The first few days in May we spent escorting machines taking
photographs. It was rather exciting work, for several times we went
very long distances into Hunland and stayed over there for hours. It
was also very nerve-racking work, as you listen constantly for the
least break in the smooth running of your motor, knowing that if it
fails you are too far from home ever to get there by gliding. At such
times my thoughts always reverted to the ignominy one would feel in
helplessly landing among the Germans and saying “Kamerad!” Far better
to die in a fight, or even yield up the ghost to a despised “Archie,”
than tamely submit to being taken prisoner. Then, too, all the time you
are loafing about taking snapshots from the air, the anti-aircraft fire
gets very fierce.
On one occasion we went over to photograph an aerodrome in the
vicinity of Douai, a city you can see from the top of Vimy Ridge on any
clear day. We had with us in all about twenty machines, and were a very
formidable party indeed. As luck would have it, we spied two Germans.
With two or three other of our fighting pilots, I quickly dodged to
one side to try to engage the Huns before they could see the whole
crowd of us and be frightened away. But, no luck! They made off the
minute we turned our noses in their direction. We proceeded over Douai,
and in turning around once or twice, the machine actually taking the
photographs was lost. I mean by lost that it got mixed up with the rest
of us and it was practically impossible in that number of machines to
pick it out again. The result was we went around and around in circles
for half an hour trying to find out where it had gone. It was like
an old-fashioned game of “Button, button, who’s got the button?” and
was so amusing I had to laugh. Around and around we went. The strain
began to get on the nerves, of course, as every minute seemed to be an
hour, and we all felt we should be getting away from there as soon as
possible. But when you are in great danger, the smallest things make a
keen appeal to your sense of humour, and the idea of the whole twenty
of us playing such a foolish game in such a dangerous spot could not
help having its funny side. Several of the others, on landing, told me
they had felt the same way about it, and had had many good laughs.
Needless to say, the anti-aircraft guns under us were having the time
of their unprincipled lives. They never had had such a huge bunch of
good targets to shoot at, so they blazed into the midst of us with
all the “hate” they had. But we had the luck, and hardly a machine
was touched. We were flying at 13,000 feet, and that seemed lucky in
itself. Many shells broke with loud bangs just under us and over us,
but none at 13,000 feet. We were annoyed but not worried.
Finally, somebody got fed up with all this running around in aerial
circles, and started toward home. We had all been waiting for something
like that to happen, and every one of us streaked off in the leader’s
wake. We got back safely enough, but, to add to the fiasco of the
expedition, it turned out that the man who was taking the photographs
made some awful error and snapped the wrong places altogether. For a
period of fully half an hour he had to listen patiently and quietly
while the rest of us tried to think up a punishment to fit the crime.
Later that afternoon we had to eat all our words, for while we were
lunching and discussing the morning’s work, the photographer pilot,
all alone and without further orders, had quietly gone over the lines,
taken the proper pictures, and returned safely with them. It was a
brave thing to do, and we admired him for it.
The next day was a very successful one for me. I had several fights,
and for one was later awarded the “Distinguished Service Order”--my
second decoration. We had been taking photographs again, with another
large escort, as on the day before, and were returning homeward when
an enemy single-seater approached slightly below us. I went down and
attacked him, and we fought for quite a while, exchanging shots now
and then, with no result other than the escape of the enemy. The other
machines had continued on their way and were nowhere to be seen when
I climbed away from my unsuccessful duel. Being left alone, and of no
further use to the photographers, I felt I might as well look around a
bit. My search for enemy machines soon was rewarded. I came upon five
of them doing artillery observation work. They were all two-seaters,
and consequently my legitimate prey. The Huns were nicely arranged
in two parties, one of two and the other of three. I decided that as
the party of three was nearer, I would tackle it first. Remembering
my former experience in diving into three enemy artillery machines, I
was wary of a trap, but went after the bunch with a firm determination
I would not make a “hash” of it. The trio made away as I approached.
Furious at the thought that they should escape scot-free, I forgot
my caution and went after them pell-mell. I didn’t care at the time
whether there were any hostile fighting machines above me or not. I
wanted to teach the cowardly two-seaters a justly deserved lesson.
Catching up to within 200 yards of the rear one, I saw that all three
were firing at me from their back guns. I was so much faster than the
Huns I could zigzag on my course--wondering as I did so if I resembled
an ocean greyhound dodging a submarine! Finally, I closed to within 20
yards of the fleeing Germans and let go at them. The rear machine was
my easiest target. Soon I saw my bullets going into the observer’s body
and I feel sure some of them must have passed on from him to the pilot
who was seated directly in front. The observer’s face was white as a
sheet, and, out of pure terror, I think, he had ceased to fire at me.
The pilot now was gazing back over his shoulder and was too frightened
to manœuvre his machine. He had turned into a sort of human rabbit, and
was concerned only with running for his life. Fifteen rounds from my
gun sufficed for that machine. Down it tumbled, a stricken and dying
thing.
As the other two machines were some distance off, I did a circle to
see the falling Hun crash. When I did this, the other two suddenly
returned underneath me and opened fire from a spot where I could not
see them, one coming within a hundred yards. Almost at the same moment
that they attacked, four enemy scouts came diving out of the clouds,
two of them firing as they dived at me. I turned on the nearer of the
two-seaters and, firing forty rounds at him from the side, managed
to shoot him down. I then went straight at the four scouts, opening
fire on one that was coming straight head-on. He swerved slightly at
the last, and flashed by me. I ducked away into a cloud to consider
the situation for a moment, but in the mist, in my excitement, I lost
control of my machine and fell in a spinning nose-dive for quite a
distance. When I flattened out at last, the enemy scouts had flown
away, but there beneath me, still slowly spinning to his fate, was
my second two-seater. Three of the missing scouts now appeared some
distance above me. I decided it was not a very healthy spot, and made
away for home, perfectly content with having added two more Hun scalps
to my score.
[Illustration:
Canadian Official Photograph
“Archie” at work.]
It was great flying-weather, and next day I had four fights in
forty-five minutes. I could have had more, but had to return for want
of fuel and ammunition. First of all, I spotted two of my favourite
two-seaters doing their daily observations, some three miles on the
German side of the lines. I was very careful now about the way I
approached these people, and went at it in a more or less scientific
manner. Climbing to just under the top of a cloud, where I was more
or less invisible, I watched them carefully for five whole minutes as
they went back and forth on their beat, and I carefully figured out
just where I could catch them when they were nearest our lines. I also
kept a very close eye on some enemy fighting patrols lurking in the
distance. Picking a moment when they were well away, I flew over some
more sheltering clouds, then came down and dashed at the two Huns. I
managed to get twenty rounds into the nearer one, and pretty good shots
they were, too, but nothing seemed to happen. At least nothing happened
to the Hun, but something went wrong with my engine, and fearing it
would fail me altogether, I broke off the fight and made for home.
Just after I made our lines, the engine began running perfectly,
so I went back for my two-seaters. Only one of them remained. This
convinced me that the other machine had been hit badly enough to make
him descend. The one left behind was very wary, and I saw I could not
get within two miles of him. So I gave him up as a bad job, and flew
up and down the lines until I discovered another pair of two-seaters.
These also proved to be shy and I chased them well back into their
own country. It is discouraging work, and very aggravating, to chase
machines that will not fight. For my part, I find that I get in a
tremendous temper and am very apt to run unnecessary risks when I meet
another enemy. It is a case of anything to relieve one’s feelings.
The last twenty minutes of the three-quarters of an hour were spent
first in stalking an enemy scout, that also escaped; then the two
machines I had previously attacked in my second fight, some minutes
before. But again I was unable to get within close range of them,
although I finally flew above and got between them and their own
aerodrome. I dashed at the two head-on, but finished my ammunition
before I had done any damage.
In the afternoon I had three more fights, the first one being very
unsuccessful from my point of view, but certainly a very exciting
affair. I was out with my own patrol, six machines strong, and we
had not been on the lines very long before we met up with a lone Hun
two-seater. From a distance he looked like one of the shy fellows I had
been chasing most of the morning, and I led the patrol straight at him,
quite confident in my own mind that he was going to be an easy victim.
I was convinced of this when at first he appeared inclined to run
away. I opened fire at him at 200 yards, whereupon a marvellous thing
happened. The German pilot turned in a flash and came head-on into the
six of us, opening fire with two guns. Much to our amazement, he flew
right through the centre of our formation. The unexpected audacity of
the Hun caught us entirely off our guard. It was a bad bit of work for
us to let him go right through us, and we were all deeply disgusted.
We turned on the fellow with all the fury there was in us, but he
was quite ready for us. We seemed to be fighting very badly, and the
honours were not coming our way. The fight lasted about three minutes,
and during that time I, for one, was caught badly by the German. While
trying to correct a stoppage in my gun, he turned on me and got in a
very fierce burst of fire, some of the bullets passing close to my
body. He also got one of the others a few seconds later trying to do
the same thing, and then, to cap the climax, he turned away, broke off
the combat, and escaped as free as a bird, with probably only a few
bullet-holes in his machine. He must have been a very fine pilot and
a very brave man, for he put up a wonderful fight, and I have not the
slightest hesitation in saying he probably enjoyed it much more than we
did.
A little later I was flying around when I saw dead beneath me a
green-and-black machine, with huge black crosses painted on it. It
was one of the new type of enemy scouts, and, as I later discovered,
had a very good man piloting it. I dived at him, but he did a great
turn, climbing at the same time, and by a clever manœuvre managed to
get directly behind me. I had a hard time getting rid of him, as he had
me in a very awkward position, and every second for several minutes I
expected that one of his bullets which were passing close by me would
find its mark.
But even in a perilous time like this my sense of humour would out, and
I thought of a verse from “The Lobster Quadrille”:
“Won’t you walk a little faster?”
Said a whiting to a snail;
“There’s a porpoise close behind me,
And he’s treading on my tail!”
I did not like that Hun porpoise at all, and he was treading on my tail
like the very shadow of Death itself. However, he made a slight mistake
on one of our turns, and a few seconds later I got into a position
where the fight began anew on rather different terms. For several
minutes we flew around in a circle, both getting in occasional bursts
of fire. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some scarlet German machines
approaching, so I snatched at an opportunity that suddenly appeared and
escaped.
A few minutes later, on returning to that spot, I saw that the Hun
scouts had found another one of our machines by itself, and were
all attacking it. So I came down from above and created a momentary
diversion by opening fire with my last ten rounds, and thus gave the
British machine a chance to escape. Our pilot slid speedily out of the
fray.
We were up late that night attending a show given for the squadron by a
travelling troupe of concert people from the Army Service Corps. It was
past midnight when I got to bed, and I was up again at four, having an
early-morning job on hand. I will never forget the orderly who used to
wake me in those days. He positively enjoyed it.
After a cup of hot tea and a biscuit, four of us left the ground
shortly after five. The sun in the early mornings, shining in such
direct rays from the east, makes it practically impossible to see
in that direction, so that these dawn adventures were not much of a
pleasure. It meant that danger from surprise was very great, for the
Huns, coming from the east with the sun at their back, could see us
when we couldn’t see them. At any rate, one doesn’t feel one’s best at
dawn, especially when one has had only four hours’ sleep. This was the
case on this bright May morning, and to make matters worse there was
quite a ground mist. The sun, reflecting on this, made seeing in any
direction very difficult.
We had been doing a patrol up and down the line for an hour and a
quarter, at a very high altitude where it was cruelly cold, so I
decided to lead the patrol down lower. There did not seem to be an
enemy in the air, and for a moment I think my vigilance was relaxed.
I had begun to dream a bit, when suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire
awakened me to the fact that there was a war on. Not even taking time
to look from whence it all came, I pulled my machine up and turned
it like lightning, looking over my shoulder during the whirl. This
instinctive manœuvre saved my life. An enemy machine, painted a
beautiful silver, was coming vertically down at me firing. He just
missed me with his bullets, and, “zooming” up again, he made a second
dive. This time I pulled my machine back, and with my nose to the sky,
I fired at the Hun as he came down. I then flew sidewise and evaded
him that way. It had been a clear case of surprise so far as I was
concerned, and I had a very narrow squeak from disaster.
Altogether, there were five Huns in the attacking force, against the
four of us. We were flying in diamond formation, and the pilot bringing
up our rear had seen the Huns just before the attack, but not in time
to warn us. Counting the five enemy pilots, he wondered which one
of us was going to be attacked by two Huns instead of one? The next
moment he saw the Germans split up as they dived at us, and he was the
unfortunate one to draw the two. It was a lucky thing for the rest of
us, taken wholly by surprise, that we each had but a single machine to
deal with. Our rear-guard was better prepared, and although we all had
our troubles, we managed to clear away without injury.
Next day we had rather a dramatic touch. After the morning’s work we
were sitting at luncheon and the second course had just been served,
when a telephone message came through that two enemy machines were
at work on the lines. They were directing artillery fire of several
hostile batteries on some of our important points. The request came
through from the front line to send somebody out at once and drive the
undesirables away. Talk about Wellington at the battle of Waterloo!
This had that beaten in every way. We felt like a lot of firemen, and
in a very few minutes after we got the message another pilot and I were
out over the trenches. Five minutes later we were engaged in deadly
combat with the two enemy machines. They had seen us as we approached.
We were hungry and were anxious to get back to our muttons. So there
was no shilly-shallying about the fight--it was a case of going in
and finishing it in the shortest possible order. So the two of us
waded in side by side, opening fire on the rear enemy. With our first
burst of fire, it dived on its nose, did a couple of turns as it fell,
and finally crashed into a field beside the river. We then turned our
attention to Hun No. 2, but he was a mile away by this time and winging
it for home as fast as ever he could. We were willing to waste ten
minutes more away from the festive board to have a go at him, but he
showed no sign of returning, and we streaked home to our interrupted
meal. It had all been very short and sweet, and most successful.
I had now come to the conclusion that to be successful in fighting in
the air, two things were required above all others. One was accuracy in
shooting, and the second was to use one’s head and take no unnecessary
risks. Consequently my plans from about this time forward were to
take a minimum of risks, and whenever things looked at all doubtful
or bad, immediately to make my escape and wait patiently for another
opportunity. The patience part in carrying out this campaign was
the hardest, but I managed to control myself, and found it much more
effective than constantly blundering into danger like a bull in a
china-shop.
For instance, one day I saw a single enemy scout flying at a tremendous
altitude. I climbed up carefully some distance from him, and got
between him and the sun; then, waiting until he was heading in exactly
the opposite direction, I came down with tremendous speed and managed
to slip underneath him without even being seen. I could make out each
mark on the bottom of his machine as I crept closer and closer. My gun
was all ready, but I withheld its fire until I came to the range I
wanted--inside of 20 yards. It was rather delicate work flying so close
under the swift Hun, but he had no idea that I was in existence, much
less sitting right below him. I carefully picked out the exact spot
where I knew the pilot was sitting, took careful aim, and fired. Twenty
tracer bullets went into that spot. The machine immediately lurched to
one side and fell.
I had quickly to skid my machine to one side to avoid being hit by the
falling Hun. After he had passed me a little way, I saw him smoking.
Then he burst into flames. That pilot never knew what happened to him.
Death came to him from nowhere.
Shortly after this, learning by accident that a patrol from another
squadron was going across to take photographs, I offered to accompany
them as escort, and was accepted. The anti-aircraft fire that day was
really terrible. I flew well above the photographers and was more
or less out of reach of the “Archies,” but the other machines were
getting it hammer and tongs. All got through the barrage, however, and
we proceeded to get our pictures. Then we headed straight for home.
About this time I noticed several of the “little red devils” flying
about underneath us, so I watched them carefully, suspecting they were
climbing to attack some of the photography machines. I also began to
climb so as to be practically out of sight in the blue sky, and I
managed to fool them altogether. Two of the devils soon came at one
of our machines, and at the same time I dived into them. One of the
pair turned away, but I managed to get in a good shot at the second
one at 30 yards. He immediately flew out of control, and I watched him
falling for what seemed to be a long time. I was now down to the level
of the photographers and remained with them for the rest of the trip.
The “Archies” gave us another hot greeting as we recrossed the lines. I
kept dodging about as quickly as I could, for the fire was too close to
be pleasant. Shells were bursting everywhere. There was no use turning
to the right, for you would stick your nose into two or three exploding
shells in that direction. And there was no use turning to the left, for
three or four would be bursting there. They seemed to fill every nook
and corner of the air. I was greatly tempted to put my engine full out
and leave the patrol to get home by itself, but I did not. I stuck with
the heavier machines, dodging around them like a young sparrow among a
lot of crows.
The photographic machines were badly hit, and three of them had been
so damaged they could not be used again. My own machine was hit in
several places, and I never looked back upon that volunteer excursion
as one of the pleasant experiences in my young life. This was the last
fighting I had for two weeks, as the next day I went to England on two
weeks’ leave.