straight glide. In a jiffy I quite well knew we were not in France. A
German balloon with the Iron Cross was directly beneath us firmly moored
to its bed on the ground. Here we were at less than a thousand feet. The
excitement around that balloon bed could easily be imagined when out of
a cloud, in such terrible weather, a huge and awkward two-place enemy
plane unexpectedly dropped. I have been on the ground at our balloon
beds when they were attacked and know something of the awful fire the
attacking plane goes through in attempting to burn the balloon even at
the ordinary height, but it is many times worse when it is moored to its
bed, for the lower the plane must come the greater the hazard. It is for
this reason that most armies consider it a greater feat for an aviator
to destroy a balloon than an airplane. There we were like a great ghost
suddenly manifesting itself, and take it from me, if the machine gunners
were asleep on their work at our unannounced arrival, they mighty
suddenly showed signs of speed for almost instantly, from every angle
came the put-put-put, while we helplessly tried every conceivable
maneuver to dodge the many guns which were firing upon us at full force.
It is not strange that the airman does not worry much over the regular
steel ammunition of the machine gun, for like other similar dangers,
while they are the most fatal, they cannot be seen, so, he is oblivious
to their presence; but when the guns are using tracer and incendiary
bullets, the stream of fire is not unlike a miniature fire rocket and
behind each of the pretty fire rockets comes two silent, fatal ball
cartridges, for, indeed, the very object of “tracer” ammunition is to
show the path the bullets are taking. If there is anything that gets a
flyer’s wind up, it is tracer bullets from the ground. Our wind was up
and had been up for some time. But, Davis did the right thing and again
headed with the wind, while “tracers” saw us, met us and almost
conquered us. It certainly is terrifying to watch them come up at you
for the helpless part of it is that they come so fast you cannot even
try to dodge them. They were all around us; our right wing was perfectly
perforated with several accurate bursts and in the diving and slipping I
had been thrown around in the cockpit like the dice in a dicebox. My
seat had slipped from beneath me about three times, but the condition of
my mind was such that I was positive that it had been shot from beneath
me. The sharp turning with the wind left a wake of disheartening tracers
in our trail. It resembled a billion small rockets for the flaming
trajectories were easily followed. The Fourth of July was not in it. I
thought at the time that it was a sight well worth seeing, but
dangerously unhealthful. Soon though as we shot along we were again
greeted by the high explosive bursts of the artillery which was some
relief for they were considerably behind us and we were at least away
from the machine guns at the balloon bed.
The painful fact was that while we were going through the air at a
terrific speed, that speed was carrying us farther and farther into
Germany. The situation was becoming more and more serious. What could we
now do? We could not possibly fight the wind below the clouds and make
the long distance home, so I told Davis to go into the clouds again; at
least, we would not be such an easy target. This time we would try my
compass, for while it might be slightly untrue, if we went long enough
we surely could not fail reaching France at some point. He started to
climb and, well—those were long moments. The climbing greatly decreased
our speed, while the machine guns again played upon us most cruelly. But
that climbing was a most wonderful piece of work; poor Davis twisted
that boat in every conceivable manner, but the best part of it all was
that he continued the climb at all costs. There was nothing so dear to
me as those clouds—so near and yet so far. Anything to again get out of
that constant and swarming bee-hive of fire bullets. Then we penetrated
the ceiling. My heart was again almost normal for a few seconds. Here
was the supreme moment it seemed—truly to err was to die, or worse, to
finally land from shortage of gasoline and be made prisoner. Hugging
close to the compass, oblivious to all else, lest we deviate a jot from
its true south reading, I slowly and distinctly called the directions.
For fully a half an hour we followed this procedure—sometimes above the
clouds and most of the time in them, but never below them. At last I was
absolutely certain that we were well over dear old France again; at
least, somewhere between Paris and Nancy, so, after another three
minutes to be sure, I called to Davis again.
“This time we have sure foxed the Hun,” I said; “let’s go down and look
over the scenery.”
We had climbed quite a lot farther in the clouds than we thought, and it
took longer to come to light, so, in our anxiety to see France again he
put it into a steeper dip and soon we emerged in almost a straight dive.
Below us to the right was another balloon at its bed. It was our own
balloon line, of course. It could be no other for my compass had been
undoubtedly true and somehow the ground looked like France. Furthermore,
we had not been fired upon.
“Davis,” I said, “look out for a place to land and we’ll find where we
are, then after dinner we’ll fly on home.”
I had no more than gotten the words out of my mouth when a machine gun
started to fire at us, again using tracer ammunition. I was convinced
that it was all a mistake and that when they saw who we really were they
would quit, so, I told Davis to tilt the plane and show the colors of
our cocarde as the weather was not clear and any one might make a
similar mistake.
Our own aviation never, under any circumstances, approached our balloons
suddenly, for the reason that the Germans one time used some allied
captured planes in the Château-Thierry offensive, and with the French
colors on their cocarde, approached one of our balloons and, unmolested,
burned it. Since then all balloons had adopted the policy of firing on
any machine which came suddenly out of the clouds toward them. I was
positive that this was the case here. Suddenly other guns vigorously
began to take up the firing and by the time I saw the foreboding black,
German Cross painted on the side of the sausage, the whole balloon
machine gun crews had us well in hand. When we went down on the first
balloon I was pretty well convinced that it was all up with us, but this
time there was no doubt about it, for we had lost far too many of our
best pursuit pilots in attacking balloons at low altitudes for me to
even hope otherwise, and our pursuit planes were smaller targets, were
faster and more maneuverable. What chance in the world, I thought, has a
lubberly, two-place observation plane in a hole like this when few of
the pursuit planes even ever emerge with their lives?
Here I again hand it all to Davis, for with a bravery and grit that I
have seldom seen equaled, and a skill that was uncanny, he did
everything imaginable with that plane, but wisest of all he again headed
with the wind, our only chance to get out of the mess. That second in
banking into the wind was actually the longest of my life—the ground had
surely anticipated it for we were truly the apex of the cone of lead and
fire from the circular base of guns surrounding the balloon bed. The
plane was almost a screen where so many bullets had perforated it. I
heard a snap with a dismal twanging sound. One flying wire had been
already cut by the barrage, but Davis kept right on twisting the boat as
if nothing had happened.
We still had life—something for which I had almost ceased to hope. Like
persecuted souls weak from exhaustion, but strong in determination, we
went on, still with the wind unrelentlessly driving us farther into
Germany. Already we had been up about two hours and the thought occurred
to me that we would soon be out of gasoline. We could not take another
chance. My calculation, which later turned out to be accurate, was that
we were then about fifteen kilometers from the line.
The known splendid liaison of the Boche was already in action; this we
well knew and undoubtedly several German planes were already up after
us. The solution was simple. There were only two things we could
possibly do. We knew the wind direction when we left France, so, we
could pick up our direction from the smoke from locomotives, chimneys
and the like and fly below the clouds toward the line. At best the
condition of our plane would but permit elementary maneuvering and at
that we stood but little chance of getting through the continual machine
gun fire at such constant low altitude. Then, too, it was certain that
if we kept below the clouds on such a course we would soon have enemy
planes hot on our trail, although, personally, I thought we would never
get through two more minutes of the gun firing even with our plane in
the best condition. The alternative was to land, destroy the plane and
try to escape. It all ran through my mind like a flash. I thought of
Davis. I admit I thought of myself. One was justifiable life for the
reason that the destruction of the plane, at least, would be guaranteed,
while if we were shot down we would both die in the crash and the Boche
would get the salvage and design of the plane. The impelling fighting
chance of the second proposition was enough. There was no more
hesitation.
“Davis,” I shouted, “can you pick up the direction from the smoke on the
ground?”
He looked around doubtfully.
“I’ll try,” he more doubtfully replied.
“All right, head into the wind again—beneath the clouds. This is our
last chance. Fly straight into the wind. We will have to scrap for our
lives, but luck is with us.”
Nodding his head with characteristic determination, he swiftly steered
the bus into the wind. For several minutes the combined fire of
anti-aircraft artillery and machine guns played upon us. I will not
attempt to describe the horrors of those minutes that seemed years—how
we lived through it I do not know. A piece of my tourelle was shot away
and my wireless reel was torn completely off. I could hear the plane
whine in its flight, the broken wires even dolefully singing our
requiem. Through it all the motor was not hurt—it was turning like a
top. Indeed, it seemed just like the last moments of the poor fowl
which, with its neck wrung, will continue to flop about. Veritably it
seemed we were flopping—it was the wonderful Davis doing his best to
dodge the myriads of deathly bullets coming at us from all angles.
Then suddenly all became quiet. The machine guns and the archies had for
some reason stopped their firing. I had been there before—I knew. The
time had come. Looking over to the right I saw what I expected—four
German Fokkers had already taken off the field and were coming up after
us. We could even see their airdrome and other planes ready to take off
if necessary. It was a sad day. I had been in scraps before but such
odds as these had not faced me. This was, indeed, foreign—ten miles from
home, about out of gas, with a bunged-up plane and yet forced to stand
there with hands on the guns and patiently await the seconds until they
steadily climbed up to get us. I wanted to throw up the sponge in the
worst way; it seemed but useless murder of the two of us, for there
could be no possible chance to live through it. On the other hand, we
might get one or even two of them, so it was the big game—the call of
chance. We must give combat—now to break the word to Davis. I laughed
hysterically.
“Davis,” I called, “have you ever had a fight?”
Puzzled as to the significance of this question he turned around and
answered, “No. Never.”
“Well,” and I again laughed for no reason in the world, “you are going
to have one now.” Of course, the airplane did a strange shimmy, after
which I continued, “There are four Boche coming up to the right rear.
Fly straight ahead, and don’t worry. Only keep me in a position to
fire.”
Davis said nothing, but turning around he calmly eyed the oncoming
Germans, then I saw his jaws set in fierce determination and without
another sign of emotion he directed his attention to the damaged plane.
While the Huns were in formation and at twelve hundred feet, I leveled
the guns and fired a burst of thirty rounds in order to scatter them for
I have found that the Boche is not half so bold when he knows he is
seen. It had the effect I wanted; they scattered and began firing at me
from about one thousand feet, hoping to get us by a chance shot, or
better, of frightening us into landing. They kept this position for
several minutes. I did not fire another shot; I could ill afford to
waste a single cartridge and ever hope to make the lines. Seeing that we
intended to fight to a finish they separated; one plane came from the
left, the other three from the right, and attempted to close in all at
the same time. At nine hundred feet they again began to fire, and
steadily close in. Still I did not pull the triggers. At my reticence
they became bolder and when the right three got to about six hundred
feet from me I carefully leveled my right gun and turned loose a
well-directed burst of about fifty rounds. To me the real fight had now
begun for soon they would be at close range where real fatalities occur.
The lad at my left required my attention so I swung the tourelle and
carefully laying the bead, I pulled the trigger. It did not fire.
Thinking perhaps the locking mechanism had been caught by the sudden
swinging of the guns, I reached down to pull it into place. The lock was
O.K. It was nothing else than a plain jam. I did not feel so bad for I
still had my other gun untried and there was sufficient ammunition yet
for a good fight. So, as the left plane closed in I aimed with unerring
accuracy; and I was sure I had him unless something unusual happened.
Something unusual did happen. The left gun fired about seven shots and
stopped. It was no time for child’s play—team work was the one thing
necessary to save the situation. Davis realized it, for the moment the
guns stopped firing he knew something was all wrong, and he took up the
fight by a series of remarkable acrobatics, in a vain effort to get his
own guns into play.
After many strenuous efforts, by brute force I succeeded in clearing the
jam. At least, I thought I did, although things happened so fast from
then on that the gun never had a chance. Amidst the violent jerking of
the plane I frantically attempted to aim, then there was no more
jerking—the plane seemed to be falling on its side toward earth and
glancing forward I saw flames. There was only one solution—they had not
only gotten Davis and we were rapidly falling to our death, but they had
also set us afire. There were but the fractions of a second, and then
the crash, for I was powerless—I did not know how to fly and,
furthermore, the plane was not fitted with a dual control. A
multiplicity of active and concrete thoughts took form in my brain in
that short space of time from the beginning of the descent to the crash.
I closed my eyes—the horror of it was too much for me. It was bad enough
to face certain death, but the thought of burning to death closed the
picture.
The plane struck and the next thing I knew we had stopped; at least, I
thought I knew it. To be perfectly frank I was so scared I did not know
whether I was dead or alive. But, looking out, I saw Davis already on
the ground; Davis, who I was sure had been killed. This brought me to my
real senses and in a second I was out of the plane and running top-speed
toward the crest of a hill which was directly in front of us. Fifty feet
to my left and running in the same direction was Davis. and swooping
down from the skies, at an altitude of from thirty to fifty feet, the
four Fokkers continued to fire upon us. This brought me still closer to
the realization that we were still very much alive, though how long we
would be I did not know. I would run along about five yards and then
fall on my stomach, then jump up and scramble on for another five yards
and slide, the idea being that the planes, sweeping down, could very
well judge our speed while running steadily, but when we stopped
suddenly they could not quickly dive their planes to shoot straight down
upon us, for in so doing they would crash headlong on the ground.
The hill was not steep, but at the same time it was not easy running. I
think I beat Davis to the top, even at that. As I got there I will never
forget the sight that met my eyes. Approaching us from the other side
was the proverbial mob, coming out to get us. There were officers on
horseback, officers on foot, soldiers, men, women and children with
every means of conveyance, from artillery trucks on down to the antique
oxen. There must have been five hundred of them. Of course, the fight
had easily been followed from the ground and I suppose they were all
anxious to come out to see what was left of us. Believe me, I had real
stage fright when I saw that crowd, so, I turned around and as I started
to run back down the hill to my surprise I saw that the airplane had not
burned.
There is one hard and fast rule that all flyers are taught to follow and
that is when shot down in enemy territory, their duty is to burn the
plane at all costs, for otherwise the enemy not only gets the airplane
itself, but also the latest designs, inventions and improvements which
are a hundred times more valuable.
“Davis,” I yelled at the top of my voice, as I started running toward
the plane. Instantaneously he saw and followed. It was a bad trip
back—the Fokkers, surmising our mission, came down to where they
practically skimmed the ground, absolutely intent upon taking our lives.
When we finally reached the plane I was puffing like a steam engine, for
my lungs were raw from exhaustion as I still had on this heavy flying
suit which covered my entire body. The Fokkers were able to very well
judge their shots for they made it extremely unpleasant.
“A match! A match! A match!” I kept calling, running around and not
knowing what to do. Davis hauled forth a box with about eight in it. We
had lost our heads absolutely for we were too excited to remember that
we had such a thing as gasoline on board. Jumping around like a pair of
ducks on a hot stove, we blindly tried to light the fabric on the wings
which through the expenditure of a million dollars on experimentation
had been made practically fireproof on the surface by the application of
noninflammable varnish. We were too dense to take any cognizance of the
fact that they continually failed to burn, so, we went ahead making
repeated attempts to light the wings. In a minute the last match was
gone. There was no hope. I felt like breaking down and crying like a
baby. The right side under the motor was still smoldering from the
flames in the air, which had been caused by an incendiary bullet
striking the carburetor, but had been extinguished by the violent
side-slipping of the plane, just as a match is smothered out by being
swept through the air. Then Davis had a brilliant idea.
“Hell,” he said, “We’ve got gasoline.” And he jumped up into the pilot’s
pit and broke the main gasoline lead and in a second gasoline was
spluttering all over the plane like a bubbling fountain.
“Look for another match!” I cried to Davis, and although he knew he had
no more, he began to throw things out of his pockets right and left.
Among these things there fell a smudge cigarette lighter. These
instruments were devised by the French on account of their extreme
shortage of matches. The gadget consists of a tiny steel wheel, which
strikes a piece of flint, which in turn ignites the smudge. The only
trouble with these things is that they do not always work. However, when
this fell before me, it was Heaven itself, for I made a high dive and
grasping it, began to strike the wheel. It would not ignite. Running
back and forth, trying to get the smudge to burn, I began to strike it,
pray over it, and do everything else. My kingdom, such as it was, for a
light.
“Soak it in gas! Use your bean. Let me have it,” cried Davis, and he
snatched it out of my hand and soaked it with gas, but still it would
not work. Disgusted, he threw it on the ground with a vehement oath, and
took his spite out by trying to kick the rubber tire off one of the
landing wheels. Snatching it up again I struck it sharply against a
piece of the metal cowling on the motor with the hope that by some
miracle this hasty remedy might help it. It was just luck, for something
did the work. Whether it was hitting it on the metal or not, I do not
guess, but when I gave it a brisk turn it bursted into flame, and my
hands also being covered with gasoline, began to burn, too. I dropped it
like a piece of hot steel and Davis snatched it up and threw it into the
gasoline soaked cockpit. Soon the $20,000 plane was a roaring furnace.
It was like the last act of a big motion picture—the criminals at bay
were fighting for time against the mob and like the hardboiled leader of
the villains laughs in the face of his pursuers while he goes to his
self-inflicted death rather than deliver himself, so I turned around,
knowing there was no escape from the mob, determined to die in the
wreckage. Already Davis was beating it across the field to the left,
crying “Come on! Come on!” and so, while I did not have much pep left I
started to run toward a sort of rude embankment over toward the left
center, which was not over two hundred yards away. Fortunately the
burning plane momentarily threw the crowd back, for they knew if there
were bombs aboard they would soon explode.
The heavy flying suit was causing me trouble, for I was stumbling
through the mud like an intoxicated elephant, but even at that I am
inclined, now, to think that I beat the intercollegiate record for the
one hundred yards dash. As I rushed around this embankment, I hit
something which landed me on the ground in a puddle of mud. What I hit
was a horse, which was one of five being ridden by four officers and one
sergeant, who had come from another nearby village to get us. These
horses stepped all over and around me, and I thought at the time how
ironical it was to have endured and lived through the hardships of the
morning and have my life crushed out by a horse’s hoofs. It was the same
disgustingly disgraceful death that I have always feared since the war,
namely of being hit by a Ford automobile on a quiet, country road after
coming through the war in safety. However, the horses showed true horse
sense and did not step directly upon me. Of course, I stopped. I was
already stopped—if not by this sudden impetus, then surely from sheer
exhaustion. I got up literally covered with mud.
The senior officer of the party was a true Hun, who had undoubtedly been
drinking, for I do not believe otherwise any one, regardless of
nationality, could have been so cold-blooded and terrible. He could not
recognize that I was American as my flying suit hid my uniform, so, he
spoke up in French:
“Qui de vous a brulé l’avion, et ou est votre comrade?” I quite well
understood his French, but I felt it would be better policy to say
nothing, so I looked absolutely blank. Again he demanded who burned the
airplane and where was my comrade, which ultimatum he sharpened by a
threatening “Vite! Vite!” I realized that something was necessary on my
part, for deafness would be a very lame excuse for any flyer, so, I told
him in English that I did not understand him.
“Ah,” he smiled in delight, finding his prize had been even greater than
he had expected, “then you are English or American. Which?”
He said this in perfect English, which upset my whole scheme of
reticence, for it did not occur to me that he spoke still a third
language. I said nothing, but looked at the ground, contemplating my
reply.
“American or British?” he demanded.
I was proud of my nationality, so, looking up, I threw out my chest and
exclaimed, “I’m American.”
I expected him to immediately recognize the strength of my citizenship,
just as the wise old Biblical character, whoever he was, got out of a
tight hole by saying that he was a Roman. I had a surprise awaiting me,
however, for he gave me a cynical laugh that gave him an opportunity to
divert from the subject in mind.
“So you are an American, are you?” he sneeringly went on. “Well, I’ve
lived in your America ten years, myself, and I know you all. You’re a
rotten bunch of lying hypocrites.”
Strange as it may seem I did not see fit to take issue with him under
the circumstances, so, he went on with another little round of abuse of
the Americans that made my blood boil, but again I failed to go to the
bat for my country. Thinking he had sufficiently riled me, he started on
the subject of more vital importance.
“Now, which one of you burned that plane?” he sharply demanded.
Again I said nothing, but I thought a lot, for since he was getting so
individualistic about it, I was convinced that we were in a pretty
serious situation; yet I knew I was going to have to answer that
question. I was hoping that if Davis was caught he would say that he did
it and I knew that Davis was human, and was hoping that I would say that
I did it.
He interrupted my silent study. “Are you going to answer?” he growled.
What would I say to get by? I decided to spar.
“It burned itself,” was my brilliant repartee.