It was a German boast at this time that their retreat from the Somme
had upset the offensive plans of the British and French for months to
come. How untrue this was they were soon to know. We Canadians knew
that the first big “push” of the spring was to come at Vimy Ridge,
where the Canadian Corps had been holding the line grimly the entire
winter through. It had been a trying ordeal for our men, who were
almost at the foot of the ridge with the Germans everywhere above them.
During all the long cold months of winter the old Boche had been
looking down on us, pelting the infantry in the trenches with all
manner of bombs and trench-mortar shells, and making life generally
uncomfortable. During all this time, however, and in spite of the fact
that the Germans had direct observation both of our lines and the
country behind them, we had succeeded in massing a hitherto unheard-of
number of guns and great forces of reserves for the initial attack of
the new fighting season.
About April 1st we heard the first rumours of the approaching storm.
The British artillery was tuning up all along the line, the greatest
fire being concentrated in the neighbourhood of Arras and the Vimy
Ridge, running north from that quaint old cathedral city. It was the
beginning of that great tumult of artillery which eventually was to
practically blow the top off the ridge--and the Germans with it. Our
machines had been operating with the guns, ranging them on the German
lines and the villages where the enemy troops were quartered in the
rear. There had been much careful “registering” also of the German
battery positions, so that when the time came for our troops to “go
over,” the British and Canadian artillery could pour such a torrent
of shells on the German guns as to keep them safely silent during the
infantry attack.
At last came the orders for our part in another phase of the “show.”
It was up to us to “clear the air” during the last days of battle
preparation. We did not want any more prying eyes looking down upon
us from the clouds--it was bad enough to have to submit to the
ground-observation from the German-held ridges. We were already
accustomed to fighting the enemy aeroplanes over their own ground and
thus keeping them as far as possible from our lines, but now we were
assigned to a new job. It was attacking the enemy observation balloons.
They flew in the same places almost every day--well back of the enemy
lines; but the observers in them, equipped with splendid telescopes,
could leisurely look far into our lines and note everything that was
going on. We proposed to put out these enemy eyes.
We called the big, elongated gasbags “sausages” and the French did
likewise--“saucisses.” They floated in the air at anywhere from 800 to
3,000 feet above the ground, and were held captive by cables. These
cables were attached to some special kind of windlasses which could
pull the balloons down in an incredibly short space of time. Sometimes
they would disappear as if by witchcraft. Wherever the sausages
flew they were protected from aeroplane attack by heavy batteries
of anti-aircraft guns, and also by what we came to know as “flaming
onions.” These “flaming onions” appear to consist of about ten balls
of fire, and are shot from some kind of rocket gun. You can see them
coming all the way from the ground, and they travel just too fast to
make it possible to dodge them. I have never had an “onion” nearer than
200 feet of me, but the effect of these balls of fire reaching for you
is most terrifying, especially the first time you have the pleasure of
making their acquaintance.
Our instructions were not only to drive the enemy balloons down, but to
set fire to and destroy them. This is done by diving on them from above
and firing some incendiary missile at them--not by dropping bombs on
them, as one so often hears in London.
The British attack at Arras and Vimy was set for April 9th--Easter
Monday. On April 5th we started after the sausages. The weather at
this time was very changeable, chilling snow-squalls being intermingled
with flashes of brilliant warm sunshine. It was cloudy and misty the
day our balloon attacks began, and the sausages were not visible
from our side of the lines. I was assigned to “do in” a particularly
annoying sausage that used to fly persistently in the same place day
after day. It was one of the sausages with a queer-shaped head, looking
for all the world like a real flying pig--sans feet. Any new sort of
hunting always appealed to me strongly, and I was eager for the chase
when I crossed into enemy territory in search of my particular game. I
flew expectantly in the direction where the balloon usually inhabited
the air, but it was nowhere to be seen. I circled down close to the
ground to be sure it was not on duty, and immediately found myself in
the midst of a terrific fire from all manner of guns. Something told
me to hurry away from there, and I did. The quickest shelter available
was a rather dark and forbidding cloud, but I made for it with all my
might, climbing as fast as my little single-seater would take me. What
a relief it was to be lost in that friendly mist. Continuing to climb,
I rose at last into the sunshine and then headed for home. My balloon
had not been up, but my first experience as a sausage hunter had not
been the pleasantest form of amusement, and I was inclined not to like
it very much. Later on I met with some success against the balloons;
but the sport, while exciting, was not to be compared with another
aeroplane.
The weather cleared late in the afternoon of the 5th, and for the first
time in my flying career I had the privilege of going out alone in
search of a fight. There was not an enemy machine in the air, however,
and I returned with nothing to report.
Next morning, bright and early, I was again out “on my own” in
search of adventure. I had been flying over the lines for over half
an hour when suddenly I spied an enemy machine about a mile over in
Hunland, and some distance above me. In these days I no longer had any
misgivings as to whether a machine was friend or foe--I had learned
to sense the enemy. Our greatest difficulty at the time was drawing
the Huns into a close combat. I set out to see what sort of fighting
material this particular pilot of the Iron Crosses was made of. Keeping
him always within view, I climbed to nearly 15,000 feet, and from that
point of vantage dived upon him. I waited until my plunge had carried
me to within 150 yards of him before opening fire. I had gotten in a
burst of probably twenty rounds, when my gun jammed. The Hun saw me
and dived away as fast as he could go. I dived after him, tinkering
with the gun all the time, and, finally getting it clear, fired another
burst at 100 yards. This drove him into a still deeper dive, but he
flattened out again, and this time I gave him a burst at 50 yards. His
machine evidently was damaged by my fire, for he now dived vertically
toward the ground, keeping control, however, and landing safely in a
field.
This fight gave me a new resolve--to devote more time to target
practice. I should have destroyed this Hun, but poor shooting had
enabled him to escape. Going home, I spent an hour that day practising
at a square target on the ground. Thereafter I gave as much time as
possible to shooting practice, and to the accuracy I acquired in this
way I feel I owe most of my successes. Aeroplane target practice is not
without its dangers. The target on the ground is just about the size
of the vital spots you aim at in fighting. You have to dive steeply at
this, and there is very little margin of safety when plunging at full
speed to within a few feet of the earth.
April 6th and 7th were memorable days in the Flying Corps. The
public, knowing nothing of the approaching attack which was to go
down in history as the Battle of Arras, was distinctly shocked when
the British communiqués for these two days frankly admitted the loss
of twenty-eight of our machines. We considered this a small price to
pay for the amount of work accomplished and the number of machines
engaged, coupled with the fact that all of our work was done within
the German lines. In the two days that we lost twenty-eight machines,
we had accounted for fifteen Germans, who were actually seen to
crash, and thirty-one driven down damaged, many of which must have
met a similar fate. The British do not officially announce a hostile
machine destroyed without strict verification. When you are fighting
a formation of twenty or more Huns in a general mêlée, and one begins
a downward spin, there is seldom time to disengage yourself and watch
the machine complete its fatal plunge. You may be morally certain
the Hun was entirely out of control and nothing could save him, but
unless someone saw the crash, credit is given only for a machine driven
down. The Royal Air Force is absolutely unperturbed when its losses on
any one day exceed those of the enemy, for we philosophically regard
this as the penalty necessarily entailed by our acting always on the
offensive in the air.
Technically, the Germans seldom gave a machine “missing,” for the
fighting is practically always over their territory, and every one of
their machines driven down can be accounted for, even if it is totally
destroyed. Many of our losses are due wholly to the fact that we have
to “carry on” over German territory. Any slight accident or injury
that compels a descent in Hunland naturally means the total loss of
the British machine. But such a loss does not involve a German victory
in combat; it is merely a misfortune for us. If the machine could only
have reached our side of the lines it might have been repaired in half
an hour. The public often forgets these things when reading of British
machines that fail to return.
Every class of our machines was now engaged in the preparations for the
big offensive. The bombing squadrons were out by day and by night. They
would fly over the lines with only the stars to guide them and drop
tons of high-explosive wherever it was considered that the resulting
damage would have a crippling effect upon the defensive power of the
German machine. Our photographers were busy during every hour of
sunlight, and our artillery observing machines were keeping long hours
in company with the guns, carrying on the preliminary bombardments.
My own experiences on April 7th brought me my first decoration--the
Military Cross. The thrills were all condensed into a period of two
minutes for me. In that time I was fortunate enough to shoot down an
enemy machine and destroy the “sausage” I had started for two days
before. This should have been excitement enough, but I added to it by
coming within 15 feet of being taken a German prisoner and becoming an
unwilling guest of the Huns for the “duration.”
I was ordered after my particular balloon and had climbed to about
5,000 feet before heading for the lines. On my way there I had to pass
over one of our own observation-balloons. I don’t know what it was that
attracted my attention, but, looking down, I saw what appeared to be
two men descending in parachutes. A moment later the balloon below me
burst into flames. I saw the enemy machine which had set it on fire
engaged with some of ours, but as I had definite orders to proceed
straight to the lines and destroy the hostile balloon which had been
allotted to me, I was unable to join in the fighting.
Just about this time an amusing incident was in progress at our
aerodrome. A Colonel of the Corps was telephoning my squadron
commander, informing him that one of our balloons had just been
destroyed.
“Well, if it is any consolation, young Bishop, of my squadron, has just
gone over to get one of theirs,” replied my commander.
“Good God,” said the Colonel, “I hope he has not made a mistake in
balloon and set ours on fire!”
At this moment I was serenely sailing over the enemy trenches, keeping
a sharp look-out for some sign of my own balloon. After flying
five miles over the lines, I discovered it and circled around as a
preliminary to diving down upon it. But just then I heard the rattle of
machine guns directly behind me and saw bullet-holes appear as if by
magic in the wings of my machine. I pulled back as if to loop, sending
the nose of my machine straight up into the air. As I did so the enemy
scout shot by underneath me. I stood on my tail for a moment or two,
then let the machine drop back, put her nose down, and dived after
the Hun, opening fire straight behind him at very close range. He
continued to dive away with increasing speed, and later was reported to
have crashed just under where the combat had taken place. This victory
I put down entirely to luck. The man flew directly in line with my gun
and it would have been impossible to have missed him.
I proceeded now to dive for the balloon, but having had so much
warning, it had been pulled down to the ground. I would have been
justified in going home when I saw this, for our orders were not to go
under 1,000 feet after the sausages. But I was just a bit peevish with
this particular balloon, and to a certain extent my blood was up. So I
decided to attack the ungainly monster in its “bed.” I dived straight
for it and when about 500 feet from the ground, opened fire. Nothing
happened. So I continued to dive and fire rapid bursts until I was only
50 feet above the bag. Still there were no signs of it catching fire.
I then turned my machine gun on the balloon crew, who were working
frantically on the ground. They scattered and ran all about the field.
Meantime a “flaming onion” battery was attempting to pelt me with
those unsavoury missiles, so I whirled upon them with a burst of twenty
rounds or more. One of the onions had flared within a hundred yards of
me.
This was all very exciting, but suddenly, with a feeling of faintness,
I realized that my engine had failed. I thought that again, as during
my first fight, the engine had oiled up from the steep diving I had
done. It seemed but a moment before that I was coming down at a speed
that must have been nearly 200 miles an hour. But I had lost it all in
turning my machine upon the people on the ground.
There was no doubt in my mind this time as to just where I was,
and there appeared no alternative but to land and give myself up.
Underneath me was a large open field with a single tree in it. I glided
down, intending to strike the tree with one wing just at the moment of
landing, thus damaging the machine so it would be of little use to the
Huns, without injuring myself.
I was within 15 feet of the ground, absolutely sick at heart with the
uselessness of it all, my thoughts having turned to home and the worry
they would all feel when I was reported in the list of the missing,
when, without warning, one of my nine cylinders gave a kick. Then a
second one miraculously came to life, and in another moment the old
engine--the best old engine in all the world--had picked up with a
roar on all the nine cylinders. Once again the whole world changed for
me. In less time than it takes to tell it, I was tearing away for home
at a hundred miles an hour. My greatest safety from attack now lay in
keeping close to the ground, and this I did. The “Archies” cannot fire
when you are so close to earth, and few pilots would have risked a
dive at me at the altitude which I maintained. The machine guns on the
ground rattled rather spitefully several times, but worried me not at
all. I had had my narrow squeak for this day, and nothing could stop me
now. I even had time to glance back over my shoulder, and there, to my
great joy, I saw a cloud of smoke and flames rising from my erstwhile
_bête noir_--the sausage. We afterward learned it was completely
destroyed.
It was a strange thing to be skimming along just above the ground in
enemy territory. From time to time I would come on groups of Huns
who would attempt to fire on me with rifles and pistols, but I would
dart at them and they would immediately scatter and run for cover. I
flew so low that when I would come to a clump of trees I would have
to pull my nose straight up toward the sky and “zoom” over them. Most
of the Germans were so startled to see me right in their midst, as
it were, they either forgot to fire or fired so badly as to insure
my absolute safety. Crossing the three lines of German trenches was
not so comfortable, but by zigzagging and quick dodging I negotiated
them safely and climbed away to our aerodrome. There I found that no
bullets had passed very close to me, although my wing-tips were fairly
perforated.
That evening I was delighted to get congratulations not only from my
Colonel, but from my Brigadier as well, supplemented later by a wire
from the General Commanding the Flying Corps. This I proudly sent home
the same evening in a letter.