Strangely enough, no one has ever been given official credit for the kill. Most people—certainly all Canadian airmen—credit Roy Brown, a Canadian serving with the RFC, with bringing down the German ace who not only claimed the highest score of World War I, but was certainly his side’s most inspirational leader in air combat. On the other hand Australians have always maintained that Richthofen was brought down by a single lucky shot fired by Robert Buie, an Australian infantryman.
Twenty-five years after the war Bishop, who had fought several exciting but inconclusive air battles with Richthofen, expressed his thoughts on the controversy:
Richthofen was shot down over a sector held by Australians. When infantrymen reached the scene of the crash they noted that the great German pilot had been brought down by one bullet which had pierced his heart. His machine was unscathed, save for the effects of the crash. At the time of Richthofen’s death Roy Brown had been in a dogfight with the German and when last seen he had been on the Baron’s tail and firing at him.
When Richthofen’s body was examined it was agreed that the killer’s bullet had entered the German’s body from the direction in which the shots fired from Brown would have pierced him. Troops on the ground in the immediate vicinity, however, vowed that Richthofen had been killed by a bullet fired by an Australian officer.
Well, the chances in favour of Brown are infinitely greater than those of the Aussie making a chance shot at a man who was going across the sky at a speed of at least 140 miles an hour, hundreds of feet above the marksman’s head, in which case he either set an all-time high in marksmanship or a new record in miracles.
Brown, on the other hand, was in an ideal position to do exactly what he seems to have done. His speed and Richthofen’s would be approximately equal—target and marksman virtually stationary in relation to each other. If Brown had had a reputation as a good shot people would have wondered what happened to all the other bullets in the burst he fired. But as he was never a great man with a gun, no fellow flier has ever been the least surprised to know that the rest of the burst failed to get on any part of the target.
My own belief is that Roy let go pretty much all over the sky, probably while skidding, and that Richthofen was so unfortunate as to fly directly into the path of one bullet. Nobody will ever convince anybody who flew in World War I that anyone but Roy Brown shot down Richthofen. Brown was never given official credit for the kill. Had he been in any other air force he would have been given credit and would probably have received half a dozen decorations from his own and other Allied countries, for to destroy Richthofen could be described as the equivalent of shooting down fifty enemy machines—with one bullet. But the British are a conservative crowd and they don’t give away credits for knocking down airplanes as long as there is any possible vestige of doubt. In short, the killer must be in possession of substantiating evidence which would stand up in any court in the world.
Actually Robert Buie never tried to exploit the possibility that he had shot down Richthofen. When he died in the spring of 1964 at Calga, New South Wales, the press report of his death stated: “Buie, of the 53rd battery, Australian Field Artillery, did not boast about the claim that he had hit the German plane with ground fire, but it was widely supported by others.”
If Bishop sounds a little bitter in his comment about the strict rules imposed by the British for giving credit for planes shot down, I am able to testify he felt no such bitterness. In later years when I was old enough to talk with him about his war experiences, my father expressed little interest in the statistics of his fighting days, even when he was most relaxed and unrestrained, which was frequently. It is true that in 1917, when Bishop returned to Canada after his first tour of duty, the British War Office admitted that in addition to his 47 confirmed victories he had 23 “probable but unconfirmed” kills.
It is almost certain that Bishop, between his first lucky victory on March 25, 1917, and his final incredible twelve minutes over Ploegsteert Wood and Neuve Eglise, when between 9.58 and 10. 10 a.m., he caused the destruction of five German planes, shot down more than one hundred enemy aircraft.
On the other hand, even Richthofen’s admiring biographer, Floyd Gibbons, admitted in his compilation of the German ace’s score that some of Richthofen’s claims—he headed them “Requesting acknowledgment of my victory”—were in error, or involved such a minor triumph as scarcely to constitute a “victory.” For instance, Richthofen’s twenty-first kill was characterized by Gibbons as “two unidentified occupants [who] probably escaped uninjured behind the British lines.” His twenty-fourth claim is listed as “mistake—no English casualty records.” The pilots involved in Richthofen’s eighteenth, thirtieth, thirty-first, thirty-sixth, forty-fourth, sixty-first, sixty-fourth, sixty-sixth, and seventy-second “victories” were forced down and made prisoners. Three others were forced down behind the British lines and escaped uninjured.
To close this digression, here are Bishop’s comments on Richthofen as a fighter pilot:
Richthofen’s fighting methods were typically German. That is not said to belittle the Baron’s qualifications, but it is certainly not said in admiration of his qualities either. Richthofen did not compile his score as hundreds of young men who flew for Britain, America and France acquired their credits. He did not fly with the devil-may-care abandon of a Barker, a Ricken-backer, a Ball or a McCudden. He flew with a cold calculating skill and his great trick was to withhold from battle himself until his flying mates had set up the target for him. Then Richthofen would come whisking down out of the sun for the kill, pop off the lame duck, and fly away home with another great victory under his belt! In following this system he not only kept himself out of harm’s way, but sacrificed many fine pilots from his own circus, the lads who did the dirty work before the great man jumped in.
In later years Bishop was indifferent to the scoring of air victories, but there is no doubt that in 1918, when he was a mere twenty-four years old, he reacted to the challenge of combat much as an eager young hockey or baseball player would. Certainly he did not laugh off the fact that while he had been on extended leave, and later while he was organizing 85 Squadron, his own record on the British side had been broken. Jimmy McCudden, a flight commander in Hank Burden’s 56 Squadron, had returned to England after bringing down fifty-seven enemy machines.
“There’s something to shoot at, Billy,” Hank wrote from the front. “Better get out here while there are still some Huns left.”
By the last week of May, 1918, the Flying Foxes were ready for overseas service. Their final days in England were memorable and fully lived up to the traditions they had quickly created for themselves. The night before they left they took over the Criterion restaurant in London for a farewell dinner. One of the pilots, Roy Hall, recalled that two hundred bottles of champagne were consumed and that only his physical restraining influence prevented Benbow from trying a solo flight from the third-storey window. But such antics by this time were accepted by Londoners as a matter of course.
There was, however, open relief over their departure. On the night they left a leading actress at a theatre, which more than once the squadron had virtually appropriated, expressed it in no uncertain terms.
“Thank God,” she said as the curtain rose and the overture subsided, “Bishop and his crowd have finally gone to France.”
EIGHTEEN
PETIT SYNTHE
FINALLY 85 Squadron went off to war—and no squadron ever did it in quite the style of the Flying Foxes.
Security be damned. Everyone knew that they were leaving anyway. And not since the departure of the Light Brigade for the Crimea, which had all the gaiety of a group of vacationers setting off on a cruise, had a British force gone to battle with such fanfare and revelry.
Princess Marie Louise was present, and, of course, Margaret and Lady St. Helier, plus assorted friends, relatives and acquaintances of 85 Squadron’s members. Neatly assembled in front of the hangars were the nineteen machines, fac
ing into the wind, arranged in three flights of six, with Bishop’s plane in front. The pilots of 85 Squadron stood in line in front of Bishop facing the crowd. None was suffering from excessive sobriety. “We will fly to Lympne on the coast first,” Bishop announced loudly so that the audience, and any spies present, could hear every word. “There we will refuel before taking off for Boulogne, where we will receive instructions as to our final destination.
“We will take off to the west. Look at the . . .” he pointed at the wind sock but called it by the time-honoured RFC name which referred to its fancied resemblance to an article of prophylactic equipment. When he realized what he had said his face turned bright red. Hurriedly he kissed Margaret goodbye, tried to avoid the shocked stare of the Princess and the other ladies present, and dashed for his plane.
An hour later the Flying Foxes landed at Lympne, minus one pilot. Larry Callahan’s engine overheated soon after takeoff and he made a forced landing south of London to wait until it cooled off. A second casualty occurred after the squadron left Lympne. Another pilot, Brown, crashed on takeoff and had to remain behind.
Two more pilots crashed when the squadron landed at Marquis aerodrome near Boulogne. The first was Bishop’s former RMC classmate, Bull Pup MacDonald. Seconds later Cunningham-Reid cracked up. Neither was injured, but the squadron was already short four pilots and four machines by the time they set off for their final destination at Petit Synthe, near the seaside town of Dunkirk.
Perhaps a clue to the reason for the high casualty rate was Grider’s description of the Channel crossing: “My motor was missing a little and I kept picking out trawlers and destroyers below to land beside in case it gave out. On the way across Springs signalled me to come up close to him. I flew up to his wingtip and he took out his flask and drank my health. I didn’t have a thing with me but a bottle of champagne and that was in my tool box so I couldn’t get at it.”
Bishop wrote to Margaret shortly after they arrived.
We shall probably be here only a month (it is a very quiet part of the lines) before moving to a livelier sector. A naval bombing squadron here on the aerodrome has been awfully good to us, putting us up and being very nice in every way. Of course we have nothing at all of our own. I will be sleeping in one blanket on an army mattress. The men and transport, with a bit of luck, should arrive tomorrow.
Darling, my machine is really a wonder, seems reliable too. Goodnight, darling, you were a real brick and it made my heart ache to see tears so near your eyes.
By the time he had finished the letter, the drone of German raiders was overhead. The nightly hate had begun. Bishop added a hasty postscript: “It’s somehow good to get back closer to the war.”
Petit Synthe was an easy target for the German bombers even at night. Dunkirk harbour and the canal were good landmarks, particularly by moonlight. For protection against regular raids, dugout shelters had been built all around the edge of the field. On that first night at Petit Synthe, after Bishop finished his letter, he walked over to the nearest dugout just as the German bombers arrived overhead. Near the entrance of the dugout an air force sergeant stopped him and reminded him that the wearing of steel helmets was mandatory during an air raid. He insisted that Bishop take his own helmet. Bishop impatiently jammed it on his head. Before he could take a step toward the dugout he heard a sharp “clank!” and felt a severe jolt that wrenched his neck. A jagged piece of anti-aircraft shrapnel had smashed into and dented the helmet Bishop had donned only a few seconds before. It was probably his narrowest escape. Without the helmet his skull would have been cracked open.
For the first few days after their arrival, the Flying Foxes accustomed themselves to their new surroundings, both in the air and on the ground—but especially on the ground, since the squadron was not supposed to cross the front line until the pilots had undergone two weeks of familiarization with the terrain.
An early entry in Grider’s diary recorded that “today we bought a piano and have a phonograph so the mess is very cheery and excellently equipped with furniture. We are allowed so much cash by the government for furnishing and then have a private fund. Springs is vice president of the mess—officer in command of drinks. We took a truck and went up into Dunkirk to stock up our cellar. We got Scotch, Benedictine, Cognac, Champagne, white and red wine, and port. We decided it was too much trouble to sign chits for drinks in the mess, so all drinks are to be free and each man will have to see that he gets his money’s worth. P.S. Major Bishop got a Hun today on the other side of Ypres. First blood!”
Bishop enlarged on this laconic account of his first air victory in more than nine months in a letter to Margaret:
Well the total is now 48: I simply had to bring down a two-seater today: This morning I had my guns sighted and a lot of things adjusted, then went out to the lines with Horn and McGregor. We didn’t cross, just played around to see what was doing, then came home. This afternoon at four I went out again only alone and crossed the lines after a fat two-seater. There were ten scouts higher up, so I got to 17,500 feet, to worry them from above. Suddenly 200 feet below me, coming toward me, there was another two-seater. He saw me at practically the same moment I saw him and he turned to give his observer a shot at me before he beetled off to the east. I peacefully slipped under his tail and he lost his head and put his nose down hard. So I closed to 125 yards and let him have ten from each gun. I think the first burst killed both. He sort of went out of control, skidding to the left and I closed to fifty yards and got in 25 more from each gun. Then his left plane followed by the right, folded back and he fell. In a second the other planes and tail came off.
Next day a gusty wind blew from the west. Three machines crashed on landing, smashed beyond repair. The squadron was now seriously handicapped and the possibility of a move to a more active sector would be delayed.
It was one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. Several pilots, including Bishop, suffered from “the complaint.” They blamed it on Springs’ cocktails as well as on engine fumes, but whatever it was it left them weak and irritable.
It did not, however, prevent Bishop from flying three and a half hours that day. Before lunch he spotted an enemy two-seater on artillery observation over the battered city of Ypres. Not a tree or building was left standing. It seemed to be the most ravaged spot on earth.
The two-seater eluded Bishop easily. The pilot saw him in plenty of time, dived quickly and sped off east. Even with the S.E. 5A’s powerful Wolseley Viper engine Bishop could not catch him. At lunch he grumbled to Lobo Benbow about his upset and bad luck with the two-seater.
After lunch he took off toward Ypres and climbed to fifteen thousand feet before he crossed the lines. He had not lost his dread of anti-aircraft fire, but to himself he justified his extreme altitude by the argument that at this height the S.E. 5A delivered its best performance.
After circling for five minutes he spotted a loose formation of fighters three thousand feet below. He was surprised to find that they were the familiar Albatros model—his favourite opponents of a year earlier. Not only were the planes obsolete compared with the improved British aircraft, but the pilots obviously did not fly with any of the confidence of the Richthofen circus. Almost with pity Bishop dived at them out of the sun.
He singled out two of the Albatros fighters and took aim on the one on the right. A burst of twenty rounds smashed into the engine. The second pilot, seeing his comrade hit, tried to turn away. It was too late. Bishop shifted his aim quickly and from thirty yards he couldn’t miss. The Albatros flew right into his sights as he opened fire. Twenty rounds sent it, too, spinning down in flames.
That night he wrote to Margaret at 52 Portland Place, Granny St. Helier’s house, where she had moved after Bishop left for France: “That makes us 50—sounds a lot more than 47 doesn’t it?”
Bishop took the next day off and drove south to Clairmarais where Grid Caldwell’s 74 Squadron was stationed. He found Grid cockily cheerful. “Since old Richthofen we
nt down the fight seems to have gone out of the Huns,” he told Bishop over a drink. He introduced one of his flight commanders, a slender Irishman named Edward “Mick” Mannock.
“Mannock now has more than 30 Huns,” Bishop wrote later to Margaret. “He is a marvel from all accounts. I’m always glad when a man like Mannock does so well. He is such a good fellow and everyone likes him so much.”
Bishop did not know, when he wrote his admiration for the lean impassioned Irishman in a private letter, that after the war newspaper and magazine writers would involve him in a controversy over whether he or Mannock (who by then was dead) had more air victories—in other words, who was the top fighter pilot in the service of Britain.
When Bishop met Mannock on May 29 the latter had, as Bishop noted, more than thirty victories. A month later Mannock was dead. He died because, in winning his fiftieth victory, he broke the cardinal rule: do not pursue an enemy plane closer than a thousand feet from the ground. Mannock dived after a mortally wounded Albatros to make sure it went down, and was killed by a thousand-to-one shot: a bullet fired by a German infantryman.
The citation for Mannock’s posthumous Victoria Cross credited him with fifty victories, but first one journalist, then another, referred to Mannock’s seventy-three victories—one more than Bishop’s official score at the end of his fighting career. Bishop, who rarely lost his temper, did so when he realized that other journalists, for the sake of a story, were trying to draw him into a dispute over Mannock’s record. But he controlled his anger and answered with a grim coolness:
“I wish to God Mick had shot down a hundred and seventy-three planes. That would have left a lot fewer Huns to kill our pilots. What the hell does it matter who shot them down?”
The Courage of the Early Morning Page 18
