Dawn was due at 5.30 o’clock on Easter Monday, and that was the exact
hour set for the beginning of the Battle of Arras. We were up and had
our machines out of the hangars while it was still night. The beautiful
weather of a few hours before had vanished. A strong, chill wind was
blowing from the east and dark, menacing clouds were scudding along low
overhead.
We were detailed to fly at a low altitude over the advancing infantry,
firing into the enemy trenches, and dispersing any groups of men or
working troops we happened to see in the vicinity of the lines. Some
phases of this work are known as “contact patrols,” the machines
keeping track always of the infantry advance, watching points where
they may be held up, and returning from time to time to report just
how the battle is going. Working with the infantry in a big attack is
a most exciting experience. It means flying close to the ground and
constantly passing through our own shells as well as those of the enemy.
The shell fire this morning was simply indescribable. The bombardment
which had been going on all night gradually died down about 5 o’clock,
and the Germans must have felt that the British had finished their
nightly “strafing,” were tired out and going to bed. For a time almost
complete silence reigned over the battlefields. All along the German
lines star-shells and rocket-lights were looping through the darkness.
The old Boche is always suspicious and likes to have the country around
him lighted up as much as possible so he can see what the enemy is
about.
The wind kept growing stiffer and stiffer and there was a distinct
feel of rain in the air. Precisely at the moment that all the British
guns roared out their first salvo of the battle, the skies opened and
the rain fell in torrents. Gunfire may or may not have anything to do
with rainmaking, but there was a strange coincidence between the shock
of battle and the commencement of the downpour this morning. It was
beastly luck, and we felt it keenly. But we carried on.
The storm had delayed the coming of day by several minutes, but as
soon as there was light enough to make our presence worth while we
were in the air and braving the untoward elements just as the troops
were below us. Lashed by the gale, the wind cut the face as we moved
against the enemy. The ground seemed to be one mass of bursting shells.
Farther back, where the guns were firing, the hot flames flashing
from thousands of muzzles gave the impression of a long ribbon of
incandescent light. The air seemed shaken and literally full of shells
on their missions of death and destruction. Over and over again one
felt a sudden jerk under a wing-tip, and the machine would heave
quickly. This meant a shell had passed within a few feet of you. As
the battle went on the work grew more terrifying, because reports came
in that several of our machines had been hit by shells in flight and
brought down. There was small wonder of this. The British barrage
fire that morning was the most intense the war had ever known. There
was a greater concentration of guns than at any time during the Somme.
In fact, some of the German prisoners said afterwards that the Somme
seemed a Paradise compared to the bombardments we carried out at
Arras. While the British fire was at its height the Germans set up a
counter-barrage. This was not so intense, but every shell added to the
shrieking chorus that filled the stormy air made the lot of the flying
man just so much more difficult. Yet the risk was one we could not
avoid; we had to endure it with the best spirit possible.
The waves of attacking infantry as they came out of their trenches and
trudged forward behind the curtain of shells laid down by the artillery
were an amazing sight. The men seemed to wander across No Man’s Land,
and into the enemy trenches, as if the battle was a great bore to them.
From the air it looked as though they did not realize that they were
at war and were taking it all entirely too quietly. That is the way
with clock-work warfare. These troops had been drilled to move forward
at a given pace. They had been timed over and over again in marching
a certain distance, and from this timing the “creeping” or rolling
barrage which moved in front of them had been mathematically worked
out. And the battle, so calmly entered into, was one of the tensest,
bitterest of the entire world-war.
For days the battle continued, and it was hard work and no play for
everybody concerned. The weather, instead of getting better, as spring
weather should, gradually got worse. It was cold, windy, and wet.
Every two or three hours sudden snow-storms would shut in, and flying
in these squalls, which obliterated the landscape, was very ticklish
business.
On the fourth day of the battle I happened to be flying about 500 feet
above the trenches an hour after dawn. It had snowed during the night
and the ground was covered with a new layer of white several inches
thick. No marks of the battle of the day before were to be seen; the
only blemishes in the snow mantle were the marks of shells which had
fallen during the last hour. No Man’s Land itself, so often a filthy
litter, was this morning quite clean and white.
Suddenly over the top of our parapets a thin line of infantry crawled
up and commenced to stroll casually toward the enemy. To me it seemed
that they must soon wake up and run; that they were altogether too
slow; that they could not realize the great danger they were in. Here
and there a shell would burst as the line advanced or halted for a
moment. Three or four men near the burst would topple over like so many
tin soldiers. Two or three other men would then come running up to the
spot from the rear with a stretcher, pick up the wounded and the dying,
and slowly walk back with them. I could not get the idea out of my head
that it was just a game they were playing at; it all seemed so unreal.
Nor could I believe that the little brown figures moving about below
me were really men--men going to the glory of victory or the glory of
death. I could not make myself realize the full truth or meaning of it
all. It seemed that I was in an entirely different world, looking
down from another sphere on this strange, uncanny puppet-show.
[Illustration:
Canadian Official Photograph
Nieuport Scout.]
Suddenly I heard the deadly rattle of a nest of machine guns under me,
and saw that the line of our troops at one place was growing very thin,
with many figures sprawling on the ground. For three or four minutes I
could not make out the concealed position of the German gunners. Our
men had halted, and were lying on the ground, evidently as much puzzled
as I was. Then in a corner of a German trench I saw a group of about
five men operating two machine-guns. They were slightly to the flank of
our line, and evidently had been doing a great amount of damage. The
sight of these men thoroughly woke me up to the reality of the whole
scene beneath me. I dived vertically at them with a burst of rapid
fire. The smoking bullets from my gun flashed into the ground, and it
was an easy matter to get an accurate aim on the German automatics, one
of which turned its muzzle toward me.
But in a fraction of a second I had reached a height of only 30
feet above the Huns, so low I could make out every detail of their
frightened faces. With hate in my heart I fired every bullet I could
into the group as I swept over it, then turned my machine away. A
few minutes later I had the satisfaction of seeing our line again
advancing, and before the time had come for me to return from my
patrol, our men had occupied all the German positions they had set out
to take. It was a wonderful sight and a wonderful experience. Although
it had been so difficult to realize that men were dying and being
maimed for life beneath me, I felt that at last I had seen something of
that dogged determination that has carried British arms so far.
The next ten days were filled with incident. The enemy fighting
machines would not come close to the lines, and there was very little
doing in the way of aerial combats, especially as far as I was
concerned, for I was devoting practically all of my time to flying low
and helping the infantry. All of our pilots and observers were doing
splendid work. Everywhere we were covering the forward movement of
the infantry, keeping the troops advised of any enemy movements, and
enabling the British artillery to shell every area where it appeared
concentrations were taking place. Scores of counter-attacks were
broken up before the Germans had fairly launched them. Our machines
were everywhere back of the enemy lines. It was easy to tell when the
Germans were massing for a counter-stroke. First of all our machines
would fly low over the grey-clad troops, pouring machine-gun bullets
into them or dropping high-explosive bombs in their midst. Then the
exact location of the mobilization point would be signalled to the
artillery, so that the moment the Germans moved our guns were on them.
In General Orders commending the troops for their part in the battle,
Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig declared that the work of the Flying
Corps, “under the most difficult conditions,” called for the highest
praise.
We were acting, you might say, as air policemen. Occasionally one of
our machines would be set upon by the German gangsters--they were
“careful” fighters and seldom attacked unless at odds of four to
one--and naturally we suffered some casualties, just as the ordinary
police force suffers casualties when it is doing patrol duty in an
outlaw country. The weather was always favourable to the German methods
of avoiding “open-air” combats. Even the clearer days were marked by
skies filled with clouds sufficiently large and dense enough to offer
protection and hiding-places to the high winging Hun machines.
I had several skirmishes, but did not succeed in bringing down another
machine until April 20th, when I was fortunate enough to begin another
series of extremely interesting and successful fights. I was promoted
to be a Captain about this time and thought I was very happy; but the
promotion was followed by another incident which really made me proud.
The sergeants of my squadron had made me a round “nose” for my machine.
It fitted on the propeller head and revolved with it. I had it painted
a brilliant blue, and from that time on my machine was known as “Blue
Nose.” It was given to me, the Sergeant-Major explained, as a sign that
I was an “Ace”--that I had brought down more than five machines. I was
so pleased with this tribute from the men that I took old “Blue Nose”
visiting to several other squadrons, where I exhibited my new mark of
distinction to many of my friends and flying companions.
The machine I got on April 20th was the first I ever destroyed in
flames. It is a thing that often happens, and while I have no desire
to make myself appear as a bloodthirsty person, I must say that to see
an enemy going down in flames is a source of great satisfaction. You
know his destruction is absolutely certain. The moment you see the fire
break out you know that nothing in the world can save the man, or men,
in the doomed aeroplane. You know there is no “camouflage” in this, and
you have no fear that the enemy is trying any kind of flying trick in
the hope that he will be left alone.
I was flying over a layer of white clouds when I saw a two-seater just
above me. We generally met the enemy in force during these days, but
this German machine was all alone. Neither the pilot nor observer
saw me. They flew along blissfully ignorant of my existence, while I
carefully kept directly underneath them, climbing all the time. I was
only ten yards behind the Hun when I fired directly up at him. It had
been an exciting game getting into position underneath him, carefully
following every move he made, waiting, hoping, and praying that he
would not see me before I got into the place I wanted. I was afraid
that if he did see me I would be at a distinct disadvantage below
him. My hand must have been shaky, or my eye slightly out, because,
although I managed to fire ten rounds, I did not hit anything vital.
Even in this crucial moment the humour of the situation almost got
the better of me. My machine seemed so little, carefully flying there
under the big, peaceful Hun, who thought he was so safe and so far
from any danger. Suddenly, from just underneath him, he heard the
“tat-tat-tat-tatter-tatter” of my machine gun almost in his ear, the
range was so close. Then he must have seen my smoking bullets passing
all around him. Anyway, there was consternation in the camp. He
turned quickly, and a regular battle in the air began between the two
of us. We manœuvred every way possible, diving, rolling, stalling; he
attempting to get a straight shot at me, while my one object was to get
straight behind him again, or directly in front of him, so as to have a
direct line of fire right into him.
Twice I dived at him and opened fire from almost point-blank range,
being within two lengths of him before I touched the lever which set
my gun to spouting. But there was no success. The third time I tried a
new manœuvre. I dived at him from the side, firing as I came. My new
tactics gave the German observer a direct shot at me from his swivel
gun, and he was firing very well too, his bullets passing quite close
for a moment or two. Then, however, they began to fly well beyond my
wing-tips, and on seeing this I knew that his nerve was shaken. I could
now see my own bullets hitting the right part of the Hun machine, and
felt confident the battle soon would be over.
I pulled my machine out of its dive just in time to pass about 5 feet
over the enemy. I could see the observer evidently had been hit and had
stopped firing. Otherwise the Hun machine seemed perfectly all right.
But just after I passed I looked back over my shoulder and saw it burst
into flames. A second later it fell a burning mass, leaving a long
trail of smoke behind as it disappeared through the clouds. I thought
for a moment of the fate of the wounded observer and the hooded pilot
into whose faces I had just been looking--but it was fair hunting, and
I flew away with great contentment in my heart.
This fight seemed to have changed my luck for the better. Everywhere I
went for the next few weeks enemy machines were easily found, and I had
numerous combats, many of them successful. Some days I could have been
accused of violating all the rules of a flying men’s union (if we had
had one). I would fly as much as seven and a half hours between sunrise
and sunset. Far from affecting my nerves, the more I flew the more I
wanted to fly, the better I seemed to feel, and each combat became
more and more enjoyable. Ambition was born in my breast, and, although
I still dared not entertain hope of equalling the record of the
renowned Captain Ball, who by this time had shot down over thirty-five
machines, I did have vague hopes of running second to him.
Along with the new ambition there was born in me as well a distinct
dislike for all two-seated German flying machines! They always seemed
so placid and sort of contented with themselves. I picked a fight
with the two-seaters wherever I could find one, and I searched for
them high and low. Many people think of the two-seater as a superior
fighting machine because of its greater gun-power. But to me they
always seemed fair prey and an easy target. One afternoon, soon after
this new Hun hatred had become a part of my soul, I met a two-seater
about three miles over the German lines and dived at him from a very
low height. As bad luck would have it, my gun had a stoppage, and while
I turned away to right it, the enemy escaped. Much disgusted, I headed
away homeward, when into my delighted vision there came the familiar
outlines of another Hun with two men aboard. I flew at this new enemy
with great determination; but after a short battle he dived away from
me, and although I did my best to catch him up, I could not. He landed
in a field underneath me. To see him calmly alight there under perfect
control filled me with a towering rage. I saw red things before my
eyes. I vowed an eternal vendetta against all the Hun two-seaters in
the world, and, the impulse suddenly seizing me, I dived right down to
within a few feet of the ground, firing a stream of bullets into the
machine where it was sitting. I had the satisfaction of knowing that
the pilot and observer must have been hit, or nearly scared to death,
for, although I hovered about for quite a long time, neither of them
stepped from the silent machine.
Half an hour after this occurrence I saw one of our machines in
difficulties with three of the enemy. The Huns were so engrossed with
the thought that they had a single British machine at their mercy, I
felt there was a good chance that I might slip up and surprise them. My
scheme worked beautifully. I came up to within 15 yards of one of the
Huns, and, aiming my machine at him with dead accuracy, shot him down
with my first ten bullets. He probably never knew where the bullets
came from, not having the slightest idea another British machine was
anywhere in that part of the sky. I turned now to assist with the
other two Huns, but by this time my brother-pilot had sent one of them
spinning out of control, while the last remaining enemy was making
good his escape as fast as his Mercédès engine could pull him through
the air. It is surprising sometimes how much dead resistance there is
in the air when you are in a hurry. Having nothing better to do under
the circumstances, I dived down after my own victim to get a view of
the crash. I was just in time. He struck the ground at the corner of a
field, and what was one instant a falling machine was next a twisted
bit of wreckage.