ARRAS
With the beginning of March 1917, the Boche became very active in the
air. The D3 V-strut Albatros appeared in numbers on the 3rd Army front,
and about the same time a squadron of red-painted machines of this
type, known to the R.F.C. as “the Circus,” did a good deal of damage to
British machines and annoyed us very much. One aeroplane in particular,
called the “Pink Lady” on account of an absurd story that it was flown
by a woman--the machine itself was coloured bright red--was often seen
between Arras and Albert. It is thought that the pilot was Freiherr von
Richthofen the elder. This machine it was that, venturing well over
our side of the line on March 6, 1917, crashed an F.E. and went on and
engaged and shot down Evelyn Graves, whose machine caught fire. When
picked up, he was found to have been shot through the head, so that he
was spared the pain of death by burning.
After Evelyn Graves’s death, A. J. L. Scott, of the Sussex Yeomanry,
was appointed to succeed him. He was a flight commander in 43--a
Sopwith two-seater squadron--and was also lame as the result of a
crash during the early part of the war, being the third lame squadron
commander in succession appointed to 60.
Scott took up his appointment on March 10, 1917, about the time that
the aerial offensive precedent to the Arras battle began to develop.
There had been, on the 3rd Army front, a lull during January and
February, and by a lull is meant that pilots were doing one job a day
instead of the two that they were almost certain to be called upon
for when business was good. The casualties lists show this clearly,
as, though E. O. Grenfell and Gilchrist were wounded in December,
there were only two more casualties until Evelyn Graves’s death in
March--R. Hopper, killed on January 11; and E. G. Herbert, wounded on
the 28th. February passed without the loss of a single officer. This
was due mainly to the month of hard frost referred to above, which
kept the Hun machines on the ground. Even when machines did meet in
the air at this time, it was very difficult to get the guns to fire,
so that on several occasions the pilots, after manœuvring round one
another for a while, waved hands and went home. A non-freezing gun-oil
was brought out before the next winter, which put an end to these not
altogether unwelcome interludes to the sterner business. Mention of
Grenfell’s wound calls to mind the occasion on which he received it.
An O.P. (offensive patrol) led by him, and consisting of Caldwell,
Daly, Whitehead, Weedon, and Meintjies, met a two-seater Albatros over
Dainville on our side of the line. All our machines opened fire, and
the Hun hurriedly landed. Grenfell, anxious to get down and claim him,
crashed and broke his leg, while all the other five machines landed,
and three of these also crashed, not so seriously as to injure the
pilots, but enough to prevent them taking off again. Thus the Hun
in one field was flanked by a crashed Nieuport in every adjoining
enclosure, while, to make matters worse, the Boche observer--who,
unlike the pilot, was not wounded--set fire to his machine to prevent
it falling into our hands. The machine shortly exploded, seriously
injuring the observer and several of our own infantry who by that
time were standing by. If these had grasped the situation a little
more quickly they could easily have prevented the destruction of the
machine, which it was important to preserve.
The battle of Arras, as it came to be called, was now imminent, and
would probably have commenced before April 10 but for an unexpected
move on the part of the enemy. On March 30, the first clear day after a
spell of bad weather, the first patrol to land reported thirty or forty
fires in the tract of country east of the Arras-Albert sector. Every
village for ten or fifteen miles back was alight. At first we could
not understand what it meant--for although an R.F.C. squadron knew a
good deal more of what was happening than a battalion in the line,
still we did not always fully comprehend the meanings of the incidents
we reported, which the G.H.Q. Intelligence Staff could, no doubt,
interpret with the help of reports from their numerous other sources of
information.
The German retreat of March 14 came, therefore, as a complete surprise
to us. For, even at this stage of the war, we had become so used to
hearing that the enemy’s _morale_ was undermined, and that their troops
were unwilling to fight, etc., that we had ceased to take much notice
of these stories, the truth of which--for they were true--only became
manifest nineteen months later.
The next two days, the 14th and 15th, were days of stormy weather, in
spite of which patrols were continually sent out to try and ascertain
the depth of the withdrawal and to locate the new German positions. The
rough-and-ready way in which this was done was to fly low until we came
under fire from anti-aircraft guns or rifles and machine guns on the
ground. Molesworth, in a letter, gives quite a graphic account of this
retreat as follows:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_March 1917._
“No luck for me in the Hun line yet, although the beggars seem to
be running on the ground all right.
“Three of us went out the other day, and had the most hectic time.
The clouds were about 3,000 feet and very dense, with gaps here
and there. We crossed the lines and expected to get it pretty hot
from Archie,[7] but, strangely enough, nothing happened. Heading
towards Croisille, we came out of a thick cloud and saw a most
extraordinary sight. For miles around every village was a blazing
mass with smoke columns, like great water-spouts, ascending upwards
to the clouds. Along the roads one could see lines of retreating
men making for the Hindenburg defences, which we could plainly
distinguish owing to the amount of barbed wire entanglements
round them. Suddenly we were met by a perfect tornado of bursting
‘archies,’ and so were forced to turn into a cloud. This cloud was
so thick that we all promptly proceeded to lose ourselves. I looked
at my compass[8] and saw that it was pointing west, so carried on.
At last, after about half an hour’s flying, I found myself alone
in an opening in the clouds. Below me were dozens of shell-holes
filled with water; round about, black clouds and sheets of driving
rain. I knew I was somewhere near the lines, and yet could not
decide in which direction to turn. Trusting to the compass I still
pushed on west, and at last the shell-holes disappeared. Just as
my petrol was giving out I spotted some hangars. There was nothing
for it, so I decided to land. Coming down to about 200 feet I did
a half-circle to get into the wind, and to my utter disgust saw a
large party of Germans on the ground. I therefore made up my mind
that it must be a Hun aerodrome. No machines were out, owing to the
‘dud’ weather, so I landed, jumped out of the machine, seized the
Very pistol, and was just going to fire it into the grid when I
saw, to my amazement, two mechanics in khaki coming across to give
me a hand. I tell you, I have never been so bucked to see anyone in
khaki before. Evidently the party I had seen were German prisoners.
When the old kite had been filled up I pushed off again, and got
home after about an hour’s run. On arrival I heard that the other
two had lost themselves as well, but had managed to get back. In
future I shall take jolly good care to get to know the country
better before playing about in clouds.”
On the 17th and 18th the weather became too bad to fly, and an
“excursion” was organised in tenders to the nearest points of the
old front line, Ransart and Monchy-au-Bois, near Adinfer Wood; this
last-named had been the home of a peculiarly accurate enemy “archie”
gun for many months past. At the latter place skeletons of French
soldiers still hung in the wire, where they had been since September
1915 at least.
The systematic and deliberate devastation of the evacuated country made
a great impression on all our pilots, who were also thrilled to see
the very trenches which the enemy’s troops had occupied only a few
days earlier. It seemed wonderful to see the marks in the muddy sides
of the trenches made by German feet and elbows, and the clips of rifle
cartridges laid on the fire steps by their sentries less than a week
before. Absorbingly interesting, too, to explore their dugouts, and to
trace the routes by which their troops came up into the line from the
rest billets behind. All the roads had been blown up, and every house
in each abandoned village was most efficiently destroyed, except in a
few cases, like Bapaume town hall, where delay action mines had been
prepared.
One of the most impressive sights was the German cemetery, which was
to be found in almost every hamlet, carefully laid out and extremely
carefully tended, with monuments, cement steps, and ornamental shrubs
symmetrically disposed amid the ruins of the houses among which it
stood.
There were souvenirs enough for an army, let alone a squadron, and we
were fortunate when collecting them not to fall into a single “booby
trap,” such as a helmet which exploded when picked up. This expedition
is also described by Molesworth in another letter:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_March 1917._
“The rumour about leave is true, so my turn ought to come in a few
days as my name is next on the list. The weather has been hopeless
lately for aviation. Yesterday some of us decided to go and have a
look at the old Boche trenches. We chose the ones west of Adinfer
Wood, as they were less likely to be mined than those further north.
“Having seized a tender, we pushed off after breakfast towards the
line. We got to our front trenches at about ten o’clock, and left
the tender here, as the road was still in pretty bad repair. No
Man’s Land was dotted about with shell-holes. A few broken stumps
of trees lined the road--war-worn veterans that had stood the
test of battle. (Amongst other souvenirs, I am bringing you back
a walking-stick made from a branch of one of these.) There was a
wood, or what remained of it, to our right front, as this part of
the line had been very quiet, and was nothing compared to the utter
desolation of the Somme or ‘Arras’ battle-fields.
“The German system of trenches consisted of thick belts of barbed
wire, behind which was a trench about 10 feet deep, with platforms
and machine-gun emplacements to shoot from. About every 50 yards
or so square openings led down to the underground dugouts. The old
Hun seems to have lived fairly comfortably, as there were beds and
tables here and there, with store-rooms and passages connecting
each dugout.
“We went about collecting souvenirs very gingerly, as warnings of
booby traps were posted up everywhere we went. But luckily no one
was caught out. We managed to collect some tin hats, bombs, Very
pistols, and a few other odds and ends, which we loaded into the
tender.
“I am bringing some of these home.
“Orders have just come through for us to go on another balloon
strafe, so I will finish this when we come back if old Fritz
doesn’t stop me.
* * * * *
“(_Two hours later_)
“Here I am back again, with a Hun and a ‘sausage’[9] added to my
bag. I am fearfully bucked with life, as the Major has just told me
that I have been made a ‘flight commander.’ No time for any more,
as I am just off to have a cheery time with the other lads, who
seem to have done pretty well too.”
That the enemy knew that the British intended to attack was evident,
because the numbers of the aforementioned V-strut Albatros scouts had
obviously increased on this front. The performance of these machines
was considerably better than the Nieuport, and they had two Spandau
guns firing through the propeller; and, moreover, the circus of red
machines led, so they said, by Richthofen, was functioning freely
throughout the month of March 1917. It is perhaps unnecessary to repeat
that the offensive in the air commences always before the push on the
ground, and though the latter was timed to commence on April 10, 60 had
a hard month to go through before this date arrived. We were short of
scout squadrons at this time, and though 48, the first Bristol fighter
squadron, and 56, another new squadron equipped with the S.E.5s, had
arrived from England, these were to be kept as a surprise for the
Boche, and were not to cross the line until “zero day,” as the day
fixed for the first assault was called. With 56 Ball had come out again
from England, and it was during this battle that he was killed, on May
7, 1917, after a severe engagement in which Meintjies, who also had
been posted to 56 after a period of rest at home, was badly wounded;
the latter is one of the best pilots, and almost the most popular
officer, 60 ever had.
The flight commanders at this time, mid-March 1917, were: K. L.
Caldwell, who when on leave fell sick and did not return till June. He
was a New Zealander, a great friend of Meintjies, and was beloved by
everyone. He was a curious instance of a fine and fearless fighter,
but a bad shot at this time, who in consequence did not get many Huns;
he afterwards remedied this defect and made a great reputation both
in 60 and when commanding 74 in 1918. The other two were Alan Binnie,
an Australian who had fought with the 9th Division in Gallipoli, and
Black, who went sick and was subsequently posted away.
At the beginning of this month (on the day before Graves’s death, to be
exact) W. A. Bishop joined. The son of a well-known family in Montreal,
he had passed through the Royal Military College and had joined the
Canadian Cavalry, coming over with his regiment with the first Canadian
contingent. On arrival in England he very soon applied to join the
Flying Corps, and was posted as an observer to No. 7 Squadron. After a
tour of duty in France in this capacity he went home to learn to fly,
and was posted to us almost as soon as he had got his wings.
[Illustration: MOLESWORTH, BISHOP, AND CALDWELL, APRIL 1917.]
[Illustration: BISHOP, CALDWELL, AND YOUNG, APRIL 1917.]
It was curious to notice how quick the mechanics of the squadron were
to recognise Bishop’s quality. Only a few days after his arrival at the
squadron the sergeants gave a musical evening to which the officers
were invited, and it was observed that one of the very few toasts
which were proposed by them was that of Bishop’s health, although at
this time he had only destroyed one enemy machine, and none of his
fellow-officers had, as yet, any idea of the brilliant career that was
in store for him. This occasion, on which he got his first Hun, was
remarkable for the fact that his engine failed, and forced him to land
very near the front-line trenches. He only, in fact, just succeeded in
scraping over. The failure of the engine was due to his inexperience in
allowing it to choke while diving. Having landed in a very unhealthy
spot, he got rapidly into a dugout occupied by some field gunners,
and, with their help, moved his machine every half-hour to prevent the
German artillery shelling it. During the night he borrowed a toothbrush
from the gunner officer, and with this contrived to clean the sparking
plugs of his engine. Having heard nothing of him, the squadron had
already reported him missing, when he succeeded in getting a telephone
message through to say that he was safe.
Our Corps machines, the eyes of the artillery, were being shot down
every day in the valley of the Scarpe, despite our efforts and those
of 29 (also with Nieuports) and 11, an F.E.2B. squadron. The ground
on both sides of the river was littered with B.E.s. The scouts, whose
losses were much heavier, fell usually far over the lines in hostile
territory.
The work at this time still consisted mainly of offensive patrols
(whose business it was to operate east of the artillery machines and to
keep the air clear of hostile scouts), reconnaissances, and sometimes
escorts to bombing and photographic patrols. On April 7 M. B. Knowles,
C. S. Hall, and G. O. Smart--the latter was originally an N.C.O. pilot
who had but lately been commissioned for gallantry in the Field--all
failed to return after an engagement with a much superior force of the
enemy. At this time it was very hard to get all the photographs wanted
by the army owing to the enemy’s activity in the air, and when special
information about some point was required, 60 was sometimes given the
job of taking the photographs. It was thought that the Huns would not
expect a scout to be doing photography, and they were not over-keen,
even at that time, on attacking a scout formation. It was no easy task
this, to fly a sensitive single-seater, look out for Huns, and expose
plates at the same time, but it was done with some measure of success.
Here follows Molesworth’s description of a fight:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_April 1917._
“A Hun at last!
“We started out this morning, led by our new squadron commander,
who seems one of the best. Our late C.O. was brought down in
flames, this side of the lines, in a scrap. He was a very great
loss to the squadron, and we buried him, with full military
honours, in a little village cemetery near-by.
“There were five of us on the patrol, my position being the rear
one on the left. We got to the lines at about 10,000 feet, and
crossed them, making towards Douai. Soon we sighted a small patrol
of Sopwith[10] two-seaters, north-east of Arras, flying towards the
lines as hard as they could go, with a large pack of Huns chasing
them. The latter managed to get the last machine in flames, the
poor devils going down burning like a furnace.
“The Major immediately dived for the Huns, and I knew that I was in
for my first real big scrap. The leader saw us coming, and turned
east with his nose well down; however, we soon caught him up and
started scrapping. Then ensued the usual dog-fight.[11] I managed
to get well behind a Hun two-seater which was a little way out of
the scrap. He didn’t seem to mind me plugging him a bit, and went
calmly on. In my excitement I lost my head, and started spinning
madly to the ground. Coming out, I saw an Albatros scout[12] about
50 yards ahead, so loosed off at him and saw him spin[13] and crash
on the ground, much to my delight.
“Having lost the rest of the formation[14] I headed for home,
and found out, on landing, that we had accounted for three Huns.
The two-seater which I had been trying to worry was known as the
‘Flying Pig,’ owing to the likeness of the observer to that rotund
animal.
“Talking about casualties, we have had a pretty hot time the last
few days. However, twenty Huns have been accounted for during this
time, and many more sent down out of control,[15] so we hope to put
up a record in the R.F.C.”
From the last week in March to the last week in May our losses were
very severe (see Appendix II); in fact, counting those who went
sick and those injured in crashes on our side of the line, we lost
thirty-five officers during these eight weeks, almost twice the
strength of the squadron, which consisted of eighteen pilots and
the squadron commander. One week-end in April, the 14th, 15th, and
16th, was especially unlucky, as on Saturday “A” Flight went out six
machines strong (full strength) and only one returned. Binnie was
leading, and was hit in the shoulder when trying to extricate two of
his patrol from a cloud of enemies. The blood from his wound spurted
all over the nacelle, obscuring the instruments, and in addition his
machine caught fire. He extinguished the flames and then fainted when
gliding homeward. The machine must have turned west after this, for he
woke up in a little park in Lens, having hit the ground while still
unconscious, without further serious injuries. He lost his arm at the
shoulder, and was a prisoner till the spring of 1918, when he was
repatriated, and immediately commenced flying again. He was a very
great loss to the squadron, as he was a first-class flight commander,
who had already destroyed several Huns and would have got a lot more.
On the next day, Sunday, “B” Flight, five strong, lost two pilots: one,
Milot, a French-Canadian Major, who was killed; the other, Hervey, who
had already gained two Military Crosses as an observer and promised
very well, was forced to land on the other side by anti-aircraft fire.
On this patrol Bishop, who had just been promoted captain, got two Huns
and a balloon, having had five or six combats. On Monday “C” Flight
(Bishop’s) went out without the flight commander, and only one, Young,
returned; this meant that in three days ten out of eighteen pilots
were lost, and had to be replaced from England by officers who had
never flown this particular type of machine, because there were none in
England. Our new machines were collected from Paris, and the chance of
a trip to fly one back was eagerly looked forward to by every pilot.
Some of these new machines were not well built, and began--to add to
our troubles--to break up in the air. Lieut. Grandin’s fell to bits
while diving on a hostile two-seater, though this may have been due to
injury from machine-gun fire. Caffyn’s and Brackenbury’s collapsed
when practising firing at ground targets on the aerodrome, and the
former was killed; while Ross’s wings folded upwards when pulling out
of a dive after firing a burst; he was badly injured, but has since
recovered. A good show was that put up by Penny, who, when his left
lower plane came off while diving on a Hun, contrived to fly the
machine back and to land at one of our aerodromes, and quietly reported
to the squadron commander as follows: “My lower plane came off, so I
thought I had better land. Sorry I left the patrol, sir.” The reason
for these accidents was that badly seasoned wood was being used by the
French manufacturers, who also allowed a lot of little screws to be
inserted in the main spars, thus weakening them considerably. H.Q. were
informed and the matter was put right.
During this battle the R.F.C. began to take a hand in the ground
operations by machine-gunning support troops during an attack. “C”
Flight led by Fry, who was given an M.C. for this, did well on May
11, by shooting up the enemy in a cutting east of the chemical works
at Roeux, in the valley of the Scarpe. These pilots came back, having
exhausted their ammunition, refilled with petrol and 300 rounds, and
dashed off again to the chemical works without waiting for orders. One
of them, E. S. Howard, who was killed seven days later on an escort to
machines doing photography, thus described this adventure:
“_May 13, 1917._
“On Friday night the infantry made an attack east of Fampoux and we
were told off to assist them. When they went over the top, we dived
down and emptied our machine guns into the Hun trenches. Our people
put up a wonderful barrage; it was good to see, but not at all
nice to fly over, as the bursts from the shells threw the machines
about. We have just come back from a show, chased four Huns away
over their lines, and then flew round keeping our eye on them so
they could not come back.”
This “low flying,” as it was called, became more popular with the
higher command, though not with the pilots, as the war went on, and in
fact, during the German offensive of March 1918, it was said to have
very materially helped to stop the Boche advance on the 5th and 3rd
Army fronts.
Hostile balloons also were constantly attacked during April and May,
and Bishop, Ross, Molesworth, and Penny did considerable execution.
Others who were doing well at this time were Langwill, Hall, J.
Elliott, Smart, and F. Bower; the last-named on April 2 pursued, with
his patrol, six hostile scouts a long way east of Douai in a very
strong westerly wind, and though shot through the stomach and with
his intestines hanging out, he flew west and landed his machine near
Chipilly, completely undamaged except from enemy bullets. He died next
day, and his machine was flown back to the squadron without having had
to be repaired by another pilot. A fight as a result of which R. B.
Clark, an Australian, was killed on April 30 is well described below:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_April 1917._
“We are all feeling rather down in our luck to-day, as news has
come through that one of our chaps has ‘gone west’ in hospital. He
put up an awfully ‘stout’ show against the Hun.
“It was on one of our big balloon shows. He was attacked by three
Hun scouts just after firing at the ‘gas-bag.’ He scrapped them all
the way back to the lines, crashing one of them, and holding the
other two off. As he crossed the trenches, one of them plugged him
in the petrol tank, and his grid caught on fire. As he was only
about 50 feet up, he managed to get her down in the shell-holes,
or rather a strip of ground between them, without burning himself
badly. Luck was all against him, however, as he just tippled over
into a trench at the end of his run. A few men who were in an
advanced dressing-station near-by quickly came to his rescue, and
hauled him clear of the burning wreckage, but the poor devil was by
this time badly singed about the legs. He insisted on giving his
report before allowing the doctor to attend to his burns, and the
men told me afterwards that he was extremely plucky.
“The day after this occurred, I was detailed to find the machine
and see if it could be salved. The weather was absolutely vile. We
started for Arras with a tender and trailer,[16] got there about
noon, and commenced making inquiries as to where the machine had
crashed. One place was pointed out to us where there was an old
‘quirk,’[17] which had obviously been brought down doing artillery
work. Then we were sent off in another direction, only to find the
remains of an old Boche two-seater. At last, after an hour’s wading
in trenches with mud up to our knees and shells bursting near us,
we arrived at the advanced dressing-station. Here we were given a
full description of the fine way in which our pilot had fought.
“The machine, needless to say, was a total wreck, and so, after
a cup of tea with a drop of gin in it to warm us up, we pushed
off home, followed by some heavy shells which we knew meant the
commencement of the ‘evening hate.’”[18]
Hardly a day passed during April and May without Bishop destroying
at least one Hun machine, and on June 2, 1917, he visited an enemy
aerodrome near Cambrai--a long way over--by himself at dawn and found
seven machines on the ground with their engines running. They began
to take off and he destroyed four, returning safely with his machine
considerably shot about by machine-gun fire from the ground. For this
exploit, after three months of remarkably fine work, he was awarded
the Victoria Cross. Others who were prominent during the battles of
Arras and Vimy Ridge were: Pidcock, “Red” Lloyd and “Black” Lloyd (the
latter, a fine officer, was unfortunately shot down and killed), and
Fry (who drove down a Hun on our side and found in the pilot’s pocket a
ticket for a box in Cambrai theatre dated the day before). Molesworth
also was doing well; he afterwards went to 29 on a second tour of duty
with the R.F.C. in France (he had already seen service overseas with
the infantry), where he did most brilliantly during the winter of
1917-18. His account of a successful balloon attack is given here in
full:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_April 1917._
“Still more excitement! I tackled my first balloon yesterday, and
consider it even more difficult than going for a Hun; at least, I
think one gets a hotter time. We had received orders a week ago
that all balloons _had_ be to driven down or destroyed, as they
were worrying our infantry and gunners during the advance.
“We had been practising firing the Le Prieur rockets[19] for some
time--a most weird performance. One dives at a target on the
ground, and when within about fifty yards of it presses a button
on the instrument boards Immediately there is a most awful hissing
noise, which can be heard above the roar of the engine, and six
huge rockets shoot forward from the struts each side towards the
target.
“We did not think these were much of a success, owing to the
difficulty of hitting anything, so decided to use tracer[20] and
Buckingham bullets instead. These are filled with a compound of
phosphorus and leave a long trail of smoke behind them.
“On the morning we were detailed to attack the balloons the weather
was so ‘dud’ that none of them were up, although we went across
twice to have a look. We got a pretty hot time from Archie, as
we had to fly below the clouds, which were about 2,000 feet, and
dodge about all over the shop. Next day the weather cleared and we
decided to carry out our strafe.
“We all went off individually to the various balloons which had
been allotted us. I am glad to say most of us managed to do them
down. I personally crossed the trenches at about 10,000 feet,
dropping all the time towards my sausage, which was five or six
miles away. It was floating in company with another at about 3,000
feet, and reminded me of that little song, ‘Two Little Sausages.’
“I started a straight dive towards them, and then the fun began.
Archie got quite annoyed, following me down to about 5,000 feet,
where I was met by two or three strings of flaming onions,[21]
luckily too far off to do any damage. Then came thousands of
machine-gun bullets from the ground--evidently I was not going
to get them without some trouble. I zigzagged about a bit, still
heading for the balloons, and when within two hundred yards opened
fire. The old Huns in the basket got wind up and jumped out in
their parachute. Not bothering about them, I kept my sight on one
of the balloons and saw the tracer going right into it and causing
it to smoke.
“As our armament consists of a Lewis gun,[22] I had to now change
drums. This is a pretty ticklish job when you have about ten
machine guns loosing off at you, not to mention all the other
small trifles! However, I managed to do it without getting more
than half a dozen or so bullet-holes in my grid.
“By this time the second balloon was almost on the floor. I gave it
a burst, which I don’t think did any damage. The first sausage was
in flames, so I buzzed off home without meeting any Huns. On the
way back a good shot from Archie exploded very near my tail, and
carried away part of the elevator.[23] Don’t you think this is the
limit for anyone who wants excitement? I must say I prefer it to
the infantry, as one gets decent food and a comfortable bed every
night, if you are lucky enough to get back.
“I am afraid these letters are awfully full of my own ‘shows,’
but none of the other chaps will tell me about theirs, so I can’t
describe them to you; however, it’s much the same for all of us.
Please forgive me, and don’t think it’s swank!
“There are rumours that leave is going to start again soon, so I
hope to see you in a few weeks.”
One day in early June General Allenby, then commanding the 3rd Army,
was to inspect the squadron at nine o’clock in the morning. The
squadron commander had gone out by himself in his Nieuport at dawn,
unshaved, in pyjamas, a Burberry, bedroom slippers and snowboots, a
costume which many of us used to affect on the dawn patrol. The line
was unusually quiet that morning, so he ventured almost to Douai,
and on turning west saw a formation of eight or nine machines over
Vis-en-Artois, near the front line, well below him at about 8,000 feet.
They turned, and the sun glinting on the fuselage showed a bright flash
of red. This meant that they were Huns, and not only Huns but “the
Circus.” Having the advantage of height, and as the formation was very
near the line, he determined to try and do a little damage. He flew
towards them from the east and from the sun, and diving on the top
machine, fired a burst and pulled sharply up, being careful to retain
his height. After a few dives of this kind without doing much apparent
damage, an S.E.5 patrol of 56, which had seen the scrap, bustled up,
and a very pretty “dog-fight” ensued, in the course of which one of
the Huns detached himself from the mêlée and appeared to be going
home. This was the Nieuport’s opportunity, so, hardening his heart, he
dived right in, making good shooting. The Albatros appeared to take no
notice, but flew straight on. (In parenthesis it may be observed that
this is a good sign, as it usually means the pilot is dead, for if the
opposing machine begins to perform frantic evolutions, the pilot is as
a rule very much alive, and not in the least “out of control.”) Flushed
with excitement, the Nieuport man put the stick (control column)
between his knees, and going down on the tail of the Albatros, began
to put a fresh drum of ammunition on to his Lewis gun, with which alone
this type of machine was armed. While thus busily engaged something
made him turn his head to see about twenty yards behind him the white
nose of a grim-looking Albatros. Swifter than thought the Nieuport was
wrenched to the right, and even as she turned the Albatros’s Spandau
guns spat out a burst, which riddled the engine and cut the bottom
out of the petrol tank, allowing all the remaining petrol to pour
on to the pilot’s feet. The height of both machines at this moment
was about 5,000 feet, the locality just east of Monchy-le-Preux,
and but for the attentions of the Boche machine it would have been
comparatively easy for the Nieuport to glide back to Arras and perch
on one of our advanced landing grounds, or on the race-course; but
with a bloodthirsty Hun on one’s tail and a dead engine, the problem,
however, was not such a simple one. Twisting and turning like a snipe,
the Nieuport began to descend, taking care to make his turns as much
as possible towards our side of the line. Mercifully the wind was from
the east. Close behind followed the Albatros, firing short bursts at
frequent intervals, but always wide, because it is not easy to hit a
machine whose pilot knows you are there. It was a stout Hun, however,
who would not be denied, but continued the chase down to 300 feet, a
few hundred yards west of Monchy-le-Preux, when he suddenly turned and
flew home to report, no doubt, a British machine destroyed. With a
gasp of relief the Nieuport pilot turned his attention to the ground,
and, seeing nothing but shell-holes beneath him, made up his mind that
a crash was inevitable. Suddenly a strip of ground about a hundred
yards long and very narrow, but free from shell-holes, caught his eye,
and, putting in a couple of “S” turns, he made a good slow landing. The
machine ran on and had almost stopped when a shell-hole appeared, and
she ran very gently into it without doing any damage whatever.
A couple of dusty gunners walked up and before speaking produced a
packet of Woodbines, one of which the Nieuport pilot greedily took
and lit. Inquiries showed that an advanced anti-aircraft section was
near-by, where the officer-in-charge gave the airman breakfast and,
better still, produced a telephone, with the help of which he got into
communication with his squadron, and ordered a car to come straight
through Arras and up the Cambrai road. It was getting late, and an Army
Commander’s inspection was not a thing to be treated lightly. Further
inquiries disclosed an Artillery Ammunition Column in a little valley
who lent him a horse and an orderly. There was no saddle, but the pilot
climbed gratefully on to the animal, which had very rough paces and a
hard mouth, and set out towards the road. In a short time he met the
car and drove furiously through Arras and back to Le Hameau, only to
see Allenby, the R.F.C. Brigade Commander (General J. R. Higgins), and
George Pretyman arriving at the station. His costume being hardly that
prescribed for inspections, the wretched officer dived into his hut,
did the quickest shave on record, and timidly approached the glittering
cortège.
Everyone was furious with him except General Allenby, who was rather
amused and very kind. He got, however, a well-deserved and proper
“telling-off” from the Brigadier and Wing Commander, and saw the troupe
depart with a feeling of profound relief.
The account of this scrap has been given at some length, but it should
not be assumed that it was in any way exceptional. It should be
remembered that during the squadron’s history there have been about
1,500 distinct combats in the air, all of which deserve a detailed
description. Within the limits of a book of this kind, however, it
cannot be done.
[Illustration: THE HARD TENNIS-COURT AT FILESCAMP FARM, MAY 1917.]
[Illustration: 60 SQUADRON’S NIEUPORT SCOUTS LINED UP IN THE SNOW AT LE
HAMEAU AERODROME, NEAR ARRAS JANUARY 1917.]
We made a hard tennis-court in Tetus’s orchard with red _pierre de
fosse_ from the Bruay mines, and discovered that Caldwell, Molesworth,
Horn, and both Lloyds were all good tennis players. With the beginning
of June things quietened down on the 3rd Army front. Colonel Pretyman,
O.C. 13th Wing, put the squadron on to wireless interception. This term
needs, perhaps, a little explanation. Everyone knows, of course, that
both German and British artillery observation machines were fitted with
wireless sets, by means of which the pilots corrected the shooting of
the gunners for whom they were observing.
These wireless messages were “tapped” by our compass stations, and it
was discovered that two of these stations could get a cross-bearing
on any machines registering for the enemy artillery. By linking up
the compass station with an aerodrome by telephone, it was possible
to send off a patrol of scouts to chase off or destroy the artillery
machine as soon as he began to send down fire signals, i.e. as soon as
he was actually directing the fire of the enemy batteries. This was
useful, though exhausting work for pilots; for the Hun, who did his
registration chiefly in the morning, when the sun was behind him in the
east, usually saw the scouts coming before they saw him, and turned and
dived three or four miles back behind his own lines, where it was very
difficult to attack him, even if he was visible, which usually he was
not, as our scouts were looking for a machine at five or six thousand
feet in a certain place, whereas it was probably at that moment at a
height of 1,500 feet some five miles east of the bearing given. As
soon, therefore, as the scouts, seeing nothing, turned back to return
to the aerodrome, the Hun swung up again and resumed his registration.
The British pilots, on returning to their aerodrome, would find an
irate squadron commander who had just got a telephone message from the
compass station to say that V.K., or whatever the call sign used by
that particular machine might be, was working again quite happily, and,
“What the devil was 60’s patrol doing, anyhow?” Off the wretched patrol
had to go again, only to go through the same performance. It is only
fair to say, however, that they did get a good many two-seaters in this
way, though the main result was, perhaps, seen rather in the enormously
decreased amount of artillery observation the Germans were enabled to
do, than in hostile artillery machines shot down by us.
This work, however, was genuinely exhausting, as in order efficiently
to answer the compass calls, as they were termed, three or four pilots
always had to be standing by to leap into their machines and be off the
ground, in formation, inside of two minutes. Nevertheless, they became
extraordinarily smart at this manœuvre, and answered to the hunting
horn--doubled blasts of which were the signal at that time--as keenly
as a fashionable pack of foxhounds. Only those who know how irritating
a thing an aero engine can be when you are in a hurry to start can
appreciate the high standard of efficiency attained by 60’s mechanics,
which made it almost a certainty that the 120 seconds limit would not
be exceeded.
The next few paragraphs will show how this manœuvre struck one of the
pilots at this time:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_July 1917_.
“The tennis-court we made three months ago is now in topping
condition, so we decided to get up a tournament amongst ourselves.
Yesterday we drew lots for partners. The unlucky lad who drew me
is a ‘coloured troop,’ that is he hails from South Africa. He is
quite good at the ‘Willies,’[24] and so I think we have got a fair
chance. I expect you wonder where all these weird names come from.
They are invented by one of our flight commanders, who is also a
‘coloured troop’ and one of the leading lights of the squadron. All
jobs are washed out to-day as the weather is ‘dud,’ so two of us
are going over this afternoon to the village near-by to purchase
articles of furniture for the ‘Hôtel de Commerce.’
“You will be pleased to hear that we are getting a new kind of
grid. It is supposed to be a good deal faster than the Hun, and
can dive to 300 miles an hour, so I’m told. We shall probably have
a quiet time while we are getting used to them, and only do ‘line
patrols’ for the first fortnight or so. A French ‘Ace’[25] landed
here to-day; he says the Huns are getting a pretty bad time down
south. Jolly glad I’m not a Hun airman these days, with men up
against me like some of our chaps. Most of them are fairly old
hands at the game now, and we are really beginning to properly
annoy our friends across the way. The work has been fairly hard
lately: two patrols in the morning, one generally at dawn and the
other about noon, with ‘wireless interruption’ in the afternoon.
The latter is rather a strenuous job. This is how we work it: When
a Hun two-seater begins to register on any part of our front, a
telephone message, giving his height and locality, is immediately
sent through to the wireless squadron. Each scout squadron in
the wing takes it in turn. As soon as the Recording Officer[26]
receives the message, he sounds a horn. Three of us who are
standing by in readiness immediately jump into our machines, and
the leader gets hold of the position and height of the Hun. Then
we push off as quickly as possible to the lines, and a sort of
‘hide-and-seek’ begins. We try if possible to hide in the clouds
and approach the Hun when he is off his guard. He, on the other
hand, departs hurriedly into Hunland when he spots us, and as soon
as we go he comes back to carry on his job. We then turn on him
again, but he is off like a flash, and so it goes on until the next
three machines relieve us. It is really quite amusing at times,
and, although we do not often bring our man down, we give him
such a devil of a time that he hasn’t much of it to spare for his
companions on the ground. Our ‘stunt merchant’[27] is good at this
game, and continues to add to his score, seldom coming back without
firing his red light. He works by himself a lot now, preferring to
surprise the Hun by hiding rather than by trying to get him in a
scrap. Wish I could do the same. I always feel so fagged after a
patrol, that I haven’t got the energy or the patience to sit up in
the clouds waiting for a chance to bag a ‘lone Hun.’
“You remember the petrol tank which was so shot up the time I was
brought down? Well, I am having it made into a topping inkstand.
The souvenirs are coming in in fine style, and I hope to have quite
a good collection by the time I see dear old ‘Blighty’ again.”
After the battle had died down the sorely tried pilots were given,
whenever possible, one day’s rest in three, and the following letter
shows that the device was appreciated:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_June 1917._
“It is funny hearing the war again after being on leave so long. We
had quite a good crossing, although I had a deuce of a time getting
on to the boat at Folkestone. The silly ass of a porter had carted
all my baggage on board, including the leave warrant, which was
in my British-warm pocket. I had to persuade the A.M.L.O.[28] I
wasn’t a Hun spy, and, after a long discussion, he let me on.
“The Major seemed pleased to have me back, and they all had great
stories to tell about our ‘stunt merchant,’[29] who had been
putting up a jolly good show by bringing down umpteen[30] Huns. His
star turn was the shooting up of an aerodrome. He started off at
dawn by himself and arrived over the aerodrome he had planned to
attack. Finding that there was nothing doing here, he pushed off to
look for trouble elsewhere. Suddenly he saw the hangars of another
aerodrome. He attacked these with much gusto, and when the Huns
came up to do him down, he crashed two of them and drove another
into the trees. He also managed to flatten out a large number of
mechanics and put pukka wind up the rest. You can imagine how the
fat old Huns ran, as nothing like this had ever happened to them
before. I believe his name has been put in for something big in the
decoration line.
“It has been arranged that we get one day off in every three,
which gives us a bit of spare time. We had ours off to-day. Four
of us aviated over to Paris-Plage, near Etaples, this afternoon
and tested our grids by firing into the sea. Afterwards we landed
opposite the Hôtel Continental and left our machines there under a
guard. We wandered about the village for a bit, and then started
for home, stunting[31] about to amuse the populace, which had
collected on the front to see us off. We all got home safely just
as it was getting dark.”