All of June was marked by the most perfect weather. The prevailing
strong west winds stopped and a light breeze blew constantly from
the east. Some days there was hardly a stir in the air. From dawn
until sundown there was rarely a cloud in the sky, and although the
heat-waves from the effect of the sun on the earth made flying very
rough when near the ground, the days were wonderful, and we all felt
like kings.
The mornings were very busy, as there were many calls to chase away
hostile aircraft; but the afternoons we generally had to ourselves, and
although it was necessary to stay right on the aerodrome, we found many
amusements there.
The mess was situated on the very edge of the aerodrome and about
twenty yards from a farmhouse, which possessed the most extraordinary
farmyard I have ever seen. There were pigeons by the hundreds, and
all kinds of fowl possible to imagine. A small pond in the middle of
the farmyard afforded exercise and amusement for a flock of ducks. The
raising of pigs, however, seemed to be the farmer’s great specialty,
and to these pigs I owe many amusing hours.
One afternoon, while looking through the farmyard, three of us decided
to capture a large hog and trail it back to our quarters to shoo it
into the room of a friend, who was at the moment sleeping. It was very
easy to get the idea, but for inexperienced people it was a difficult
job to get the porker.
After much mature deliberation we decided upon our victim--the largest
and dirtiest one in the farmyard. It was lying half-buried in the mud
near the pond, so with a few small pebbles we woke it up and frightened
it on to dry land. Then began the chase. Two or three times we managed
to corner it, but with a series of grunts and squeals it would charge
one of us and make a clean get-away. Finally, seeing no other course
open, we drove it into a small pig-pen which had only one outlet, an
opening with a door covering it up to about 3 feet high. Opening the
door, we shooed the pig in. It seemed to have no objection, and after
it went one of my comrades with a rope. I carefully closed the door and
bolted it from the outside, so that the pig could not force it open.
Then, peering over the top, I witnessed a remarkable scene. The hog
was now desperate and tearing around in a circle, squealing for all it
was worth. My companion with the rope was trying to fix a noose on one
of the hind legs. In doing so the pig kicked him, and turning, nearly
knocked him over as it rushed past. The next phase was a cry of “Open
the door and let me out.” The airman was as badly frightened as the
hog. Suddenly, with an extra squeal, our supposed victim made a leap up
the door and, firmly fastening fore legs on to the top of it, worked up
like a fat gymnast and fell over on the outside. By this time we were
all laughing so hard we could not interfere, and the pig got away.
Refusing to be beaten, we employed the services of a small French boy
to help us, and he sneaked up behind another huge pig and fastened
the rope to a hind leg. I then took hold of it to drive it home, but
the poor beast, upon learning that he was tied up, had no intention of
giving in, and immediately started away at a furious gallop, dragging
me after it. Once around the farmyard we went, and half again, before I
tripped on a stone and fell flat, and this pig also escaped. You see, I
was having no luck with Huns.
Again the French boy came to our rescue and secured Mr. Pig, showing us
how to drive it properly. This we did, and managed in the course of the
next three-quarters of an hour to get the pig as far as the officers’
quarters. To drive him in was a difficult matter, but with numerous
assistants and much noise and shouting he finally entered, but, of
course, the sleeping man had been awake long since. However, we got the
pig into his room, where he was standing in his pyjamas, and to see a
brave man frightened is a rare sight, but the rest of us had the chance
then.
We took the pig into the mess to show him about, putting him in a
little cage made of the fire-fender. He seemed quite satisfied here for
a moment, then, deciding that he would like to get away, stuck his nose
under the edge of the fire-fender, heaved it over his back, and with a
disgusted grunt walked out. Feeling that he had earned his freedom, we
let him go.
Every afternoon after that we found much fun out of the different
animals in the farmyard. The French people were as pleased as we were
until some of their ducks stopped laying, when, of course, we made good
the value of the eggs that came not, and a great many more that would
never have come.
One afternoon we secured three ducks and a lot of paint. One duck we
painted with circles around it of red, white, and blue, just like the
Allied markings on our machine. Of the other two we painted one red
and one bright blue. They did not seem to appreciate it, but they were
distinguished-looking ducks until about two months later, when they
began to moult. Then one would see wandering through the grass a weird
sight looking like a moth-eaten bird, a dirty scarlet in some places
and a dirty white in others. It would be a horrible sight close to, but
from a distance quite pretty, resembling some bird of paradise.
These ducks we tried hard to train, trying to teach them to walk on the
ground in formations the same as we flew in the air. They were not very
adept pupils, however, and, instead of walking at correct distances
apart, would keep looking behind at us, and jostling into the men on
the right and left.
One afternoon we got as many as sixteen ducks, and after giving them a
good luncheon, by way of celebration for their outing, we put them on
the roof of the mess, where they all sat in a stately row, quacking in
spasms.
These incidents, though simple to tell now, at that time afforded us
the greatest amusement, and as we were in no way cruel to the animals,
the French people who owned them did not seem to mind.
However, perhaps one day we carried it a little far, as we tried to
find the effect of alcohol upon the ducks. This was most amusing with
two or three, because, although they did not like the first drop of it,
when they had been forced to swallow that, they eagerly cried for more.
Their return home was a ludicrous sight, sitting down on the ground
every minute or two, and always walking in a “beaucoup” zigzag course,
as the French would say. Once we got hold of the head drake of the
flock, and, imagining him to be able to stand a little more than the
rest, gave him a drop too much, with the result that he unfortunately
died. It took quite a bit of broken French and more expressive French
notes to reconcile the owner to his loss, but after a long and painful
conversation of nearly half an hour he was in a better humour and,
incidentally, a richer man. With that our attention to the ducks
ceased, although by this time three-quarters of the flock had been
painted various hues.
We now returned to the pigs, and found much fun with the smaller ones.
These also were painted, and we always referred to their different
parts in aeronautical terms, such as calling their legs their
“under-carriage” and their bodies their “fuselage.”
One little pig we had was a most successful picture. His legs and the
under-part of his body were all painted scarlet, his nose and tail as
well. On his back were huge red, white, and blue circles. The rest of
his body was touched with red, white and blue, his ears being blue. It
was very good paint, and the result was a beautifully shining, coloured
pig. When he returned that night to the others they stood off and gazed
at him in amazement, and for days would not associate with him. It was
indeed a red-letter day in his existence, as he was certainly THE pig
amongst all pigs.
Using the French boy on another occasion, we again secured a large sow.
Upon her we painted black crosses, a huge black cross on her nose, a
little one on each ear, and a large one on each side. Then on her back
we painted Baron von Richtofen. So that the other pigs would recognize
that she was indeed a leader, we tied a leader’s streamer on her tail.
This trailed for some 3 feet behind her as she walked, and was exactly
the same sort of thing that the leader of a patrol of aeroplanes uses
so that he can be identified.
When the “Baron” returned to the farmyard everything else there
immediately concentrated its attention upon the weird sight. Chickens,
ducks, pigs, and geese all followed the big sow as she walked around.
It was certainly a successful circus for our friend von Richtofen, and
every time she moved around that farmyard she had a good following of
multi-coloured admirers.
Upon the express condition that we would not paint them, the farmer let
us have his rabbits in the afternoon. He must have had over 200, and
we would go in with a blanket and get about twenty-five small ones,
then take them out and drop them in the green grass, where we would sit
around under a tree, and play with them or watch them eat. They were
amusing little things and passed away many hours for us.
However, dogs were our special favourites, so far as pets were
concerned, and every stray dog we could find we would pick up and bring
home. Finally we had a huge collection of them, with a variety of
names ranging from “Kate,” “Rachel,” or “Horace” to “Black Dog” and
“Nigger.”
They were all good dogs, and I remember well when little Kate, whom we
had raised from a puppy, was lost. We all felt very badly for days. She
was reported in the squadron books as “missing,” as she had gone out
and had not returned. Poor Kate! her life had indeed been hard. As a
puppy, her first accident was when she had “crashed” off the top of a
piano, and had broken one of her fore legs. This was no sooner mended
than somebody walked on her when she was sitting in front of the fire,
and broke another. A month later an automobile ran over her on the
road, and broke a third and badly injured her body, so that she was a
little cripple, and hopped along on three legs, although how she ever
used them nobody knows. Her body was all twisted, and she had no good
points except a very charming manner, which made us very fond of her.
“Nigger” was one of my own dogs. One night, returning after having
dined with some other unit, I found “Nigger” outside my hut. He was a
big dog, looking very much like an Airedale, only black. It was pouring
rain and very cold, so I took him in and let him sleep on my bed with
me. He had a most affectionate way about him, and although quite the
smelliest dog I have ever known, it was a pleasure to have him about.
The other dogs each had their good points. Rachel--who was a little
deformed fox-terrier we had picked up on the road simply because she
was the ugliest-looking thing we had ever seen--turned out to be a
wonderful ratter, frequently taking on rats twice as long as she was,
and, although getting badly bitten herself, she would invariably come
out of the scrap victorious. Nobody would claim Rachel, but she got fed
somehow, and also got quite a lot of attention, so she stayed with us.
By way of sports, we played tennis a great deal, and did considerable
riding, two good horses having been lent to the squadron for that
purpose. Then, too, as the place seemed to be infested with rats, we
managed to get together some good ratting parties, and with the help
of some of the dogs had many successful hunts.
Carefully blocking all the holes in the ground, with the exception of
one or two, we would send smoke down one of these, and with a little
preliminary squeal three or four rats would rush out of the other. One
afternoon, inside of half an hour, we caught eighteen rats.
Another sport, and a very good one, was to take a 22-calibre rifle and
try to shoot individual pigeons on the wing. It was a very hard thing
to do and required much practice. Luckily we did not hit too often, as
we paid well for each pigeon we shot down. I remember one afternoon
firing 500 rounds and only hitting one pigeon, and I considered myself
lucky to hit that one. This sport was much encouraged, as it was the
very best practice in the world for the eye of a man whose business it
is to fight mechanical birds in the air.
Every now and again we would be given a day off. This day would be
spent, usually, in either sleeping all day or roaming about the
orchard in silk pyjamas, or else one would go and visit some friends
who possibly were stationed near. It was a great thing, as it always
left us keen for work the next day.