Von Herzmann Strikes
1
At dawn the following morning, well behind the German lines in the
vicinity of Roncheres, Count von Herzmann's famous Circus was making
feverish haste to take the air. Von Herzmann himself was coolly
instructing the pilots in the purposes of their coming expedition. His
elation was great indeed, and his entire manner, as well as the pleased
smile that played over his youthful, handsome face, indicated that he
was confident of victory. Confidence, however, was no new trait in von
Herzmann. He always possessed it, but it stopped just short of blind
egotism. Perhaps therein could be found the reason for his fame and his
success. He was no blundering, egobefuddled braggart riding for a fall;
he was a splendid pilot, a careful tactician, fearless when fearlessness
was needed and cautious when caution would bring greater reward than
blind valor. In short, his fame rested securely upon ability. He was one
of the idols of his countrymen, and he was a scourge both feared and
respected by the allied air forces. The ships of his Circus were painted
in whatever gaudy colors proved appealing to the pilots thereof, but the
fuselage of each bore the famous insignia of the Circus--the defiant
German eagle with its blood red feet and talons supported on a scroll
bearing the legend, _Gott Mit Uns_. And indeed it did seem that
this Circus was providentially watched over.
For more than a year the watchword of the French and English had been,
"Get von Herzmann." It was an easy phrase to coin, but extremely
difficult to execute. Many a French and English pilot had gone gunning
for him, but most of these were now in their graves. Those who escaped
were a little less enthusiastic in their next search for this skilled
airman who had run up a total of more than two score victories.
Von Herzmann, in addition to being a skilled pilot, was as elusive as a
ghost. He was here, there, everywhere. Wherever there was a heavy drive
or a sturdy, sullen defensive, there could be found Count von Herzmann.
The Allies, making use of this knowledge, had sent out many bombing
expeditions to blast the nest of this troublesome Circus from the face
of the earth, but their deadly bombs fell upon deserted, decoy hangars.
As is always the case, those who exhibit a certain degree of excellence
find ready help at the hand of admirers who wish them still further
success and acclaim. It was so in von Herzmann's case. The German army
could ill afford to lose one who was so brilliant in his operations and
so firmly established as one of the popular national idols. The German
Intelligence Department gave him all possible assistance, thereby not
only saving his precious neck but furnishing still more glamorous
stories for a populace that was daily becoming more disheartened and
weary with war.
On this morning at Roncheres, von Herzmann was again preparing to shake
another plum into his lap. Military Intelligence had received word late
the previous evening that an American Pursuit Squadron would on the
following morning leave from a 'drome south of Epernay and proceed to a
new base south of La Ferte sous Jouarre. Doubtless they would parallel
the line south of la Chapelle. What could be simpler than to send forth
von Herzmann with the full strength of his justly famous Circus to
intercept these untried Americans? Here was a ripe plum indeed--to be
had for the picking!
Von Herzmann was particularly well pleased. He smiled as he climbed
jauntily into his gaudy green and gold Fokker tri-plane. So the stupid
Americans had thought to lead the German High Command astray by such a
clumsy movement? Ha! They forgot that a good spy system is like wheels
within wheels. But they would learn--in time.
Smiling, he examined his twin Spandau machine guns. Then he glanced
along the line of ships making up the first flight. Yes, they were
ready, awaiting his signal, their idling motors purring like so many
contented cats. The smiling, blond von Herzmann lifted his hand in
signal. The purring sound changed to the deafening roar of a hundred
infuriated jungle cats. The leading plane raced along the green field,
and a moment later the first flight of von Herzmann's great Circus
leaped into the air, climbed rapidly, and laid a course for a cloud bank
hanging over the lines above Comblizy.
How often the youthful, clever von Herzmann had made use of shielding
cloud banks, or lacking clouds had placed himself above his adversary,
squarely in the blinding sun. One of the two, or both perhaps, would
serve him again this morning.
His smile grew broader as he neared the front. It was thrilling, this
hunting business, and it was made decidedly easier when Intelligence
cooperated fully, as they had done in this instance. He knew the
strength of his quarry, their lack of experience, and the report had
included the statement that two of the planes were piloted by
instructors fresh from the English front, flying English Camels. Two
hated Englanders, eh? _Gott strafe_ England! He would single them
out and take care of them, one at a time. The rest of his command would
scatter the others like quails, and the survivors, not well acquainted
with the terrain, would have a nice problem in finding their way to La
Ferte. _Himmel!_ but it was a pleasing prospect.
2
Major Cowan's squadron had been slightly delayed in starting by two
malfunctioning Nieuports. A precious half hour was spent in correcting
the difficulty and the sun had changed from a dull red ball to a
blinding white disk racing up the eastern sky wall by the time the
flights had gained proper altitude and laid a true course for La Ferte
sous Jouarre.
The top flight, with Cowan leading, had climbed to twelve thousand feet.
B Flight, under Yancey, was some three thousand feet under him and
somewhat in advance. This gave the top flight a greater protective power
and insured the bottom flight against any surprise attack. Not only were
the flights in echelon, but the planes of each unit were also echeloned,
each plane being slightly above the one directly ahead. It was a
formidable formation, capable of being readily manoeuvered and with each
pilot insured the best possible vision.
A few white, vapory clouds hung high over the trenches toward Comblizy,
and still heavier banks were to be seen to the south of la Chapelle,
hanging over the Surmelin Valley. In all other directions the sky
presented that fathomless blue so well known to all pilots who ascend
above ten thousand feet. The open space between these apparently
unmoving cloud banks was some three or four miles in width.
Larkin, in the top flight with Major Cowan, had taken up position as the
hindermost plane in the group and had, therefore, the greatest altitude.
As a rule, he never was satisfied with his altitude until he had pushed
his plane somewhere near the limit of its climbing ability. He was a
splendid pilot at great altitude, and he had learned from experience
that many pilots capable of doing good work at the lower levels flounder
around like fish out of water when above twelve thousand feet. This
being equally true of friend and foe, Larkin always felt better when he
was high enough not to have any worry about someone coming down on him.
He preferred having his enemies below rather than above.
This morning, however, he took no thought of the matter. Before taking
off Major Cowan had said no more than, "Look sharp when we get south of
la Chapelle; head on a pivot, you know." Shucks! Slim chance for any
excitement with a group like this. Even if they sighted a small enemy
patrol they would have to go merrily on their way and leave the game to
someone else. However, a war pilot with skill enough to become such an
ace as Larkin needs little caution about "looking sharp." It is habit
with him, and those who fail to develop the habit are only a few hours
or days removed from sudden disaster.
There was little enough to see. They were flying westward. Again and
again Larkin turned his head around, closed one eye and placing a thumb
close to his open eye squinted into the blinding sun. Many times, by the
employment of that little trick, he had been able to momentarily diffuse
the sun's rays sufficiently to catch the faintest blurred outline of
enemy planes sitting in the sun and waiting for the proper moment to
dive.
This morning the sun seemed unusually bright and blinding. Somewhat
ahead, and to the south, three large French observation planes were
coming up toward the lines at la Chapelle. They were just about even,
vertically, with the cloud bank over the Surmelin Valley. They would
pass almost directly under the bottom flight, led by Yancey.
Larkin watched them, somewhat idly. Photographic mission, probably.
Then, with little or no interest in them, his eye ran along the two
converging lines of planes that made up Yancey's flight. That moment he
noticed McGee's plane cut out of position and zoom up at an angle too
steep to be maintained. Then McGee's plane levelled off and was hurled
through a series of quick acrobatics. It meant but one thing--manoeuver!
Larkin jerked his head around and squinted into the sun. Not a thing
there--at least nothing he could see--and as soon as the stabbing
streaks of light left his eyes he glanced toward the cloud bank over the
Marne. Nothing there. The three French observation busses, far below,
were going gaily on their way. But McGee was still climbing and
stunting. Larkin knew that this was no idle exhibition. McGee didn't fly
that way. He was trying to draw their attention to something.
Larkin looked ahead at Cowan's plane. That moment the Major dipped his
plane twice. Now what in the world did he mean by that? Larkin wondered.
Merely that he had noticed McGee and was on the alert? Or did he mean
that he too had seen the enemy? Enemy! Where was the enemy?
Again Larkin turned his head to try the sun. Nothing there ... yes, by
George! there was a blur of black spots. But it was such a fleeting view
that he could not be sure, and tried again. Blast the sun! It made him
blind as a bat!
He closed his eyes to cut out the dancing sparks and pin wheels. He
opened them again, and on turning for one more trial at the sun his eye
fell upon the cloud bank to the north. Talk about being blind! Blind as
a bat was right!
There, dark, dim and shadowy against the cloud were more German planes
than he had ever before seen in one group, and their angle of direction
left no question as to their purpose.
Again he tried the sun. Yes, there they were! No question about it now.
They were coming down, and in so doing were no longer completely within
the eye of the sun. Pretty slick! A group behind to cut off retreat and
another group coming out of the clouds at an angle that would intercept
the line of flight. And that cloud was fairly raining German planes!
"Well!" Larkin exclaimed aloud. "Here's a howdy-do!"
The planes to the eastward were looming up with surprising speed, and no
one could say when the ones behind and above would open up their
murderous guns. What would Cowan do? What would any of these green
pilots do in such a dog fight? Larkin looked down at McGee. He was still
climbing for all he was worth. Cowan, if he saw anything, was too
paralyzed for action. But perhaps he had not seen. Air eyes come through
experience, Larkin knew, and something must be done right now.
In the moment that he determined upon a course of action he saw another
group of planes come streaming out of the cloud to the south. Curtains!
The whole sky was full of planes. Then, as they swerved sharply, he saw
the sunlight play on the allied cockade. And how they came! Spads,
French Spads! Going up to the front, perhaps, as a covering flight for
the observation crates far below. But now they were swinging into this
grand and unexpected melee.
Larkin grinned. "Here _is_ a howdy-do--sure 'nuff!" he repeated and
went into a tight, climbing turn that brought him squarely around,
facing the planes streaming down out of the sun. Taps for Mr. Larkin, he
thought, but he would at least give them pause, and by so doing not only
provide Cowan with a chance to wake up and manoeuver, but it would give
the oncoming Spads the one thing they needed--time!
The lightning-like movements and happenings of an aerial dog fight
cannot be followed or seen by any one man. Fortunate indeed is that
pilot who can keep track of what is going on around him. One moment he
may have a single adversary; the next he is the target for two or more
planes. If he shakes them off, or by marksmanship reduces the odds, he
may check in for mess that evening; failing to do so, a squadron
commander will that night requisition a new pilot.
As Larkin came around on the quickly executed turn he was only faintly
conscious of the fact that a considerable group of Fokker tri-planes
were sweeping down on him. He gave no thought to the number. His eye was
fixed upon a bright green and gold plane in the lead. As he pulled up
the nose of his Camel and thumbed the trigger release for his first
burst, he sensed the strange exultation that comes to that man who,
facing death in a forlorn hope and knowing there is no escape, accepts
all chances and sells his life as dearly as possible.
The diving green and gold plane flashed across his ring sights as the
Lewis gun poured forth its first burst. Square into the oncoming plane
the tracers poured. Larkin, seeing that he was on, held his nose up
until he knew he was about to stall.
The green plane dipped, dived under him, and Larkin noticed another
plane flash past him, bent on other game. Then splinters flew from one
of his struts and a bullet smacked against the instrument board.
He had lost flying speed on his zoom to get at the green plane. To
regain speed, and give life to his laboring motor, he dived sharply.
At the beginning of this dive a glance told him that the green plane had
suffered an injury vital enough to cause it to lose all interest in any
return to the attack.
During the first flashing seconds of the attack Larkin's mind had been
occupied only with the thought of hurling himself at the oncoming planes
in the forlorn hope of diverting their course of action for a few brief
but precious minutes. Suddenly, now, the fleeing green and gold plane
awakened memory. Green and gold! Could that be the plane of the renowned
von Herzmann, who from the beginning of his fame had advertised himself
as the man who always flew a brightly painted green and gold plane?
Another Fokker dived at Larkin, his Spandaus rattling. His aim was wild
and he overshot Larkin's steep dive. But in that dive, which brought him
all too close, Larkin caught sight of the insignia on the plane--a
German eagle perched on a lettered scroll. It was von Herzmann's Circus!
Larkin's heart leaped. He kicked his left rudder savagely and wheeled
left, thundering after the green and gold plane that was streaking
homeward. Get that plane, get that plane! ran through his mind. All else
faded. The presence of other planes, and his original plan, all were
lost sight of in the pulse-quickening realization that he had crippled
the plane of the famous ace in that first burst. Now to get him and
bring him down! Von Herzmann was not one to cut and run unless there was
an urgent reason for it. He was trying to tool a crippled plane back
across the lines. Larkin, determined to make the most of this golden
opportunity, forthwith lost sight of all else.
Ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka! Crash! Splinters flew from Larkin's cowling and
two gashes suddenly appeared in the fabric of his left wing. So! The
crippled eagle had loyal kingbirds for protectors, and they had plunged,
pecking, at the Camel pursuing their leader.
Larkin dived clear of the streaming bullets, zoomed upward into a half
loop and rolled into position to fire at the leading attacker. The
German was slow and Larkin poured a stream of lead into the cockpit. He
saw the pilot stiffen, as one who has received a sudden shock or
surprise, and then slump down. The plane thundered on for a moment, then
nosed down, out of control.
Ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka! Larkin saw tracers zipping past the nose of the
plane. He side-slipped, out of the line of fire, and glanced back. Two
more kingbirds coming to the relief of the fleeing eagle.
Ta-ka-ta-ka--the Spandaus again began their monotonous, metallic
stutter. Into the cockpit of Larkin's plane streamed a half dozen deadly
pellets. Two of them pinged against the instrument board, another passed
completely through the cockpit, just in front of his stomach. He felt
suddenly cold at the nearness of death as he zoomed steeply into a
quivering stall and slipped off into a spin.
He was conscious of the fact that both the Fokkers were thundering after
him. Then a Camel, with the speed of a thunderbolt, flashed across his
line of vision. He could see the Lewis gun quivering with little excited
jumps as it poured out lead. Good old McGee! He always turned up when
needed most.
Larkin neutralized the stick, then ruddered hard left against the spin,
and thus stopped the tail spin. Then, gaining speed by a quick dive, he
looped with a suddenness that brought the Camel squarely on the tail of
the remaining pursuer who was diving steeply. Both guns began jumping
with delight as Larkin thumbed the releases. What luck! Square in the
ring sight! The telltale tracers poked their white fingers into the
vitals of the Fokker tri-plane. A serpent-like tongue of red licked out,
fluttering for a moment like a wind blown candle flame, and then leaped
afresh in an enveloping burst of flame and smoke.
Two!
He glanced around. McGee was in a merry game with the other kingbird.
Round and round they plunged in steep spirals, each trying to get a
glimpse of the other across the sights. A tight, breath-taking game, but
one which cannot last long. The circle becomes too small, the pace too
swift. It was a game in which, Larkin knew, the tri-plane Fokker could
excel the Camel, granting that the pilots were of equal skill.
Larkin jockeyed for position, but in that moment when his eye was taken
from the mad game of ring-around-the-rosy, McGee demonstrated that the
skill was not equally placed. The Fokker was now spinning down,
obviously out of control, and McGee was following, filling it with
enough lead to sink it. It spun earthward, sickening in its erratic
gyrations.
McGee pulled up on his stick, banked sharply, bringing himself alongside
Larkin. They waved to each other, exultantly. Larkin, who a few minutes
ago had decided that his luck had played out its string, swallowed his
heart, murmured "Whew!" and surveyed the field.
The green and gold plane of von Herzmann was now a rapidly diminishing
speck against the cloud bank toward la Chapelle, streaking for the
Fatherland. The others, lacking a leader, and facing unequal chances
with the timely and unexpected appearance of the French Spads, were
withdrawing from the action with all the speed they could get out of
their wonderful motors. And that was speed enough.
The French Spads had come out of a cloud bank just in time to upset the
well laid plans of the German ace, and that worthy, never expecting such
a dare-devil, self-sacrificing move as made by Larkin, had for once been
taken by surprise. He had been damaged enough to force immediate
retirement. The celerity with which his group abandoned the project and
followed in his wake gave glowing tribute to the true value and
leadership of that youth who flew the green and gold plane. With him as
leader, they would have taken a toll, despite the unexpected arrival of
the Spads. But with von Herzmann, their idol and their pride, forced
from the fight by a hated Englander flying a dinky little Camel--well,
the Fatherland could be served some other day.
But von Herzmann had been right in his boast that he would scatter the
Americans like quails. As the French Spads pursued the fleeing Fokkers,
which were numerically strong enough to make a too vigorous pursuit
unwise and unhealthy, Major Cowan took up the task of gathering his
brood. He flew around, bringing them together, signaling instructions to
take up positions, and pointing westward along the line of flight. Three
of his brood, however, were crushed and crumpled fledglings on the
ground far below. Carpenter, and fat, jolly little McWilliams, had
collided while engaging an enemy. Their crumpled wings had locked fast
in an embrace that spun them down dizzily to a crashing, splintering
death. And Nathan Rodd, he who spared his words, had also been a bit too
provident or tardy with his fire and had been sent down out of control.
Cowan had avenged Rodd a second later, sending his attacker down
spinning and thereby gaining his first victory.
The score, in that far flung encounter, stood one in favor of Cowan's
squadron, but it was a heavy-hearted group of pilots who at last took up
formation and headed westward. Their faces had a new, grim look. Flying
was not all a matter of shooting the other fellow down. Those who had
witnessed the sickening crash of Carpenter and McWilliams learned at a
tragic cost that one must be all eyes. The gateman, who controls the
airways of the skies, was taking his toll, and every one of the group
that flew westward toward La Ferte, leaving three comrades behind, now
more soberly considered the alarming casualty figures of eighty per cent
per month--and wondered!
A month! It is such a little while.