The fates had been so kind to me in my first fight in the air, that
the next time I crossed the lines my squadron commander had designated
me as patrol leader. I knew this was a difficult job, but it was not
until after we started out that I knew _how_ difficult. First of all,
I seemed to be leading too fast; then the pace would become too slow.
Some of the machines seemed too close to me, and some too far away.
I wondered why it was that everyone should be flying so badly to-day
except myself. As a matter of fact, if I had been leading properly, the
other machines would have found it quite easy to keep in their assigned
places.
However, one learns by experience, so at the end of two hours I was
leading much better, and had progressed another step in the school of
war-flying. The clouds were very thick this day and rolled under us
at times in great cumulus masses. We caught only occasional glimpses
of the ground through rifts in the clouds a mile or more apart. It was
necessary to watch very closely through these holes and to recognize
familiar places on the ground, otherwise we were likely to get lost and
never see home again. When our two hours’ tour of duty aloft was ended,
though, we landed safely at the aerodrome without having seen any enemy
machines.
Two days later my patrol engaged in one of the bitterest fights I have
ever known. I knew that night the full meaning of that last line so
often seen in the British official communiqué: “One of our machines did
not return.” A second machine barely reached our lines, with the pilot
so badly wounded he lived but a little while.
The patrol consisted of a flight of six machines. I led my companions
up to 12,000 feet before heading across the trenches just south of
Arras. Once over the lines, we turned to the north, not penetrating
very far into Hunland because of the strong wind that was blowing about
fifty miles an hour from the west. These westerly gales were one of
the worst things we had to contend with at the front. They made it very
easy for us to dash into enemy territory, but it was a very different
story when we started for home and had to combat the tempest. If an
airman ever wishes for a favouring wind, it is when he is streaking for
home.
Seeing the modern war-aeroplanes riding through howling storms reminds
one that it was not so long ago that a ten-mile breeze would upset
all flying-plans for a day at any aerodrome or exhibition field. Now
nothing short of a hurricane can keep the machines on the ground. As
far as the ability to make good weather of it is concerned, the airman
of to-day can laugh at a gale and fairly take a nap sitting on a
forty-mile wind.
We had been over the lines twenty minutes, and were tossing about a bit
in the storm, when I sighted an enemy machine flying about half a mile
below me. He was scudding gracefully along just over the top of a layer
of filmy white clouds. I signalled to the remainder of my patrol that I
had sighted an enemy, and in another instant I was diving after him.
As I sped downward I could see the remainder of the patrol coming after
me. I must have been plunging fully 150 miles an hour at the German
with the black crosses on his wings, when suddenly out of the clouds,
and seemingly right under my nose, a second enemy machine appeared. I
realized now that we were in for serious fighting, that we had run into
an ambuscade, for it was a great trick of the Germans at this time to
lurk behind patches of clouds to obtain the advantage of a surprise
attack. We soon taught them, however, that this was a game at which two
could play.
When the second machine loomed so suddenly from his hiding-place, I
naturally transferred my attention to him. I closed to within 150
yards and then opened fire from directly behind. Nothing happened,
however, for all my bullets seemed to be going far wide of their mark.
I was frankly surprised at this and wondered what had happened to
the marksmanship which had stood me in such good stead in my first
fight. As a result of these thoughts I neglected to look behind me to
see if the other machines of the patrol were following, and my first
intimation that anything was wrong was the sound of machine guns firing
from somewhere in the rear. I was about to turn my head to see if it
was one of the patrol firing, when some flaming German bullets shot
past between my left-hand planes. Then I realized that a third enemy
machine had gotten on my tail and had a dead shot at me. There was but
one way to get out of this, and I tried it. I pulled my machine right
up into the air and turned over backward in a partial loop. As I did so
the enemy machine flashed by underneath.
It was a narrow escape, but it gave me a breathing-spell in which to
look around for the remainder of my patrol. They were nowhere to be
seen. Later I learned that when they were coming down to me, more enemy
machines had popped out of the clouds, and there had been a sort of
general mêlée. The machine which got on my tail seemed to have dropped
out of the clear sky above. In all, it turned out, there were about ten
of the enemy to six of us.
It was my luck to be mixed up single-handed with three of the Huns.
Under the circumstances, wisdom seemed to me the better part of valour,
and I climbed as speedily as I could, eventually managing to get clear
of their range. Then, looking around, I saw a fight going on about
a mile farther east. It was a matter of thirty seconds to fly into
this, and there I found two of my machines in a go at four or five of
the enemy. We fought for fifteen minutes or more without either side
gaining an advantage. During all this time, however, we were steadily
being driven by the gale farther and farther into German territory, and
were rapidly losing height as well. We figured at this time we must be
fully fifteen miles behind the Hun lines.
We had circled and dived and fought our way down to about 4,000 feet
when suddenly about half a mile away I saw one of our patrol fighting
for his life with two of the enemy. I broke off the futile engagement
we were in and flew to the lone pilot’s assistance. The other two of my
pilots also broke away from the Germans and followed me as I headed
over to help him. At the same moment he succeeded in escaping from
the two attacking Huns, and we joined up again in a formation of four
machines. At this time we were as low as 2,500 feet, but by careful
flying and using the clouds to hide in, we managed to evade all the
enemy flyers who came swirling after us.
The moment we headed for home, however, all the “Archies” in the
neighbourhood opened fire on us. We were flying straight into the teeth
of the fifty-mile gale and were making very little headway against it.
This slow pace made us an easy mark for the guns, and meant that we had
to do a lot of dodging. We darted from one cloud to another, using them
as much as possible for protection. It was again the old instinct of
“taking cover” or “digging in.”
Reaching the aerodrome, we were very much crestfallen. The battle had
not been a success, and two of our patrol, two of our most intimate
friends, had not returned. Later that night, about 11 o’clock, we
had word that one of the missing machines had landed on our side of
the lines with the pilot badly wounded. Next morning we heard the
particulars of a wonderful piece of work done by this gallant boy. He
was only eighteen, and had been in France but three weeks. The British
Flying Corps is filled with boys of that age--with spirits of daring
beyond all compare, and courage so self-effacing as to be a continual
inspiration to their older brothers in the service.
In the early part of the fight this boy had been hit by an explosive
bullet, which, entering him from behind, had pierced his stomach and
exploded there. His machine had been pretty badly shot about, the
engine damaged, and, therefore, a great resulting loss in efficiency.
Mortally wounded as he was, however, he fought for ten or fifteen
minutes with his opponents and then succeeded in escaping. Dazed from
pain and loss of blood, he flew vaguely in a westerly direction. He had
no idea where he was, but when the anti-aircraft guns ceased to fire,
he glided down and landed in a field. Stepping out of his machine, he
attempted to walk, but had moved scarcely forty steps when he fell in
a faint. He was hurried to hospital and given the tenderest of care,
but next morning he died, leaving behind a brave record for his brief
career in the flying service.
The pilot who did not return was reported missing for about two
months, and then we heard he had been killed outright, shot dead in
the air. Upon looking back on this fight now, in the light of my
later experience, I wonder that any of us got out of it alive. Every
circumstance was against us, and the formation we ran into was made up
of the best Hun pilots then in the air. They fought under as favourable
conditions as they could have wished, and one can only wonder how they
missed completely wiping us out.
Next day there were only four of us left in my patrol, but we were
assigned to escort and protect six other machines that were going over
to get photographs of some German positions about ten miles behind the
front-line trenches. I had my patrol flying about a thousand feet above
the photography machines when I saw six enemy single-seater scouts
climbing to swoop down upon our photography machines. At the same time
there were two other enemy machines coming from above to engage us.
Diving toward the photography machines, I managed to frighten off
two of the Boches; then, looking back, I saw one of my pilots being
attacked by one of the two higher Germans who had made for us. This
boy, who is now a prisoner of war, had been a school-mate of mine
before the war. Forgetting everything else, I turned back to his
assistance. The Hun who was after him did not see me coming. I did not
fire until I had approached within 100 yards. Then I let go. The Hun
was evidently surprised. He turned and saw me, but it was too late now.
I was on his tail--just above and a little behind him--and at fifty
yards I fired a second burst of twenty rounds. This time I saw the
bullets going home. As was the case with the first machine I brought
down, this one also flopped over on its back, then got into a spin, and
went headlong to the earth, where it crashed a hopeless wreck.
I rejoined the photography machines, which unfortunately in the
meantime had lost one of their number. We brought the five home safely,
and the photographs were a huge success.