Transcriber's Note.
Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. The use of hyphens
and of accents has been rationalised.
Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been
replaced by full capitals.
In the Royal Naval Air Service
[Illustration:
_Photo: Vandyk_
FLIGHT-LIEUT. HAROLD ROSHER, R.N.]
In The Royal Naval
Air Service
BEING THE WAR LETTERS OF THE LATE
HAROLD ROSHER
TO HIS FAMILY
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1916
_First Published_ _Sept., 1916_
_Second Impression_ _Sept., 1916_
_All rights reserved_
PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED
LONDON AND BECCLES
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
SECTION
I. TRAINING 11
II. ON HOME SERVICE 23
III. RAIDS ON THE BELGIAN COAST 47
IV. WITH THE B.E.F. 61
V. TAKING A NEW MACHINE TO FRANCE 93
VI. WITH THE B.E.F. AGAIN 101
VII. ON HOME SERVICE AGAIN 121
VIII. WITH THE B.E.F. ONCE MORE 125
IX. ON HOME SERVICE ONCE MORE 133
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
FLIGHT-LIEUTENANT HAROLD ROSHER, R.N. _Frontispiece_
THE LATE FLIGHT-LIEUT. RIGGALL, R.N., ON A
GRAHAME-WHITE "BOX-KITE" 14
THE FAMOUS 873 AVRO FLOWN BY FLIGHT-COMMANDER
S. V. SIPPE, D.S.O., AND BY FLIGHT-LIEUT. ROSHER 34
BRINGING THE PILOT ASHORE AFTER A FLIGHT
ON A SOPWITH SEAPLANE 44
"SHORT" SEAPLANES AT ANCHOR OFF SPITHEAD 44
FLIGHT-LIEUT. HAROLD ROSHER, R.N. 54
SQUADRON-COMMANDER IVOR T. COURTNEY, R.N. 76
ONE VICKERS FIGHTING BIPLANE PHOTOGRAPHED FROM ANOTHER 84
A VICKERS FIGHTING BIPLANE 84
THE OVERTURNED MORANE 90
A SNAPSHOT OF LIEUT. ROSHER 90
A ZEPPELIN AIRSHIP 108
A ZEPPELIN IN THE DOUBLE SHED AT JOHANNISTHAL 108
A TAUBE-TYPE GERMAN MONOPLANE 108
LIEUT. ROSHER FLYING A BRISTOL "BULLET" 114
A FIRE CAUSED BY LONG-RANGE BOMBARDMENT 114
FLIGHT-SUB-LIEUT. WARNEFORD, V.C. 114
A BRISTOL SCOUT BIPLANE (OR "BULLET") 136
THE MORANE "PARASOL" MONOPLANE FLOWN BY
FLIGHT-SUB-LIEUT. WARNEFORD, V.C. 136
A B.E. 2C BIPLANE 144
A NIEUPORT BIPLANE 144
A BLÉRIOT MONOPLANE 144
INTRODUCTION
Harold Rosher was born at Beckenham on the 18th November, 1893, and was
educated at The Dene, Caterham, and subsequently at Woodbridge. Although
as a boy he suffered severely from acute asthma and bronchitis, he did
well at school; and the pluck which carried him through the moral
distresses of asthma helped him to hold his own in games, despite the
fact that up to the age of sixteen he was considerably under the average
height. As his health did not cease to give anxiety, he was taken for a
holiday to India (being with his father the guest of the Maharajah
Ranjitsinhji, Jam Sahib of Nawanagar) in 1909. In 1913, for the same
reason, he made a trip to South Africa with his sister. It was his
health again which helped to decide his career. An open-air life was
considered to be essential, and he became a student at the South Eastern
Agricultural College, Wye, remaining there until the outbreak of the war.
One of Harold's greatest chums at the Agricultural College was a young
and rich German landowner named K----. At the latter's invitation Harold
spent the summer vacation of 1913 in Germany, and the two young men
toured on motor-cycles through a great part of Germany and Austria. In
August 1914 K---- was to celebrate his majority, and had asked Harold to
the festivities. But on August 2nd, when war appeared inevitable, he
wrote a letter of farewell to Harold in which he said that he did not
expect they would ever meet again. The next day he telephoned from
Charing Cross as he was leaving England, and Harold was overheard saying
to him on the telephone: "Well, if we meet, mind you don't shoot
straight."
On the day of the declaration of war, Harold applied for a commission in
the Royal Naval Air Service, and in order to save time he went
immediately as a civilian pupil to Brooklands, where several months
previously he had once been taken up in the air as a passenger. In the
few days which elapsed before the War Office commandeered the Brooklands
Aerodrome and ejected every civilian Harold progressed rapidly in the
craft of flying. He was gazetted a Probationary Flight Sub-Lieutenant in
the R.N.A.S. on August 18th and reported himself at Hendon. He remained
there about six weeks, obtaining his aviator's certificate.
The letters which form this book were written between August 1914 and
February 1916. They are spontaneous and utterly unstudied documents, and
they have been printed almost exactly as Harold wrote them. Many of them
are quite ordinary; most are spiced with slang; the long ones describing
his share in the great historic raids are thrillingly dramatic. But it
would not be wise to set some letters above others. None should be
missed. Each contributes its due realistic share to the complete picture
of an airman's life in war.
It is well that we should have every opportunity of estimating what that
life is. For the air service is still quite a new service. Its birth
lies within the memory of schoolboys. Few outsiders can imaginatively
conceive for themselves the conditions of it, conditions in which the
hour of greatest danger is precisely the hour of spiritual solitude and
separation from all mankind. Further, the air service is now actually
engaged in creating those superb precedents which members of the older
services find ready for their fortifying and encouragement when the
crisis comes, and this fact alone entitles it to a most special
sympathetic attention from the laity. So far as my knowledge goes, no
other such picture, so full and so convincing, of the air-fighters'
existence has yet been offered to the public. Here, perhaps, I may
mention that some organs of the London Press long ago desired to print
the principal descriptive letters of Harold Rosher, which in private had
aroused the admiration of journalists and literary men; but it was felt
that complete publication of the entire series within the covers of a
volume would be more proper and more effective.
Three days after the date of the last letter Harold was killed. On 27th
February, Major Risk, the C.O. of the Dover Aeroplane Station being away
on duty, Harold, as second in command, was in charge. Among other duties
he had to train new pilots on fast machines, and he would always
personally test a new machine or a newly-repaired machine before
allowing anybody else to try it. On that Sunday morning he ordered a
number of machines to be brought out of the sheds for practice flights.
Among them was one which had just been repaired after a mishap three
weeks earlier. The pilot had already got into his machine. Harold told
him to get out as the machine was untested, and himself took it up for a
trial flight of eight or ten minutes. Everything seemed to go right
until Harold began the descent about a mile away from the Aerodrome.
Then, at a height of 300 feet or less, the machine suddenly made a
nose-dive and crashed to the ground. Harold was killed instantly. The
disaster occupied seven seconds, At the inquest nothing was ascertained
as to the cause of the accident. One theory is that the controls jammed.
Harold was buried on the 2nd March at Charlton Cemetery, with full naval
honours. The cemetery is on the cliffs within sight of the Aerodrome,
and while his body was being lowered into the grave aeroplanes were
flying overhead.
It is permissible to quote a few Service opinions about Harold Rosher's
attainments and achievements during his short career as an airman.
Commodore Murray F. Sueter, C.B., R.N., wrote to Mr. Frank Rosher,
Harold's father: "In my opinion he was one of our best pilots; always
ready for any service he was called upon to perform. Mr. Winston
Churchill was very pleased with his work in the early part of the war,
and had he been spared I am sure he would have made a great name for
himself." Wing Commander Arthur N. Longmore, R.N., under whom Harold had
served longest, wrote: "You have the consolation of knowing his splendid
record at Dunkirk. He was among the finest pilots I ever had out there,
always cheerful and ready for his work. He will be a great loss to the
Air Service, which loses not only a first-class pilot, but also an
excellent officer." Major Charles E. Risk, Squadron Commander, R.N.,
wrote: "Harold, or Rosh as we always used to call him, was one of my
very best pals and a very fine officer and First Lieutenant. Everyone
loved him. He was an absolute 'Sahib,' a very good pilot, hard-working,
and absolutely trustworthy." And Captain Charles L. Lamb, R.N., wrote:
"He returned with some of the others from abroad last autumn for a rest,
and very shortly afterwards I selected him from a large number of
officers to become the Executive Officer of the Dover Air Station, which
was then starting. Although quite young, he immediately displayed great
organizing abilities, and also possessed the gift of command of men,
which is unusual without previous training, and fully justified my
selection. At his own request he was shortly proceeding abroad in
command of a Flight, and would undoubtedly have gained his promotion in
the near future. I have said little as regards his skill as a pilot,
since this was probably well known to you, but he was undoubtedly in the
first flight. This skill, however, I consider of secondary importance in
life as compared with the far rarer gifts of command and organization
which he undoubtedly possessed."
I had the acquaintance of Harold Rosher, and when I met him I was quite
extraordinarily impressed by his bearing and his speech. In age and
appearance he was a mere boy--a handsome boy, too, in my opinion--but
the gestures of youth were restrained. He was very modest, but he was
not diffident. In the presence of men older than his father he upheld in
the most charming and effective way the dignity of his own generation.
He talked quietly, but nobody could escape the conviction that he knew
just what he was talking about. All his statements were cautious, and in
giving a description or an opinion he seemed to dread superlatives. He
had the eye and the voice of one who feared no responsibility, and who,
having ruled himself, was thoroughly equal to ruling others. He was
twenty-two when he died at work.
A. B.
I
TRAINING
I.
_To his Father._
The Blue Bird, Brooklands Aerodrome, Weybridge.
11th August, 1914.
DEAR DAD,
Am getting on famously and having a most amusing time. After I wrote you
yesterday I went out and had my first lesson. Mr. Stutt, our instructor
[for the British and Colonial Aeroplane Co.], sits immediately behind
you, controls the engine switch and covers your hand on the stick. He
took me straight up two or three hundred feet and then volplaned down.
He always does this with new pupils to see how they take it. I think I
managed to pass the ordeal all right. I had two or three flights
backwards and forwards, and then another turn later on in the evening.
Stutt is an awfully nice fellow, very small but very capable. On all
sides one hears him recommended. When in the air, he bawls in your ear,
"Now when you push your hand forward, you go down, see!" (and he pushes
your hand forward and you make a sudden dive), "and when you pull it
back you go up, and when you do this, so and so happens," and so with
everything he demonstrates. Then he says, "If you do so and so, you will
break your neck, and if you try to climb too quickly you will make a
tail slide." It's awfully hard work at first and makes your arm ache
like fun. The school machines are very similar to the Grahame-Whites.
You sit right in front, with a clean drop below you. We never strap
ourselves in. The machines are the safest known, and never make a clean
drop if control is lost, but slide down sideways.
When it got too dark we went in and had dinner, all sitting at the
middle table. Could get no one to fetch my luggage, so decided to go
myself after dinner. Unfortunately, I attempted a short cut in the dark
and lost my way. After stumbling round the beastly aerodrome in the dark
for an hour, I eventually got back to my starting point. I was drenched
to the knees, and the moon didn't help me much on account of the thick
mist. It was about 10.30 p.m., so I gave up my quest; the prospect of
the long walk and heavy bag was too discouraging.
[Illustration:
_Photo: F.N. Birkett_
THE LATE FLIGHT-LIEUT. RIGGALL, R.N.
_On one of the Grahame-White school "box-kites,"
in the early days of his training_]
I turned in in my vest and pants and had a good night. Was knocked up at
4.30 this morning and crawled gingerly into my still wet clothes. A
lovely morning, very cold, and it was not long before I got wetter
still, as the grass was sopping. Had two more lessons this morning, of
about 15 minutes each, and took both right and left hand turns, part of
the time steering by myself. Stutt says I am getting on. The machines
are so stable that they will often fly quite a long way by themselves.
Am now quite smitten, and if weather continues fine, I shall take my
ticket in a week or ten days. Hope to be flying solo by Thursday or
Friday. Experienced my first bump this morning. While flying at 200
feet, the machine suddenly bumped,[1] a unique sensation. These bumps
are due to the sun's action on the air and are called "sun bumps." It's
owing to these that we novices are not allowed to fly during the day. To
experienced airmen they offer no difficulty.
There was a slight accident here this morning. One of the Blériot people
(known in our select circle as Blérites) was taxying [running along the
ground] in a machine without wings. He got too much speed on, and the
machine went head over heels and was utterly wrecked--man unhurt. With
the Blériot machine you first have to learn to steer on the ground, as
it's much harder than ours. The men look awful fools going round and
round in wee circles....
Very nice lot of fellow pupils here that I am getting to know, one naval
man with a whole stock of funny yarns. Nothing to do all day long but
sleep. Went into Weybridge this morning and got my suit case. Flora and
fauna quite interesting. I live only for the mornings and evenings. More
anon. Love to all.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
II.
_To his Father._
The Hendon Aerodrome, Hendon.
7th September, 1914.
DEAR DAD,
Only a few lines, as it is already late, and I still have plenty to do.
The latest excitement down here is a balloon, especially for our use. It
is to be up all night, and we have to take turns in keeping watch from
it; four hour shifts, starting to-morrow night. She has 4,000 feet of
wire cable, but I don't suppose we shall be up more than 1,500 feet. It
will be frightfully cold work, and in all probability we shall all be
sea-sick.
On Saturday night we had a Zeppelin scare from the Admiralty. I was on
duty and called out the marines, etc., etc. Ammunition was served round
and the machines brought out. Porte [J. C. Porte, Wing Commander, R.N.]
went up for a short time.
Tons of love.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
III.
_To his Grandmother._
The Hendon Aerodrome, Hendon.
7th September, 1914.
DEAREST GRANNY,
Can only send you a few lines just now as I am so frightfully busy.
Thanks so much for your letter received two days back. Am hard at it now
from 4.30 a.m. to 11.0 p.m., and one day in five for 24 hours on end.
Our latest acquaintance is a captive balloon in which we are to take
turns to keep watch in the night. It will be terribly cold work. The
watches are 4 hours each, and we shall probably be about 1,500 feet up
in the air--the full limit of cable is 4,000 feet. I quite expect we
shall all be horribly sea-sick, as the motion is quite different from
that in an aeroplane. There is also a rumour that we are going to have
an airship down here. We had a Zeppelin scare the other night and had
all the marines out, ammunition served round, searchlights manned, and
aeroplanes brought out in readiness. It was quite exciting for a false
alarm.
It's pretty chilly work sleeping in tents now. Unless you cover your
clothes up overnight, they are sopping wet in the morning. Also there is
a plague of crane flies here, which simply swarm all over one's tent.
These are all little troubles, however, which one takes philosophically,
and at the same time tries to picture mentally the distress of those at
the front. Hope I shall be out there soon; they seem to be having quite
good fun.
Must cut short now, so goodbye, Granny dear. Heaps of love.
Ever your loving grandson,
HAROLD.
IV.
_To his Father._
The Hendon Aerodrome, Hendon.
11th September, 1914.
DEAR DAD,
Many happy returns. I started writing you last night, so that you might
get my letter first thing this morning, but was fated not to finish it.
We had another false alarm and my place was on the 'phones. I didn't get
off until 12.30 a.m., so gave it up as a bad job and started afresh this
morning.
I expect you will have seen in the papers about the accident last night.
Lieut. G---- went up in the Henri Farman, and on coming down made a bad
landing--internal injuries--machine absolutely piled up. Nacelle[2]
telescoped and the tail somehow right in front of the nacelle. The
accident is expected to have rather a bad effect on the _moral_ of the
pupils. Personally it doesn't affect me; and anyhow I didn't see G----
at all, as I was bound to the 'phones.
Things are going on much better with me. Yesterday I did five straights
[straight flights] alone and managed quite well, having excellent
control of the machine, and making good landings, except for the first
straights in the morning, when it was rather windy and in consequence
the machine was all over the place.
By the way, this is now the third successive night that we have had an
alarm. Have not yet been up in the balloon but am looking forward to it.
I never thought that we should come down to an old (1902) gas bag.
Heaps of love and don't let Mummie get alarmed. You must bear in mind
that night flying is ten times more dangerous than day.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
NOTE.
_An interesting letter, written in September, is missing. In this the
waiter described a balloon trip that he made over London in the dark,
ultimately coming down near Ashford, and having an exciting experience
while landing._
_Early in October, 1914, the aviator went from Hendon to the Royal Naval
Air Station, Fort Grange, Gosport. A letter of this date is also
missing. It described his first cross-country flight, when, owing to
engine failure, had to make three forced landings (from heights of about
4,000 feet), all of which he managed safely without damaging his
machine. The engine was afterwards found to be faulty. In this letter he
referred to the Commanding Officer's pleasure that he had made so good a
beginning._
[1] Met an air-wave.
[2] The nacelle is the short body of an aeroplane, as found in all
machines with propeller behind (usually called "pusher" machines).
II
ON HOME SERVICE
V.
_To his Father._
Royal Naval Air Station,
Fort Grange, Gosport.
14th November, 1914.
DEAR DAD,
Many thanks for note received this morning. Shall try to get home for
inoculation in about a fortnight. From what I can make out, we shall not
get our squadron together until the end of January. We were to have gone
over at the end of this month. We may, however, go over in pieces, a
flight at a time. If the Germans reach Calais, we shall stay here
permanently for home defence, but at the rate we are progressing, we
shan't be ready until March, and then, maybe, the war will be over. I
must say I want to see some of it, and one would be bound to get a
second stripe if one went across.
15th November, 1914.
Have spent quite a successful first day over at Whale Island:--squad
drill, Morriss tube and Webley Scott firing practice. I got on famously.
The Morriss tube is particularly easy. It merely becomes a matter of
getting all on the bull. It's a grand place to wake one up; everything
is done at the double.
My cold is awfully heavy and I'm feeling pretty rotten.
Best love.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
VI.
_To his Father._
The Queen's Hotel, Farnborough, Hants.
18th November, 1914.
DEAR DAD,
Thanks so much for your birthday letter [his 21st birthday], which I had
just time hurriedly to read through this morning. Late last night we had
orders to shift, and everything has been a rush ever since. I have left
all my luggage at Fort Grange and have only a small dispatch case with
me. Am very disappointed. As the C.O.'s machine was not ready to go, he
collared mine, and I am travelling as passenger. However, it can't be
helped.
We left Fort Grange about ten this morning and arrived here after an
hour's run. It was awfully cold and we had to come down here owing to
fog. I am afraid I can't tell you where we are going or any other such
details. You must rest content with what I have told you at present. We
are very comfortably fixed up here for the night. The place is packed
with generals and staff officers, as we are practically in Aldershot. It
will be very slow here this evening. I thought of trying to get home for
the night, but it's out of the question. There is no need to be in the
least alarmed as to my safety, as I am probably not going where you
expect.
Tons of love.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
VII.
_To his Father._
Royal Naval Air Station, Kenton Lodge,
Gosforth, Newcastle-on-Tyne.
25th November, 1914.
DEAR DAD,
Received letters forwarded from Fort Grange last night. It was much too
foggy for my trip to Hartlepool yesterday afternoon, but I went for a
short flip [flight] around, and am glad I did so, as I found out the lie
of the land.
This morning it was beautifully clear, and I started off soon after 9.0
a.m., with a mechanic, to patrol the coast up north to Alnmouth. It was
awfully cold with rather a strong cross wind. I got right above one lot
of clouds. It's a wonderful sight too, as in the distance there is a
mountain covered with snow. It was simply ripping. My engine was going
strong, and after circling round till I was 1,500 feet up, I made
straight off for the coast. It was magnificent. Anything I wanted to
look at closely I just did graceful spirals round, or zigzagged, banking
the machine up to right and left. I have never enjoyed a trip so much
before. I was away an hour and twenty minutes; quite long enough, as I
could hardly feel my hands or feet on coming down. I think we shall be
here another fortnight, with luck.
30th November, 1914.
Have had no time to write at all these last few days. Half my birthday
letters are still unanswered.... Weather has been far too bad for flying
the past two days.
Best love to all.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
VIII.
_To his Aunt._
Royal Naval Air Station, Kenton Lodge,
Gosforth, Newcastle-on-Tyne.
27th November, 1914.
DEAR AUNT ETHEL,
Thanks so much for your birthday letter. I only received it the night
before last and have been unable to answer it until now.
You are right about flying. As soon as one gets well into the air,
things seem to take on quite a different aspect. It is the same as when
one gets on a high hill, only in a greater degree.
Our work of patrolling the coast is very interesting, but unfortunately
Newcastle seems to be either enveloped in a thick fog, or a gale of wind
prevails, so that we are not getting as much flying as I should like. It
is beginning to get extremely cold work too now, especially on a frosty
morning.
Our billet here happens to be the German Consulate, a lovely modern
house, so that we are most comfortably settled. I think we are moving
again in a fortnight's time.
Please give Granny my best love. As soon as I can get home I shall pop
over and look you all up. At present I see no chance of getting off. I
tried to get to Hartlepool this morning, but the weather was too bad so
I abandoned the attempt.
Heaps of love.
Ever your loving nephew,
HAROLD.
IX.
_To his Father._
No. 1 Naval Aeroplane Squadron,
Kenton Lodge, Newcastle-on-Tyne.
8th December, 1914.
DEAR DAD,
Have had a great day. Motored out to Redcar on business and visited
Durham Cathedral on the return journey. It's a magnificent spot. The
Cathedral is on top of a high hill with the river flowing through a
ravine on one side and two fine old bridges. It's one of the finest
sights in England. The town itself, too, is very quaint. Have heard no
more about going to the front....
10th December, 1914.[3]
The C.O. is now in France, and from what I can gather is making
preparations for us all to go out immediately after Christmas. I don't
think there is much chance of being able to get home for Christmas.
However, one can never tell, so we will hope for the best.
I went for a flip around yesterday afternoon for ten minutes, but it was
far too thick to see anything, so came down. Best love.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
X.
_To his Mother._
Hotel Burlington, Dover.
30th December, 1914.
DEAREST MUM,
Another sudden move. Monday night some of us received orders to shift
here the following morning. I got all my gear packed and off in the
transport first thing, and kept my little hand-bag in the machine. Two
went off before me, as I burst a tyre to begin with--rather a bad start.
In my second attempt I got well off, but found my air-speed indicator
was not working and my compass dud, so came down again. As I could
procure no more, I decided to start. I nearly upset getting off, as my
foot slipped on the rudder and I got a bump at the same moment. The
engine was going none too well, but I pushed off towards the coast, and
all went well for a time. Then came signs of engine trouble. The revs.
[revolutions] dropped suddenly to below 1,000, and she missed badly and
back fired. I at once shut off petrol and volplaned down from 4,000
feet. I glided two miles before I could find a field to satisfy me, but
having picked it, made a good landing. Some farm hands and two special
constables soon turned up and informed me that I was miles from
anywhere. My exact position was between two small villages, Ripe and
Chalvington, and four fields away from a road (and that not a main one).
The nearest town of any size was Lewes, a matter of seven miles--no
motor vehicles, but I might possibly get a trap.
Just then a fellow turned up, and said he had a motor bike and side car,
which he put at my disposal. This I accepted, and, after trying the
engine, left the two special constables in charge, and tramped across
the four swamped fields (up to my neck in mud) to the road, and went
into Lewes in the side car. There I found a big garage, where they
professed to know something about Gnome engines. (I had landed, by the
way, at about 12 noon.) I got them to put some tools on a car, and out
we went again to Ripe. Then followed much tinkering, and I got the
engine going and started off. I had circled round once, when the engine
again back fired, bang! bang! and I made another hurried descent two
fields away from the last. All this time, of course, quite a crowd had
collected, and the vicar of Chalvington had come up and had brought me
some sandwiches, for which I was very grateful, it being 3.0 p.m., and I
had only a hurried breakfast.
We next ran the engine again, and she at once back fired and caught fire
at the carburettor. This burnt out without doing any damage, and we
diagnosed the complaint as a broken inlet valve-spring in No. 5
cylinder. By the way, when in Lewes I had 'phoned through to Fort
Grange, and they sent me on some mechanics, as the garage men could help
me no more.
I once more left the special constables in charge and returned to Lewes.
(The vicar, I should have told you, offered me a bed for the night.) I
again 'phoned from Lewes [to Fort Grange] and then returned to the
machine, which I had moved behind a hedge out of the wind, and had
pegged and roped down and covered up.
[Illustration:
THE FAMOUS 873 AVRO BIPLANE
_Flown by Flight-Commander S. V. Sippe, D.S.O., in the raid on
Friederichshafen, and by Flight-Lieut. Rosher in the two big raids on
Ostende and in his raid with Major Courtney on Hoboken. The machine
survived to be returned to England for school work. She is here shown
on the point of starting for Friederichshafen_]
By this time it was 5.30 and dark and very cold, and I was greatly
cheered by five mechanics and a driver turning up. Two I left in charge
of the machine, and then drove round in our service car (in which the
mechanics had arrived) to the vicarage, where I had a belated tea and a
hearty welcome. Mrs. McElroy is delightful. Dinner followed almost
immediately, and very excellent at that. At 8.0 p.m. my car arrived for
me, the mechanics having found a satisfactory billet. I once more set
out for Lewes and rattled out the colonel of the territorials, and
requested a corporal and three men to guard my machine, as my men had
been working the whole of the previous night.
This all took some time, so I sat down and chatted with the other
members of the staff, and had a drink and smoke, and also two trunk
calls, one to Dover and the other to Fort Grange, where I heard that
Riggall[4] had also come down with engine trouble at Hastings, 30 miles
further on. This cheered me considerably. I didn't get away from Lewes
till 10.0 p.m. At Ripe I posted my territorials and gave them their
orders. It was fortunately a lovely moonlight night, freezing hard, and
with no wind. I got back to the vicarage at 11.30 p.m. and retired at
midnight--a lovely hot bath and beautifully soft bed, with a fire in my
room!
I turned out next morning at daylight and drove out to the machine,
which is an 80 Avro,[5] brand new (never been flown before, not even
been tested), and found my men at work as per instructions. I returned
for breakfast (the vicarage was a good two miles away), and then rushed
back to my machine and found that a C.P.O. [Chief Petty Officer] had
turned up from Gosport in another car, on his way to Riggall at
Hastings, with a whole new engine. I at once hot-stuffed [requisitioned]
one of his inlet valves and set the men to work changing it, while I
once more went into Lewes, looked up the colonel and used his 'phone.
On getting back at 12.30 I found my machine all ready, so went on to the
vicarage, packed up my things, had a slice of cake, bade them all
farewell, and pushed off. The wind had got up considerably and the
clouds were very low, but I thought I would try and get off. I started
up and got well away. It was awfully bumpy, and I got tossed about all
over the place. When I got to 1,000 feet it was much steadier, so I
headed straight for the coast, and as I climbed, I started getting into
the clouds. The first were at 1,500 feet, and I kept on running through
them till over 2,500 feet. The wind was stronger than I had thought, and
I fairly raced along. The engine was still a bit funny, but I stuck to
it, and was past Dungeness in no time. Then I got right above a whole
sea of clouds, and only got occasional glimpses of Mother Earth now and
again between gaps. I didn't like this, as I couldn't see where I was
going, especially as my compass was not accurate, and if I started
flying below them, I should only be a thousand feet up This would have
been worse, as I was not sure of my engine, and if it had given out I
should have had to land within a mile in any direction, as against a
four-mile radius if I were 4,000 feet up.
While thinking over all this, I passed another gap, and looking back,
caught a glimpse of Dover harbour. It was rather lucky, as I had
overshot the mark. I switched on and off, and dived down through the
opening to 1,000 feet, and then looked around for the aerodrome. I did
quite a wide circle before I spotted it. It was awfully bumpy and pretty
nearly a gale blowing. I was just going to land when I saw two red flags
ahead to mark bad ground, and then a lot more. Nearly all the ground was
bad, so I flew right over into the wind and turned to the right just
before the cliff out of the wind. All this time I was bobbing about like
a cork, gusts throwing me all over the place. I got half round my turn,
broadside into the wind at about 100 feet, when a huge gust got
underneath my left wing and tail and swept me right across the aerodrome
to the ground. It was all a matter of seconds till I hit the ground. My
aileron, or warp control, was useless (at the time I thought the wires
had broken). I just managed to flatten out and straighten up a little as
I hit the ground sideways. Both wheels buckled right up and brought me
to a standstill, myself quite unharmed, and the machine with wonderfully
little damage. I was awfully annoyed, as I was very keen on pitching
well at the end of my journey.
1st January, 1915.
The last two days have been beastly, nothing but wind and rain. Riggall
is still held up at Hastings. I shouldn't be surprised if his machine
has blown away by now. I see in this morning's paper that I have shipped
another stripe [Flight Lieutenant], so things are looking up a bit.
There was a huge din here to usher in the New Year--bells, whistles, and
all the ships in the harbour blowing their sirens for fully a quarter of
an hour on end. The feeding here is excellent, and we have music to
accompany tea and dinner. There are between three and four hundred
rooms, and all full up. We have to take turns in sleeping up at the
sheds two miles away (my turn to-night, ugh!). We leave here at 7.45
p.m., and are relieved at 9.0 the next morning. This means 10 o'clock
breakfast by the time one has got back here and had a bath and a shave.
10th January, 1915.
What a life we lead and how we suffer! It is now half-past six and I
have just had tea. My previous meal was a scrappy breakfast at 8.30.
Dover is the very devil of a place to fly over. It's very hilly, and so
of course one gets the most appalling bumps and, in addition, a very
poor selection of landing grounds in case of engine trouble. The
aerodrome is right on top of the cliffs, and on two sides we have a
beastly drop. If one's engine fails when getting off in these
directions, the best thing one can do is to pray, and hope the bump
won't be too big when it comes.
I was nearly caught this way to-day. Yesterday I flew an Avro to Deal
and back, while my passenger made some wireless experiments. To-day I
patrolled the South Foreland for an hour and a half (9.0 to 10.30), my
passenger armed to the teeth. Beastly cold it was too. At one o'clock I
got a panicky message saying 14 hostile aircraft were coming over from
Dunkirk, and I was ordered up at once. I had just got nicely over the
valley when my engine went bang! bang! bang! I hastily turned off my
petrol and looked around for a place to pitch. The only field reachable
was a very bad one. In addition, I pitched badly, but broke nothing, and
luckily came to a standstill a few yards from a pond! The trouble was an
inlet valve gone, the same as happened at Lewes, resulting in back
firing into the carburettor, which catches fire--most unpleasant. I get
awfully cold feet. I would much sooner come down with a bump than be
cremated. Personally I think it's worse than the crank shaft breaking,
and that puts the fear of God into you, I can tell you. My machine is
out in the open to-night. I hope to tee it up and get back to-morrow. I
did a fine spiral [spiral descent with the engine shut off] to-day.
The hostile aircraft never came, of course. We are always hearing of
Zeppelins dropping bombs on Birmingham, London, etc. All the same, they
_are_ coming, I am sure, and in a bunch too.
It's just dinner-time and I'm awfully hungry, so love to all. Could see
France as plain as Punch to-day. Dunkirk is visible from 5,000 feet.
11th January, 1915.
Another day of toil, but no flying. It's my turn to sleep up at the
sheds too, a joy I am not looking forward to.
I wish we could get out to the front. It's rotten to keep on seeing army
machines going across. I would much rather come to a sticky end out
there than here.
23rd January, 1915.
I am once again installed in the sheds for the night, and beastly cold
it is too. I am going to invest in a Jaeger flea bag [sleeping bag].
To-day has been the best day we have had so far, clear, frosty and dead
calm. I crashed into the atmosphere first thing this morning and flipped
around for 55 minutes. By then I was as cold as----, so pitched in the
'drome. I flew from Dover to Deal with both hands off the controls, just
correcting with a finger when necessary. I have elastic bands on the
stick which hold it where it is set. I ended up with a hair-splitting
spiral, with the machine banked up to about 55°. I only did three or
four complete turns, but kept on until I was scared stiff. When you bank
a machine over 45°, your rudder turns into your elevator and _vice
versa_. To come out of a spiral, you just shove everything the wrong way
round and wait and see what happens.
Love to all.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
XI.
_To his Father._
Hotel Burlington, Dover.
20th January, 1915.
DEAR DAD,
So you are home again at last. Did you get the letters I wrote to
Liverpool when you were going off?
There has been very little doing here lately. Awful bobbery last night
over the Yarmouth scare. We were standing by our machines until
midnight. I think they [the Germans] are sure to pay us a visit soon. I
hope it isn't at night, though. I flew for about half an hour this
morning. The French coast was as plain as Punch.
We each have our own machines at last. Mine is the actual machine that
Sippe [S. V. Sippe, D.S.O., Squadron Comdr., R.N.] had on his stunt to
Friederichshafen. Our chances of getting out to the front are remoter
than ever, and each of these silly raids puts us further back still. If
old Rumpler [the German airman] hadn't taken it into his head to drop a
bomb on Dover on Xmas day, we should in all probability have been over
the other side by now.
22nd January, 1915.
There has been a bit of a scare on to-day, but it has resulted as usual
in nothing, except that I missed my lunch. I quite enjoyed my patrol
though. I was up an hour and twenty minutes and pottered around Deal. My
beat was from the South to North Foreland and back. It was rather thick
up [in the air], but I had an excellent view of Margate, Ramsgate, etc.
I kept at about 4,000 feet. It was a bit cold, but not so bad as I
expected.
28th January, 1915.
We all took the air at once to-day for the Admiral's benefit; quite a
fine display.
No. 1 Aeroplane Squadron, Dover.
4th February, 1915.
We have four young marine officers just joined up with the Squadron to
act as observers--rather a good idea, but they had a somewhat rough
initiation this morning. Just after I had been enlarging to them on the
safety of flying nowadays, there was a damned awful smash. An Avro came
down in a nose dive from 400 feet. There wasn't much left of it and the
occupants were very lucky not being done in. B---- was pilot and came
out with a badly sprained ankle, cuts, bruises and shock; and S----, the
observer, who was in front, broke his right arm above the elbow and
dislocated his hip, besides cuts, etc. I was in the air at the time,
with Riggall as my passenger. He saw the accident, but I didn't know of
it until I got down. B---- is our flight commander, so I suppose our
move is once more indefinitely postponed.
I am putting in for leave this week-end, and think I shall get it with
luck. Am just getting rid of an awful cold. Riggall and Maude [J. D.
Maude, Flt. Comdr., R.N.] are both pretty rocky too--sort of flu or
something. Am enclosing a photo of my machine [Avro] 873. I think I told
you it was the one Sippe used on his raid [on Friedrichshafen]. The one
next it, [Avro] 875, is Babington's [J. T. Babington, D.S.O., Squadron
Comdr., R.N.], and the next belonged to Briggs [E. F. Briggs, D.S.O.,
Squadron Comdr., R.N.] who was captured [in the raid].
9th February, 1915.
We had an old seaplane wrecked outside the harbour yesterday. The engine
failed and a destroyer went out to tow the machine in. Unfortunately,
the sea was rough and the destroyer rolled into the thing, damaging it
so badly that it eventually sank. The pilot and passenger were taken off
safely. It was quite interesting, watching from the top of the cliffs
through glasses.
Love to all at home.
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
[Illustration:
BRINGING THE PILOT ASHORE AFTER A FLIGHT ON A SOPWITH SEAPLANE]
[Illustration:
"SHORT" SEAPLANES AT ANCHOR OFF SPITHEAD]
[3] About this time Lieut. Rosher returned to Fort Grange.
[4] Gordon Riggall. He and the writer both received their commissions on
the 18th August, 1914, and from that day onwards served together,
sharing the same risks. He was killed on the 16th February, 1915.
[5] Manufactured by A. V. Roe & Co., Ltd.
III
RAIDS ON THE BELGIAN COAST
XII.
_To his Father._
No. 1 Aeroplane Squadron,
Hotel Burlington, Dover.
12th February, 1915.
DEAR DAD,
I wrote home last on Wednesday, and, as you no doubt guessed, there has
since been something on. I could not, of course, let you know, as our
success or otherwise depended greatly on secrecy. Wednesday was a very
busy day. I tested my machine for half an hour in the morning, and by
the evening everything was in tip-top running order. During the day ...
machines arrived from Hendon, Eastchurch, etc., etc., also ... seaplanes
turned up. Among the Hendon crowd was Grahame White and one or two
others I knew.
Thursday morning we were up betimes, and the weather being good, the
D.A.D. [Commodore Murray F. Sueter, C.B., R.N., Director of Air
Department] decided we should start. We had fixed up our maps, etc.,
overnight; my orders were to drop all my bombs on Zeebrugge. It was a
bit misty over the Channel, and I was one of the last to get away. We
went in order--slowest machines first, at two-minute intervals. I pushed
off just after 8 a.m., climbed to 2,000 feet and streaked off over the
Channel. We had four destroyers at intervals across the Channel in case
our engines went wrong, also seaplanes. It was mighty comforting to see
them below. I got my first shock on looking at my rev. [revolution]
counter, which was jumping from 950 to 1,200, when it should have been
steady at 1,150. The machine was, however, pulling well, so I didn't
worry.
In due course I struck Calais and headed up the coast about seven miles
out to sea. I passed Gravelines and Dunkirk where I had reached 6,500
feet. Then a huge bank of black clouds loomed ahead. Our orders were to
land at Dunkirk if clouds were too bad, but as two machines sogged on
ahead of me, I pushed on too. It started with a thin mist and then
gradually got thicker. I continued so for about ten minutes, and then
found that, according to my compass, I had turned completely round and
was heading out to sea. The clouds got thicker and the compass became
useless, swinging round and round. I was about 7,000 feet up and
absolutely lost. The next thing I realized was that my speed indicator
had rushed up to 90 _miles_ an hour and the wind was fairly whistling
through the wires. I pulled her up, but had quite lost control.
A hair raising experience followed. I nose-dived, side-slipped,
stalled,[6] etc., etc., time after time, my speed varying from
practically nothing to over 100 miles an hour. I kept my head, but was
absolutely scared stiff. I didn't get out of the clouds, which lower
down turned into a snowstorm and hail, until I was only 1,500 feet up. I
came out diving headlong for the earth. As soon as I saw the ground, I
of course adjusted my sense of balance, and flattened out. I was,
however, hopelessly lost. The sea was nowhere in sight, and, so far as I
could judge, I was somewhere over our own line behind Nieuport.
I steered by my compass (which had recovered, being out of the clouds)
and after a short time picked up the coast. I then tried to skirt round
the snowstorm inland, but it went too far. Next I tried to get along the
coast underneath the storm, but also failed at this, so, feeling awfully
sick, I started back for Dunkirk, fully expecting to be the one failure
of the party. On arrival there, however, I found them all back but one,
and all had had similar experiences. One man turned completely upside
down in the storm.
By the way, what finally decided me to come back was this. After trying
to get under the storm along the coast (I had got very low down, about
3,000 feet), I heard two or three bangs, but took no notice. I happened
to look round, however, and saw three nice little puffs of smoke about
100 yards behind me. Then came another, much nearer. "Shrapnel," says I,
and off I went to Dunkirk.
I was pretty cold on arrival, having been two hours in the air. Grahame
White came down in the sea and was picked up by one of our destroyers.
Pottered round the aerodrome for a bit, and looked at French and Belgian
machines. Anthony Wilding[7] is stationed there, also Carpentier,[8]
whom I didn't see.
Motored into the town for lunch and had a look round. Out to the
aerodrome again in the afternoon, but nothing doing. Slept on the
_Empress_ overnight. We first lay down on the couches in the saloon,
then turned in at 11 p.m., awfully tired. At 3.0 a.m. the stewards came
in to lay breakfast. At 5.30 we were all up, still tired, dirty, and
feeling rotten. Motored out to the aerodrome in the dark, awfully cold,
ugh! I was one of the first off (in the dark). I didn't relish it a tiny
bit. The weather was misty and cloudy, and very cold. Off Nieuport I was
five miles out to sea and 4,000 feet up. Before I came abreast of it, I
saw flashes along the coast. A few seconds later, bang! bang! and the
shrapnel burst a good deal short of me, but direction and height
perfect. I turned out to sea and put another two miles between me and
the coast. By now a regular cannonade was going on. All along the coast
the guns were firing, nasty vicious flashes, and then a puff of smoke as
the shrapnel burst. I steered a zigzag course and made steadily out to
sea, climbing hard.
The clouds now became very troublesome. Ostend was simply a mass of
guns. After flying for three-quarters of an hour, I reached Zeebrugge. I
had to come down to 5,500 feet because of the clouds. I streaked in
through them, loosed my bombs, and then made off. I was hopelessly lost,
and my performance of the day before was repeated in the clouds. I got
clear, however, at 4,000 feet, heading straight out to sea and
side-slipping hard, the earth appearing all sideways on. I fairly
streaked out to sea, and then headed straight home. I got back after 1½
hours in the air.
As to what happened generally, I can't tell. It may possibly appear in
the papers. Maude came down in the sea and was picked up. I got back
here shortly after 4.0 p.m. by boat. Am bringing my machine back later,
I expect. I thought of wiring you to come down for the night, but find
it's not feasible. After all, Dover isn't such a bad place, I'm
thinking. I don't mind owning that I have been scared stiff once or
twice in the last two days. They are hitting with shrapnel at 8,000
feet. They reckon to get third shot on for a cert. One machine came back
riddled with bullets. The pilot had got down to 450 feet in the mist.
With the very best love to all at home,
Ever your loving son,
HAROLD.
[Illustration:
_Photo: Vandyk_
FLIGHT-LIEUT. HAROLD ROSHER, R.N.]
NOTE.
_The following is the Admiralty's official account of the raid described
in the foregoing letters_:--
"During the last twenty-four hours, combined aeroplane and seaplane
operations have been carried out by the Naval Wing in the Bruges,
Zeebrugge, Blankenberghe and Ostend districts, with a view to preventing
the development of submarine bases and establishments.
Thirty-four naval aeroplanes and seaplanes took part.
Great damage is reported to have been done to Ostend Railway Station,
which, according to present information, has probably been burnt to the
ground. The railway station at Blankenberghe was damaged and railway
lines were torn up in many places. Bombs were dropped on gun positions
at Middelkerke, also on the power station and German mine-sweeping
vessels at Zeebrugge, but the damage done is unknown.
During the attack the machines encountered heavy banks of snow.
No submarines were seen.
Flight Commander Grahame-White fell into the sea off Nieuport and was
rescued by a French vessel.
Although exposed to heavy gunfire from rifles, anti-aircraft guns,
mitrailleuses, etc., all pilots are safe. Two machines were damaged.
The seaplanes and aeroplanes were under the command of Wing Commander
Samson, assisted by Wing Commander Longmore and Squadron Commanders
Porte, Courtney, and Rathbone."
_Harold Rosher went back to France on 13th February, 1915, and three
days later took part in a further great raid, of which the following is
the Admiralty's official account_:--
"The air operations of the Naval Wing against the Bruges, Ostend-Zeebrugge
District have been continued.
This afternoon 40 aeroplanes and seaplanes bombarded Ostend,
Middelkerke, Ghistelles, and Zeebrugge.