The Courage of the Early Morning

by William Arthur Bishop

  Bishop levelled off and scanned the skies. He sighted a speck two miles away, and as he watched it increased in size. Again Bishop positioned himself between the sun and the approaching plane, which turned out to be another Albatros. As it crossed below him, he banked and dived. But he was a fraction too late. The enemy pilot saw him, rolled over on his back and plunged to safety. For several minutes Bishop circled in the hope that the German plane would return. Then, directly below, another Albatros appeared. Again Bishop chased it but once more the Albatros outsped the Nieuport and escaped.

  As he flew homeward Bishop suddenly realized that for the first time during a brush with death he had not felt excited and nervous. Instead he had been icily calm and confident. In spite of being alone he had no sense of danger, only of being invincible and invulnerable. He credited this feeling to his new tactic of direct attack on the enemy, and to his shooting accuracy. To keep that accuracy at fine pitch he spent the rest of the afternoon firing at the practice target. In the mess that night another face was missing. Harry Cross had injured himself when he crashed returning from a late patrol. It brought the total casualties of the squadron for the month to nineteen.

  “It doesn’t do to think about these things,” Bishop wrote home. In his own words those who survived “flew from sun up to sundown and took their fun where they could find it.”

  Bishop, Horn and Young (who was inevitably called Old Young) found their fun that night in Charlie’s bar at Amiens, the Picardy capital three hours drive from the aerodrome. Drinks were on Bishop that night. When he had turned in his report of the day’s operation, Jack Scott read it, then crossed something off and wrote a word in. Bishop looked over Scott’s shoulder, ready to put up an argument. He saw that the squadron commander had crossed out “Lieut.” after Bishop’s signature and written in “Capt.” “It came up with the rations,” Scott grinned.

  Although Charlie’s place was within sound of the front lines, the enterprising innkeeper somehow managed to serve excellent meals and vintage wines. The trio from 60 Squadron sampled the best of Charlie’s fare in the upstairs dining room before repairing to the café, where there was always an abundance of friendly m’am-selles. Bishop, in merry mood, paid court to a pair of buxom dark-haired girls.

  “Mesdames Richthofen and Von Bulow,” he addressed them, bowing courteously.“ Voulez-vous we buy you a drink?” The girls, whose English was limited to “please” and “thank you,” accepted happily. Old Young, whose powers of persuasion were considerable, cajoled from each of the girls a lacy purple garter, which in the tradition of knighthood he promised to attach to his wing struts as a tribute to the girls’ beauty and charm. But Bishop had a better suggestion. In future any 60 Squadron officer who charmed a garter from one of the girls at Charlie’s was to hang it on the wall of the mess with the lady’s name and description (real or enhanced). “Then,” he pointed out, “if he doesn’t make it back from an O.P. , someone else can always take his place.” And so the “garter game” became a tradition of 60 Squadron from that night on.

  But the night was far from over for the three revellers. After midnight they decided they had better start for home. The drive in pitch darkness was nerve-wracking. Bishop steered the rattling Ford along the narrow tree-lined road as best he could, then finally decided to defy regulations and turn on the headlights. He picked the wrong moment for it. They had just turned east at St. Pol along the road to Arras when they heard the drone of German night bombers overhead and seconds later machine-gun bullets spattered around the car.

  “For God’s sake, Bish, turn off those lights,” Horn howled from the back seat. Bishop fumbled with the switch but it was stuck and the lights still blazed.

  “The ditch,” Old Young yelled, “head for the ditch.”

  Bishop turned the wheel sharply, and with a crash the Ford came to rest in a burrow four feet deep.

  “Bish,” Horn said quietly, as he rubbed his bruised forehead, “you landed that about as well as you usually do.”

  Bishop and his companions managed to get their battered car out of the ditch in time to return to Filescamp Farm for a few hours’ sleep before morning patrols. At breakfast Jack Scott, who had been out on the first O.P., told Bishop cheerfully, “You’ve never seen so many Huns in your life, it’s like shooting rabbits up there.”

  By nine o’clock C Flight was off the ground, climbing in the direction of Arras. Ugly greyish puffs burst all around the covey of Nieuports as they crossed the lines at eight thousand feet. At Vitry they turned north and climbed to eleven thousand feet, out of range of the anti-aircraft guns.

  Climbing up from Douai to the east the patrol saw six red Albatros machines cross beneath, apparently unaware of the presence of the Nieuports. Bishop waggled his wings to signal the attack and dived.

  In his eagerness he pushed the stick forward too roughly, and his plane was thrown beyond the vertical point; Bishop struck his head against the windscreen. This completely upset his aim and the Albatros at which he had been trying to fire escaped. The rest of the flight spread out in an aerial dogfight. When Bishop levelled off he found himself alone and out of sight of his companions. He fired a green light from his Very pistol to signal his position. Only Fry saw it, and he was so harried by two red planes that he was forced to keep turning and twisting or be shot down. Bishop circled warily, trying to find his flight. Then he spotted two giant grey-blue machines with speckled wings heading towards the British lines. He wheeled and chased them. As he drew nearer he recognized them as Gothas—the mammoth aeroplanes built to bomb London. They were the largest ships to fly up to that time.

  Although they appeared slow and clumsy, they were well manned and heavily armed, and this pair seemed willing to duel with the lone Nieuport. Bishop slid under the tail of the nearer Gotha, but the other bomber pulled to one side and the two rear gunners opened fire. Bishop had to dive to gain speed. Again he manoeuvred under the first Gotha, pulled his gun down from the fixed position, and aimed right up at the big belly. “I felt,” he said later, “like a mosquito chasing a wasp.”

  His attack might not have been so bold had he known that one of the Gotha’s three machine-guns was mounted on a cross rail in the back cockpit and could be fired through an opening in the floor. Had the gunner been more alert, he would have had a dead shot at the Nieuport underneath.

  Bishop’s attack was a failure in any event. After fifteen rounds his gun jammed. He pulled furiously at the toggle, trying to clear the stoppage. This momentarily diverted his attention from the two enemy planes, and one of the gunners aimed a burst at the Nieuport. Bishop saw bullets rip into his wing tip and he angrily broke off. He flew back to Filescamp Farm, made a rough and hasty landing, and waved frantically for Bourne to come on the double. Bishop kept the motor running while Bourne leaned across him and pried out the cause of the trouble, a defective bullet. Bishop was in the air again in less than a minute.

  Back over Vitry at fifteen thousand feet, there was still no sign of his patrol and Bishop began to worry, remembering the fate of other 60 Squadron flights in combat with Richthofen’s pack. Then, far below, he spotted three grey enemy two-seaters flying in single file, the unmistakable formation for artillery-observation work. He dived to attack.

  Some sixth sense warned Bishop to look behind—just in time. The two-seater convoy was a trap; out of the sun six scarlet Albatros fighters closed in on him. The leader’s fluttering red wing streamers identified him: Baron Manfred von Richthofen, the highest scorer of all fighter pilots.

  NINE

  BISHOP VERSUS

  RICHTHOFEN

  BISHOP AND RICHTHOFEN had met in the air before, but always in mêlées of ten or a dozen planes and they had exchanged only passing shots. Now each was fighting in his favourite way: Bishop alone, Richthofen surrounded by members of his hunting pack. On this day their scores stood: Richthofen 52 planes in eight months of combat; Bishop 12 planes in five weeks.

  As Richthofen’s flight swept toward
him, Bishop pulled back on the stick and climbed straight up. The Nieuport’s wings shuddered and the engine growled in protest. As the machine slowed almost to a stall Bishop pulled over on his back, then aimed his plane in a full-power dive at the Albatros fighters, firing wildly. The Nieuport plunged straight through the formation, then zoomed up and attacked from below. From one thousand feet above, Bishop dived again and repeated his upward zoom, firing without aiming. Three times he repeated the manoeuvre, and each time the German planes scattered. Finally Richthofen, frustrated by the darting attacks, signalled his flankers to break off and the red planes dived in different directions, too fast for pursuit.

  Bishop turned his attention to the two-seaters which had so nearly led him into Richthofen’s trap. They were still visible, continuing their slow, unconcerned game of follow-the-leader. He approached them from the side, so that they must fly across his nose like cumbersome ships-of-the-line. The observers in the rear cockpits sighted the blue-nosed Nieuport and converged their fire on it. Bishop aimed at the observer of the middle plane and silenced his gun with a short burst that riddled the fuselage. He saw the machine turn on its side and fall away out of control. The German plane bringing up the rear dived steeply out of range. The leader of the trio simply disappeared. Bishop followed the wounded machine, which continued its spin until with a violent explosion it crashed into a farmhouse, “destroyed in the most satisfactory manner,” Bishop’s log reported.

  The pursuit had brought Bishop to six thousand feet, farther to the south near Monchy-le-Preux, where the Richthofen formation had regrouped. Bishop sighted the red Albatros fighters again, attacking two British photographic reconnaissance planes. The outnumbered and outclassed two-seaters were putting up a stout resistance but they were being methodically peppered by the Richthofen planes.

  With a slight advantage of height Bishop dived into the midst of the German formation, spraying a long burst of fire, then pulled up steeply as the Albatros scouts turned out of the path of his bullets. He stayed well above the German planes, content to harass them but without any intention of getting into close combat with such renowned fighters at odds of five to one. Several times he repeated his dive-and-zoom tactic. And once more Richthofen’s flight, unable to corner the annoying Nieuport, made their way towards Douai, where one by one they glided down and landed.

  Bishop turned west toward the British lines. He had just crossed over when he came upon a pair of German two-seaters spotting for the artillery. He flew headlong at them, firing as he went.

  One of the two-seaters broke off. The other fought back. He and Bishop came at each other at a combined speed of more than two hundred miles an hour. Bullets whipped by the Nieuport as Bishop saw his own bullets strike around the engine of the German machine. When only thirty yards separated the two planes the German pilot broke off, much to Bishop’s relief. Suddenly it dived steeply, smoke billowing out from the engine. The second machine, which had stayed out of the fight, dived after it.

  It was now after eleven o’clock and the sun was high in a clear blue sky. Bishop had very little ammunition left, but he decided to cruise above the lines at a comfortable height of ten thousand feet in the hope of getting one last chance at an enemy plane before returning to the aerodrome. A lone two-seater Aviatik hove into view. Bishop pulled his Nieuport into a vertical dive, waited until he was twenty yards away, then opened fire. The observer returned the fire and a stream of bullets tore into the wing of the Nieuport.

  On his second attack, Bishop pulled up underneath where the observer could not fire at him, then took careful aim at the Aviatik’s belly. The two-seater shook violently as Bishop fired from ten yards away, then nosed over. Bishop emptied the rest of his drum but without effect. The German pilot was able to level out his machine a hundred feet from the ground and land safely in a field near Lens at the foot of Vimy Ridge.

  With no ammunition and little fuel left, Bishop flew cautiously among puffs of anti-aircraft fire and landed at Filescamp. In one patrol he had engaged thirteen German machines in nine separate combats.

  “Comment I think is unnecessary,”Jack Scott added to the combat report, “except that Captain Bishop seemed to have destroyed one enemy aircraft and forced two others to land.”

  No less a personage than General Trenchard arrived for lunch to deliver his congratulations in person. “He said some things I shall always treasure,” Bishop wrote to Margaret.

  But he was less happy about his own performance. “I don’t know what was the matter with my shooting this morning,” he complained. “The Huns seemed to be continually diving away and escaping me.”

  Over at Douai, Richthofen was equally glum. All morning he had been hounded by the irritating Nieuport with the blue spinner that had refused to come down and fight it out with his formation, and what’s more, had robbed him of a two-seater that was a sure kill. Richthofen was due to go on leave the next day, and he was eager to add to the spectacular score of victories he had amassed. The day before, April 29, he had shot down four planes. One of his victims was Capt. Frederick Barwell of 40 Squadron which operated from the same field as Bishop’s 60 Squadron, and used the identical improved Nieuports.

  On the night of April 29 [Richthofen’s biography relates], he was busy celebrating with his father the great day that he had had in the air. Not only was 52 an unheard of number of victories at that time, but the downing of four enemy planes was a feat he had never achieved before. Since his brother Lothar had downed two, the brothers could say they had in one day wiped out one complete English flight.

  Richthofen, Sr., joined in the big dinner and glowed with pride. At eight o’clock in the course of the dinner the baron was called to the extension telephone in the mess hall. He found himself in communication with the grand headquarters of the High Command, the Holy of Holies of the All Highest War Lord. The following message was read to him: “I heartily congratulate you on your marvellous success. The Fatherland looks with thankfulness upon this brave flyer. May God further preserve you. Wilhelm.”

  Richthofen had vowed to equal that day’s score on his last day before going on leave. As Bishop took off from Filescamp for his second sortie, accompanied by Jack Scott, Richthofen with four other red Albatros planes left the ground at Douai. They met near Drocourt, east of Lens, at two o’clock—as if by appointment.

  Scott and Bishop plunged into the middle of the five red planes. Richthofen and one of his flankers turned straight across the Nieuports and broke around behind them. Richthofen was the first to open fire.

  A sharp burst from his twin Spandau guns raked Scott’s engine. Scott jerked his machine to the left and climbed out of the line of fire. At the same instant Bishop swerved to his right as Richthofen and his wing mate shot by above him. Then another Albatros flashed by in front of him, and another. He was surrounded by scarlet planes.

  He pushed his stick forward as he saw Richthofen dive at a right angle toward him. Bishop was banked over on his side as a stream of bullets smashed into the fuselage behind his seat. One of them pierced a fold of his flying coat. “The best shooting I have ever seen,” he recalled later. He had no time for admiration now. He rolled his machine to the right as Richthofen sped by his nose, then pulled his Nieuport into a tight turn. Scott was nowhere to be seen but his own fate now occupied Bishop as bullets whipped around him. He twisted his machine to the left as once again Richthofen dived at him. He tried to get into position for a burst but Richthofen fired first. His bullets smashed the Nieuport’s instrument panel and oil drenched Bishop’s face.

  For the first time in his fighting career Bishop lost his temper. Angrily he pulled back on the control stick and lurched upwards, shot straight up in the air, kicked the rudder bar, banked over and lunged down at Richthofen’s Albatros. At sixty yards he opened fire. The Albatros rolled over on its back, then headed for the ground.

  High above now, Bishop saw three Nieuports coming to his rescue. The rest of the German formation fled, and Bishop was
free to dive after Richthofen’s plane which was speeding down vertically, black smoke streaming from it. For one triumphant moment Bishop thought he had achieved the impossible: that the invincible Richthofen had fallen to his gun.

  But it was Richthofen’s old ruse. After diving four thousand feet he flattened out, smoke ceased to pour from his motor’s exhausts, and he flew off eastward with a defiant waggle of his wings.

  Bishop now searched the sky for Scott, with no success. In an unhappy frame of mind he crossed the lines, slowly descending. To his right he saw another plane flying toward him. He watched it cautiously, then he gave an involuntary shout of relief. It was Jack Scott’s familiar silver Nieuport. The two pilots flew side by side at wingtip distance, waving and grinning as they glided down for a landing. Scott had managed to coax his limping machine out of the battle without being followed by Richthofen’s men. He himself had narrowly escaped the baron’s bullets, but his engine was damaged and he was coaxing it to keep running when Bishop found him.

  “The C.O. and I got mixed up with five really good Huns this afternoon,” Bishop described the encounter to Margaret. “We chased them away, but oh heavens did they shoot well. Seven bullets went through the back of my machine within six inches of me and one within an inch. I can only console myself with the thought that a miss is as good as a mile.”

  It was a fitting end to “Bloody April.”

  With Richthofen’s departure on extended leave—he would not make another combat flight until the middle of June—much of the fire went out of the German fighter pilots who confronted the British squadrons based at Filescamp. And perhaps because the opposition was less savage, Bishop and his companions felt a letdown too. In the air Bishop had to make a conscious effort to be as eager and alert as ever, but on the ground he was irritable and listless. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he looked older than his twenty-three years. “Here it is—only two o’clock in the afternoon and I am dead tired already after only four hours flying,” he wrote Margaret.