It was apparent to us by this time that the Germans were bringing their
best pilots opposite the British front to meet the determined offensive
we had been carrying on since April 1st. Most of the machines we met
were handled in a manner far above the German average. Each night our
pilots brought in exciting stories of the chase. Although they were a
higher class of fighting men than we had hitherto flown against, the
Germans still showed a reluctance to attack unless they outnumbered us
by at least three to one. One lone German was induced to take a fatal
chance against a British scout formation. By clever manœuvring, at
which the hostile airman was also quite adept, we managed to entice
him to attack one of our machines from behind. As he did so, a second
British machine dived at him, and down he went, one of his wings
breaking off as he fell.
I can best illustrate the German tactics of the time by telling the
experience of one of our faithful old photographic machines, which, by
the way, are not without their desperate moments and their deeds of
heroism. All of which goes to show that the fighting scouts should not
get all the credit for the wonders of modern warfare in the air. The
old “photographer” in question was returning over the lines one day
when it was set upon by no less than eleven hostile scouts. Nearly all
the controls of the British machine were shot away, and the observer,
seriously wounded, fell half-way out of the nacelle. Although still
manœuvring his machine so as to escape the direct fire of the enemies
on his tail, the British pilot grasped the wounded observer, held him
safely in the machine, and made a safe landing in our lines. A moment
later the riddled aeroplane burst into flames. Under heavy shell-fire
the pilot carried the wounded observer to safety.
One of the distinguished German flying squadrons opposite us was under
command of the famous Captain Baron von Richtofen. One day I had the
distinction of engaging in three fights in half an hour with pilots
from this squadron. Their machines were painted a brilliant scarlet
from nose to tail--immense red birds, they were, with the graceful
wings of their type, Albatross scouts. They were all single-seaters,
and were flown by pilots of undeniable skill. There was quite a little
spirit of sportsmanship in this squadron, too. The red German machines
had two machine guns in fixed positions firing straight ahead, both
being operated from the same control.
The first of my three fights with these newcomers in our midst occurred
when I suddenly found myself mixed up with two of them. Evidently they
were not very anxious for a fight at the moment, for, after a few
minutes of manœuvring, both broke it off and dived away. Ten minutes
later I encountered one of the red machines flying alone. I challenged
him, but he wouldn’t stay at all. On the contrary, he made off as fast
as he could go. On my return from chasing him I met a second pair of
red Huns. I had picked up company with another British machine, and
the two Huns, seeing us, dived into a cloud to escape. I went in after
them, and on coming out again found one directly beneath me. On to
him I dived, not pulling the trigger until I was 15 yards away. Once,
twice, three times I pressed the lever, but not a shot from my gun! I
slipped away into another cloud and examined the faithless weapon, only
to find that I had run completely out of ammunition. I returned home
quite the most disgusted person in the entire British Army.
During the changeable days of the Arras offensive we had many exciting
adventures with the weather. On one occasion I had gone back to the
aircraft depot to bring to the front a new machine. Sunshine and
snow-squalls were chasing each other in a seemingly endless procession.
On the ground the wind was howling along at about fifty miles an hour.
I arrived at the depot at 9 o’clock in the morning, but waited about
until four in the afternoon before the weather appeared to be settling
down to something like a safe and sane basis. The sunshine intervals
were growing longer and the snow periods shorter, so I climbed into
my machine and started off. It was only a fifteen minutes’ fly to the
aerodrome, but in that time a huge black cloud loomed up and came
racing toward me. I was headed straight into the gale, and the way was
so rough from the rush of the wind and the heavy clouds floating by
that the little machine was tossed about like a piece of paper. Several
times I thought I was going to be blown completely over. Occasionally,
without any warning, I would be lifted a sheer hundred feet in the
air. Then later I would be dropped that distance, and often more. I
was perspiring freely, although it was a very cold day. It was a race
against the weather to reach my destination in time.
One cannot see in a snowstorm, and I felt that if the fleecy squall
struck me before I sighted the aerodrome I would have to land in a
ploughed field, and to do this in such a gale would be a very ticklish
proposition. Added to all this, I was flying a machine of a type I had
never handled before, and naturally it was a bit strange to me. Nearer
and nearer the big cloud came. But I was racing for home at top speed.
About half a mile from the haven I sought, the storm struck me. The
moment before the snow deluge came, however, I had recognized the road
that led to the aerodrome, and coming down to 50 feet, where I could
just make it out, I flew wildly on, praying all the time that the snow
striking my engine would not cause it to stop. Then the awful thought
came to me that perhaps I was on the wrong road. Then, even more
suddenly than it had come, the snow stopped--the storm had swept right
over me. There, just ahead of me, I saw the tents and hangars and the
flying pennant of the aerodrome--home. This was my first experience in
flying through snow, and I did not care for another.
A few days after my unsuccessful experience with the red Richtofen
scouts, I got my just revenge and a little more back from the Huns. My
Major had been told to have some photographs taken of a certain point
behind the German lines, and by special permission he was given the
privilege of taking them himself. The point to be photographed was
about seven miles in German territory, and in order to make a success
of the snapshotting it would be necessary to have a strong escort. The
Major offered to go out and do the photographs on his own without an
escort, but the Colonel would not hear of it, and so it was arranged
that an offensive patrol would go out at 9 o’clock in the morning, meet
the Major at a given point, and escort him over the ground he wished to
cover.
My patrol was the one working at the time, and I was the leader. At
9.30 we were to meet, just east of Arras, at 6,000 feet. The rendezvous
came off like clockwork. I brought the patrol to the spot at 9.28, and
two minutes later we spied a single Nieuport coming toward us. I fired
a red signal light and the Nieuport answered. It was the Major. I then
climbed slightly and led the patrol along about 1,000 feet above the
Nieuport in order to protect the Major and at the same time keep high
enough to avoid too much danger from anti-aircraft fire. We got to
the area to be photographed without any other excitement than a very
heavy greeting from the “Archies.” There were a number of big white
clouds floating around about 6,000 feet, and these made it difficult
for the guns to shoot at us. But they also made it difficult for the
Major to get his photographs. We went around and around in circles for
what seemed an eternity. During one of these sweeping turns I suddenly
saw four enemy scouts climbing between two clouds and some distance
off. I knew they would see us soon, so it occurred to me it would be
a brilliant idea to let the enemy think there was only one British
machine on the job. Under these circumstances I knew they would be sure
to attack, and then the rest of us could swoop down and surprise them.
I had no intention of letting the Major in for any unnecessary risks,
but it seemed such a rare chance, I could not resist it.
I led the patrol about 2,000 feet higher up and there we waited.
The enemy scouts did not see us at all, but they did see the Major.
And they made for him. The first the Major knew of their approach,
however, was when they were about 200 yards away, and one of
them, somewhat prematurely, opened fire. His thoughts--he told me
afterward--immediately flew to the patrol, and he glanced over his
shoulder to see where we were. But we had vanished. He then wondered
how much money he had in his pockets, as he did not doubt that the
four Huns, surprising him as they had, would surely get him. Despite
these gloomy and somewhat mercenary thoughts, the Major was fighting
for his life. First he turned the nose of his machine directly toward
the enemy, poured a burst of bullets toward a German at his right; then
turned to the left, as the second machine approached in that direction,
and let him have a taste of British gunfire as well. This frightened
the first two Huns off for a moment, and, in that time, I arrived down
on the scene with the rest of the patrol.
One of the Huns was firing at the Major’s machine as I flashed by
him, and I fired at a bare ten yards’ range. Then I passed on to the
second enemy machine, firing all the while, and eventually passing
within 5 feet of one of his wing-tips. Turning my machine as quickly
as I could, I was yet too late to catch the other two of the formation
of four. They had both dived away and escaped. I had hit the two that
first attacked the Major, however, and they were at the moment falling
completely out of control 1,000 or more feet below me, and finally went
through the clouds, floundering helplessly in the air.
This little interruption ended, we all reassembled in our former
positions and went on with the photographing. This was finished in
about fifteen minutes, and, under a very heavy anti-aircraft fire,
we returned home. The episode of the four Huns was perhaps the most
successful bit of trapping I have ever seen, but it was many weeks
before the squadron got through teasing me for using our commander as
a decoy. I apologized to the Major, who agreed with me that the chance
was too good a one to miss.
“Don’t mind me,” he said; “carry on.”