[Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text
as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and
other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to correct an obvious
error is noted at the end of this ebook.]
OUTWITTING THE HUN
[Illustration: LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN, R. F. C.]
OUTWITTING
THE HUN
_My Escape from a
German Prison Camp_
BY
LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN
_Royal Flying Corps_
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
OUTWITTING THE HUN
Copyright, 1918, by Lieutenant Pat O'Brien
Printed in the United States of America
Published March, 1918
TO
THE NORTH STAR
WHOSE GUIDING LIGHT MARKED THE
PATHWAY TO FREEDOM FOR A WEARY
FUGITIVE, THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
IN HUMBLE GRATITUDE
AND ABIDING FAITH
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
PREFACE xi
I. THE FOLLY OF DESPAIR 1
II. I BECOME A FIGHTING-SCOUT 7
III. CAPTURED BY THE HUNS 21
IV. CLIPPED WINGS 34
V. THE PRISON-CAMP AT COURTRAI 53
VI. A LEAP FOR LIBERTY 77
VII. CRAWLING THROUGH GERMANY 88
VIII. NINE DAYS IN LUXEMBOURG 97
IX. I ENTER BELGIUM 112
X. EXPERIENCES IN BELGIUM 132
XI. I ENCOUNTER GERMAN SOLDIERS 145
XII. THE FORGED PASSPORT 159
XIII. FIVE DAYS IN AN EMPTY HOUSE 186
XIV. A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION 207
XV. OBSERVATIONS IN A BELGIAN CITY 219
XVI. I APPROACH THE FRONTIER 225
XVII. GETTING THROUGH THE LINES 236
XVIII. EXPERIENCES IN HOLLAND 250
XIX. I AM PRESENTED TO THE KING 273
XX. HOME AGAIN! 281
[Transcriber's Note: Illustrations were interleaved between pages in the
original text. In this version, they have been moved to be between
paragraphs. Page numbers below reflect the position of the illustration
in the original text.]
ILLUSTRATIONS
LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN, R. F. C. _Frontispiece_
THE AEROPLANE WHICH LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN
USED IN HIS LAST BATTLE WITH THE HUNS
WHEN HE WAS BROUGHT DOWN AND
MADE PRISONER _Facing p._ 30
THE IDENTIFICATION DISK WORN BY LIEUTENANT
O'BRIEN WHEN HE WAS CAPTURED
BY THE HUNS. IT REVEALED TO
THEM THAT HE WAS AN AMERICAN " 36
LIEUT. PAUL H. RANEY OF TORONTO AND LIEUT.
PAT O'BRIEN " 50
MAILING-CARD SENT BY GERMAN GOVERNMENT
TO PAT O'BRIEN'S SISTER, MRS. CLARA
CLEGG OF MOMENCE, ILLINOIS " 60
OBVERSE SIDE OF CARD SHOWN ABOVE " 60
A GROUP OF PRISONERS OF WAR IN THE PRISON-CAMP
AT COURTRAI, BELGIUM " 70
THE FORGED PASSPORT PREPARED IN A BELGIAN
CITY TO AID LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN'S
ESCAPE INTO HOLLAND, BUT WHICH WAS
NEVER USED " 164
COPY OF TELEGRAM INVITING LIEUTENANT
O'BRIEN TO MEET KING GEORGE " 270
COPY OF TELEGRAM SENT BY LIEUTENANT
O'BRIEN IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION
TO MEET KING GEORGE " 270
PREFACE
There is a common idea that the age of miracles is past. Perhaps it
is, but if so, the change must have come about within the past few
weeks--after I escaped into Holland. For if anything is certain in this
life it is this: this book never would have been written but for the
succession of miracles set forth in these pages.
Miracles, luck, coincidence, Providence--it doesn't matter much what you
call it--certainly played an important part in the series of hairbreadth
escapes in which I figured during my short but eventful appearance in
the great drama now being enacted across the seas. Without it, all my
efforts and sufferings would have been quite unavailing.
No one realizes this better than I do and I want to repeat it right here
because elsewhere in these pages I may appear occasionally to overlook
or minimize it: without the help of Providence I would not be here
to-day.
But this same Providence which brought me home safely, despite all the
dangers which beset me, may work similar miracles for others, and it is
in the hope of encouraging other poor devils who may find themselves in
situations as hopeless apparently as mine oftentimes were that this book
is written.
When this cruel war is over--which I trust may be sooner than I expect
it to be--I hope I shall have an opportunity to revisit the scenes of my
adventures and to thank in person in an adequate manner every one who
extended a helping hand to me when I was a wretched fugitive. All of
them took great risks in befriending an escaped prisoner, and they did
it without the slightest hope of reward. At the same time I hope I shall
have a chance to pay my compliments to those who endeavored to take
advantage of my distress.
In the meanwhile, however, I can only express my thanks in this
ineffective manner, trusting that in some mysterious way a copy of this
book may fall into the hands of every one who befriended me. I hope
particularly that every good Hollander who played the part of the Good
Samaritan to me so bountifully after my escape from Belgium will see
these pages and feel that I am absolutely sincere when I say that words
cannot begin to express my sense of gratitude to the Dutch people.
It is needless for me to add how deeply I feel for my fellow-prisoners
in Germany who were less fortunate than I. Poor, poor fellows!--they are
the real victims of the war. I hope that every one of them may soon be
restored to that freedom whose value I never fully realized until after
I had had to fight so hard to regain it.
PAT O'BRIEN.
MOMENCE, ILLINOIS, _January 14, 1918_.
OUTWITTING THE HUN
I
THE FOLLY OF DESPAIR
Less than nine months ago eighteen officers of the Royal Flying Corps,
which had been training in Canada, left for England on the _Megantic_.
If any of them was over twenty-five years of age, he had successfully
concealed the fact, because they don't accept older men for the R. F. C.
Nine of the eighteen were British subjects; the other nine were
Americans, who, tired of waiting for their own country to take her place
with the Allies, had joined the British colors in Canada. I was one of
the latter.
We were going to England to earn our "wings"--a qualification which must
be won before a member of the R. F. C. is allowed to hunt the Huns on
the western front.
That was in May, 1917.
By August 1st most of us were full-fledged pilots, actively engaged at
various parts of the line in daily conflict with the enemy.
By December 15th every man Jack of us who had met the enemy in France,
with one exception, had appeared on the casualty list. The exception
was H. K. Boysen, an American, who at last report was fighting on the
Italian front, still unscathed. Whether his good fortune has stood by
him up to this time I don't know, but if it has I would be very much
surprised.
Of the others five were killed in action--three Americans, one Canadian,
and one Englishman. Three more were in all probability killed in action,
although officially they are listed merely as "missing." One of these
was an American, one a Canadian, and the third a Scotchman. Three more,
two of them Americans, were seriously wounded. Another, a Canadian, is
a prisoner in Germany. I know nothing of the others.
What happened to me is narrated in these pages. I wish, instead, I could
tell the story of each of my brave comrades, for not one of them was
downed, I am sure, without upholding the best traditions of the R. F.
C. Unfortunately, however, of the eighteen who sailed on the _Megantic_
last May, I happened to be the first to fall into the hands of the Huns,
and what befell my comrades after that, with one exception, I know only
second hand.
The exception was the case of poor, brave Paul Raney--my closest
chum--whose last battle I witnessed from my German prison--but that is a
story I shall tell in its proper place.
In one way, however, I think the story of my own "big adventure" and my
miraculous escape may, perhaps, serve a purpose as useful as that of
the heroic fate of my less fortunate comrades. Their story, it is true,
might inspire others to deeds of heroism, but mine, I hope, will convey
the equally valuable lesson of the folly of despair.
Many were the times in the course of my struggles when it seemed
absolutely useless to continue. In a hostile country, where discovery
meant death, wounded, sick, famished, friendless, hundreds of miles
from the nearest neutral territory the frontier of which was so closely
guarded that even if I got there it seemed too much to hope that I could
ever get through, what was the use of enduring further agony?
And yet here I am, in the Land of Liberty--although in a somewhat
obscure corner, the little town of Momence, Illinois, where I was
born--not very much the worse for wear after all I've been through, and,
as I write these words, not eight months have passed since my seventeen
comrades and I sailed from Canada on the _Megantic_!
Can it be possible that I was spared to convey a message of hope to
others who are destined for similar trials? I am afraid there will be
many of them.
Years ago I heard of the epitaph which is said to have been found on a
child's grave:
If I was so soon to be done for,
O Lord, what was I ever begun for?
The way it has come to me since I returned from Europe is:
If, O Lord, I was _not_ to be done for,
What were my sufferings e'er begun for?
Perhaps the answer lies in the suggestion I have made.
At any rate, if this record of my adventures should prove instrumental
in sustaining others who need encouragement, I shall not feel that my
sufferings were in vain.
It is hardly likely that any one will quite duplicate my experiences,
but I haven't the slightest doubt that many will have to go through
trials equally nerve-racking and suffer disappointments just as
disheartening.
It would be very far from the mark to imagine that the optimism which I
am preaching now so glibly sustained me through all my troubles. On the
contrary, I am free to confess that I frequently gave way to despair
and often, for hours at a time, felt so dejected and discouraged that
I really didn't care what happened to me. Indeed, I rather hoped that
something _would_ happen to put an end to my misery.
But, despite all my despondency and hopelessness, the worst never
happened, and I can't help thinking that my salvation must have been
designed to show the way to others.
II
I BECOME A FIGHTING-SCOUT
I started flying, in Chicago, in 1912. I was then eighteen years old,
but I had had a hankering for the air ever since I can remember.
As a youngster I followed the exploits of the Wrights with the greatest
interest, although I must confess I sometimes hoped that they wouldn't
really conquer the air until I had had a whack at it myself. I got more
whacks than I was looking for later on.
Needless to say, my parents were very much opposed to my risking my
life at what was undoubtedly at that time one of the most hazardous
"pastimes" a young fellow could select, and every time I had a smash-up
or some other mishap I was ordered never to go near an aviation field
again.
So I went out to California. There another fellow and I built our own
machine, which we flew in various parts of the state.
In the early part of 1916, when trouble was brewing in Mexico, I joined
the American Flying Corps. I was sent to San Diego, where the army
flying school is located, and spent about eight months there, but as I
was anxious to get into active service and there didn't seem much chance
of America ever getting into the war, I resigned and, crossing over to
Canada, joined the Royal Flying Corps at Victoria, B. C.
I was sent to Camp Borden, Toronto, first to receive instruction and
later to instruct. While a cadet I made the first loop ever made
by a cadet in Canada, and after I had performed the stunt I half
expected to be kicked out of the service for it. Apparently, however,
they considered the source and let it go at that. Later on I had the
satisfaction of introducing the loop as part of the regular course of
instruction for cadets in the R. F. C., and I want to say right here
that Camp Borden has turned out some of the best fliers that have ever
gone to France.
In May, 1917, I and seventeen other Canadian fliers left for England on
the _Megantic_, where we were to qualify for service in France.
Our squadron consisted of nine Americans, C. C. Robinson, H. A. Miller,
F. S. McClurg, A. A. Allen, E. B. Garnett, H. K. Boysen, H. A. Smeeton,
A. Taylor, and myself; and nine Britishers, Paul H. Raney, J. R. Park,
C. Nelmes, C. R. Moore, T. L. Atkinson, F. C. Conry, A. Muir, E. A. L.
F. Smith, and A. C. Jones.
Within a few weeks after our arrival in England all of us had won our
"wings"--the insignia worn on the left breast by every pilot on the
western front.
We were all sent to a place in France known as the Pool Pilots' Mess.
Here men gather from all the training squadrons in Canada and England
and await assignments to the particular squadron of which they are to
become members.
The Pool Pilots' Mess is situated a few miles back of the lines.
Whenever a pilot is shot down or killed the Pool Pilots' Mess is
notified to send another to take his place.
There are so many casualties every day in the R. F. C. at one point of
the front or another that the demand for new pilots is quite active,
but when a fellow is itching to get into the fight as badly as I and my
friends were I must confess that we got a little impatient, although we
realized that every time a new man was called it meant that some one
else had, in all probability, been killed, wounded, or captured.
One morning an order came in for a scout pilot, and one of my friends
was assigned. I can tell you the rest of us were as envious of him as
if it were the last chance any of us were ever going to have to get to
the front. As it was, however, hardly more than three hours had elapsed
before another wire was received at the Mess and I was ordered to
follow my friend. I afterward learned that as soon as he arrived at the
squadron he had prevailed upon the commanding officer of the squadron to
wire for me.
At the Pool Pilots' Mess it was the custom of the officers to wear
"shorts"--breeches that are about eight inches long, like the Boy Scouts
wear, leaving a space of about eight inches of open country between the
top of the puttees and the end of the "shorts." The Australians wore
them in Salonica and at the Dardanelles.
When the order came in for me, I had these "shorts" on, and I didn't
have time to change into other clothes. Indeed, I was in such a sweat to
get to the front that if I had been in my pajamas I think I would have
gone that way. As it was, it was raining and I threw an overcoat over
me, jumped into the machine, and we made record time to the aerodrome to
which I had been ordered to report.
As I alighted from the automobile my overcoat blew open and displayed
my manly form attired in "shorts" instead of in the regulation flying
breeches, and the sight aroused considerable commotion in camp.
"Must be a Yankee!" I overheard one officer say to another as I
approached. "No one but a Yank would have the cheek to show up that way,
you know!"
But they laughed good-naturedly as I came up to them and welcomed me to
the squadron, and I was soon very much at home.
My squadron was one of four stationed at an aerodrome about eighteen
miles back of the Ypres line. There were eighteen pilots in our
squadron, which was a scout-squadron, scout-machines carrying but one
man.
A scout, sometimes called a fighting-scout, has no bomb-dropping or
reconnoitering to do. His duty is just to fight, or, as the order was
given to me, "You are expected to pick fights and not wait until they
come to you!"
When bomb-droppers go out over the lines in the daytime, a
scout-squadron usually convoys them. The bomb-droppers fly at about
twelve thousand feet, the scouts a thousand feet or so above them to
protect them.
If at any time they should be attacked, it is the duty of the scouts to
dive down and carry on the fight, the orders of the bomb-droppers being
to go on dropping bombs and not to fight unless they have to. There is
seldom a time that machines go out over the lines on this work in the
daytime that they are not attacked at some time or other, and so the
scouts usually have plenty of work to do. In addition to these attacks,
however, the squadron is invariably under constant bombardment from the
ground, but that doesn't worry us very much, as we know pretty well how
to avoid being hit from that quarter.
On my first flight, after joining the squadron, I was taken out over
the lines to get a look at things, map out my location in case I was
ever lost, locate the forests, lakes, and other landmarks, and get the
general lay of the land.
One thing that was impressed upon me very emphatically was the location
of the hospitals, so that in case I was ever wounded and had the
strength to pick my landing I could land as near as possible to a
hospital. All these things a new pilot goes through during the first two
or three days after joining a squadron.
Our regular routine was two flights a day, each of two hours' duration.
After doing our regular patrol, it was our privilege to go off on our
own hook, if we wished, before going back to the squadron.
I soon found out that my squadron was some hot squadron, our fliers
being almost always assigned to special-duty work, such as shooting up
trenches at a height of fifty feet from the ground!
I received my baptism into this kind of work the third time I went out
over the lines, and I would recommend it to any one who is hankering for
excitement. You are not only apt to be attacked by hostile aircraft from
above, but you are swept by machine-gun fire from below. I have seen
some of our machines come back from this work sometimes so riddled with
bullets that I wondered how they ever held together. Before we started
out on one of these jobs we were mighty careful to see that our motors
were in perfect condition, because they told us the "war-bread was bad
in Germany."
One morning, shortly after I joined the squadron, three of us started
over the line on our own accord. We soon observed four enemy machines,
two-seaters, coming toward us. This type of machine is used by the Huns
for artillery work and bomb-dropping, and we knew they were on mischief
bent. Each machine had a machine-gun in front, worked by the pilot, and
the observer also had a gun with which he could spray all around.
When we first noticed the Huns our machines were about six miles back of
the German lines and we were lying high up in the sky, keeping the sun
behind us, so that the enemy could not see us.
We picked out three of the machines and dove down on them. I went right
by the man I picked for myself and his observer in the rear seat kept
pumping at me to beat the band. Not one of my shots took effect as I
went right under him, but I turned and gave him another burst of bullets
and down he went in a spinning nose dive, one of his wings going one way
and one another. As I saw him crash to the ground I knew that I had got
my first hostile aircraft. One of my comrades was equally successful,
but the other two German machines got away. We chased them back until
things got too hot for us by reason of the appearance of other German
machines, and then we called it a day.
This experience whetted my appetite for more of the same kind, and I did
not have long to wait.
It may be well to explain here just what a spinning nose dive is. A
few years ago the spinning nose dive was considered one of the most
dangerous things a pilot could attempt, and many men were killed
getting into this spin and not knowing how to come out of it. In fact,
lots of pilots thought that when once you got into a spinning nose dive
there was no way of coming out of it. It is now used, however, in actual
flying.
The machines that are used in France are controlled in two ways, both
by hands and by feet, the feet working the yoke or rudder bar which
controls the rudder that steers the machine. The lateral controls and
fore and aft, which cause the machine to rise or lower, are controlled
by a contrivance called a "joy-stick." If, when flying in the air, a
pilot should release his hold on this stick, it will gradually come back
toward the pilot.
In that position the machine will begin to climb. So if a pilot is shot
and loses control of this "joy-stick" his machine begins to ascend, and
climbs until the angle formed becomes too great for it to continue or
the motor to pull the plane; for a fraction of a second it stops, and
the motor then being the heaviest, it causes the nose of the machine to
fall forward, pitching down at a terrific rate of speed and spinning at
the same time. If the motor is still running, it naturally increases the
speed much more than it would if the motor were shut off, and there is
great danger that the wings will double up, causing the machine to break
apart. Although spins are made with the motor on, you are dropping like
a ball being dropped out of the sky and the velocity increases with the
power of the motor.
This spinning nose dive has been frequently used in "stunt" flying in
recent years, but is now put to practical use by pilots in getting
away from hostile machines, for when a man is spinning, it is almost
impossible to hit him, and the man making the attack invariably thinks
his enemy is going down to certain death in the spin.
This is all right when a man is over his own territory, because he can
right his machine and come out of it; but if it happens over German
territory, the Huns would only follow him down, and when he came out of
the spin they would be above him, having all the advantage, and would
shoot him down with ease.
It is a good way of getting down into a cloud, and is used very often
by both sides, but it requires skill and courage by the pilot making it
if he ever expects to come out alive.
A spin being made by a pilot intentionally looks exactly like a spin
that is made by a machine actually being shot down, so one never knows
whether it is forced or intentional until the pilot either rights his
machine and comes out of it or crashes to the ground.
Another dive similar to this one is known as just the plain "dive."
Assume, for instance, that a pilot flying at a height of several
thousand feet is shot, loses control of his machine, and the nose of the
plane starts down with the motor full on. He is going at a tremendous
speed and in many instances is going so straight and swiftly that the
speed is too great for the machine, because it was never constructed
to withstand the enormous pressure forced against the wings, and they
consequently crumple up.
If, too, in an effort to straighten the machine, the elevators should
become affected, as often happens in trying to bring a machine out of
a dive, the strain is again too great on the wings, and there is the
same disastrous result. Oftentimes, when the petrol-tank is punctured by
a tracer-bullet from another machine in the air, the plane that is hit
catches on fire and either gets into a spin or a straight dive and heads
for the earth, hundreds of miles an hour, a mass of flame, looking like
a brilliant comet in the sky.
The spinning nose dive is used to greater advantage by the Germans than
by our own pilots, for the reason that when a fight gets too hot for the
German he will put his machine in a spin, and as the chances are nine
out of ten that we are fighting over German territory, he simply spins
down out of our range, straightens out before he reaches the ground, and
goes on home to his aerodrome. It is useless to follow him down inside
the German lines, for you would in all probability be shot down before
you could attain sufficient altitude to cross the line again.
It often happens that a pilot will be chasing another machine when
suddenly he sees it start to spin. Perhaps they are fifteen or eighteen
thousand feet in the air, and the hostile machine spins down for
thousands of feet. He thinks he has hit the other machine and goes home
happy that he has brought down another Hun. He reports the occurrence to
the squadron, telling how he shot down his enemy; but when the rest of
the squadron come in with their report, or some artillery observation
balloon sends in a report, it develops that when a few hundred feet from
the ground the supposed dead man in the spin has come out of the spin
and gone merrily on his way for his own aerodrome.
III
CAPTURED BY THE HUNS
I shall not easily forget the 17th of August, 1917. I killed two Huns in
a double-seated machine in the morning, another in the evening, and then
I was captured myself. I may have spent more eventful days in my life,
but I can't recall any just now.
That morning, in crossing the line on early morning patrol, I noticed
two German balloons. I decided that as soon as my patrol was over I
would go off on my own hook and see what a German balloon looked like at
close quarters.
These observation balloons are used by both sides in conjunction with
the artillery. A man sits up in the balloon with a wireless apparatus
and directs the firing of the guns. From his point of vantage he can
follow the work of his own artillery with a remarkable degree of
accuracy and at the same time he can observe the enemy's movements and
report them.
The Germans are very good at this work and they use a great number of
these balloons. It was considered a very important part of our work to
keep them out of the sky.
There are two ways of going after a balloon in a machine. One of them is
to cross the lines at a low altitude, flying so near the ground that the
man with the anti-aircraft gun can't bother you. You fly along until you
get to the level of the balloon, and if, in the mean time, they have not
drawn the balloon down, you open fire on it and the bullets you use will
set it on fire if they land.
The other way is to fly over where you know the balloons to be, put your
machine in a spin so that they can't hit you, get above them, spin over
the balloon, and then open fire. In going back over the line you cross
at a few hundred feet.
This is one of the hardest jobs in the service. There is less danger in
attacking an enemy's aircraft.
Nevertheless, I had made up my mind either to get those balloons or
make them descend, and I only hoped that they would stay on the job
until I had a chance at them.
When our two hours' duty was up, therefore, I dropped out of the
formation as we crossed the lines and turned back again.
I was at a height of fifteen thousand feet, considerably higher than
the balloons. Shutting my motor off, I dropped down through the clouds,
thinking to find the balloons at about five or six miles behind the
German lines.
Just as I came out of the cloud-banks I saw below me, about a thousand
feet, a two-seater hostile machine doing artillery observation and
directing the German guns. This was at a point about four miles behind
the German lines.
Evidently the German artillery saw me and put out ground signals to
attract the Hun machine's attention, for I saw the observer quit his
work and grab his gun, while the pilot stuck the nose of his machine
straight down.
But they were too late to escape me. I was diving toward them at a speed
of probably two hundred miles an hour, shooting all the time as fast as
possible. Their only chance lay in the possibility that the force of my
dive might break my wings. I knew my danger in that direction, but as
soon as I came out of my dive the Huns would have their chance to get
me, and I knew I had to get them first and take a chance on my wings
holding out.
Fortunately, some of my first bullets found their mark and I was able to
come out of my dive at about four thousand feet. They never came out of
theirs!
But right then came the hottest situation in the air I had experienced
up to that time. The depth of my dive had brought me within reach of the
machine-guns from the ground and they also put a "barrage" around me of
shrapnel from anti-aircraft guns, and I had an opportunity to "ride the
barrage," as they call it in the R. F. C. To make the situation more
interesting, they began shooting "flaming onions" at me.
"Flaming onions" are rockets shot from a rocket-gun. They are used to
hit a machine when it is flying low and they are effective up to about
five thousand feet. Sometimes they are shot up one after another in
strings of about eight, and they are one of the hardest things to go
through. If they hit the machine it is bound to catch fire and then the
jig is up.
All the time, too, I was being attacked by "Archie"--the anti-aircraft
fire. I escaped the machine-guns and the "flaming onions," but "Archie"
got me four or five times. Every time a bullet plugged me, or rather my
machine, it made a loud bang, on account of the tension on the material
covering the wings.
None of their shots hurt me until I was about a mile from our lines,
and then they hit my motor. Fortunately I still had altitude enough
to drift on to our own side of the lines, for my motor was completely
out of commission. They just raised the dickens with me all the time I
was descending, and I began to think I would strike the ground before
crossing the line, but there was a slight wind in my favor and it
carried me two miles behind our lines. There the balloons I had gone out
to get had the satisfaction of "pin-pointing" me. Through the directions
which they were able to give to their artillery, they commenced shelling
my machine where it lay.
Their particular work is to direct the fire of their artillery, and they
are used just as the artillery observation airplanes are. Usually two
men are stationed in each balloon. They ascend to a height of several
thousand feet about five miles behind their own lines and are equipped
with wireless and signaling apparatus. They watch the burst of their own
artillery, check up the position, get the range, and direct the next
shot.
When conditions are favorable they are able to direct the shots so
accurately that it is a simple matter to destroy the object of their
attack. It was such a balloon as this that got my position, marked
me out, called for an artillery shot, and they commenced shelling my
machine where it lay. If I had got the two balloons instead of the
airplane, I probably would not have lost my machine, for he would in all
probability have gone on home and not bothered about getting my range
and causing the destruction of my machine.
I landed in a part of the country that was literally covered with
shell-holes. Fortunately my machine was not badly damaged by the forced
landing. I leisurely got out, walked around it to see what the damage
was, and concluded that it could be easily repaired. In fact, I thought,
if I could find a space long enough between shell-holes to get a start
before leaving the ground, that I would be able to fly on from there.
I was still examining my plane and considering the matter of a few
slight repairs, without any particular thought for my own safety in that
unprotected spot, when a shell came whizzing through the air, knocked me
to the ground, and landed a few feet away. It had no sooner struck than
I made a run for cover and crawled into a shell-hole. I would have liked
to have got farther away, but I didn't know where the next shell would
burst, and I thought I was fairly safe there, so I squatted down and let
them blaze away.
The only damage I suffered was from the mud which splattered up in my
face and over my clothes. That was my introduction to a shell-hole, and
I resolved right there that the infantry could have all the shell-hole
fighting they wanted, but it did not appeal to me, though they live in
them through many a long night and I had only sought shelter there for
a few minutes.
After the Germans had completely demolished my machine and ceased firing
I waited there a short time, fearing perhaps they might send over a
lucky shot, hoping to get me, after all. But evidently they concluded
enough shells had been wasted on one man. I crawled out cautiously,
shook the mud off, and looked over in the direction where my machine
had once been. There wasn't enough left for a decent souvenir, but
nevertheless I got a few, such as they were, and, readily observing that
nothing could be done with what was left, I made my way back to infantry
headquarters, where I was able to telephone in a report.
A little later one of our automobiles came out after me and took me back
to our aerodrome. Most of my squadron thought I was lost beyond a doubt
and never expected to see me again; but my friend, Paul Raney, had held
out that I was all right, and, as I was afterward told, "Don't send for
another pilot; that Irishman will be back if he has to walk." And he
knew that the only thing that kept me from walking was the fact that
our own automobile had been sent out to bring me home.
I had lots to think about that day, and I had learned many things; one
was not to have too much confidence in my own ability. One of the men in
the squadron told me that I had better not take those chances; that it
was going to be a long war and I would have plenty of opportunities to
be killed without deliberately "wishing them on" myself. Later I was to
learn the truth of his statement.
That night my "flight"--each squadron is divided into three flights
consisting of six men each--got ready to go out again. As I started to
put on my tunic I noticed that I was not marked up for duty as usual.
I asked the commanding officer, a major, what the reason for that was,
and he replied that he thought I had done enough for one day. However,
I knew that if I did not go, some one else from another "flight" would
have to take my place, and I insisted upon going up with my patrol as
usual, and the major reluctantly consented. Had he known what was in
store for me I am sure he wouldn't have changed his mind so readily.
As it was, we had only five machines for this patrol, anyway, because
as we crossed the lines one of them had to drop out on account of motor
trouble. Our patrol was up at 8 P.M., and up to within ten minutes of
that hour it had been entirely uneventful.
At 7.50 P.M., however, while we were flying at a height of sixteen
thousand feet, we observed three other English machines which were about
three thousand feet below us pick a fight with nine Hun machines.
I knew right then that we were in for it, because I could see over
toward the ocean a whole flock of Hun machines which evidently had
escaped the attention of our scrappy comrades below us.
So we dove down on those nine Huns.
At first the fight was fairly even. There were eight of us to nine of
them. But soon the other machines which I had seen in the distance, and
which were flying even higher than we were, arrived on the scene, and
when they, in turn, dove down on us, there was just twenty of them to
our eight!
[Illustration: THE AEROPLANE WHICH LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN USED IN HIS LAST
BATTLE WITH THE HUNS WHEN HE WAS BROUGHT DOWN AND MADE PRISONER]
Four of them singled me out. I was diving and they dove right down
after me, shooting as they came. Their tracer-bullets were coming closer
to me every moment. These tracer-bullets are balls of fire which enable
the shooter to follow the course his bullets are taking and to correct
his aim accordingly. They do no more harm to a pilot if he is hit than
an ordinary bullet, but if they hit the petrol-tank, good night! When
a machine catches fire in flight there is no way of putting it out. It
takes less than a minute for the fabric to burn off the wings, and then
the machine drops like an arrow, leaving a trail of smoke like a comet.
As their tracer-bullets came closer and closer to me I realized that my
chances of escape were nil. Their very next shot, I felt, must hit me.
Once, some days before, when I was flying over the line I had watched a
fight above me. A German machine was set on fire and dove down through
our formation in flame on its way to the ground. The Hun was diving at
such a sharp angle that both his wings came off, and as he passed within
a few hundred feet of me I saw the look of horror upon his face.
Now, when I expected any moment to suffer a similar fate, I could not
help thinking of that poor Hun's last look of agony.
I realized that my only chance lay in making an Immermann turn. This
maneuver was invented by a German--one of the greatest who ever flew
and who was killed in action some time ago. This turn, which I made
successfully, brought one of their machines right in front of me, and as
he sailed along barely ten yards away I had "the drop" on him, and he
knew it.
His white face and startled eyes I can still see. He knew beyond
question that his last moment had come, because his position prevented
his taking aim at me, while my gun pointed straight at him. My first
tracer-bullet passed within a yard of his head, the second looked as if
it hit his shoulder, the third struck him in the neck, and then I let
him have the whole works and he went down in a spinning nose dive.
All this time the three other Hun machines were shooting away at me. I
could hear the bullets striking my machine one after another. I hadn't
the slightest idea that I could ever beat off those three Huns, but
there was nothing for me to do but fight, and my hands were full.
In fighting, your machine is dropping, dropping all the time. I glanced
at my instruments and my altitude was between eight and nine thousand
feet. While I was still looking at the instruments the whole blamed
works disappeared. A burst of bullets went into the instrument board and
blew it to smithereens, another bullet went through my upper lip, came
out of the roof of my mouth and lodged in my throat, and the next thing
I knew was when I came to in a German hospital the following morning at
five o'clock, German time.
I was a prisoner of war!
IV
CLIPPED WINGS
The hospital in which I found myself on the morning after my capture
was a private house made of brick, very low and dirty, and not at all
adapted for use as a hospital. It had evidently been used but a few
days, on account of the big push that was taking place at that time of
the year, and in all probability would be abandoned as soon as they had
found a better place.
In all, the house contained four rooms and a stable, which was by far
the largest of all. Although I never looked into this "wing" of the
hospital, I was told that it, too, was filled with patients, lying on
beds of straw around on the ground. I do not know whether they, too,
were officers or privates.
The room in which I found myself contained eight beds, three of which
were occupied by wounded German officers. The other rooms, I imagined,
had about the same number of beds as mine. There were no Red Cross
nurses in attendance, just orderlies, for this was only an emergency
hospital and too near the firing-line for nurses. The orderlies were not
old men nor very young boys, as I expected to find, but young men in the
prime of life, who evidently had been medical students. One or two of
them, I discovered, were able to speak English, but for some reason they
would not talk. Perhaps they were forbidden by the officer in charge to
do so.
In addition to the bullet wound in my mouth, I had a swelling from my
forehead to the back of my head almost as big as my shoe--and that is
saying considerable. I couldn't move an inch without suffering intense
pain, and when the doctor told me that I had no bones broken I wondered
how a fellow would feel who had.
German officers visited me that morning and told me that my machine
went down in a spinning nose dive from a height of between eight and
nine thousand feet, and they had the surprise of their lives when they
discovered that I had not been dashed to pieces. They had to cut me out
of my machine, which was riddled with shots and shattered to bits.
A German doctor removed the bullet from my throat, and the first thing
he said to me when I came to was, "You are an American!"
There was no use denying it, because the metal identification disk on my
wrist bore the inscription, "Pat O'Brien, U. S. A. Royal Flying Corps."
Although I was suffering intense agony, the doctor, who spoke perfect
English, insisted upon conversing with me.
"You may be all right as a sportsman," he declared, "but you are a
damned murderer just the same for being here. You Americans who got into
this thing before America came into the war are no better than common
murderers and you ought to be treated the same way!"
The wound in my mouth made it impossible for me to answer him, and I was
suffering too much pain to be hurt very much by anything he could say.
[Illustration: THE IDENTIFICATION DISK WORN BY LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN
WHEN HE WAS CAPTURED BY THE HUNS. IT REVEALED TO THEM THAT HE WAS
AN AMERICAN]
He asked me if I would like an apple! I could just as easily have eaten
a brick.
When he got no answers out of me he walked away disgustedly.
"You don't have to worry any more," he declared, as a parting shot; "for
you the war is over!"
I was given a little broth later in the day, and as I began to collect
my thoughts I wondered what had happened to my comrades in the battle
which had resulted so disastrously to me. As I began to realize my
plight I worried less about my physical condition than the fact that,
as the doctor had pointed out, for me the war was practically over. I
had been in it but a short time, and now I would be a prisoner for the
duration of the war!
The next day some German flying officers visited me, and I must say
they treated me with great consideration. They told me of the man I had
brought down. They said he was a Bavarian and a fairly good pilot. They
gave me his hat as a souvenir and complimented me on the fight I had put
up.
My helmet, which was of soft leather, was split from front to back by
a bullet from a machine-gun and they examined it with great interest.
When they brought me my uniform I found that the star of my rank which
had been on my right shoulder-strap had been shot off clean. The one on
my left shoulder-strap they asked me for as a souvenir, as also my R.
F. C. badges, which I gave them. They allowed me to keep my "wings,"
which I wore on my left breast, because they were aware that that is the
proudest possession of a British flying officer.
I think I am right in saying that the only chivalry in this war on the
German side of the trenches has been displayed by the officers of the
German Flying Corps, which comprises the pick of Germany. They pointed
out to me that I and my comrades were fighting purely for the love of
it, whereas they were fighting in defense of their country, but still,
they said, they admired us for our sportsmanship. I had a notion to ask
them if dropping bombs on London and killing so many innocent people was
in defense of their country, but I was in no position or condition to
pick a quarrel at that time.
That same day a German officer was brought into the hospital and put in
the bunk next to mine. Of course, I casually looked at him, but did not
pay any particular attention to him at that time. He lay there for three
or four hours before I did take a real good look at him. I was positive
that he could not speak English, and naturally I did not say anything to
him.
Once when I looked over in his direction his eyes were on me and to my
surprise he said, very sarcastically, "What the hell are you looking
at?" and then smiled. At this time I was just beginning to say a few
words, my wound having made talking difficult, but I said enough to
let him know what I was doing there and how I happened to be there.
Evidently he had heard my story from some of the others, though, because
he said it was too bad I had not broken my neck; that he did not have
much sympathy with the Flying Corps, anyway. He asked me what part of
America I came from, and I told him "California."
After a few more questions he learned that I hailed from San Francisco,
and then added to my distress by saying, "How would you like to have a
good juicy steak right out of the Hofbräu?" Naturally, I told him it
would "hit the spot," but I hardly thought my mouth was in shape just
then to eat it. I immediately asked, of course, what he knew about the
Hofbräu, and he replied, "I was connected with the place a good many
years, and I ought to know all about it."
After that this German officer and I became rather chummy--that is, as
far as I could be chummy with an enemy, and we whiled away a good many
long hours talking about the days we had spent in San Francisco, and
frequently in the conversation one of us would mention some prominent
Californian, or some little incident occurring there, with which we were
both familiar.
He told me when war was declared he was, of course, intensely patriotic
and thought the only thing for him to do was to go back and aid in the
defense of his country. He found that he could not go directly from San
Francisco because the water was too well guarded by the English, so he
boarded a boat for South America. There he obtained a forged passport
and in the guise of a Montevidean took passage for New York and from
there to England.
He passed through England without any difficulty on his forged passport,
but concluded not to risk going to Holland, for fear of exciting too
much suspicion, so went down through the Strait of Gibraltar to Italy,
which was neutral at that time, up to Austria, and thence to Germany.
He said when they put in at Gibraltar, after leaving England, there
were two suspects taken off the ship, men that he was sure were neutral
subjects, but much to his relief his own passport and credentials were
examined and passed O. K.
The Hun spoke of his voyage from America to England as being
exceptionally pleasant, and said he had had a fine time because he
associated with the English passengers on board, his fluent English
readily admitting him to several spirited arguments on the subject of
the war which he keenly enjoyed.
One little incident he related revealed the remarkable tact which our
enemy displayed in his associations at sea, which no doubt resulted
advantageously for him. As he expressed it, he "made a hit" one evening
when the crowd had assembled for a little music by suggesting that they
sing "God Save the King." Thereafter his popularity was assured and the
desired effect accomplished, for very soon a French officer came up to
him and said, "It's too bad that England and ourselves haven't men in
our army like you." It was too bad, he agreed, in telling me about it,
because he was confident he could have done a whole lot more for Germany
if he had been in the English army.
In spite of his apparent loyalty, however, the man didn't seem very
enthusiastic over the war and frankly admitted one day that the old
political battles waged in California were much more to his liking than
the battles he had gone through over here. On second thought he laughed
as though it were a good joke, but he evidently intended me to infer
that he had taken a keen interest in politics in San Francisco.
When my "chummy enemy" first started his conversation with me the German
doctor in charge reprimanded him for talking to me, but he paid no
attention to the doctor, showing that some real Americanism had soaked
into his system while he had been in the U. S. A.
I asked him one day what he thought the German people would do after
the war; if he thought they would make Germany a republic, and, much to
my surprise, he said, very bitterly, "If I had my way about it, I would
make her a republic to-day and hang the damned Kaiser in the bargain."
And yet he was considered an excellent soldier. I concluded, however,
that he must have been a German Socialist, though he never told me so.
On one occasion I asked him for his name, but he said that I would
probably never see him again and it didn't matter what his name was. I
did not know whether he meant that the Germans would starve me out or
just what was on his mind, for at that time I am sure he did not figure
on dying. The first two or three days I was in the hospital I thought
surely he would be up and gone long before I was, but blood poisoning
set in about that time and just a few hours before I left for Courtrai
he died.
One of those days, while my wound was still very troublesome, I was
given an apple; whether it was just to torment me, knowing that I could
not eat it, or whether for some other reason, I do not know. But,
anyway, a German flying officer there had several in his pockets and
gave me a nice one. Of course, there was no chance of my eating it, so
when the officer had gone and I discovered this San Francisco fellow
looking at it rather longingly I picked it up, intending to toss it over
to him. But he shook his head and said, "If this was San Francisco, I
would take it, but I cannot take it from you here." I was never able to
understand just why he refused the apple, for he was usually sociable
and a good fellow to talk to, but apparently he could not forget that
I was his enemy. However, that did not stop one of the orderlies from
eating the apple.
One practice about the hospital which impressed me particularly was that
if a German soldier did not stand much chance of recovering sufficiently
to take his place again in the war, the doctors did not exert themselves
to see that he got well. But if a man had a fairly good chance of
recovering and they thought he might be of some further use, everything
that medical skill could possibly do was done for him. I don't know
whether this was done under orders or whether the doctors just followed
their own inclinations in such cases.