and, at the height of the offensive, Jack Scott had to call a halt to offensive patrols until the squadron could be brought up to strength and reorganized. This had to be accomplished quickly. The offensive was at its peak. Five days of bad weather—rain and fog that made flying impossible most of the time—gave the unit the respite it needed to absorb the new pilots as they arrived. Bishop found himself in the startling position of being one of the squadron’s veteran pilots—and the one with the most planes to his credit after less than a month of solo fighter experience. Scott promoted him to full-time commander of C Flight when Grid Caldwell became ill while on leave.

  None of 60 Squadron’s three flights were up to the normal strength of six pilots each. Only Bishop and Young were left in C Flight. Bishop chafed under Scott’s “no offensive patrol” order. He had not had a real air battle in twelve days. Then on April 20, the weather improved. Scott reluctantly agreed to allow Bishop into enemy territory to attack a balloon that was annoying Colonel Pretyman. Bishop did not find it—probably he didn’t search very hard after he spotted a two-seater Aviatik observation plane, flying above him near Monchy-le-Preux. Bishop cautiously jockeyed his Nieuport until his propeller was no more than ten yards behind the Aviatik’s tailplanes, and slightly below. He pressed the firing button and sent a dozen rounds into the big plane’s belly. The burst seemed to have no other effect than to alert the observer-gunner, who swung his machine-gun around smartly and sent a stream of bullets flying around the Nieuport as his own pilot turned away. Bishop followed and again managed to manoeuvre directly underneath. This time he pulled his gun from its fixed position, grabbed the trigger and fired manually. Still no result. Bishop pulled away, then attacked again. He fired another ten rounds. Again nothing happened. Frustrated, Bishop tried a new tactic. He climbed above the two-seater, which now twisted and turned frantically to keep out of the Nieuport’s line of fire. Bishop dived at right angles, aiming at the gunner. The gunner fired back and bullets whipped past the wing tips of the Nieuport. Bishop was still firing when his propeller was only five yards from the Aviatik’s fuselage. Then he pulled up sharply to avoid a collision. As the planes passed each almost within arm’s reach, Bishop leaned out of the cockpit and looked down. The enemy machine suddenly burst into flames, stalled, and spun out of control through a layer of scattered clouds below, trailing an ugly plume of black smoke.

  Bishop flew back to Filescamp Farm, feeling less elated at his seventh victory than concerned with his poor marksmanship. Three times he had fired bursts at short range without scoring effective hits. He was aware that a pilot’s very survival often depended on his shooting accuracy. He spent the rest of the day shooting at the practice target on the edge of the aerodrome.

  That evening he talked with the three pilots who had been assigned to his flight that day. Young had already taken them on a practice formation flight and his report of their flying abilities was highly favourable. “They stick together well,” he told Bishop,“ and they’re likely-looking fighters too.”

  There was the small intense Spencer Horn, with sleek hair parted in the middle, a former infantryman who had fought on the same ground he would now fly over. William Mays Fry, a short man with a quick wit and a willingness to learn all his more experienced comrades could teach him about aerial fighting tactics. “You’d think he’d been flying a Nieuport all his life,” Young commented. A fellow-Canadian completed the trio. He was Jack Rutherford, wiry but strong. He had served with the 23rd Canadian Battalion before transferring to the RFC. Young told Bishop that Rutherford showed an uncanny sense of timing. He had landed the Nieuport for the first time so smoothly that it was difficult to realize it was his maiden trip in the machine.

  Bishop grunted. His own landing technique had not improved noticeably. He took Young and his new flight members over to the mess for a drink. Jack Scott came in and hobbled across to the bar and slapped B
ishop on the back. “Drinks are on you tonight, Bish,” the squadron commander grinned. “Word just came in from Brigade—they’ve awarded you the Military Cross.”

  EIGHT

  BLOODY APRIL

  THE UNUSUALLY mild-mannered Jack Scott snorted when he read the opening sentence of Bishop’s operational report on April 22, 1917: “While leading a patrol I dived to the assistance of Major Scott who was being attacked by five enemy single-seaters two thousand feet below.”

  “What the hell was I doing down there, cruising around alone?” he demanded.

  Bishop grinned. It was true that Scott needed “assistance” because he had volunteered, against his better judgment, to become the bait in a trap of Bishop’s devising. The trap required a special combination of good weather and cloud cover, which seldom arrived together in the April sky of northern France. On this day Bishop’s flight—Young, Horn, Fry and Rutherford, with Scott tagging along—found the combination ten thousand feet above the city of Lens; two great pillars of white cloud hovered in a clear blue sky. Between the pillars was a snowy cavern a mile wide. Bishop and his boys circled to the southwest over Vimy Ridge. Jack Scott circled at eight thousand feet, waiting to be attacked.

  At a time like that a man thinks of strange things. Scott counted the money in the pocket of his flying suit. Thirty francs. Not much to bribe a French farmer to shelter him if he should be forced down behind enemy lines.

  Then he had no more time for idle thoughts. Five red Albatros planes were flying in formation toward the British lines, on a course that would bring the lone Nieuport into plain view. Scott needed all his phlegmatic courage to continue flying a casual course in apparent unawareness of the approaching enemy. “Blast it!” he muttered. “Where is that Bishop?”

  Not until the five planes closed in on him with guns blazing did Scott turn to meet them. Bishop had seen the German planes even before Scott. He and his flight mates dived at full throttle into the formation. Bishop opened fire on the nearest machine from ten yards. Smoke spewed from it instantly and it plummeted down in a crazy spin. Bishop turned on the plane at his right, closed to within five yards and pressed the button. Bullets spluttered all about the pilot. His head fell forward and the plane turned on its side and dived out of control. Bishop had shot down two planes before his companions, who had started a few seconds behind him, could reach the scene. The remaining Germans fled. Young, Horn, Fry and Rutherford pursued them until they were out of sight. Bishop pulled up beside Scott to make sure he was all right. Scott grinned and waved his hand.

  Bishop was well satisfied with the operation. Not only had his trap worked perfectly, confirming his theory that surprise was one of the most important elements of aerial battle, but his faithful target practice had paid off. His shooting eye was “in” again, as shown by two kills with two short bursts. On his way back to Filescamp Bishop made an important tactical decision: instead of endless twisting, turning and manoeuvring when in an air battle—which seldom seemed to produce decisive results and meant needless exposure to danger—he would confine his fighting method to quick darting attacks wherever possible.

  Bishop had additional cause for satisfaction. His novice companions had performed admirably, and had stayed with him all the way during the swift encounter. Colonel Pretyman noted this fact in his official combat report: “The formation work during this patrol was excellent throughout. After the fight the formation were together again almost at once.” Then he added a comment in tribute to Jack Scott, the sitting-duck decoy: “It is doubtful if there would have been a chance of engaging the enemy patrol if there had not been bait, (in the shape of Major Scott) which worked very well.”

  There was no keeping Bishop out of the air for the rest of that day. After lunch he took off, alone, in search of adventure. Four times he encountered Albatros scouts from Richthofen’s circus—two pairs and two singles. As if the enemy sensed they were being hunted by a pilot who was on a winning streak, they used their superior speed to run away, and Bishop could get in only a few bursts at extreme range. In the late afternoon he led his flight on two more offensive patrols, but now the sky was clear of all enemy planes.

  Next day Bishop scored another double, over his favourite hunting ground, Monchy-le-Preux. This was Bishop’s terse report of the operation:

  At 3.23 p.m. at 2,200 feet I attacked a two-seater doing wireless observation three miles east of Monchy-le-Preux, firing from a flank and above. My gun stopped and when I had remedied it I dived again and fired about 15 more shots. My gun stopped again and the H.A. (hostile aircraft) escaped. I then flew east towards Vitry and engaged another two-seater, firing at it from behind and above. After a short burst he seemed to be hit and dived. I dived after him firing all the way. He landed in a field near Vitry and I finished the rest of my drum on the ground. As far as I could see neither the pilot nor the observer got out of the machine.

  At 6,000 feet I went to the assistance of another Nieuport attacked by three Albatros scouts. I attacked from behind and took one of them by surprise. He fell out of control and I followed him down and saw him crash.

  It was now the last week of April, 1917, and both Monchy-le-Preux and Vimy Ridge had been secured—at a terrible cost in Canadian and British dead. The Germans, driven back to the line known as “the Switch,” an offshoot of the Hindenburg Line between Drocourt and Quéant, directed heavy artillery fire toward the two ramparts from which they had been driven. They succeeded in slowing the Allied advance almost to a stop.

  More and more German artillery observation balloons appeared along the front to help the gunners find the range, and 3rd Brigade headquarters ordered the fighter squadrons to concentrate on the “sausages.” It was a task for which the pilots had little appetite. Bishop particularly disliked the operation that brought him within range of rifle and machine-gun fire. He had had his fill of this type of fighting during the ground strafing of the opening week of the battle. He willingly took his chances in duels high in the air, but he hated the thought of being killed by a lucky stray bullet fired from the ground.

  Nevertheless the balloons had to be destroyed. So between offensive patrols the pilots were ordered out in search of them.

  Bishop was never noted for strict obedience of RFC rules and regulations, but in the matter of “Balloons, orders re attacking of,” he became a model of conformity, especially in respect of the order that balloons must not be pursued closer than a thousand feet to the ground. He reasoned that once an observation balloon had been winched down under attack by an Allied fighter plane it would not be sent aloft again for at least two hours, for fear that the plane might be waiting to return to the attack.

  On April 27 Bishop did, however, shoot down his second balloon. But that was a mistake. Flying through clouds, he trusted to his own sense of direction instead of paying close attention to his compass. So he got lost. When he descended through the lowest misty layer of cloud he found himself directly over a German balloon. He dived at it, fired a burst, and climbed into the clouds again, followed by a scattering of ground fire. He flew on for a few minutes, then cautiously let his plane sink through the overcast—and almost landed on the broad round back of another balloon. He fired several short bursts into it before the ground crew could reel it in. Once more he disappeared into the clouds with bullets whizzing around the plane. Looking down, he could see the balloon blazing as the ground crew frantically tried to bring it to earth before the flames could reach the gondola, or collapse the gasbag and drop the crew to their deaths.

  Bishop used his compass to get back to Filescamp. Corporal Bourne was, as usual, waiting for him when his plane taxied to a stop. Also as usual, he walked around the plane for a swift and expert inspection of any damage it might have suffered during the patrol. He whistled when he reached the tail, grasped it and jerked it loose.

  “Pin shot through,” he said grimly. “Another moment and it’ud have fallen off in the air.” It was Bishop’s turn to whistle.

  Othe
rs in 60 Squadron did not share Bishop’s phenomenal luck under fire. “Bloody April” was still taking its toll. Stedman, a young Indian pilot, was shot down and taken prisoner the day he joined the squadron. Clark, severely wounded in a dogfight with the Richthofen Jagdstaffel, wrestled his machine back to the aerodrome before he fainted from loss of blood. He died two days later. Henderson was so badly wounded that he was unable to continue flying. Losses for the month now stood at eighteen, one less than the total pilot strength of the squadron.

  But there was some good news for 60 Squadron, too. It received a supply of modified Nieuports, fitted with more powerful engines said to deliver ten miles an hour greater speed. The steel cylinders of the Le Rhône engine had been replaced with “jars” made of aluminum which considerably lightened the load of the machine. In spite of their stepped-up performance they were still no real match for the power of the Albatros fighter. But some improvement was better than no improvement at all and the pilots of 60 Squadron were greatly excited with their new machines. Bishop wrote Margaret, “I spent all day fussing with it. It is a beautiful grid with a glorious 120 horsepower engine.”

  On the day before the month ended, just before lunch, Bishop proved his new machine’s mettle against the swifter Albatros—and vindicated his theory that success in the air depended on surprise and accuracy. At seventeen thousand feet over the village of Epinoy, twelve miles behind the Drocourt-Quéant “Switch,” he spotted a lone red Albatros below him. He manoeuvred himself between the enemy fighter and the sun, then swooped down. From twenty yards he fired a burst of ten rounds straight at the pilot’s head. The German plane spun down out of control. Bishop pursued, firing short, rapid bursts. After falling three thousand feet, the enemy fighter burst in flames.