THE FIGHT IN THE AIR
The morning on which the Brighton boys left the base airdrome with
their squadron saw the first sunshine that that part of France had
known for several days. The line of light motor trucks which served
as their transport skimmed along the long, straight roads as if aware
that they carried the cavalry of the air.
"France is a pretty country. I had no idea it would look so much like
home. Those fields and the hills beyond might be right back where we
come from, boys," said Archie Fox.
"Wait till you youngsters get up a bit," advised a companion who had
seen the front line often before. "You will see a part of France
that won't remind you of anything you have ever seen!"
In spite of that mention of the horrors that they all knew war had
brought in its train, it was hard to imagine them while swinging
along at a good pace through countryside that looked so quiet and
peaceful. The line of lorries slowed down for a level crossing,
where the road led across a spur of railway, and then halted, the
gate-keeper having blocked the highway to allow the passing of a still
distant and very slowly moving train. The gate-keeper was a buxom
and determined-looking French woman of well past middle age, who
turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the occupants of the leading
car that the line of trucks should be allowed to scurry across
before the train passed.
As the boys sat waiting in the sudden quiet, Picky Mann said quietly:
"We are getting nearer. Listen to the guns."
Sure enough, their attention drawn to the distant growling, the dull
booming of the detonations of the high-explosive shells could be
distinctly heard. War was ahead, at last, and not so very far ahead
at that. Not long after, the squadron passed through a shattered
French village.
Every one of the boys had seen pictures in plenty of shell-smashed
ruins, but the actuality of the awful devastation made them hold
their breath for a moment. To think that such desolate piles of
brick and mortar were once rows of human habitations, peopled with
men, women and children very much like the men, women and children
in their own land, sobered the boys.
Soon Bob Haines drew the attention of the others to captive balloons
along the sky-line ahead, and finally the Brighton boys saw a black
smudge in the air far in front. It was a minute or two before they
realized that they had seen their first bursting shell.
The leading car turned sharply off the highway into a by-road at right
angles to it. A hundred yards further it dashed through a gap in a
tall hedge, and as the line of trucks followed it, they emerged upon
a great flying field.
There, ahead, were still the captive balloons, straining at their
leashes probably, but too far away to show anything but the general
outline of their odd sausage shapes. Ahead, too, was the boom of
the guns. No mistaking that. Their aeroplanes were to be the eyes
of those very guns. They knew that well. The front line was up
there, somewhere. Their own soldiers, their comrades, were in that
line. Perhaps some of them were being shelled by the Boche guns at
that very moment.
"Beyond our lines," they thought, "come the enemy lines. Soon, now,
very soon, some of us will be flying over those lines, and far back
of them, perhaps."
To the credit of the Brighton boys, every one of the six of them felt
a real keenness to get to work and take his part in the great game.
They had waited long and worked hard to perfect themselves for the
tasks that lay ahead of them, up there with the guns and beyond.
There was no feeling of shrinking from the awful reality of actual
war, now that it came nearer and nearer to them. They were of sound
stuff, to a man.
The wooden huts that were to be their homes for a time were clean and
dry, and the big barn-like hangars that stood near had a serviceable
look about them. The level field that stretched away in front of the
hangars was dotted here and there with a dozen planes, couples of men,
or small groups, working on each one. Before they realized it they
were a part of the camp.
Immediately after dinner the flight commander sent for them and
provided each of them with a set of maps. All the next morning they
pored over these, consulting the wonderfully complete set of
photographs of the enemy country which could be found in the photograph
department of the airdrome.
Practice flights took up the afternoon, and Joe Little and Jimmy Hill
tried to outmaneuver one another at fairly high altitudes.
More than once Joe managed to get his machine-gun trained direct
on Jimmy, but finally Jimmy side-looped with extraordinary cleverness,
dashed off and up while still inverted, then righted suddenly and
found himself "right on the tail" of Joe's machine, i.e., behind Joe
and above him, in the best possible position for aeroplane attack.
Joe had looped after a short nose-dive, hoping Jimmy would be below
him when he pulled up, but the odd inverted swing upward that was
Jimmy's star turn had found him in the better position when the
duel ended.
As the boys landed the flight commander walked toward them. They
stepped from their machines and came in his direction, laughingly
discussing their mimic battle. As the flight commander drew near, he
beckoned to them.
"Do you do that regularly?" he asked Jimmy.
"Yes, sir," was Jimmy's reply.
"Has it ever appeared to damage your planes?"
"No, sir. Not that I am aware."
That was all. Just a casual question from the chief. But it made
Jimmy feel that he was not so much of a novice as he had felt before.
He felt that he was more "part of the show," as he would have put it
if he had been asked to describe his feelings.
Jimmy was the first of the Brighton boys to take part in a real fight
in the air. A couple of days after his arrival at the airdrome he
was assigned to duty with an experienced aviator named Parker. Both
Parker and Jimmy were to be mounted on fast, agile machines with very
little wing space, which, with their slightly-curved, fish-like bodies,
had the appearance of dragon-flies with short wings.
"These wasp-things are great for looping," said Parker to Jimmy. "You
can throw them 'way over in a big arc that lands you a long distance
from where some of these Boche fliers expect you to be when you finish
your loop."
"What is the game we are to tackle?" asked Jimmy.
"Just hunting, I think. The Boches seem to have become a little
bolder than usual during the last forty-eight hours. Two of their
observation planes came unusually close to us yesterday. I suppose
they may have received orders to spot something they can't find, and
it is worrying them a bit. I guess the chief is going to send us out
together to see if we can bag one of their scout planes. Their
hunters will be guarding. It is better to go out in twos, if not in
lots, along this part of the line. As a matter of fact, it is more
than likely that some German on a new Fokker or a Walvert is sitting
up aloft there like a sweet little cherub and laying for us. They
have a nasty habit of swooping down like a hawk when we get well over
their territory and firing as they swoop. If they get you, you drop
in their part of the country. If they miss you, they just swing off
and forget it, or climb back and sit on the mat till another of our
lot comes along. Swooping and missing don't put them in much danger,
for if they come down they are in their own area."
"Have you had one of them try that hawk game on you?" asked Jimmy.
"I have had the pleasure and honor to have the great Immelmann drop
at me, once, on an Albatros, or a machine that looked like an Albatros.
We knew afterward that it was Immelmann, for he worked the same
tactics several times, always in the same way. I was out guarding
one of our fellows who was getting pictures pretty well back of the
Boche lines, when along came a regular fleet of German aircraft.
"Four of them took after me, and I had to think quick. I couldn't
skip exactly, for I had to give the observation bus a chance to get
a start. I maneuvered into a pretty good position, under the
circumstances, and was going to fire a round into them and then dive
for home and mother, when the bullets began to sing about me from a
fifth plane. I couldn't see it, so I flip-flopped chop-chop. As I
turned I saw Immelmann's plane swoop past. I turned over just in
the nick of time and he missed me, though his nasty gun-fire pretty
well chewed up my bottom plane.
"I did a hurried dead-leaf act, and I guess the Germans thought I was
done for and dropping, for they lit out without bothering any more
about me. I got home without any further incident, and found the
observation fellow had got back without a scratch, and had managed to
just finish his job before we were attacked, which was lucky."
Jimmy had taken in every syllable of Parker's story. He had tried
to picture himself in the same bad fix, and had caught the idea of
Parker's lightning action. "This fellow must be as quick as a cat,"
he thought. "I wonder if I would have had sense enough to grasp the
situation in the way he did? Well, if I get in a similar fix I will
have some idea of what to do, thanks to him."
Weeks afterward Jimmy heard that story of Parker's fight with five
Boche planes from another source. He then learned that Parker had
omitted an interesting feature of the tale. Before Immelmann swooped
on him, Parker had smashed up and sent to ground two of the four
Boche machines which had originally attacked him.
The Brighton boys soon learned that the most outstanding characteristic
of veteran fliers was modesty. A new chivalry had sprung up with the
development of the air service. Every successful flier had to be a
thorough sportsman to win through, and never did the boys meet a real
veteran at the, game who would tell of his own successes.
The general view of the flying men at the front was that the man who
did the prosaic work of daily reconnaissance and got back safe and
sound, without frequent spectacular combats and hair-breadth escapes
that made good telling, was just as much of a hero and took his life
in his hands just as surely, as did the man who went out to individual
duel with an adversary, and accomplished some stunt that had a spice
of novelty in it.
The second in command at the airdrome gave Parker and Jimmy their
final instructions. "This is Hill's first time over," said the
officer to Parker. "He can fly, though. I think for the first time
he had better guard and watch." Then, turning to Jimmy: "Watch
Parker, and fly about eight hundred feet behind him and the same
distance above him when he straightens out. Parker will attack when
he sees a Boche. Your job will still be to sit tight and watch until
you can see how things are going. A second Boche or maybe more
than one other will be pretty sure to show up, and it will be your
job to attack whatever comes along and drive it off so that it can't
interfere with Parker while he is finishing off his man.
"If anything should happen to Parker, be sure what you take on before
you go after the plane he first tackled, for usually you will find more
than one plane about over there on their side. Don't forget one
thing. If you find that you are surrounded run for it. That machine
you are to fly will give them a chase, no matter how they are
mounted. Remember, we haven't many of those, yet, and cannot afford to
lose any." As he said this, the officer laughed.
Jimmy felt he should have smiled, too, but his head was too full of
his job. He said "Yes, sir," quite seriously, and turned to give
his machine a final tuning up.
Jimmy jumped into the driving seat with a very determined feeling. He
must give a good account of himself, come what might. He fixed his
head-gear a bit tighter, pulled on his gloves, and tried the position
of his machine-gun. There it sat, just above the hood, a bit to the
right, almost in front of Jimmy. He felt a sudden affection for it.
How it would make some Boche sit up if he came into range!
The wheels were blocked with shaped pieces of wood, and Jimmy nodded
to his mechanics to start the engine. One whirl of the shining
blades, and the engine started, to roar away in deafening exuberance
of power as it warmed to its work. Something was not quite right.
The rhythm was not just perfect. Jimmy stopped the engine, ordered
a plug changed, and then, the order executed in a jiffy, nodded to
his men to once more start the motor. This time the engine droned
out a perfect series of explosions.
The flight sub-commander stepped beside the fuselage as Jimmy shut
off the engine, and said: "I have given detailed instructions to
Parker. You are to watch him and stay with him. If you by any
chance lose him, come back. Are your maps and instruments all right?"
"Yes, sir."
Then off with you, and good luck. You will be doing this sort of thing
every day before long, but I expect it seems a bit new to you at first."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
A final nod to his men---the roar once more, louder, more vibrant, more
defiant than ever---a quick signal of the hand, and the cords attached
to the blocks under the wheels were given a jerk. Jimmy was off on
his dangerous mission!
Old force of habit, a relic of earlier days of aeronautics, sent the
men to the wings, where they gave the big dragon-fly an unnecessary
push. After a run of a few feet Jimmy raised her suddenly, swiftly,
and she darted up almost perpendicularly. He realized as never before
that he was mounted on a machine that could probably outclimb and
outtrick any antagonist he was likely to meet.
"This is sure some bus," he thought to himself. "I guess she will do
all that is asked of her, whatever she runs into. So it's up to me.
If I fly her right she will come home, sure."
As he climbed into the clear sky he could see Parker's machine ahead,
circling higher and higher. He was glad Parker was going, too.
There was an odd but unmistakable sense of companionship in having
Parker up there ahead, though at fifteen thousand feet up or more, and
at eight hundred to a thousand feet distant, it seemed silly to think
of a man as "near" in case of trouble. Beside, he was to guard Parker,
and no one was to guard him.
But the powerful hunter on which he was mounted thrilled with such a
feeling of self-satisfaction, her engines hummed so merrily, and she
lifted herself so lightly and easily when he asked her to climb, that
he was soon wrapped in the joy of mastering so perfect a piece of
mechanism. Moreover, Jimmy had grown to love flying for flying's sake.
It was meat and drink to him.
When Parker had gained the altitude that suited him he straightened
out and headed for the enemy's country at a high rate of speed. Jimmy
thought himself too far behind at first, but the splendid machine
answered readily to his call upon it for a burst of five minutes, and
before he had time to realize it he was in good position and far below
were the long, winding scars on the surface of the earth that told
where the opposing armies were entrenched. Fighting the temptation
to watch what was passing underneath, he alternately kept his eyes on
Parker and scoured the sky ahead for signs of enemy aircraft.
Suddenly, between Parker and his own machine, and not so far below
him as he would have liked, white puff-balls began to appear. The
German anti-aircraft guns were at it. Parker began a wide sweep
to the left, then turned slowly right, then climbed swiftly. Jimmy
raised his machine at the same time, but, thinking to save the left
turn and unconsciously slowing in a little on the plane in front,
was reminded that he would be wise to change course a bit. The
ominous whirr of pieces of projectile told him that the German "Archie"
had fired a shot with good direction. He knew that shell might be
closely followed by another at a better elevation, so turned right,
climbing, until he had regained his eight hundred feet or more above
Parker.
As he did so Parker circled left once more, then flew at right angles
to the course he had originally selected. No more shells came near;
and again Parker changed course.
As Jimmy was trying to surmise where Parker would head next the swift
wasp in front dived suddenly, as if struck by one of the anti-aircraft
projectiles.
Quickly Jimmy dived also, and as he turned the nose of the machine
downward his heart gave a big bound, for right in front of Parker,
some distance below, was the wide wing-spread of a big German machine.
The enemy plane could hardly see Parker, save by some miracle, before
he had come sufficiently near to pour a murderous fire into it. With
a rush, his instructions came back to him. He must hover above and
watch, whatever the result of the combat below him. He straightened
out, and circling narrowly, scanned the air in every direction. As
he swung round he received another shock, a real one this time.
Straight before him, plainly coming as fast as they could fly, were
three planes of a type unfamiliar to him. They were at about his own
altitude. He called on his machine for all she could produce in the
way of power, and depressed his elevator planes. The moment the nose
of his plane turned upward, the three enemy planes began to climb also.
Jimmy dared not try a steeper angle of ascent. Any machine which he
had ever seen, save his new mount, would have refused to climb as she
was doing.
What should he do? For the moment he could not see the fight below
him between Parker and the plane Parker had started to chase. Surely,
with three to one against him, the best thing he could do would be
to keep his own skin intact. Intuitively glancing upward, what was
his horror to see, still high up but dropping like a meteor, a fourth
enemy plane---a big Gotha! It came over him like a flash! The
Boches were at their game. While the three lower planes engaged his
attention, a watcher had sat aloft. The German plan, Parker had told
him, was to swoop down from a great height and catch the unwary
Allied flier unawares.
Stopping his engine, he side-slipped out of the path of the newcomer,
rolled over once or twice to befog the enemy as to his intentions,
and then sailed aside still further on one of his "upside-down stunts,"
which had caught the eye of the flight commander. He thus escaped
the swoop of the diving Gotha, and as the other three Germans turned
to the right to demolish him, he swung half round, righted himself,
and climbed for dear life. In very few minutes he was above them,
leading the chase, all three pressing after him, and spreading out
fan-wise slightly to ensure catching him if he again tried the maneuver
that had extricated him from the former trap.
For a few moments Jimmy felt a mite nervous as to how things were
coming out. Then it dawned on him that he was doing his part well if
he drew the enemy fighters after him and away from Parker. The fourth
of the Boche hunters might be after him still, back there behind him,
or it might be fighting Parker, wherever Parker might be. By a quick
glance back he could see the three pursuers. Their planes, too, were
climbing well. He straightened out to try a burst of level speed.
Examining his map and compass he saw he was not heading for home.
That was bad. He tried veering to the left a bit, but imagined that
the plane behind him on the left drew nearer.
Then Jimmy found himself. What was it Parker had said about the new
hunter-machines being splendid loopers? Why not try a loop? Would
the Boches get wise to the idea quickly? Perhaps not quickly enough.
If he did a big, fast loop, he might come right-side-up on the tail
of one or even two of his would-be destroyers, and if he could only
get that wicked little rapid-firer of his to bear he would lessen the
odds against him, of that he felt sure. In a very few seconds after
the idea had come to him he had decided to put it into practice.
The big wasp turned a beautiful arc, swiftly, neatly, as if it had
known the game and was eager to take part in it. No machine could
have performed a more perfect loop; and, as he had hoped, it brought
him in the rear of the group of assailants. The center one of the
three enemy planes was nearest to him. Straight at it Jimmy dashed,
and when close, started firing. It was the first time in his life
that Jimmy had tried to take a human life, but he did not give that
fact a thought. A fierce desire to finish off the flier so close
in front overwhelmed him. He felt that he could not miss. A second
or two passed after the burst of fire before any change in the conduct
of the plane in front was noticeable.
Then the change came; all at once. The machine turned on its side,
the engine still running at full speed, and for one instant, before
the downward plunge came, Jimmy caught sight of a limp, lifeless
form half-hanging, sidewise, from the pilot's seat. Jimmy had fired
straight, and one of his antagonists was out of the fight.
He turned his attention to the flier on his left, fired a round at
him at rather long range, and then glanced to his right. It was
well he did so at that instant. The German on the right of the
trio had looped in turn, to get on to Jimmy's tail. Jimmy saw the
trick in the nick of time, and letting the left-hand plane go for
the moment, looped in turn. As he turned, he saw what he thought
must be the fourth enemy machine---the big fellow that had swooped
down on him at the beginning of the fight---speeding straight at
him. He quickly turned his loop into a side-loop, slid down swiftly,
caught himself, and assured that he had escaped both fliers for the
moment, took a rapid glance at his compass and saw that he was headed
straight for home. And home Jimmy went, as fast as his machine would go.