path: root/75637-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75637 ***





WINGED WARFARE




[Illustration: Major W. A. Bishop, V.C., D.S.O., M.C.]




                             WINGED WARFARE

                      HUNTING THE HUNS IN THE AIR

                                   BY
                    MAJOR BISHOP, V.C., D.S.O., M.C.


                          HODDER AND STOUGHTON
                     LONDON    NEW YORK    TORONTO
                                  1918


       _Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,
                         London and Aylesbury._




CHAPTER I


It was the mud, I think, that made me take to flying. I had fully
expected that going into battle would mean for me the saddle of a
galloping charger, instead of the snug little cock-pit of a modern
aeroplane. The mud, on a certain day in July 1915, changed my whole
career in the war.

We were in England. I had gone over as an officer of the Missisauga
Horse, of Toronto, a cavalry detachment of the Second Canadian
Division. It had rained for days in torrents, and there was still a
drizzle coming down as I set out for a tour of the horse-lines.

Ordinary mud is bad enough, when you have to make your home in it, but
the particular brand of mud that infests a cavalry camp has a meanness
all its own. Everything was dank, and slimy, and boggy. I had succeeded
in getting myself mired to the knees when suddenly, from somewhere out
of the storm, appeared a trim little aeroplane.

It landed hesitatingly in a near-by field as if scorning to brush its
wings against so sordid a landscape; then away again up into the clean
grey mists.

How long I stood there gazing into the distance I do not know, but when
I turned to slog my way back through the mud my mind was made up. I
knew there was only one place to be on such a day--up above the clouds
and in the summer sunshine. I was going into the battle that way. I was
going to meet the enemy in the air.

I had never given much thought to being a soldier, even after my
parents had sent me to the Royal Military College at Kingston, when I
was seventeen years of age. I will say for my parents that they had
not thought much of me as a professional soldier either. But they did
think, for some reason or other, that a little military discipline at
the Royal Military College would do me a lot of good--and I suppose it
did.

In any event, those three years at the R.M.C. stood me in good stead
when the rush came in Canada, when everywhere, everybody was doing his
best to get taken on in some capacity in order to get to the front
quickly.

We Canadians will never forget the thrill of those first days of the
war, and then the terrible waiting before most of us could get to the
other side. Our great fear was that the fighting would all be over
before we could give a hand in it. How little we knew then of the glory
that was to be Canada’s in the story of the Western Front, of the
sacrifices that were to reach to nearly every fireside in the Dominion!

For many months my bit seemed to consist of training, more training,
delays and more delays. But at last we got over. We crossed in an
old-time cattle-boat. Oh, what a trip! Fifteen days to reach England!
We had 700 horses on board, and 700 seasick horses are not the most
congenial steamer company.

We were very proud to be in England. We felt we were really in the
war-zone, and soon would be in the fighting. But it is a great mistake
to think that when you sail from America you are going to burst right
up to the front and go over the top at day-break in the morning. The
way to the war is long. There was more work and more training for us in
England. At first we were sent to a very sandy camp on the coast, and
from there to a very muddy camp somewhere else in the British Isles.

It was to this camp that the aeroplane came that stormy day in July. A
week later my plans were in motion. I met a friend in the Royal Flying
Corps and confided in him my ambition to fly. He assured me it would
be easy to arrange a transfer, and instructed me as to what I should
do. If I wanted to get to the front quickly I would have to go as an
observer, meaning that when I flew over the German lines I would be
the “passenger” in a two-seated plane and would do just what my title
indicated--observe.

If one has a stomach for flying, it doesn’t take long to become a
fairly competent observer. There are observer schools where they teach
you just what to observe and what not to observe. This is not a joke.
If an observer lets his gaze wander to too many non-essentials he
cannot do the real observing that is expected of him.

A few more days of cavalry mud and I was convinced that to be an
observer in the air was better far than commanding a division on the
ground. So I applied for my transfer, got it, and went to an observing
school. I loved those first few flights in an old training “bus.” I
don’t think she could make more than fifty miles an hour; and as for
climbing, she struggled and shook and gasped like a freight train going
up a mountain grade. But it was thrilling enough for me in those days,
despite the fact that I soon began to envy the pilot who had all the
fun of running the machine and could make it do a few lame and decrepit
stunts.

After a few months I was graduated as an observer and was awarded my
first insignia of the Flying Corps---an O, with one outstretched wing
attached to it, to be worn on the left breast of the tunic. I was
rather proud of that one wing, but more determined than ever to win the
double wings of a full-fledged pilot, and some day have a machine of
my own.

In a very short time I was in France and ready for my first trip over
the enemy lines. As I look back upon it now my life as an observer
seems very tame. The work of the reconnaissance and artillery machines,
as well as the photography and bombing planes, is very important. It
goes on day and night, in good weather and bad, but all the times I was
observing I wanted to be fighting. Whenever I saw one of the small,
swift, single-seater machines, which were just coming into vogue then
for fighting purposes, my resolves to become a fighting pilot would
grow stronger and stronger.

But far be it from me to detract one iota from the work of the
observers. They take enormous risks and seldom get any of the glory.
The men in the Corps recognize and appreciate the quality of their
work, but the public at large rarely hears of them. The feats of the
fighting planes form the spectacular and fascinating side of flying,
but in a sense the daily drudgery of the bombers, the photographers,
and the observers is of even greater value to the fighting men of the
ground.

It is no child’s play to circle above a German battery observing for
half an hour or more, with your machine tossing about in air, tortured
by exploding shells and black shrapnel puffballs coming nearer and
nearer to you like the ever-extending finger-tips of some giant hand
of death. But it is just a part of the never-ceasing war. In the air
service this work is never done. Everywhere along the line the big guns
wait daily for the wireless touch of aeroplanes to set them booming
at targets carefully selected from a previous day of observation. Big
shells cannot be wasted. The human effort involved in creating them
and placing them beside the well-screened guns at the front is far too
great for that.

Every shell must be watched. It is a startling thing, but true. When
we possess the high ground and the ridges, it is not always necessary
for the aeroplanes or the balloons to do the observing; the artillery
observing officers can go forward on the ground and from a convenient
tree-top, a bit of trench, or a sheltering shell-hole see exactly what
his guns are doing.

Every day there are hundreds of photographs to be taken, so that the
British map-makers can trace each detail of the German trench positions
and can check any changes in the enemy zone. Information is to be
gained at all times by all manner of reconnaissances--some of them
carrying you fifty to sixty miles in the enemy country. Then, there is
the fighting patrol work which goes on all hours. The patrol is not on
our side of the line. It is far over the German lines to keep the enemy
machines from coming too close even to their own front trenches. Of
course they do slip over occasionally, but more than often have to pay
for their temerity.

The British infantryman--Mr. Tommy Atkins--takes it as a personal
insult to have a Hun machine flying over him. It shouldn’t be done, he
says, and he grouses about it for weeks. How different with the German
infantryman! Our planes are on top of them most of the time. The Huns
used to write wrathful letters home about it. Sometimes our infantry
has captured these letters before they were posted, and they used to
amuse us when we got them in the daily army reports. I remember one
particularly peevish old Boche who wrote last May:

“The air activity where we are is very great. The English will soon be
taking the very caps off our heads.”

It is great fun to fly very low along the German trenches and give
them a burst of machine-gun bullets as a greeting in the morning, or a
good-night salute in the evening. They don’t like it a bit. But we love
it; we love to see the Kaiser’s proud Prussians running for cover like
so many rats.

Whatever your mission, whether it is to direct artillery fire, to
photograph, to bomb an ammunition-dump or supply-train, or just to
look old Fritz over and see in a general way what he is up to, your
first journey into Hunland is a memorable event in your life. I may
say here, in passing, that in the Flying Corps a German is seldom
anything but a Hun, and the territory back of his lines is seldom
anything but Hunland. Our general orders tell us to designate a Hun
plane as an “enemy aircraft” in our reports, or “E. A.” for short, but,
nevertheless, we always think of both the machine and the pilot as a
Hun, and they will ever be.

If it is artillery work you are on, you have learned to send down
signals to your battery by means of a wireless buzzer, and you are
equipped with intricate zone maps that enable you to pick out all
manner of fixed objects in the enemy’s domain. You can locate his
dugouts, his dumps, his lines of communication, his battery positions,
his shelters behind the trees, and, in a general way, keep tab on his
“ways that are dark, and tricks that are vain.”

The day for your trip over happens to be one of wondrous sunshine and
the clearest possible visibility. At every aerodrome behind the long
British war-line the aeroplanes are out of their hangars, and are being
tested with such a babel of noisy explosions that in moving about with
a companion you have fairly to shout to make yourself heard. With your
pilot you climb into the waiting two-seater. It has been groomed for
the day and fussed over with as much care as a mother might bestow upon
her only offspring starting for Sunday school.

“Contact, sir?” questions a mechanic standing at the propeller.

“Contact,” repeats the pilot.

There is a click of the electric ignition switch, the propeller is
given a sharp swing over, and the engine starts with a roar. Once or
twice there is a cough, but pretty soon she is “hitting” just right
on every one of her multiple cylinders. It is all the mechanics can
do to hold her back. Then the pilot throttles down to a very quiet
little purr and signals to the attendants to draw away the chocks from
under the wheels. Slowly you move forward under your own “steam” and
“taxi” across the field rather bumpily, to head her into the wind.
This accomplished, the throttle is opened wide, you rush forward with
increasing speed, you feel the tail of the machine leave the ground,
and then you go leaping into space.

You climb in great wide circles above the aerodrome, rig up the
wireless, send a few test signals, get back the correct responses, and
arrange your maps, while the pilot, with one eye on his instruments
and the other on familiar landmarks, sets sail for the German lines,
gaining height all the while. On the way to the lines you pass over
your battery and send wireless word that you are ready to “carry on.”
It is to be a day of “counter-battery” work, which means that some
of our batteries are going to “do in” some of the Hun batteries. The
modern guns of war are very temperamental and restless. They get tired
of firing at infantry trenches and roads and things, and more often go
to shooting at each other. In this you help them all you can.

And now you come to make the acquaintance of “Archie,” who will
pursue you through all your flying-days at the front. “Archie” is a
presumptuous person and takes the liberty of speaking first.

“Woof! Woof!” he barks out. Then--“Hiss-s-s. Bang! Bang!” Two flashes
of crimson fire, and two swirling patches of black smoke jump out of
the air a hundred yards or so in front of you.

The experienced pilot swerves a little neatly and avoids the next
volley, which breaks far to your right. “Archie” keeps barking at you
for quite a while and you seem to be leaving a perfect trail of the
diffusing black smoke-balls in your wake. The pilot looks back at you
and grins; he wonders if you have the “wind up”--army talk for being
scared to death. It isn’t any disgrace to get the “wind up” at the
war, and there are few of us who can truthfully say we haven’t had a
queerish sort of feeling every now and then.

“Archie,” of course, is an anti-aircraft cannon. How the airmen first
happened to name him “Archibald” I do not know; it was when we got to
know him better, and fear him less, that we began to call him “Archie.”
With “Archie” it is the old story of familiarity breeding contempt, but
of late the German “Archie” family has multiplied to such an extent as
almost to make it dangerous to go visiting across the Hun lines. The
German shrapnel shells are nearly always mixed with high-explosive.
They are very noisy, but most of the time your engine is making
such clatter the explosive efforts to wing you in flight go entirely
unnoticed.

Leaving the border-guarding “Archies” far behind, you fly on until you
pick up the four mounds that indicate the German battery position.
You fly rather low to get a good look at it. The Huns generally know
what your coming means and they prepare to take cover. You return a
little way toward your own lines and signal to your battery to fire.
In a moment you see the flash of a big gun. Then nothing seems to
happen for an eternity. As a matter of fact twenty to thirty seconds
elapse and then fifty yards beyond the German battery you see a spurt
of grey-black earth spring from the ground. You signal a correction of
the range. The next shot goes fifty yards short. In artillery language
you have “bracketed” your target. You again signal a correction, giving
a range just in between the first two shots. The next shell that goes
over explodes in a gunpit.

“Good shooting,” you signal to the battery, “carry on”--particular
battery is silenced for good and all. “Archie” tries for you again as
you return across the lines, but his range-finding is very bad to-day.
You salute your battery as you sail over, then land a few minutes later
at the aerodrome well satisfied with your three hours’ work.

You have been to Hunland, and you feel your career in the air has
really begun.




CHAPTER II


Altogether I spent four months in France as an observer. How I longed
during all that time for a fight in the air! But no real chances came,
and, finally, I quitted my seat as a passenger without having fired a
single combat shot from the tidy little machine-gun that was always
near me and seemed to yearn as much as I did to have a go at the enemy.

I injured my knee after an observing trip one day, when the pilot
crashed the machine in landing; and while I did not have to go to
hospital with it, it gradually grew worse until May 1916, when I had to
lay up several months for repairs.

My sick-leave over, I reported for duty again and got a real
surprise--I was told I could learn to fly! This made me happier than
I can express. I pictured myself in one of the swift little fighting
planes I had seen in France, and I felt in my heart of hearts that
I would make good. I already knew what it felt like to fly; I knew
the language of the air, the esprit of the Corps, and some of the
heart-palpitating peculiarities of our best-balanced engines. But all
this time I had been a sort of innocent bystander. Now, at last, I was
going into the air “on my own.”

The first step was to go to a school of instruction--a ground
school--where the theory of flying and the mechanical side of aviation
are expounded to you. I went through these courses, and by special
permission was allowed to take my examination three weeks earlier than
would have been the case in the ordinary course of events. I worked
like a Trojan, and passed without much difficulty. Then was to come the
real part of it all, the part for which I had waited for over a year.

On November 1st, 1916, I was sent to another school for elementary
training in the air. This consisted, first of all, in going up in
another old machine--a steady type called the Maurice Farman, and
fitted with a dual set of controls, so that the instructor could
manage one while I tried to manage the other. Never will I forget those
days of dual control. I tried very hard, but seemed to me I just could
not get the proper “feel” of the machine. First the instructor would
tell me I was “ham-handed”--that I gripped the controls too tightly
with every muscle tense. After that I would get what you might call
timid-handed, and not hold the controls tightly enough. My instructor
and I both suffered tortures. So when suddenly one day he told me I
could go up alone, I had my doubts as to whether it was confidence or
desperation that dictated his decision. I didn’t worry long as to which
it was; I was willing to take the chance.

Then followed my first solo! This is, I think, the greatest day in a
flying man’s life. Certainly I did not stop talking about it for the
next three weeks at least. I felt a great and tender pity for all the
millions of people in the world who never have a chance to do a solo!

An ambulance stood in the aerodrome, and it seemed to me, as it has
to many another student-pilot, that all the other business of flying
had suddenly ceased so that everybody could look at me. I noticed with
a shiver that the ambulance had its engine running. Were the doctors
at the hospital expectantly fondling their knives? Everybody looked
cold-blooded and heartless. But I had to do it: so into the machine I
crawled, trying to look cheerful, but feeling awful lonesome. How I got
off the ground I do not know, but once in the air it was not nearly
so bad--not much worse than the first time you started downhill on an
old-fashioned bicycle.

I wasn’t taking any liberties. I flew as straight ahead as I could,
climbing steadily all the time. But at last I felt I had to turn, and I
tried a very slow, gradual one, not wanting to bank either too steeply
or too little. They told me afterwards I did some remarkable skidding
on that turn, but I was blissfully ignorant of a little detail like
that and went gaily on my way. I banked a little more on my next turn
and didn’t skid so much.

For a time I felt very much pleased with myself circling above the
aerodrome, but suddenly an awful thought came to me. Somehow or other I
had to get that machine down to the earth again. How blissful it would
be if I could just keep on flying! At last, however, I screwed up all
my courage, reached for the throttle, pushed it back, and the engine
almost stopped. I knew the next thing to do was to put her nose down.
So down it went at a steep angle. I felt it was too steep, so I pulled
her nose up a bit, then put it down again, and in a series of steps I
had been told carefully to carry out, descended toward the ground.

About forty feet from the ground, however, I did everything I had
been told to do when two feet from the ground. So I made a perfect
landing--only forty feet too high. Eventually I realised this slight
error, and down went her nose again. We rapidly got nearer the ground,
and then I repeated my perfect landing--about eight feet up. This
time I just sat and suffered, while the now thoroughly exasperated
old machine, taking matters into its own hands, dropped with a
“plonk” the intervening distance. There was no damage, because the
training-machines are built for such work, and can stand all sorts of
hard knocks.

After doing my first solo, I progressed rather rapidly, and in a few
days was passed on to a higher instruction squadron and began to fly
more warlike machines. I found that to qualify as a pilot I had to pass
certain tests in night flying. This awed me to a certain extent, but it
also appealed to me, for just two months before the first Zeppelins had
been brought down at night on English soil by our airmen. I was very
anxious to get taken on for this work, and eventually succeeded.

Night-flying is a fearsome thing--but tremendously interesting. Anyone
who has ever been swimming at night will appreciate what I mean. All
the familiar objects and landmarks, that seem so friendly by day,
become weird and repellent monsters at night. It is simple enough to
go up in the dark, and simple enough to sail away. But it is quite
something else to come down again without taking off a chimney-pot or
“strafing” a big oak tree. The landing tests are done with the help of
flares on the ground. My first flight at night had most of the thrills
of my first solo. I “taxied” out to what I thought a good place to
takeoff from. The instructor shouted a few last words to me above the
noise of the motor. I turned the machine to face down the long line of
lights, opened out the engine, raced along the ground, then plunged up
into utter blackness.

I held the controls very carefully and kept my eyes glued on the
instruments that gleamed brightly under little electric bulbs inside
the machine. I could not see a thing around me; only the stars
overhead. Underneath there was a great black void. After flying
straightway for several minutes I summoned up courage enough to make a
turn. I carefully and gradually rounded the corner, and then away off
to one side I could see the flares on the ground. I completed a big
circuit and shut off the engine preparatory to landing. Suddenly, in
the midst of my descent, I realized I had misjudged it very badly, so
quickly put the engine on again and proceeded to fly around a second
time. Then I came down, and, to my intense surprise, made quite a good
landing. This was only the beginning. I had to repeat the trick several
times.

On the final test I had to do a given height. I left the ground as
before, and just as I did so could see the reflection of the flares
on the tin roofs of our huts. It made a great impression upon me, as
I climbed away into the darkness. Then my thoughts went to my engine
and I realized it was as important as my own heart. I listened to its
steady beat with an anxious ear. Once or twice there was a slight kick
or hitch in its smooth rhythm. No matter how many cylinders you have
whirring in front of you, the instant one misses your heart hears it
even before your ears do. Several times my heart seemed to stop. The
tension became very great as I toiled and struggled up through the
night. The lack of anything upon which I could put my eyes outside the
machine gave me a very queer feeling.

One other machine was up at the same time, doing its test, and somehow,
although the space in the air is very wide, I had a great fear that
we might collide, so I gazed anxiously out into the darkness trying to
see the little navigation lights we carried on our wings. It is hard
to look into jet blackness, and the strain hurt my eyes, but I was
afraid not to look for all I was worth. I continued to fly as much as
I could in a dead straight line. Whenever I had to make a turn I made
a very gradual one, hardly daring to bank, or tilt, my machine at all.
It is funny, this feeling at night that you must not bank, and a most
dangerous instinct to follow. The feeling that you are off an even keel
upsets you, as you have no horizon or apparent ground below you to take
your bearings by, and you have to go by the instruments, or tell from
the “feel” of the machine itself, whether you are level or not.

However, at the stage of learning I had reached I knew nothing of the
real feel of a machine and was entirely dependent upon the instruments.
This is not a very reassuring state of mind, so when the instruments
at last indicated I had attained the required height, it was with a
happy heart that I throttled back my engine to come down. I was afraid
to shut it completely off for fear that it would get too cold to pick
up when I put it on again. When you come down with your engine running
it takes a much longer time to reach the ground. Every thousand feet
or so, as I lost height, I would carefully try out the engine, and do
a complete circuit. Underneath me I could see the little twinkling
flares, and kept them in sight as much as possible on the downward
journey to make certain of not losing myself. Finally, I reached the
ground and made a careful landing.

When I stepped out of the machine I had at last qualified as a pilot.
I was sent to a home-defence squadron near the mouth of the Thames. I
spent hours practising in the air both by day and by night. Several
times we had flight manœuvres at night, and that was ticklish work. We
would go up to patrol a certain area with lights showing on all the
aerodromes in that section of the country, so that you could steer
by them. I don’t know of many greater tests of a pilot’s skill than
this flying in the dark, with a lot of machines about you in the air,
their little navigation lights looking for all the world like so many
moving stars. The cold of the higher altitudes at night is agonizingly
intense. After half an hour or so in the frigid zone you get sort of
numb and then for a long while the cold doesn’t seem to affect you any
more. The real nasty part is when you have landed and begin to thaw
out. It is really worse than the original freezing.

In spite of the discomforts and the dangers of night-flying you could
not fail to admire the great beauty of the scene below you when the
lights were on and sparkling. These lights would mean nothing to a
stranger, but to us in the air they were friendly beacons of safety
and gave us a feeling of absolute security. On such nights the skies
would seem full to overflowing with myriad stars. We finally became so
accustomed to flying in the dark that nothing troubled us except ground
mists or light fogs that would occasionally slip in from the sea,
obliterate the lights, and make landing a difficult and perilous task.

My luck as a Zeppelin hunter was very poor. I used to dream
occasionally about stalking the great monsters in the high thin air,
pouring a drum of blazing bullets into them and gloating as they
flared into flame. But no real Zeppelins ever came my way. The cold
nights that we stood by on duty waiting for them were very long, but
not without their compensations. There would be two of us at a given
station. We would play cards, strum on some sort of instrument, read
for an hour or so, play cards again, and all the while hoping for an
alarm that would send us aloft in pursuit of a marauding gasbag from
over the sea.

Christmas Day we cooked our own turkey and the rest of the meal. Then,
in a burst of Yuletide hospitality, we telephoned to a local hotel and
told the manager to send anybody he wanted to out to the aerodrome
for dinner. Alas for our ten-pound turkey! The guests from the hotel
kept coming until there were actually twenty of them. However, in some
miraculous way, we managed to feed the hungry score. Having partaken of
our food, they did not tarry long. Night shut in early and once more
we took up our wintry vigil.

Toward the end of February word came through from the War Office one
night that I was to go to France. I had become convinced that the
winter would not offer much opportunity at Zeppelin hunting, and had
applied several times for duty at the fighting front. Before I went,
however, there was another course at a special school, where I learned
to fly the smallest of our single-seater machines. Now, I felt, I had
reached the height of my ambition at last; actually to fly one of these
tiny, wasp-like fighting machines seemed to me the most wonderful thing
in the world. A few days later, when I reported for my orders to cross
the Channel it was with a gay heart, and a determination to reflect as
much honour as I could upon the double wings on my left breast.




CHAPTER III


With a dozen other flying men I landed at Boulogne on March 7th, 1917,
for my second go at the war. At the Boulogne quay we separated, and
I wish I could say that “some flew east and some flew west,” but as
a matter of fact we didn’t fly at all. Instead, we meandered along
over the slow French railroads for nearly two days before reaching our
destinations.

One other pilot and myself had been ordered to join a flying squadron
on the southern sector of the British line. The squadron to which we
were assigned had a great reputation, one of the best in all France,
and we were very proud to become members of it. Captain Albert Ball,
who was resting in England at the time, but who came back to France in
the late spring and was killed within a few weeks, had brought down
twenty-nine Hun machines as a member of “our” squadron. That was an
inspiration in itself.

The first day of my stay with the squadron there was no flying, and so
I wandered about the field hangars looking at the machines. They were
all of a type I had never seen before at close range--Nieuport Scouts,
very small and, of course, with but a single seat. Being a French
model, the Nieuport Scout is a beautiful creature. The distinctly
British machines--and some of our newer ones are indeed marvels of the
air--are built strictly for business, with no particular attention paid
to the beauty of lines. The French, however, never overlook such things.

The modern fighting scout--and to my mind the single-seater is the
only real aeroplane for offensive work--may have the power of 200
horses throbbing in its wonderful engine. Some of the machines are
very slender of waist and almost transparent of wing. Aeroplanes do
not thrust their warlike nature upon the casual observer. One has to
look twice before definitely locating the gun or guns attached so
unobtrusively to the frame-work, and synchronized, where necessary, to
shoot through the whirring propeller in front. Such guns are connected
to the engine itself by means of cams, and are so arranged that they
can fire only when the propeller reaches a given position, thus
allowing the bullets to pass safely between the blades. It seems like a
very delicate bit of timing, but the devices are extremely simple.

The nacelle, or cock-pit, of the modern machine, I have heard people
say, suggests to them the pilot-house of a palatial private yacht in
miniature. They generally are finished in hard wood and there are
polished nickel instruments all about you. They indicate height,
speed, angle, revolutions, and almost everything an airman ought
to know. There are ingenious sights for the guns and range-finders
for bomb-dropping. When he is tucked away in the nacelle, a little
well-like compartment, about as big around as an ordinary barrel, only
the pilot’s head is visible above the freeboard of the body of the
machine--the body being technically known as the fuselage. Directly in
front of the pilot is a little glass wind-screen, a sort of half-moon
effect.

We newcomers at the squadron--the other pilot and myself--had to stand
by the next day and watch the patrols leaving to do their work over the
lines. It was thrilling even to us, accustomed as we were to ordinary
flying, to see the trim little fighters take the air, one after the
other, circle above the aerodrome, and then, dropping into a fixed
formation, set their courses to the east. That night we listened with
eager ears to the discussion of a fight in which a whole patrol had
been engaged. We stay-at-homes had spent the day practice-flying in
the new machines. There were three days more of this for me, and then,
having passed some standard tests to show my familiarity with the
Nieuport type, I was told the next morning I was to cross the lines for
the first time as the master of my own machine.

The squadron commander had been killed the day before I arrived from
England, and the new one arrived the day after. It rather pleased and
in a sense comforted me to know that the new commander was also going
over in a single-seater for the first time when I did. He had been
flying up to this time a two-seater machine which calls for entirely
different tactics during a fight. Two-seater machines, as a rule,
have guns that can be turned about in different positions. On the
fighting scouts they generally are rigidly fixed. This means that it is
necessary to aim the machine at anything you wish to fire at.

The night before I was to “go over” I received my orders. I was to
bring up the rear of a flight of six machines, and I assure you it was
_some_ task bringing up the rear of that formation. I had my hands full
from the very start. It seemed to me my machine was slower than the
rest, and as I wasn’t any too well acquainted with it, I had a great
time trying to keep my proper place, and to keep the others from losing
me. I was so busy at the task of keeping up that my impressions of
outside things were rather vague. Every time the formation turned or
did anything unexpected, it took me two or three minutes to get back in
my proper place. But I got back every time as fast as I could. I felt
safe when I was in the formation and scared when I was out of it, for I
had been warned many times that it is a fatal mistake to get detached
and become a straggler. And I had heard of the German “head-hunters,”
too. They are German machines that fly very high and avoid combat with
anything like an equal number, but are quick to pounce down upon a
straggler, or an Allied machine that has been damaged and is bravely
struggling to get home. Fine sportsmanship, that!

The way I clung to my companions that day reminded me of some little
child hanging to its mother’s skirts while crossing a crowded street. I
remember I also felt like a child does when it is going up a dark pair
of stairs, and is sure something is going to reach out of somewhere and
grab it. I was so intent on the clinging part that I paid very little
attention to anything else.

We climbed to a height of more than two miles on our side of the lines,
then crossed them. There were other formations of machines in the
air, patrolling at various places. I could see them in the distance,
but for the life of me I could not tell whether they were friendly
or hostile. On the chance that they might be the latter, I clung
closer than ever to my comrades. Then, a long way off, I was conscious
that a fight was going on between a patrol of our machines and a Hun
formation. I could make little of it all until finally I saw what
seemed like a dark ball of smoke falling, and learned afterwards it was
one of our own machines going down in flames, having been shot and set
on fire by the enemy airmen.

A few minutes after this my attention was attracted elsewhere. Our old
friends the “Archies” were after us. It is no snug billet, this being
in the rear of a formation when the “Archies” are giving a show. They
always seem to aim at the leading machine, but come closer to hitting
the one at the end of the procession. The first shot I heard fired
was a terrific “bang” close to my ears. I felt the tail of my machine
suddenly shoot up into the air, and I fell about 300 feet before I
managed completely to recover control. That shot, strange to relate,
was the closest I have ever had from anti-aircraft fire. The smoke
from the exploding shell enveloped me. But close as it was, only one
piece of the flying steel fragments hit my machine. Even that did no
damage at all.

After recovering control I looked about hastily for the rest of my
formation, and discovered that by now they were at least half a mile
away, and somewhat higher than I was. Terrified at being left alone, I
put my engine on full and, by taking a short cut, managed to catch up
with them. Much relieved, I fell in under the formation, feeling safe
again, and not so alone in the world.

We continued to patrol our beat, and I was keeping my place so well
I began to look about a bit. After one of these gazing spells, I was
startled to discover that the three leading machines of our formation
were missing. Apparently they had disappeared into nothingness. I
looked around hastily, and then discovered them underneath me, diving
rapidly. I didn’t know just what they were diving at, but I dived,
too. Long before I got down to them, however, they had been in a short
engagement half a mile below me, and had succeeded in frightening off
an enemy artillery machine which had been doing wireless observation
work. It was a large white German two-seater, and I learned after we
landed that it was a well-known machine and was commonly called “the
flying pig.” Our patrol leader had to put up with a lot of teasing that
night because he had attacked the “pig.” It seems that it worked every
day on this part of the front, was very old, had a very bad pilot, and
a very poor observer to protect him.

It was a sort of point of honour in the squadron that the decrepit old
“pig” should not actually be shot down. It was considered fair sport,
however, to frighten it. Whenever our machines approached, the “pig”
would begin a series of clumsy turns and ludicrous manœuvres, and would
open a frightened fire from ridiculously long ranges. The observer was
a very bad shot and never succeeded in hitting any of our machines, so
attacking this particular German was always regarded more as a joke
than a serious part of warfare. The idea was only to frighten the
“pig,” but our patrol leader had made such a determined dash at him the
first day we went over, that he never appeared again. For months the
patrol leader was chided for playing such a nasty trick upon a harmless
old man.

During my dive after the three forward machines, I managed to lose them
and the enemy machine as well. So I turned and went up again, where I
found two of my companions. We flew around looking for the others, but
could not find them, so continued the patrol until our time was up and
then returned to the aerodrome. The missing ones arrived about the same
time and reported they had had a great many fights, but no decisive
ones.

About this time the Germans were beginning in earnest their famous
retreat from the country of the Somme. There had been days upon days
of heavy fogs and flying had been impossible. A few machines went up
from time to time, but could see nothing. The wily old Hun had counted
upon these thick days to shield his well-laid plans, and made the most
of them. Finally, there came a strong breeze from the south-west
that swept the fog away and cleared the ground of all mist and haze.
This was on that wonderfully clear March day just before the Germans
evacuated Bapaume and left it a mass of ruins. We were early in the
air, and had no sooner reached our proper height to cross the lines
than we could see something extraordinary was happening behind the
German trenches. From 15,000 feet we could see for miles and miles
around. The ground was a beautiful green and brown, and slightly to the
south we could see the shell-pitted battlefields of the Somme, each
shell-hole with glistening water in it.

A few miles to the east there were long streaks of white smoke. Soon
we realized that the Germans had set fire to scores of villages behind
their front. From where we flew we could see between fifty and sixty
of them ablaze. The long smoke-plumes blowing away to the north-east
made one of the most beautiful ground-pictures I have ever seen from
an aeroplane, but at the same time I was enraged beyond words. It had
affected every pilot in the patrol the same way. We flew up and down
over this burning country for two hours hunting, and wishing for German
machines to come up and fight, but none appeared. We returned at last
to the aerodrome and told what we had seen during our patrol, but news
of the fires had long since been reported by the airmen whose duty
it is to look out for such things, and our General Staff at once had
surmised the full import of what was happening.

The next week was full of exciting adventures. For days the clouds hung
at very low altitudes, seldom being higher than 4,000 feet, and of
course it was necessary for us to fly underneath them. At times during
the famous retreat it was hard to tell just where the Germans were
and where they were not. It was comparatively easy for the soldiers
on the ground to keep in touch with the German rearguard by outpost
fighting, but it was for us to keep tabs on the main bodies of troops.
We would fly over a sector of country from east to west and mark down
on our maps the points from which we were fired at. It was easy to know
the Germans were at those particular points. This was very tense and
exciting work, flying along very low and waiting each second to hear
the rattle of machine guns or the crack of a shell. We were flaunting
ourselves as much as possible over the German lines in order to draw
their fire.




CHAPTER IV


On March 25th came my first real fight in the air, and, as luck would
have it, my first victory. The German retreat was continuing. Four
of us were detailed to invade the enemy country, to fly low over the
trenches, and in general to see what the Boche troops were doing and
where they were located.

Those were very queer days. For a time it seemed that both
armies--German and British alike--had simply dissolved. Skirmishes were
the order of the day on the ground and in the air. The grim, fixed
lines of battle had vanished for the time being, and the Germans were
falling back to their famous Hindenburg positions.

The clouds had been hanging low as usual, but after we had gotten well
in advance of our old lines and into what had been so recently Hunland,
the weather suddenly cleared. So we began to climb to more comfortable
altitudes and finally reached about 9,000 feet. We flew about for a
long while without seeing anything, and then from the corner of my
eye I spied what I believed to be three enemy machines. They were
some distance to the east of us, and evidently were on patrol duty to
prevent any of our pilots or observers getting too near the rapidly
changing German positions. The three strange machines approached us,
but our leader continued to fly straight ahead without altering his
course in the slightest degree. Soon there was no longer any doubt as
to the identity of the three aircraft--they were Huns, with the big,
distinguishing black iron crosses on their planes. They evidently were
trying to surprise us, and we allowed them to approach, trying all the
time to appear as if we had not seen them.

Like nearly all other pilots who come face to face with a Hun in the
air for the first time, I could hardly realize that these were real,
live, hostile machines. I was fascinated by them and wanted to circle
about and have a good look at them. The German Albatross machines are
perfect beauties to look upon. Their swept-back planes give them more
of a birdlike appearance than any other machines flying on the western
front. Their splendid, graceful lines lend to them an effect of power
and flying ability far beyond what they really possess. After your
first few experiences with enemy machines at fairly close quarters you
have very little trouble distinguishing them in the future. You learn
to sense their presence, and to know their nationality long before you
can make out the crosses on the planes.

Finally, the three enemy machines got behind us, and we slowed down so
that they would overtake us all the sooner. When they had approached
to about 400 yards, we opened out our engines and turned. One of the
other pilots, as well as myself, had never been in a fight before,
and we were naturally slower to act than the other two. My first real
impression of the engagement was that one of the enemy machines dived
down, then suddenly came up again and began to shoot at one of our
people from the rear.

I had a quick impulse and followed it. I flew straight at the attacking
machine from a position where he could not see me and opened fire. My
“tracer” bullets--bullets that show a spark and a thin little trail of
smoke as they speed through the air--began at once to hit the enemy
machine. A moment later the Hun turned over on his back and seemed to
fall out of control. This was just at the time that the Germans were
doing some of their famous falling stunts. Their machines seemed to be
built to stand extraordinary strains in that respect. They would go
spinning down from great heights, and just when you thought they were
sure to crash, they would suddenly come under control, flatten out into
correct flying position, and streak for the rear of their lines with
every ounce of horse-power imprisoned in their engines.

When my man fell from his upside-down position into a spinning
nose-dive, I dived after him. Down he went for a full thousand feet
and then regained control. I had forgotten caution and everything else
in my wild and overwhelming desire to destroy this thing that for the
time being represented all of Germany to me. I could not have been
more than forty yards behind the Hun when he flattened out, and again
I opened fire. It made my heart leap to see my smoking bullets hitting
the machine just where the closely hooded pilot was sitting. Again the
Hun went into a dive and shot away from me vertically toward the earth.

Suspecting another ruse, and still unmindful of what might be happening
to my companions in their set-to with the other Huns, I went into a
wild dive after my particular opponent with my engine full on. With a
machine capable of doing 110 to 120 miles an hour on the level, I must
have attained 180 to 200 miles in that wrathful plunge. Meteor-like
as was my descent, however, the Hun seemed to be falling faster still
and got farther and farther away from me. When I was still about 1,500
feet up, he crashed into the ground below me. For a long time I had
heard pilots speaking of “crashing” enemy machines, but I never fully
appreciated the full significance of “crashed” until now. There is no
other word for it.

I have not to this day fully analysed my feelings in those moments of
my first victory. I don’t think I fully realized what it all meant.
When I pulled my machine out of its own somewhat dangerous dive, I
suddenly became conscious of the fact that I had not the slightest
idea in the world where I was. I had lost all sense of direction and
distance; nothing had mattered to me except the shooting down of that
enemy scout with the big black crosses that I shall never forget. Now
I began to fear that I was well within the enemy country and that it
was up to me to find some way of getting home. Then, to my dismay,
I discovered that during our long dive my engine had filled up with
lubricating oil and had stopped dead still. I tried every little trick
I knew to coax a fresh start, but it was no use. I had no choice.
I must land in the country directly beneath me, be it hostile or
friendly. I turned in what seemed to me by instinct to be the way
toward our own lines, and glided as far as I could without any help
from the engine.

I saw beneath me a destroyed village, and my heart sank. I must be
behind the German lines. Was my real flying career, just begun, to be
ended so soon? Was I to suffer the fate the flying man most abhors--the
helpless descent in Hunland and the meek submission to being taken
prisoner? A hundred thoughts were racing through my head, but in a
moment they were dispersed. It was that always ghastly rattle of a
machine gun, firing at me from the ground. This left no doubt but
that I was over enemy territory. I continued to glide, listlessly,
toward the ground, not caring much now what the machine gun might do.
My plight couldn’t be much worse. I was convinced, in fact, that it
couldn’t possibly be worse. Mechanically, little realizing just what
I was doing, but all the time following that first great instinct of
self-preservation, I remember carefully picking out a clear path in the
rough terrain beneath me, and making a last turn, I glided into it and
landed.

[Illustration:

                                            Canadian Official Photograph

Pilot’s Seat of Nieuport Scout.]

Some hostile spirit within me made me seize the rocket pistol we used
to fire signals with in the air--“Very” lights, they are called.
What I expected to do with such an impotent weapon of offence or
defence, I don’t know, but it gave me a sort of armed feeling as I
jumped out of the machine. I ran to a near-by ditch, following the
irresistible battlefield impulse to “take cover.” I lay for some time
in the ditch waiting--waiting for my fate, whatever it was to be. Then
I saw some people crawling toward me. They were anxious moments, and I
had to rub my eyes two or three times before finally convincing myself
that the oncoming uniforms were of muddy-brown and homely, if you will,
but to me that day, khaki was the most wonderful, the most inspiring,
the most soul-satisfying colour scheme ever beheld by the eyes of man.
In an instant my whole life-outlook changed; literally it seemed to me
that by some miracle I had come back from the land of the “missing.”

The British “Tommies” had seen me land and had bravely crawled out
to help me. They told me I had just barely crossed over into our own
country; the last 150 yards of my glide had landed me clear of the
Germans. The soldiers also said we had better try to move the machine,
as the Germans could see it from the hill opposite and would be sure to
shell it in a very little while.

With the help of several other men from a field artillery battery we
hauled the machine into a little valley just before the German shells
began to arrive. One dropped with a noisy bang some 200 yards away from
us, and I fell flat on my stomach. I hadn’t seen much land fighting up
to this time, but I had been told that that was the proper thing to do.
The Tommies, however, looked at me with amazement. The idea of anybody
dropping for a shell 200 yards away! They told me there was nothing
to worry about for the moment, and added, cheerfully, that in a few
minutes the Huns would be doing a little better shooting.

But I had my own back with the Tommies sooner than I could ever have
hoped for. This time a shell landed about twenty yards from us, and
down went everybody but me. I stood up--out of sheer ignorance! I
didn’t know by the sound of the shell how close it was going to land,
but the others did and acted accordingly. The joke of the whole thing
was that the shell was a “dud.” It didn’t explode, and I had the laugh
on the wise artillerymen.

Eventually we got the machine behind a clump of trees where the Germans
couldn’t see it, and they decided to waste no more ammunition hunting
us out. Although it was already 6 o’clock in the evening, I started
to work on the engine, but after an hour and a half had not succeeded
in getting a single cough out of any one of the many cylinders. So I
decided to let matters rest and accept a very cordial invitation to
spend the night with a battery near by.

It would have been a very interesting night indeed if I could have had
some real place to sleep, or if I had not been wearing loose, heavy
flying-clothes, with fleece-lined boots up to my hips, or if it had not
commenced to rain about 9 o’clock, or if in the middle of the night a
heavy artillery battle had not started. But in spite of the discomfort
and the drizzle it was all very interesting and exciting, and seemed to
me a sort of fitting sequel to my wonderful first day of combat in the
air.

The next day it continued to rain, and as I received no word from my
squadron in answer to several telegrams, I borrowed some tools from
the gunners and again got to work on my choked-up engines. Within a
few hours she was running beautifully. Now the problem was to find a
place from which to fly off. The ground was rough and very muddy, but
I decided to try to “taxi” over it. We had not bumped very far alone,
however, the machine and I, when a big piece of mud flew up and split
the propeller. That ended it. There was nothing to do but wait for
help to come from the squadron. It came the next afternoon, after I
had spent a terrible night trying to get to the squadron, and rescue
parties from the squadron had spent an equally terrible night trying
to get to me. I had landed at a point which had been well behind
the German lines a few days ago, where the roads had been mined and
blocked in all manner of ways, and where the German spirit of wanton
destruction had held high carnival. I had even tried to get through in
a Ford, but it was no use.

It was about 3 o’clock the second afternoon after I landed that one
of the rescue parties arrived. They had travelled about 90 miles to
get to me, although the aerodrome was only 15 miles away. By the third
afternoon we had succeeded in taking my machine to pieces, and having
safely loaded it into a motor lorry, began our return journey about
7 o’clock in the evening. We arrived at the aerodrome at 6.30 the
next morning. I slept part of the way, but never was so worn out and
tired in all my life, for many times during the night it was necessary
to get out and help our car out of the mud. Finally, when about six
miles from the aerodrome, we went into a mud-hole and stuck. It was
absolutely impossible to move in any direction, so with one of the men
I set out afoot to an aerodrome about three miles away. There I pulled
some sleepy mechanics out of bed and got them to drive me to my own
aerodrome a little farther along.

Now for the first time I learned exactly what had happened in the fight
on the 25th. The patrol leader had also destroyed one of the enemy
machines, while the third Hun had escaped. All of us were perfectly
safe and none of our machines damaged except my own, which showed a few
tears from shell fragments.

It seemed to me it had been ages since the fight. But at last I was
back among my companions--and I had the large total of one machine to
my credit. There were fellows in the squadron who did not have any,
however, and I was very proud--so proud and excited over the whole
episode that, despite my intense weariness, I couldn’t go to sleep
until late in the afternoon.




CHAPTER V


The fates had been so kind to me in my first fight in the air, that
the next time I crossed the lines my squadron commander had designated
me as patrol leader. I knew this was a difficult job, but it was not
until after we started out that I knew _how_ difficult. First of all,
I seemed to be leading too fast; then the pace would become too slow.
Some of the machines seemed too close to me, and some too far away.
I wondered why it was that everyone should be flying so badly to-day
except myself. As a matter of fact, if I had been leading properly, the
other machines would have found it quite easy to keep in their assigned
places.

However, one learns by experience, so at the end of two hours I was
leading much better, and had progressed another step in the school of
war-flying. The clouds were very thick this day and rolled under us
at times in great cumulus masses. We caught only occasional glimpses
of the ground through rifts in the clouds a mile or more apart. It was
necessary to watch very closely through these holes and to recognize
familiar places on the ground, otherwise we were likely to get lost and
never see home again. When our two hours’ tour of duty aloft was ended,
though, we landed safely at the aerodrome without having seen any enemy
machines.

Two days later my patrol engaged in one of the bitterest fights I have
ever known. I knew that night the full meaning of that last line so
often seen in the British official communiqué: “One of our machines did
not return.” A second machine barely reached our lines, with the pilot
so badly wounded he lived but a little while.

The patrol consisted of a flight of six machines. I led my companions
up to 12,000 feet before heading across the trenches just south of
Arras. Once over the lines, we turned to the north, not penetrating
very far into Hunland because of the strong wind that was blowing about
fifty miles an hour from the west. These westerly gales were one of
the worst things we had to contend with at the front. They made it very
easy for us to dash into enemy territory, but it was a very different
story when we started for home and had to combat the tempest. If an
airman ever wishes for a favouring wind, it is when he is streaking for
home.

Seeing the modern war-aeroplanes riding through howling storms reminds
one that it was not so long ago that a ten-mile breeze would upset
all flying-plans for a day at any aerodrome or exhibition field. Now
nothing short of a hurricane can keep the machines on the ground. As
far as the ability to make good weather of it is concerned, the airman
of to-day can laugh at a gale and fairly take a nap sitting on a
forty-mile wind.

We had been over the lines twenty minutes, and were tossing about a bit
in the storm, when I sighted an enemy machine flying about half a mile
below me. He was scudding gracefully along just over the top of a layer
of filmy white clouds. I signalled to the remainder of my patrol that I
had sighted an enemy, and in another instant I was diving after him.
As I sped downward I could see the remainder of the patrol coming after
me. I must have been plunging fully 150 miles an hour at the German
with the black crosses on his wings, when suddenly out of the clouds,
and seemingly right under my nose, a second enemy machine appeared. I
realized now that we were in for serious fighting, that we had run into
an ambuscade, for it was a great trick of the Germans at this time to
lurk behind patches of clouds to obtain the advantage of a surprise
attack. We soon taught them, however, that this was a game at which two
could play.

When the second machine loomed so suddenly from his hiding-place, I
naturally transferred my attention to him. I closed to within 150
yards and then opened fire from directly behind. Nothing happened,
however, for all my bullets seemed to be going far wide of their mark.
I was frankly surprised at this and wondered what had happened to
the marksmanship which had stood me in such good stead in my first
fight. As a result of these thoughts I neglected to look behind me to
see if the other machines of the patrol were following, and my first
intimation that anything was wrong was the sound of machine guns firing
from somewhere in the rear. I was about to turn my head to see if it
was one of the patrol firing, when some flaming German bullets shot
past between my left-hand planes. Then I realized that a third enemy
machine had gotten on my tail and had a dead shot at me. There was but
one way to get out of this, and I tried it. I pulled my machine right
up into the air and turned over backward in a partial loop. As I did so
the enemy machine flashed by underneath.

It was a narrow escape, but it gave me a breathing-spell in which to
look around for the remainder of my patrol. They were nowhere to be
seen. Later I learned that when they were coming down to me, more enemy
machines had popped out of the clouds, and there had been a sort of
general mêlée. The machine which got on my tail seemed to have dropped
out of the clear sky above. In all, it turned out, there were about ten
of the enemy to six of us.

It was my luck to be mixed up single-handed with three of the Huns.
Under the circumstances, wisdom seemed to me the better part of valour,
and I climbed as speedily as I could, eventually managing to get clear
of their range. Then, looking around, I saw a fight going on about
a mile farther east. It was a matter of thirty seconds to fly into
this, and there I found two of my machines in a go at four or five of
the enemy. We fought for fifteen minutes or more without either side
gaining an advantage. During all this time, however, we were steadily
being driven by the gale farther and farther into German territory, and
were rapidly losing height as well. We figured at this time we must be
fully fifteen miles behind the Hun lines.

We had circled and dived and fought our way down to about 4,000 feet
when suddenly about half a mile away I saw one of our patrol fighting
for his life with two of the enemy. I broke off the futile engagement
we were in and flew to the lone pilot’s assistance. The other two of my
pilots also broke away from the Germans and followed me as I headed
over to help him. At the same moment he succeeded in escaping from
the two attacking Huns, and we joined up again in a formation of four
machines. At this time we were as low as 2,500 feet, but by careful
flying and using the clouds to hide in, we managed to evade all the
enemy flyers who came swirling after us.

The moment we headed for home, however, all the “Archies” in the
neighbourhood opened fire on us. We were flying straight into the teeth
of the fifty-mile gale and were making very little headway against it.
This slow pace made us an easy mark for the guns, and meant that we had
to do a lot of dodging. We darted from one cloud to another, using them
as much as possible for protection. It was again the old instinct of
“taking cover” or “digging in.”

Reaching the aerodrome, we were very much crestfallen. The battle had
not been a success, and two of our patrol, two of our most intimate
friends, had not returned. Later that night, about 11 o’clock, we
had word that one of the missing machines had landed on our side of
the lines with the pilot badly wounded. Next morning we heard the
particulars of a wonderful piece of work done by this gallant boy. He
was only eighteen, and had been in France but three weeks. The British
Flying Corps is filled with boys of that age--with spirits of daring
beyond all compare, and courage so self-effacing as to be a continual
inspiration to their older brothers in the service.

In the early part of the fight this boy had been hit by an explosive
bullet, which, entering him from behind, had pierced his stomach and
exploded there. His machine had been pretty badly shot about, the
engine damaged, and, therefore, a great resulting loss in efficiency.
Mortally wounded as he was, however, he fought for ten or fifteen
minutes with his opponents and then succeeded in escaping. Dazed from
pain and loss of blood, he flew vaguely in a westerly direction. He had
no idea where he was, but when the anti-aircraft guns ceased to fire,
he glided down and landed in a field. Stepping out of his machine, he
attempted to walk, but had moved scarcely forty steps when he fell in
a faint. He was hurried to hospital and given the tenderest of care,
but next morning he died, leaving behind a brave record for his brief
career in the flying service.

The pilot who did not return was reported missing for about two
months, and then we heard he had been killed outright, shot dead in
the air. Upon looking back on this fight now, in the light of my
later experience, I wonder that any of us got out of it alive. Every
circumstance was against us, and the formation we ran into was made up
of the best Hun pilots then in the air. They fought under as favourable
conditions as they could have wished, and one can only wonder how they
missed completely wiping us out.

Next day there were only four of us left in my patrol, but we were
assigned to escort and protect six other machines that were going over
to get photographs of some German positions about ten miles behind the
front-line trenches. I had my patrol flying about a thousand feet above
the photography machines when I saw six enemy single-seater scouts
climbing to swoop down upon our photography machines. At the same time
there were two other enemy machines coming from above to engage us.

Diving toward the photography machines, I managed to frighten off
two of the Boches; then, looking back, I saw one of my pilots being
attacked by one of the two higher Germans who had made for us. This
boy, who is now a prisoner of war, had been a school-mate of mine
before the war. Forgetting everything else, I turned back to his
assistance. The Hun who was after him did not see me coming. I did not
fire until I had approached within 100 yards. Then I let go. The Hun
was evidently surprised. He turned and saw me, but it was too late now.
I was on his tail--just above and a little behind him--and at fifty
yards I fired a second burst of twenty rounds. This time I saw the
bullets going home. As was the case with the first machine I brought
down, this one also flopped over on its back, then got into a spin, and
went headlong to the earth, where it crashed a hopeless wreck.

I rejoined the photography machines, which unfortunately in the
meantime had lost one of their number. We brought the five home safely,
and the photographs were a huge success.




CHAPTER VI


It was a German boast at this time that their retreat from the Somme
had upset the offensive plans of the British and French for months to
come. How untrue this was they were soon to know. We Canadians knew
that the first big “push” of the spring was to come at Vimy Ridge,
where the Canadian Corps had been holding the line grimly the entire
winter through. It had been a trying ordeal for our men, who were
almost at the foot of the ridge with the Germans everywhere above them.

During all the long cold months of winter the old Boche had been
looking down on us, pelting the infantry in the trenches with all
manner of bombs and trench-mortar shells, and making life generally
uncomfortable. During all this time, however, and in spite of the fact
that the Germans had direct observation both of our lines and the
country behind them, we had succeeded in massing a hitherto unheard-of
number of guns and great forces of reserves for the initial attack of
the new fighting season.

About April 1st we heard the first rumours of the approaching storm.
The British artillery was tuning up all along the line, the greatest
fire being concentrated in the neighbourhood of Arras and the Vimy
Ridge, running north from that quaint old cathedral city. It was the
beginning of that great tumult of artillery which eventually was to
practically blow the top off the ridge--and the Germans with it. Our
machines had been operating with the guns, ranging them on the German
lines and the villages where the enemy troops were quartered in the
rear. There had been much careful “registering” also of the German
battery positions, so that when the time came for our troops to “go
over,” the British and Canadian artillery could pour such a torrent
of shells on the German guns as to keep them safely silent during the
infantry attack.

At last came the orders for our part in another phase of the “show.”
It was up to us to “clear the air” during the last days of battle
preparation. We did not want any more prying eyes looking down upon
us from the clouds--it was bad enough to have to submit to the
ground-observation from the German-held ridges. We were already
accustomed to fighting the enemy aeroplanes over their own ground and
thus keeping them as far as possible from our lines, but now we were
assigned to a new job. It was attacking the enemy observation balloons.
They flew in the same places almost every day--well back of the enemy
lines; but the observers in them, equipped with splendid telescopes,
could leisurely look far into our lines and note everything that was
going on. We proposed to put out these enemy eyes.

We called the big, elongated gasbags “sausages” and the French did
likewise--“saucisses.” They floated in the air at anywhere from 800 to
3,000 feet above the ground, and were held captive by cables. These
cables were attached to some special kind of windlasses which could
pull the balloons down in an incredibly short space of time. Sometimes
they would disappear as if by witchcraft. Wherever the sausages
flew they were protected from aeroplane attack by heavy batteries
of anti-aircraft guns, and also by what we came to know as “flaming
onions.” These “flaming onions” appear to consist of about ten balls
of fire, and are shot from some kind of rocket gun. You can see them
coming all the way from the ground, and they travel just too fast to
make it possible to dodge them. I have never had an “onion” nearer than
200 feet of me, but the effect of these balls of fire reaching for you
is most terrifying, especially the first time you have the pleasure of
making their acquaintance.

Our instructions were not only to drive the enemy balloons down, but to
set fire to and destroy them. This is done by diving on them from above
and firing some incendiary missile at them--not by dropping bombs on
them, as one so often hears in London.

The British attack at Arras and Vimy was set for April 9th--Easter
Monday. On April 5th we started after the sausages. The weather at
this time was very changeable, chilling snow-squalls being intermingled
with flashes of brilliant warm sunshine. It was cloudy and misty the
day our balloon attacks began, and the sausages were not visible
from our side of the lines. I was assigned to “do in” a particularly
annoying sausage that used to fly persistently in the same place day
after day. It was one of the sausages with a queer-shaped head, looking
for all the world like a real flying pig--sans feet. Any new sort of
hunting always appealed to me strongly, and I was eager for the chase
when I crossed into enemy territory in search of my particular game. I
flew expectantly in the direction where the balloon usually inhabited
the air, but it was nowhere to be seen. I circled down close to the
ground to be sure it was not on duty, and immediately found myself in
the midst of a terrific fire from all manner of guns. Something told
me to hurry away from there, and I did. The quickest shelter available
was a rather dark and forbidding cloud, but I made for it with all my
might, climbing as fast as my little single-seater would take me. What
a relief it was to be lost in that friendly mist. Continuing to climb,
I rose at last into the sunshine and then headed for home. My balloon
had not been up, but my first experience as a sausage hunter had not
been the pleasantest form of amusement, and I was inclined not to like
it very much. Later on I met with some success against the balloons;
but the sport, while exciting, was not to be compared with another
aeroplane.

The weather cleared late in the afternoon of the 5th, and for the first
time in my flying career I had the privilege of going out alone in
search of a fight. There was not an enemy machine in the air, however,
and I returned with nothing to report.

Next morning, bright and early, I was again out “on my own” in
search of adventure. I had been flying over the lines for over half
an hour when suddenly I spied an enemy machine about a mile over in
Hunland, and some distance above me. In these days I no longer had any
misgivings as to whether a machine was friend or foe--I had learned
to sense the enemy. Our greatest difficulty at the time was drawing
the Huns into a close combat. I set out to see what sort of fighting
material this particular pilot of the Iron Crosses was made of. Keeping
him always within view, I climbed to nearly 15,000 feet, and from that
point of vantage dived upon him. I waited until my plunge had carried
me to within 150 yards of him before opening fire. I had gotten in a
burst of probably twenty rounds, when my gun jammed. The Hun saw me
and dived away as fast as he could go. I dived after him, tinkering
with the gun all the time, and, finally getting it clear, fired another
burst at 100 yards. This drove him into a still deeper dive, but he
flattened out again, and this time I gave him a burst at 50 yards. His
machine evidently was damaged by my fire, for he now dived vertically
toward the ground, keeping control, however, and landing safely in a
field.

This fight gave me a new resolve--to devote more time to target
practice. I should have destroyed this Hun, but poor shooting had
enabled him to escape. Going home, I spent an hour that day practising
at a square target on the ground. Thereafter I gave as much time as
possible to shooting practice, and to the accuracy I acquired in this
way I feel I owe most of my successes. Aeroplane target practice is not
without its dangers. The target on the ground is just about the size
of the vital spots you aim at in fighting. You have to dive steeply at
this, and there is very little margin of safety when plunging at full
speed to within a few feet of the earth.

April 6th and 7th were memorable days in the Flying Corps. The
public, knowing nothing of the approaching attack which was to go
down in history as the Battle of Arras, was distinctly shocked when
the British communiqués for these two days frankly admitted the loss
of twenty-eight of our machines. We considered this a small price to
pay for the amount of work accomplished and the number of machines
engaged, coupled with the fact that all of our work was done within
the German lines. In the two days that we lost twenty-eight machines,
we had accounted for fifteen Germans, who were actually seen to
crash, and thirty-one driven down damaged, many of which must have
met a similar fate. The British do not officially announce a hostile
machine destroyed without strict verification. When you are fighting
a formation of twenty or more Huns in a general mêlée, and one begins
a downward spin, there is seldom time to disengage yourself and watch
the machine complete its fatal plunge. You may be morally certain
the Hun was entirely out of control and nothing could save him, but
unless someone saw the crash, credit is given only for a machine driven
down. The Royal Air Force is absolutely unperturbed when its losses on
any one day exceed those of the enemy, for we philosophically regard
this as the penalty necessarily entailed by our acting always on the
offensive in the air.

Technically, the Germans seldom gave a machine “missing,” for the
fighting is practically always over their territory, and every one of
their machines driven down can be accounted for, even if it is totally
destroyed. Many of our losses are due wholly to the fact that we have
to “carry on” over German territory. Any slight accident or injury
that compels a descent in Hunland naturally means the total loss of
the British machine. But such a loss does not involve a German victory
in combat; it is merely a misfortune for us. If the machine could only
have reached our side of the lines it might have been repaired in half
an hour. The public often forgets these things when reading of British
machines that fail to return.

Every class of our machines was now engaged in the preparations for the
big offensive. The bombing squadrons were out by day and by night. They
would fly over the lines with only the stars to guide them and drop
tons of high-explosive wherever it was considered that the resulting
damage would have a crippling effect upon the defensive power of the
German machine. Our photographers were busy during every hour of
sunlight, and our artillery observing machines were keeping long hours
in company with the guns, carrying on the preliminary bombardments.

My own experiences on April 7th brought me my first decoration--the
Military Cross. The thrills were all condensed into a period of two
minutes for me. In that time I was fortunate enough to shoot down an
enemy machine and destroy the “sausage” I had started for two days
before. This should have been excitement enough, but I added to it by
coming within 15 feet of being taken a German prisoner and becoming an
unwilling guest of the Huns for the “duration.”

I was ordered after my particular balloon and had climbed to about
5,000 feet before heading for the lines. On my way there I had to pass
over one of our own observation-balloons. I don’t know what it was that
attracted my attention, but, looking down, I saw what appeared to be
two men descending in parachutes. A moment later the balloon below me
burst into flames. I saw the enemy machine which had set it on fire
engaged with some of ours, but as I had definite orders to proceed
straight to the lines and destroy the hostile balloon which had been
allotted to me, I was unable to join in the fighting.

Just about this time an amusing incident was in progress at our
aerodrome. A Colonel of the Corps was telephoning my squadron
commander, informing him that one of our balloons had just been
destroyed.

“Well, if it is any consolation, young Bishop, of my squadron, has just
gone over to get one of theirs,” replied my commander.

“Good God,” said the Colonel, “I hope he has not made a mistake in
balloon and set ours on fire!”

At this moment I was serenely sailing over the enemy trenches, keeping
a sharp look-out for some sign of my own balloon. After flying
five miles over the lines, I discovered it and circled around as a
preliminary to diving down upon it. But just then I heard the rattle of
machine guns directly behind me and saw bullet-holes appear as if by
magic in the wings of my machine. I pulled back as if to loop, sending
the nose of my machine straight up into the air. As I did so the enemy
scout shot by underneath me. I stood on my tail for a moment or two,
then let the machine drop back, put her nose down, and dived after
the Hun, opening fire straight behind him at very close range. He
continued to dive away with increasing speed, and later was reported to
have crashed just under where the combat had taken place. This victory
I put down entirely to luck. The man flew directly in line with my gun
and it would have been impossible to have missed him.

I proceeded now to dive for the balloon, but having had so much
warning, it had been pulled down to the ground. I would have been
justified in going home when I saw this, for our orders were not to go
under 1,000 feet after the sausages. But I was just a bit peevish with
this particular balloon, and to a certain extent my blood was up. So I
decided to attack the ungainly monster in its “bed.” I dived straight
for it and when about 500 feet from the ground, opened fire. Nothing
happened. So I continued to dive and fire rapid bursts until I was only
50 feet above the bag. Still there were no signs of it catching fire.
I then turned my machine gun on the balloon crew, who were working
frantically on the ground. They scattered and ran all about the field.
Meantime a “flaming onion” battery was attempting to pelt me with
those unsavoury missiles, so I whirled upon them with a burst of twenty
rounds or more. One of the onions had flared within a hundred yards of
me.

This was all very exciting, but suddenly, with a feeling of faintness,
I realized that my engine had failed. I thought that again, as during
my first fight, the engine had oiled up from the steep diving I had
done. It seemed but a moment before that I was coming down at a speed
that must have been nearly 200 miles an hour. But I had lost it all in
turning my machine upon the people on the ground.

There was no doubt in my mind this time as to just where I was,
and there appeared no alternative but to land and give myself up.
Underneath me was a large open field with a single tree in it. I glided
down, intending to strike the tree with one wing just at the moment of
landing, thus damaging the machine so it would be of little use to the
Huns, without injuring myself.

I was within 15 feet of the ground, absolutely sick at heart with the
uselessness of it all, my thoughts having turned to home and the worry
they would all feel when I was reported in the list of the missing,
when, without warning, one of my nine cylinders gave a kick. Then a
second one miraculously came to life, and in another moment the old
engine--the best old engine in all the world--had picked up with a
roar on all the nine cylinders. Once again the whole world changed for
me. In less time than it takes to tell it, I was tearing away for home
at a hundred miles an hour. My greatest safety from attack now lay in
keeping close to the ground, and this I did. The “Archies” cannot fire
when you are so close to earth, and few pilots would have risked a
dive at me at the altitude which I maintained. The machine guns on the
ground rattled rather spitefully several times, but worried me not at
all. I had had my narrow squeak for this day, and nothing could stop me
now. I even had time to glance back over my shoulder, and there, to my
great joy, I saw a cloud of smoke and flames rising from my erstwhile
_bête noir_--the sausage. We afterward learned it was completely
destroyed.

It was a strange thing to be skimming along just above the ground in
enemy territory. From time to time I would come on groups of Huns
who would attempt to fire on me with rifles and pistols, but I would
dart at them and they would immediately scatter and run for cover. I
flew so low that when I would come to a clump of trees I would have
to pull my nose straight up toward the sky and “zoom” over them. Most
of the Germans were so startled to see me right in their midst, as
it were, they either forgot to fire or fired so badly as to insure
my absolute safety. Crossing the three lines of German trenches was
not so comfortable, but by zigzagging and quick dodging I negotiated
them safely and climbed away to our aerodrome. There I found that no
bullets had passed very close to me, although my wing-tips were fairly
perforated.

That evening I was delighted to get congratulations not only from my
Colonel, but from my Brigadier as well, supplemented later by a wire
from the General Commanding the Flying Corps. This I proudly sent home
the same evening in a letter.




CHAPTER VII


Easter Sunday was one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen, and
we felt that at last the gods of the weather were going to smile on
a British offensive. The sky was a wonderful blue, flecked only here
and there with bits of floating white clouds. There was a warmth of
spring in the sunshine that filled one with the joy of living. Hundreds
of our machines were aloft to demonstrate anew the fact that we were
masters of the air. They carried the fighting wholly into the enemy’s
territory, sought out his aerodromes, his military headquarters, his
ammunition dumps, his concentration camps, and challenged him in every
possible manner to come up and fight. Some of our reconnaissance
machines flew from sixty to ninety miles behind the German lines.

It used to amuse and amaze me to think, on days like this, of the
marvels that modern flying had accomplished. Our machines were not
only called upon to fly faster by far than the swiftest birds, but
to do “stunts” that no bird ever thought of. Whoever heard of a bird
flying upside-down? Yet there were plenty of our pilots who rather
delighted in doing this. There are trick flyers just as there are
trick bicyclists and trick riders in the circus. I belonged to the
steady flyers’ class, but some day soon I am really going to learn
to fly, to do aerial acrobatics, and everything. I remember crossing
the lines one day in the hottest sort of “Archie” fire and suddenly
seeing below me one of the most remarkable sights of my flying-career.
The shape of the machine looked a little familiar, and the colour was
certainly familiar. But there was something queer about the rigging. My
curiosity was aroused, and in spite of the whistling “Archie” shells
I determined to have a nearer look at this stranger of the air. As I
approached I made out something that looked like wheels stuck up toward
the sky. I was more puzzled than ever for a moment, then realized it
was a machine upside-down. The wing-tips bore the red, white, and
blue target markings of the British service, so I flew very close
to see if anything was wrong. When I got near enough I recognized my
squadron commander at the time. He was out having an afternoon stroll
and had deliberately sailed over the lines upside-down, just to show
his contempt for the Hun “Archies,” and also in the hope that he might
attract the attention of a “head-hunter,” and thus bring on a little
excitement.

With the great attack scheduled for dawn the next morning, we went
at our work on Easter Sunday with an added zest. At 9 o’clock, just
after the early-morning mist had been driven away by the mounting sun,
I was due for an offensive patrol--in other words, there were six of
us going over the lines in search of trouble. Our squadron commander
was in the flight, and he had been leading us inside Hunland for about
twenty minutes before anything happened. Then a two-seated machine,
with the enemy markings on it, appeared underneath us. Our commander
dived at him like a hawk, and his first burst of fire clearly hit home.
The enemy machine dived toward the ground, but thinking this might
be a trick I dived after it, firing all the way. I soon saw, however,
that the Huns actually had been hurt and were doomed. So I pulled my
machine out of the dive and looked around for the rest of the patrol.
They had all disappeared. A moment or two later I sighted a pair of
our machines engaged in a helter-skelter fight to the left of me, and
had just started in their direction, when, seemingly out of nowhere
at all, an enemy scout dived at me. I turned quickly and avoided him.
Then for several minutes we had a running fight, firing occasionally,
but neither one of us being able to manœuvre into a position of real
advantage. Finally, the enemy flew away eastward and escaped.

In the excitement of the fighting I had not noticed it before, but now,
looking downward, I saw a Boche sausage just beneath me. I plunged at
it just as the crew began to pull it frantically down. I kept diving
and firing at the big bag, but as no smoke appeared I gathered I had
either missed it all the while, or my bullets had failed in their duty
as “fire-bugs.”

I had dropped to 800 feet in my chase after the bag and could plainly
see German troops marching toward the support and reserve lines at
the front. Evidently they were preparing for our assault. The way our
artillery had been going for a week past left them little room for
doubt. I flew about watching these troops for some time, despite the
tell-tale rattle of the machine guns on the ground, but at last decided
I had better get out of it. I saw a cloud some distance above me and
decided to climb into it and lose myself. I had just about reached the
edge of the cloud when another enemy scout decided to have a go at me.
I had fired about a hundred rounds at him when my gun jammed. I dodged
away to have time to correct this, and the enemy, immediately seeing
his advantage, dived after me. He was using explosive bullets, and I
could see them burst near me from time to time. One hit the machine
about 3 feet from where I was sitting and exploded, but did no material
damage. A little more dodging from these ungentlemanly missiles, and
a little more work, and my gun was right again. So I turned upon
my pursuer. We fought round and round each other for a seemingly
interminable time, when at last I saw my chance, darted behind him
and gave him a short burst of fire. No effect. A second later I got
him within my sights again, and this time I fired very carefully. His
machine gave a shiver, then began tumbling toward the earth completely
out of control. I followed to within a few hundred feet of the ground,
and as it was still plunging helplessly, I turned away.

The sky around me now seemed entirely deserted. It gave me time to
speculate as to whether I should climb up to a nice, safe height of
about two miles and then fly home, or whether I should streak it across
the trenches as I had done the day before. Recalling some incidents of
yesterday’s adventures, however, I decided to climb! I proceeded upward
in wide sweeping circles, looking all the time for any trace of my
missing comrades. They were not visible, even at 10,000 feet, so I flew
around a bit more in the hope of finding them.

My search was rewarded, not by meeting my friends, but by the sudden
appearance of two Hun machines flying in the direction of our lines.
Drawing a little to one side so as to have a good look at them, I
discovered they were being escorted and protected by three other
machines flying well back of and above them. By quick thinking I
estimated I could make a running attack on the lower two before the
upper three could get into the affair. I closed in and fired a burst at
the nearer of the two, but the second one got on my tail and, firing
very accurately, gave me some of the most uncomfortable moments of
my fighting-career. One of his bullets grazed my cap as it passed my
head, then crashed through the little wind-screen just in front of
me. This was too much, so, leaving my pursuit of the first machine,
I turned and paid attention to Number 2. Hun No. 1, in the meantime,
evidently decided he had had enough, for he kept flying away as fast as
he could. In turning on the second machine I chanced to find myself in
an ideal position, and my first burst of fire sent him spinning in an
uncontrolled nose-dive, which ended a few seconds later in a “crash”
just beneath me.

I figured that by this time the upper three were due, and, turning,
found all of them diving for me, firing with all their guns. There
was no time for any choice of tactics on my part, so I headed for the
enemy machines and flew directly under them, managing to get in a good
burst of fire upward at the leading two-seater that seemed particularly
anxious for a fight. He wasn’t so anxious as I had thought, for after
the first exchange of shots he kept diving away and did not return.
The other two, however, remained on the “field” of battle. I estimated
by this time that I had only about forty rounds of ammunition left
for my gun; but again there was no real choice for me. I had either
to fight or be attacked in a very nasty position; so I fought. My two
adversaries had seen the previous combats, and when I showed fight
toward them they seemed none too anxious to prolong the fray. I had
just finished my last bullet when the two of them dived away in
opposite directions and left me--“lord of all I surveyed.”

There was not another machine in the sky now, and, thankful for that
fact, I headed for home with my throttle pushed wide open, and landed
without any more excitement. When I turned in my report, especially
the part dealing with the fight with the formation of five enemy
machines, some of the squadron looked on me as some sort of wild man
or fire-eater just escaped from the Zoo. The Colonel telephoned up and
said that I had better not fly any more that day, so I was given the
afternoon off.

As we had to be ready to fly with the dawn next morning, we were early
to bed on Easter night. As we turned in, the British guns were roaring
all along the far-reaching battle-line. The whole horizon was lighted
with their flashes, like the play of heat-lightning on a sultry summer
evening. I knew the meaning and the menace in the booming of the
cannon, but I slept the sound slumber of a little child.




CHAPTER VIII


Dawn was due at 5.30 o’clock on Easter Monday, and that was the exact
hour set for the beginning of the Battle of Arras. We were up and had
our machines out of the hangars while it was still night. The beautiful
weather of a few hours before had vanished. A strong, chill wind was
blowing from the east and dark, menacing clouds were scudding along low
overhead.

We were detailed to fly at a low altitude over the advancing infantry,
firing into the enemy trenches, and dispersing any groups of men or
working troops we happened to see in the vicinity of the lines. Some
phases of this work are known as “contact patrols,” the machines
keeping track always of the infantry advance, watching points where
they may be held up, and returning from time to time to report just
how the battle is going. Working with the infantry in a big attack is
a most exciting experience. It means flying close to the ground and
constantly passing through our own shells as well as those of the enemy.

The shell fire this morning was simply indescribable. The bombardment
which had been going on all night gradually died down about 5 o’clock,
and the Germans must have felt that the British had finished their
nightly “strafing,” were tired out and going to bed. For a time almost
complete silence reigned over the battlefields. All along the German
lines star-shells and rocket-lights were looping through the darkness.
The old Boche is always suspicious and likes to have the country around
him lighted up as much as possible so he can see what the enemy is
about.

The wind kept growing stiffer and stiffer and there was a distinct
feel of rain in the air. Precisely at the moment that all the British
guns roared out their first salvo of the battle, the skies opened and
the rain fell in torrents. Gunfire may or may not have anything to do
with rainmaking, but there was a strange coincidence between the shock
of battle and the commencement of the downpour this morning. It was
beastly luck, and we felt it keenly. But we carried on.

The storm had delayed the coming of day by several minutes, but as
soon as there was light enough to make our presence worth while we
were in the air and braving the untoward elements just as the troops
were below us. Lashed by the gale, the wind cut the face as we moved
against the enemy. The ground seemed to be one mass of bursting shells.
Farther back, where the guns were firing, the hot flames flashing
from thousands of muzzles gave the impression of a long ribbon of
incandescent light. The air seemed shaken and literally full of shells
on their missions of death and destruction. Over and over again one
felt a sudden jerk under a wing-tip, and the machine would heave
quickly. This meant a shell had passed within a few feet of you. As
the battle went on the work grew more terrifying, because reports came
in that several of our machines had been hit by shells in flight and
brought down. There was small wonder of this. The British barrage
fire that morning was the most intense the war had ever known. There
was a greater concentration of guns than at any time during the Somme.
In fact, some of the German prisoners said afterwards that the Somme
seemed a Paradise compared to the bombardments we carried out at
Arras. While the British fire was at its height the Germans set up a
counter-barrage. This was not so intense, but every shell added to the
shrieking chorus that filled the stormy air made the lot of the flying
man just so much more difficult. Yet the risk was one we could not
avoid; we had to endure it with the best spirit possible.

The waves of attacking infantry as they came out of their trenches and
trudged forward behind the curtain of shells laid down by the artillery
were an amazing sight. The men seemed to wander across No Man’s Land,
and into the enemy trenches, as if the battle was a great bore to them.
From the air it looked as though they did not realize that they were
at war and were taking it all entirely too quietly. That is the way
with clock-work warfare. These troops had been drilled to move forward
at a given pace. They had been timed over and over again in marching
a certain distance, and from this timing the “creeping” or rolling
barrage which moved in front of them had been mathematically worked
out. And the battle, so calmly entered into, was one of the tensest,
bitterest of the entire world-war.

For days the battle continued, and it was hard work and no play for
everybody concerned. The weather, instead of getting better, as spring
weather should, gradually got worse. It was cold, windy, and wet.
Every two or three hours sudden snow-storms would shut in, and flying
in these squalls, which obliterated the landscape, was very ticklish
business.

On the fourth day of the battle I happened to be flying about 500 feet
above the trenches an hour after dawn. It had snowed during the night
and the ground was covered with a new layer of white several inches
thick. No marks of the battle of the day before were to be seen; the
only blemishes in the snow mantle were the marks of shells which had
fallen during the last hour. No Man’s Land itself, so often a filthy
litter, was this morning quite clean and white.

Suddenly over the top of our parapets a thin line of infantry crawled
up and commenced to stroll casually toward the enemy. To me it seemed
that they must soon wake up and run; that they were altogether too
slow; that they could not realize the great danger they were in. Here
and there a shell would burst as the line advanced or halted for a
moment. Three or four men near the burst would topple over like so many
tin soldiers. Two or three other men would then come running up to the
spot from the rear with a stretcher, pick up the wounded and the dying,
and slowly walk back with them. I could not get the idea out of my head
that it was just a game they were playing at; it all seemed so unreal.
Nor could I believe that the little brown figures moving about below
me were really men--men going to the glory of victory or the glory of
death. I could not make myself realize the full truth or meaning of it
all. It seemed that I was in an entirely different world, looking
down from another sphere on this strange, uncanny puppet-show.

[Illustration:

                                            Canadian Official Photograph

Nieuport Scout.]

Suddenly I heard the deadly rattle of a nest of machine guns under me,
and saw that the line of our troops at one place was growing very thin,
with many figures sprawling on the ground. For three or four minutes I
could not make out the concealed position of the German gunners. Our
men had halted, and were lying on the ground, evidently as much puzzled
as I was. Then in a corner of a German trench I saw a group of about
five men operating two machine-guns. They were slightly to the flank of
our line, and evidently had been doing a great amount of damage. The
sight of these men thoroughly woke me up to the reality of the whole
scene beneath me. I dived vertically at them with a burst of rapid
fire. The smoking bullets from my gun flashed into the ground, and it
was an easy matter to get an accurate aim on the German automatics, one
of which turned its muzzle toward me.

But in a fraction of a second I had reached a height of only 30
feet above the Huns, so low I could make out every detail of their
frightened faces. With hate in my heart I fired every bullet I could
into the group as I swept over it, then turned my machine away. A
few minutes later I had the satisfaction of seeing our line again
advancing, and before the time had come for me to return from my
patrol, our men had occupied all the German positions they had set out
to take. It was a wonderful sight and a wonderful experience. Although
it had been so difficult to realize that men were dying and being
maimed for life beneath me, I felt that at last I had seen something of
that dogged determination that has carried British arms so far.

The next ten days were filled with incident. The enemy fighting
machines would not come close to the lines, and there was very little
doing in the way of aerial combats, especially as far as I was
concerned, for I was devoting practically all of my time to flying low
and helping the infantry. All of our pilots and observers were doing
splendid work. Everywhere we were covering the forward movement of
the infantry, keeping the troops advised of any enemy movements, and
enabling the British artillery to shell every area where it appeared
concentrations were taking place. Scores of counter-attacks were
broken up before the Germans had fairly launched them. Our machines
were everywhere back of the enemy lines. It was easy to tell when the
Germans were massing for a counter-stroke. First of all our machines
would fly low over the grey-clad troops, pouring machine-gun bullets
into them or dropping high-explosive bombs in their midst. Then the
exact location of the mobilization point would be signalled to the
artillery, so that the moment the Germans moved our guns were on them.
In General Orders commending the troops for their part in the battle,
Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig declared that the work of the Flying
Corps, “under the most difficult conditions,” called for the highest
praise.

We were acting, you might say, as air policemen. Occasionally one of
our machines would be set upon by the German gangsters--they were
“careful” fighters and seldom attacked unless at odds of four to
one--and naturally we suffered some casualties, just as the ordinary
police force suffers casualties when it is doing patrol duty in an
outlaw country. The weather was always favourable to the German methods
of avoiding “open-air” combats. Even the clearer days were marked by
skies filled with clouds sufficiently large and dense enough to offer
protection and hiding-places to the high winging Hun machines.

I had several skirmishes, but did not succeed in bringing down another
machine until April 20th, when I was fortunate enough to begin another
series of extremely interesting and successful fights. I was promoted
to be a Captain about this time and thought I was very happy; but the
promotion was followed by another incident which really made me proud.
The sergeants of my squadron had made me a round “nose” for my machine.
It fitted on the propeller head and revolved with it. I had it painted
a brilliant blue, and from that time on my machine was known as “Blue
Nose.” It was given to me, the Sergeant-Major explained, as a sign that
I was an “Ace”--that I had brought down more than five machines. I was
so pleased with this tribute from the men that I took old “Blue Nose”
visiting to several other squadrons, where I exhibited my new mark of
distinction to many of my friends and flying companions.

The machine I got on April 20th was the first I ever destroyed in
flames. It is a thing that often happens, and while I have no desire
to make myself appear as a bloodthirsty person, I must say that to see
an enemy going down in flames is a source of great satisfaction. You
know his destruction is absolutely certain. The moment you see the fire
break out you know that nothing in the world can save the man, or men,
in the doomed aeroplane. You know there is no “camouflage” in this, and
you have no fear that the enemy is trying any kind of flying trick in
the hope that he will be left alone.

I was flying over a layer of white clouds when I saw a two-seater just
above me. We generally met the enemy in force during these days, but
this German machine was all alone. Neither the pilot nor observer
saw me. They flew along blissfully ignorant of my existence, while I
carefully kept directly underneath them, climbing all the time. I was
only ten yards behind the Hun when I fired directly up at him. It had
been an exciting game getting into position underneath him, carefully
following every move he made, waiting, hoping, and praying that he
would not see me before I got into the place I wanted. I was afraid
that if he did see me I would be at a distinct disadvantage below
him. My hand must have been shaky, or my eye slightly out, because,
although I managed to fire ten rounds, I did not hit anything vital.
Even in this crucial moment the humour of the situation almost got
the better of me. My machine seemed so little, carefully flying there
under the big, peaceful Hun, who thought he was so safe and so far
from any danger. Suddenly, from just underneath him, he heard the
“tat-tat-tat-tatter-tatter” of my machine gun almost in his ear, the
range was so close. Then he must have seen my smoking bullets passing
all around him. Anyway, there was consternation in the camp. He
turned quickly, and a regular battle in the air began between the two
of us. We manœuvred every way possible, diving, rolling, stalling; he
attempting to get a straight shot at me, while my one object was to get
straight behind him again, or directly in front of him, so as to have a
direct line of fire right into him.

Twice I dived at him and opened fire from almost point-blank range,
being within two lengths of him before I touched the lever which set
my gun to spouting. But there was no success. The third time I tried a
new manœuvre. I dived at him from the side, firing as I came. My new
tactics gave the German observer a direct shot at me from his swivel
gun, and he was firing very well too, his bullets passing quite close
for a moment or two. Then, however, they began to fly well beyond my
wing-tips, and on seeing this I knew that his nerve was shaken. I could
now see my own bullets hitting the right part of the Hun machine, and
felt confident the battle soon would be over.

I pulled my machine out of its dive just in time to pass about 5 feet
over the enemy. I could see the observer evidently had been hit and had
stopped firing. Otherwise the Hun machine seemed perfectly all right.
But just after I passed I looked back over my shoulder and saw it burst
into flames. A second later it fell a burning mass, leaving a long
trail of smoke behind as it disappeared through the clouds. I thought
for a moment of the fate of the wounded observer and the hooded pilot
into whose faces I had just been looking--but it was fair hunting, and
I flew away with great contentment in my heart.

This fight seemed to have changed my luck for the better. Everywhere I
went for the next few weeks enemy machines were easily found, and I had
numerous combats, many of them successful. Some days I could have been
accused of violating all the rules of a flying men’s union (if we had
had one). I would fly as much as seven and a half hours between sunrise
and sunset. Far from affecting my nerves, the more I flew the more I
wanted to fly, the better I seemed to feel, and each combat became
more and more enjoyable. Ambition was born in my breast, and, although
I still dared not entertain hope of equalling the record of the
renowned Captain Ball, who by this time had shot down over thirty-five
machines, I did have vague hopes of running second to him.

Along with the new ambition there was born in me as well a distinct
dislike for all two-seated German flying machines! They always seemed
so placid and sort of contented with themselves. I picked a fight
with the two-seaters wherever I could find one, and I searched for
them high and low. Many people think of the two-seater as a superior
fighting machine because of its greater gun-power. But to me they
always seemed fair prey and an easy target. One afternoon, soon after
this new Hun hatred had become a part of my soul, I met a two-seater
about three miles over the German lines and dived at him from a very
low height. As bad luck would have it, my gun had a stoppage, and while
I turned away to right it, the enemy escaped. Much disgusted, I headed
away homeward, when into my delighted vision there came the familiar
outlines of another Hun with two men aboard. I flew at this new enemy
with great determination; but after a short battle he dived away from
me, and although I did my best to catch him up, I could not. He landed
in a field underneath me. To see him calmly alight there under perfect
control filled me with a towering rage. I saw red things before my
eyes. I vowed an eternal vendetta against all the Hun two-seaters in
the world, and, the impulse suddenly seizing me, I dived right down to
within a few feet of the ground, firing a stream of bullets into the
machine where it was sitting. I had the satisfaction of knowing that
the pilot and observer must have been hit, or nearly scared to death,
for, although I hovered about for quite a long time, neither of them
stepped from the silent machine.

Half an hour after this occurrence I saw one of our machines in
difficulties with three of the enemy. The Huns were so engrossed with
the thought that they had a single British machine at their mercy, I
felt there was a good chance that I might slip up and surprise them. My
scheme worked beautifully. I came up to within 15 yards of one of the
Huns, and, aiming my machine at him with dead accuracy, shot him down
with my first ten bullets. He probably never knew where the bullets
came from, not having the slightest idea another British machine was
anywhere in that part of the sky. I turned now to assist with the
other two Huns, but by this time my brother-pilot had sent one of them
spinning out of control, while the last remaining enemy was making
good his escape as fast as his Mercédès engine could pull him through
the air. It is surprising sometimes how much dead resistance there is
in the air when you are in a hurry. Having nothing better to do under
the circumstances, I dived down after my own victim to get a view of
the crash. I was just in time. He struck the ground at the corner of a
field, and what was one instant a falling machine was next a twisted
bit of wreckage.




CHAPTER IX


It was apparent to us by this time that the Germans were bringing their
best pilots opposite the British front to meet the determined offensive
we had been carrying on since April 1st. Most of the machines we met
were handled in a manner far above the German average. Each night our
pilots brought in exciting stories of the chase. Although they were a
higher class of fighting men than we had hitherto flown against, the
Germans still showed a reluctance to attack unless they outnumbered us
by at least three to one. One lone German was induced to take a fatal
chance against a British scout formation. By clever manœuvring, at
which the hostile airman was also quite adept, we managed to entice
him to attack one of our machines from behind. As he did so, a second
British machine dived at him, and down he went, one of his wings
breaking off as he fell.

I can best illustrate the German tactics of the time by telling the
experience of one of our faithful old photographic machines, which, by
the way, are not without their desperate moments and their deeds of
heroism. All of which goes to show that the fighting scouts should not
get all the credit for the wonders of modern warfare in the air. The
old “photographer” in question was returning over the lines one day
when it was set upon by no less than eleven hostile scouts. Nearly all
the controls of the British machine were shot away, and the observer,
seriously wounded, fell half-way out of the nacelle. Although still
manœuvring his machine so as to escape the direct fire of the enemies
on his tail, the British pilot grasped the wounded observer, held him
safely in the machine, and made a safe landing in our lines. A moment
later the riddled aeroplane burst into flames. Under heavy shell-fire
the pilot carried the wounded observer to safety.

One of the distinguished German flying squadrons opposite us was under
command of the famous Captain Baron von Richtofen. One day I had the
distinction of engaging in three fights in half an hour with pilots
from this squadron. Their machines were painted a brilliant scarlet
from nose to tail--immense red birds, they were, with the graceful
wings of their type, Albatross scouts. They were all single-seaters,
and were flown by pilots of undeniable skill. There was quite a little
spirit of sportsmanship in this squadron, too. The red German machines
had two machine guns in fixed positions firing straight ahead, both
being operated from the same control.

The first of my three fights with these newcomers in our midst occurred
when I suddenly found myself mixed up with two of them. Evidently they
were not very anxious for a fight at the moment, for, after a few
minutes of manœuvring, both broke it off and dived away. Ten minutes
later I encountered one of the red machines flying alone. I challenged
him, but he wouldn’t stay at all. On the contrary, he made off as fast
as he could go. On my return from chasing him I met a second pair of
red Huns. I had picked up company with another British machine, and
the two Huns, seeing us, dived into a cloud to escape. I went in after
them, and on coming out again found one directly beneath me. On to
him I dived, not pulling the trigger until I was 15 yards away. Once,
twice, three times I pressed the lever, but not a shot from my gun! I
slipped away into another cloud and examined the faithless weapon, only
to find that I had run completely out of ammunition. I returned home
quite the most disgusted person in the entire British Army.

During the changeable days of the Arras offensive we had many exciting
adventures with the weather. On one occasion I had gone back to the
aircraft depot to bring to the front a new machine. Sunshine and
snow-squalls were chasing each other in a seemingly endless procession.
On the ground the wind was howling along at about fifty miles an hour.
I arrived at the depot at 9 o’clock in the morning, but waited about
until four in the afternoon before the weather appeared to be settling
down to something like a safe and sane basis. The sunshine intervals
were growing longer and the snow periods shorter, so I climbed into
my machine and started off. It was only a fifteen minutes’ fly to the
aerodrome, but in that time a huge black cloud loomed up and came
racing toward me. I was headed straight into the gale, and the way was
so rough from the rush of the wind and the heavy clouds floating by
that the little machine was tossed about like a piece of paper. Several
times I thought I was going to be blown completely over. Occasionally,
without any warning, I would be lifted a sheer hundred feet in the
air. Then later I would be dropped that distance, and often more. I
was perspiring freely, although it was a very cold day. It was a race
against the weather to reach my destination in time.

One cannot see in a snowstorm, and I felt that if the fleecy squall
struck me before I sighted the aerodrome I would have to land in a
ploughed field, and to do this in such a gale would be a very ticklish
proposition. Added to all this, I was flying a machine of a type I had
never handled before, and naturally it was a bit strange to me. Nearer
and nearer the big cloud came. But I was racing for home at top speed.
About half a mile from the haven I sought, the storm struck me. The
moment before the snow deluge came, however, I had recognized the road
that led to the aerodrome, and coming down to 50 feet, where I could
just make it out, I flew wildly on, praying all the time that the snow
striking my engine would not cause it to stop. Then the awful thought
came to me that perhaps I was on the wrong road. Then, even more
suddenly than it had come, the snow stopped--the storm had swept right
over me. There, just ahead of me, I saw the tents and hangars and the
flying pennant of the aerodrome--home. This was my first experience in
flying through snow, and I did not care for another.

A few days after my unsuccessful experience with the red Richtofen
scouts, I got my just revenge and a little more back from the Huns. My
Major had been told to have some photographs taken of a certain point
behind the German lines, and by special permission he was given the
privilege of taking them himself. The point to be photographed was
about seven miles in German territory, and in order to make a success
of the snapshotting it would be necessary to have a strong escort. The
Major offered to go out and do the photographs on his own without an
escort, but the Colonel would not hear of it, and so it was arranged
that an offensive patrol would go out at 9 o’clock in the morning, meet
the Major at a given point, and escort him over the ground he wished to
cover.

My patrol was the one working at the time, and I was the leader. At
9.30 we were to meet, just east of Arras, at 6,000 feet. The rendezvous
came off like clockwork. I brought the patrol to the spot at 9.28, and
two minutes later we spied a single Nieuport coming toward us. I fired
a red signal light and the Nieuport answered. It was the Major. I then
climbed slightly and led the patrol along about 1,000 feet above the
Nieuport in order to protect the Major and at the same time keep high
enough to avoid too much danger from anti-aircraft fire. We got to
the area to be photographed without any other excitement than a very
heavy greeting from the “Archies.” There were a number of big white
clouds floating around about 6,000 feet, and these made it difficult
for the guns to shoot at us. But they also made it difficult for the
Major to get his photographs. We went around and around in circles for
what seemed an eternity. During one of these sweeping turns I suddenly
saw four enemy scouts climbing between two clouds and some distance
off. I knew they would see us soon, so it occurred to me it would be
a brilliant idea to let the enemy think there was only one British
machine on the job. Under these circumstances I knew they would be sure
to attack, and then the rest of us could swoop down and surprise them.
I had no intention of letting the Major in for any unnecessary risks,
but it seemed such a rare chance, I could not resist it.

I led the patrol about 2,000 feet higher up and there we waited.
The enemy scouts did not see us at all, but they did see the Major.
And they made for him. The first the Major knew of their approach,
however, was when they were about 200 yards away, and one of
them, somewhat prematurely, opened fire. His thoughts--he told me
afterward--immediately flew to the patrol, and he glanced over his
shoulder to see where we were. But we had vanished. He then wondered
how much money he had in his pockets, as he did not doubt that the
four Huns, surprising him as they had, would surely get him. Despite
these gloomy and somewhat mercenary thoughts, the Major was fighting
for his life. First he turned the nose of his machine directly toward
the enemy, poured a burst of bullets toward a German at his right; then
turned to the left, as the second machine approached in that direction,
and let him have a taste of British gunfire as well. This frightened
the first two Huns off for a moment, and, in that time, I arrived down
on the scene with the rest of the patrol.

One of the Huns was firing at the Major’s machine as I flashed by
him, and I fired at a bare ten yards’ range. Then I passed on to the
second enemy machine, firing all the while, and eventually passing
within 5 feet of one of his wing-tips. Turning my machine as quickly
as I could, I was yet too late to catch the other two of the formation
of four. They had both dived away and escaped. I had hit the two that
first attacked the Major, however, and they were at the moment falling
completely out of control 1,000 or more feet below me, and finally went
through the clouds, floundering helplessly in the air.

This little interruption ended, we all reassembled in our former
positions and went on with the photographing. This was finished in
about fifteen minutes, and, under a very heavy anti-aircraft fire,
we returned home. The episode of the four Huns was perhaps the most
successful bit of trapping I have ever seen, but it was many weeks
before the squadron got through teasing me for using our commander as
a decoy. I apologized to the Major, who agreed with me that the chance
was too good a one to miss.

“Don’t mind me,” he said; “carry on.”




CHAPTER X


Just to show there was no ill-feeling, the Major that afternoon
proposed some excitement of an entirely different sort. There was no
patrol marked down for us, so the Major took another pilot and myself
out on a sort of Cook’s tour. We called it “seeing the war.” We all
piled into an automobile, drove through poor old shell-torn Arras,
which was fairly stiff with troops moving up toward the front and with
relieved divisions that were coming out of the line for hard-earned
rest. Occasionally there was the screech of a “Whistling Percy”
overhead--a shell from a long-range 16-inch naval gun some miles beyond
the German lines. It was vastly different from flying, this motoring
through Arras, threading your way tediously in and out of the marching
troops and the interminable traffic of offensive warfare.

Finally, we passed the railway-station, which had long been a favourite
target for the German gunners, but still showed some semblance of its
former utility; turned “Dead Man’s Corner” into the road for Cambrai,
proceeded over what had once been our front line, then over the old
No Man’s Land, and finally came to a halt some miles beyond the city.
There we left the car behind the crest of a hill, and out of direct
observation from the enemy trenches, which were not very far away. We
were very bold, we three musketeers of the upper air, as we set out
afoot, without a guide, to make our way toward a German machine that
had been brought down a few days before just inside our lines.

On the way we had to pass about thirty batteries of artillery, and as
no one said anything to us we presumed we were all right in strolling
along in front of them. The guns seemed harmless enough, sitting there
so cold and silent. However, before we had gone so very far, a man
crawled out of a hole in the ground and told us that if we were going
anywhere in particular we had better hurry, as a battle was due to
start in just five minutes. We questioned him about the “show,” and
then decided to walk on as fast as we could and reach the village of
Monchy, which sat a mass of ruins on a little hill, and was just 200
yards within our lines.

Monchy-le-Preux, to give the little town the full dignity of its
Artois name, is about five miles east of Arras, and was the final
fixed objective of the Easter drive. It is the highest bit of ground
between Arras and the German border. Around it swirled some of the most
desperate fighting of the entire war. It had been a pretty little place
up to a few days before, but the moment the Germans had been driven
from their defensive works about the village, many of them at the
point of the bayonet, the German artillery was turned on Monchy in a
perfect torrent of explosive shells. What had once been houses quickly
disappeared, or were dissolved into jagged ruins. Our infantry had
found three bed-ridden French civilians still living in Monchy when we
took it, but fortunately for them they had been passed back to one of
our hospitals before the Boche started his destructive bombardments.

It was just 3 o’clock when all the guns behind us opened fire over
our heads. I must admit that I was at least “nervous” for the next
half-hour. Shells were going over us by the thousand, and pretty soon
the Germans started their retaliatory fire. Many of the Boche shells
landed quite near to us. We could see them explode and throw up from
the ground great fountains of earth and débris, but we could not hear
them on account of the roar of our own artillery.

There we were, the three of us, in the midst of a battle that we
didn’t know a thing on earth about. My nervousness grew perceptibly as
I looked around and realized that in the whole of the country there
was not another soul walking about. Everyone was under cover, or dug
in somewhere, except us three. However, we decided there was no going
back; so we went on.

Our taking refuge in Monchy was surely a case of ignorance being bliss.
We crawled into the wrecked village, having passed, without knowing
it, another “Dead Man’s Corner” far deadlier than the one in Arras
itself. This Monchy corner had a speciality of its own--machine-gun
fire. The Germans used to rake it many times a day. Evidently they were
engaged in some other nefarious occupation as we walked blithely by the
place, on into the village, then down the main street, picking our way
carefully in a zigzag course among the débris. About this time another
good Samaritan hailed us. He came dashing out of a house and told us
to run for cover. Not knowing any cover of our own, we followed him to
his. He led us into a deep dugout the Germans had built during their
occupancy of the town. We told our guide and friend that we wanted to
move on very shortly, but he laughed and said we would have no choice
in the matter for the next few hours. He knew the habits of the Huns in
that particular locality. Promptly at 4 o’clock the Germans began their
daily bombardment. Our friend and guide, now turned philosopher, told
us the Germans had the dugout “registered” very accurately, and it
would be unsafe to move from it until the firing was over for the day.
We were shut up in this hole for an hour or more, when we decided to
take our chances and go home.

We were very much worried, in the meantime, that our car, resting on
the high-road, might have been hit. Everything pointed to the fact
that it was time for us to go. So, in a temporary lull, we crawled out
and made a dash through the village. We did not leave by the same way
we had come. We knew too much by this time of “Dead Man’s Corner.”
Once clear of Monchy we noticed that a large number of shells were
dropping in a sort of barrier about 400 yards in front of us. We
pressed on, nevertheless, in the hope that there would be a sufficient
lull in the firing to let us slip through the shell line. No lull
appeared imminent, however, so we turned away to the right to avoid
the particular spots that apparently had aroused the Germans’ ire. We
had not gone far when a huge shell dropped about 30 yards from us. It
knocked two of us clean off our feet and on our backs in the mud.
It was rude, we thought, to treat three unoffending airmen out for a
holiday like this, so we were more than ever anxious to get out of it
all. At last we arrived at some derelict tanks, left over from last
week’s battles, and there we found an ammunition column passing back
from the guns. We climbed aboard one of the empty limbers, glad of the
lift, and gladder still of the company of these imperturbable khaki
soldiers who were taking the events of the afternoon with that strange
spirit of boredom one so often finds up near the firing-lines.

We told the drivers we had left our car over the hill near a stranded
tank, and they assured us they were going in that very direction. So
we sat peacefully on the rattling limber for a mile or more. Then,
being quite certain we were going the wrong way, we inquired of the
ammunition-column men how far it was to their tank. They said it was
just ahead of us. We looked. There was a tank, quite all right, but it
was not _our_ tank. A little more explaining to the soldiers that were
now quite plentiful about us, and we were informed that our tank was
at least a mile and a half away. We had made a stupid mistake, but we
paid for it in the muddy walk we had back.

The car was perfectly safe when we got to it, and some time later we
returned to the aerodrome right as rain. We had picked up a lot of
souvenirs during our walk into Monchy and out again, and felt like
Cook’s tourists indeed when Tommies on the way would look at us with a
tolerant smile.

These were wonderfully interesting days to me. Late the next afternoon
I had the good fortune to be a spectator of the greatest fight in the
air I have ever seen. Thrilling fights are often witnessed from the
ground, but more of them take place at heights so misty that ground
observers know nothing of them, unless one or more of the combatants
should come tumbling down in a crash. More than often fights in the air
would go unobserved if it were not for the “Archie” shells breaking in
the sky. These shells play about friend and foe alike, but when you are
really intent upon an air duel the “Archies” make no impression upon
you whatever.

It was my privilege this day to see the spectacular fight from my
machine. I had been idling along in the afternoon breeze, flying all
alone, when I saw in the distance a great number of machines, whirling,
spinning, and rolling in a great aerial mêlée. I made toward them as
fast as I could go, and as I approached watched the fight carefully.
It was very hard to tell for a time which machines were ours and which
were the Huns’. Coming nearer it was easier, for then the Huns could be
distinguished by the brilliant colouring of many of their machines.

Hunting the Huns had taken on a new interest at this time because
suddenly their machines had appeared painted in the most grotesque
fashion. It was as if they had suddenly got an idea from the old
Chinese custom of painting and adorning warriors so as to frighten
the enemy. We learned afterward that it was just a case of the spring
fancies of the German airmen running riot with livid colour-effects. We
wanted to paint our machines, too, but our budding notions were frowned
upon by the higher officers of the Corps. But every day our pilots
were bringing home fresh stories of the fantastic German creations
they had encountered in the skies. Some of them were real harlequins
of the air, outrivalling the gayest feathered birds that had winged
their way north with the spring. The scarlet machines of Baron von
Richtofen’s crack squadron, sometimes called the “circus,” heralded
the new order of things. Then it was noticed that some of the enemy
craft were painted with great rings about their bodies. Later, nothing
was too gaudy for the Huns. There were machines with green planes and
yellow noses; silver planes with gold noses; khaki-coloured bodies with
greenish grey planes; red bodies with green wings; light blue bodies
and red wings; every combination the Teutonic brain could conjure up.
One of the most fantastic we had met had a scarlet body, a brown tail,
reddish brown planes, the enemy markings being white crosses on a
bright green background. Some people thought the Germans had taken on
these strange hues as a bit of spring camouflage; but they were just as
visible or even more so in the startling colours they wore, and we put
it down simply to the individual fancies of the enemy pilots.

The battle seemed to be at about evens, when suddenly I saw a German
machine, brightly coloured, fall out of the mêlée, turning over and
over like a dead leaf falling from a tree late in autumn. I watched it
closely for what seemed an awful length of time, but finally it crashed
a complete wreck. Turning my eyes to the fight again, I saw one of our
own machines fall out of control. Half-way between the scrimmage and
the ground I thought it was coming into control again, but it turned
into another dive and crashed near the fallen Hun. A moment later a
second German machine came tumbling out of the fight. Eaten up with
anxiety to get into the fight myself, I could not help having a feeling
akin to awe as I watched the thrilling struggle. A mass of about twelve
machines was moving around and around in a perfect whirlwind, and as I
approached I could see our smoking bullets and the flaming missiles of
the Huns darting in all directions.

Just as I reached the scene, the fight, unfortunately for me, broke up,
and my participation in it was limited to a short chase and a few shots
after the fleeing Germans.

Balloon attacks now came into fashion again, and for a short time we
were told to attack them every day. In my case most of these attacks
were unsuccessful. One day I crossed after a balloon only 2,000 feet
up. Although I flew as fast as I could to reach the “sausage,” it had
been hauled down before I got to it. Despite this, I flew low and
attacked the gasbag, but with no apparent results. The balloon still
sat there peacefully on the ground. Some enemy machines were in the
distance attacking one of the men of my squadron who was after another
“sausage,” and I flew to his assistance and managed to frighten them
off. I then returned to the balloon, had another go at it--but again no
result. It was discouraging work.

That day, out of three of us who crossed to attack the balloons, one
man was lost. His experience was rather a bitter one, but he fought
death under such a heavy handicap and with such bravery that his
story is worthy of relation as one of the traditions of the Royal
Flying Service. It was his first attack on the balloons, and he crossed
the lines with me. We separated when about half a mile over. When he
dived after his balloons, two Hun machines got on his tail, and with
their first burst of fire managed to hit both of his legs, breaking
one. A second afterwards a shot went through his petrol tank, and the
inflammable liquid poured over his helpless legs. But, wounded as he
was, he fought back at the Germans and managed to get back over our
lines. The two Germans, realizing he was badly hit, kept after him, and
with another burst of fire shot away all his controls and at the same
time set fire to the machine. It dived to the earth a flaming torch,
and crashed. Some brave Tommies who were near rushed frantically into
the blazing wreckage, and pulled the unfortunate pilot out. He was
taken to a hospital, where we found him, badly burned, one leg and one
arm broken, and several bullet wounds in his body.

For two weeks he improved steadily, and we all had high hopes of his
recovery. Then the doctors found it necessary to amputate his broken
leg, and two days later the poor lad died. He had been in France but a
few weeks.

“I came half-way round the world from Australia to fight the Hun,” he
told one of our men in hospital. “I served through the campaign at
Gallipoli as a Tommy, and at last I got where I longed to be--in the
Flying Corps. It seems hard to have it end like this so soon.”

       *       *       *       *       *

There was joy in flying these later day in April when a tardy spring
at last was beginning to assert itself. The hardness of the winter
was passing and the earth at times was glorious to see. I remember
one afternoon in particular when the whole world seemed beautiful. We
were doing a patrol at two miles up about six o’clock. Underneath us a
great battle was raging, and we could see it all in crisp clearness,
several lines of white smoke telling just where our barrage shells were
bursting. The ground all about the trenches and the battle-area was
dark brown, where it had been churned up by the never-ceasing fire of
the opposing artillery. On either side of the battle-zone could be seen
the fields, the setting sun shining on them with the softest of tinted
lights. Still farther back--on both sides--was the cultivated land. The
little farms stood out in varying geometric designs, with different
colours of soil and shades of green, according to what had been sown in
them and the state of the coming crops. There was no mist at all, and
one could see for miles and miles.

From Arras I could see the Channel, and it resembled more a river of
liquid gold than a sea. Across the Channel it was possible to make
out England and the Isle of Wight. The chalk cliffs of Dover formed a
white frame for one side of the splendid picture. Toward Germany one
could see a tremendous wooded country, a stretch of watered lowlands
beyond the trees, and the rest indistinct. To the south I could make
out a bit of the River Seine, while to the north lay the Belgian coast.
The marvellous beauty of it all made the war seem impossible. We flew
peacefully along for miles in the full enjoyment of it all, and I shall
always be glad we did not have a fight that evening. It would have
brought me back to stern reality with too sudden a jerk.

A few days later I was away from the beauties in life and after the
grossly hideous balloons again. Success rewarded one of my earnest
efforts. It happened one morning when we had been patrolling the air
just above the trenches. It was a very dull morning, the clouds being
under 3,000 feet. Well across the lines I could make out the portly
form of a German balloon sitting just under them. The sight of the
“sausage” filled me with one of those hot bursts of rage I had so often
in these days against everything German in the world. After the finish
of the patrol, I had my machine filled up with petrol, and, with a good
supply of special ammunition, started out on a voluntary expedition to
bring down that fat and self-satisfied balloon. Upon nearing the lines
I flew up into the clouds, having taken a careful compass bearing in
the exact direction of my intended victim. Flying slowly at a rate of
sixty miles an hour, I crept steadily forward, taking reckonings now
and then from the compass and my other flying-instruments. I figured
the balloon was six miles over the lines, and as I had climbed into
the clouds about one mile behind our own lines, I reckoned that seven
minutes should let me down just where I wanted to be. I popped out of
the clouds with every nerve tense, expecting to find the sausage just
beneath me. Instead, I found nothing, not even a familiar landmark. I
felt pretty sick at heart when I realized I had lost myself. My compass
must have been slightly out of bearing, or I had flown very badly.
At the moment I had no idea where I was. I flew in a small circle,
and then spied another balloon quite near me. The balloon had seen me
first, the “S.O.S.” had gone out, and it was being hauled down with
miraculous swiftness. I dived for the descending German as hard as I
could go, and managed to get within 50 yards while it was still 800
feet up. Opening fire, I skimmed just over the top of the balloon,
then turned to attack again, when, to my great joy, I saw the bag was
smoking. I had seen no one leap from the observer’s basket hanging
underneath, so I fired a short burst into it just to liven up anybody
who happened to be sitting there. The sausage was then smoking heavily,
so I flew south in the hope of finding some landmark that would tell me
the way home.

Suddenly another balloon loomed before me, and at the same time I
recognized by the ground that it was the “sausage” I had first set out
to attack. I fired the remainder of my ammunition at it at long range,
but had no effect so far as I could see. I then came down to 15 feet of
the ground and flew along a river-bank that I knew would lead me home.
I had found this low flying over enemy-land quite exhilarating, and
rather liked the sights I used to see.

During the next week I had three or four very unsatisfactory combats.
My work consisted mostly of sitting patiently over the lines, waiting
for an enemy to appear. Then, after it had put in an appearance, I
would carefully watch for an opportunity and attack, only to have the
Hun escape. I was mostly concerned with my old friends the enemy
two-seaters, especially the ones that would fly at low altitudes doing
artillery observation work. I would try to get behind a cloud, or
in one, and surprise them as they went by. I managed to pounce upon
several machines from ambush, but had no luck at all in the succeeding
combats. On such occasions I would return much disgusted to the
aerodrome and put in more time at the target.

I began to feel that my list of victims was not climbing as steadily
as I would have liked. Captain Ball was back from a winter rest in
England and was adding constantly to his already big score. I felt I
had to keep going if I was to be second to him. So I was over the enemy
lines from six to seven hours every day, praying for some easy victims
to appear. I had had some pretty hard fighting. Now I wanted to shoot
a “rabbit” or two. Several times while sitting over the lines I was
caught badly by anti-aircraft fire, and had to do a lot of dodging and
turning to avoid being badly hit by the singing shrapnel shells. As it
was, I frequently returned with scars, where bits of shell had pierced
my planes and fuselage.

One day I saw a two-seater flying calmly along about three miles high.
I started to climb up under him, and it seemed to me I was hours on the
way, for he had seen me and was climbing as well. Eventually I reached
his level, but we were then nearly four miles from the earth. The air
was so thin I found it difficult to get my breath. It was coming in
quick gasps and my heart was racing like mad. It is very difficult to
fly a single-seater at such altitudes, much more to fight in one. The
air is so rare that the small machines, with their minimum of plane
surface, have very little to rest upon. The propeller will not “bite”
into the thin atmosphere with very much of a pull. But despite all
this, I decided to have a go at the big German two-seater, and we did
a series of lazy manœuvres. I realized I was unable to put much energy
into the fighting, and the only shot I got at the Hun I missed! At the
height we had met, the Hun machine was faster than mine, so in a few
minutes he broke off the combat and escaped.

I spent half an hour under another enemy machine, trying to stalk him,
but he finally got away. During the time I was “hiding” under the
two-seater I was quite happy in the belief that he could not bring a
gun to bear on me. But when I landed I found several bullet-holes in
the machine close to my body. After that I kept a sharper look-out on
the fellows upstairs.

One day, after climbing slowly to 17,000 feet and still finding no
victims, I flew fifteen miles inside the German lines, hoping to catch
some unwary enemy aloft. At last, about half a mile beneath me, I saw
a lone scout. I carefully manœuvred to get between him and the sun,
for once there I knew he could not see me and I would have all the
advantage of a surprise attack. I was within 20 yards, and going about
130 miles an hour, when I opened fire. Not more than ten shots had sped
from my gun when the Hun went spinning down in a nose-dive, seemingly
out of control. I dived after him, firing steadily, and we had dropped
something like 3,000 feet when the enemy machine burst into flames.

During my dive I had seen a black speck in the distance which looked as
if it might be a Hun. So I climbed again and made in the direction of
the speck, hoping it would turn out to be an enemy machine. It did, and
I succeeded in getting in another surprise attack, but my shots hit no
vital spot and the German slid away in safety.

A few minutes later I saw a third Hun, and again I manœuvred for the
advantage of the sun position. But the pilot either saw me before I got
into the blinding rays, or else he saw the other machine diving away
and thought something was wrong, for he, too, dived steeply before I
could get within effective range.

However, I was very well pleased with the day’s work, for I had sent my
second machine down in flames. Such an incident has never failed to put
me in a good humour. It is so certain and such a satisfactory way of
destroying Huns.




CHAPTER XI


April 30th was a red-letter day for me. I celebrated it by having a
record number of fights in a given space of time. In one hour and
forty-five minutes I had nine separate scraps. This was during the
morning. Before we had tea that afternoon, the Major and I had a
set-to with four scarlet German scouts that was the most hair-raising
encounter I have ever been mixed up in.

This very pleasant fighting-day started when I led my patrol over the
lines, and dived so steeply after an enemy machine which suddenly
appeared beneath me that I nearly turned over. The remainder of the
patrol lost me completely. I kept putting the nose of my Nieuport down
until I got beyond the vertical point. I fell forward in my seat and
struck my head against the little wind-screen. I was going down so fast
I upset my aim completely, and allowed the Hun, by a quick manœuvre,
to escape me altogether. The patrol had disappeared, so I climbed up as
fast as I could to have a look around.

Five minutes later I saw two huge Huns directly over our lines. They
were easily mammoths of the air. I wanted to have a look at the
strangers, so started in their direction, keeping my own level, which
was a little beneath the big Germans. They grew rapidly in size as I
approached, and I took them to be some new type of two-seater. From
later experiences and diagrams I have seen, I think now they must have
been the three-seater Gothas--like the machines that later flew over
London so often, many of them coming to grief as the penalty of their
daring.

This was probably the first appearance of the Gothas over our lines. A
few days later I had another glimpse of two of them in the distance;
but that was the last I saw of the monstrous Germans. This day they
seemed rather keen for a fight, and one of them came down in a slow
spiral to get at me. I, at the same time, was trying to stay in the
“blind spot” just beneath him, and hoped eventually to get a steady
shot at some vital point. We must have made a ludicrous picture, little
me under the huge Hun. I felt like a mosquito chasing a wasp, but was
willing to take a chance.

While manœuvring with the first monster, the second one dived at me
from a slight angle, and seemed to open fire with a whole battery of
machine guns. I dived to gain a little more speed, then pulled my nose
straight up into the air and opened fire. When I had got off about
fifteen rounds, the gun jammed, and I had to dive quickly away to see
what was wrong. I found I could do nothing with it in the air; but my
aerodrome was only a few miles away, so I dived down to it, corrected
the jam, and was away again in a few minutes in search of more
excitement.

I was very peevish with myself for having missed a chance to bring down
one of the big new German machines, and was in a real fighting temper
as I recrossed the lines. I had not gone far on my way when I saw three
of the enemy about two miles away, doing artillery work. I dived for
the nearest one and opened fire. Then I had the somewhat stirring
sensation of seeing flaming bullets coming from all three of the Huns
at once in my direction. The odds were three to one against me, and
each enemy machine had two guns to my one, but suddenly they quit
firing, turned, and fled away. I went after them, but quickly saw the
game they were attempting to play. They were trying to lead me directly
under five scarlet Albatross scouts.

These scarlet machines, as I have explained before, all belonged to
von Richtofen’s squadron. I saw them just in time to turn away. I drew
off about a mile, then easily outclimbed my brilliant red rivals.
Having gained the advantage of position, I decided to have a go at the
crack German flyers. I dived toward them with my gun rattling, but
just before reaching their level I pulled the machine up and “zoomed”
straight up in the air, ascending for a short distance with the speed
of a rocket. Then I would turn and dive and open fire again, repeating
the performance several times. The Huns evidently had expected me
to dive right through them, but my tactics took them by surprise and
they began to show nervousness. After the third “zoom” and dive, the
formation broke up and scattered.

Then I turned around to look for the treacherous two-seaters who had
sought to lead me into a veritable death-trap. I had searched several
minutes before I picked them out of the sky, and I can still remember
the thrill of joy with which I hailed them. It had seemed such a rotten
trick, when they were three to one, not even to show fight, but simply
try to trick me. I felt I must have vengeance, and went after them with
the firm conviction that this time something was going to happen. I got
into position where they would pass in front of me, and dived at the
second Hun. His observer was firing at me, and pretty soon the other
two Huns chimed in. Add to this staccato chorus the healthy rattle of
my own gun, and you may gain some idea of the din we were making in
mid-air. My first twenty shots silenced the observer in the machine
I was attacking, and as I passed over it, it suddenly slipped to one
side, then stood on its nose, and fell. I did not have time to watch
this machine down, but turned to attack the third Hun in the line. He
had seen his comrade’s fate, however, and, losing heart, had begun
to dive away. I poured fifty rounds after him, then let him go. The
leading machine had now disappeared, so I was left free to dive down
and see what had happened to the Hun who had fallen out of the fight.
He crashed in the most satisfactory manner. I turned and flew south,
feeling very much better.

But I was not idle long. The five scarlet scouts had gotten together
again and were approaching our lines farther south with the evident
intention of attacking isolated British artillery machines. This
particular squadron had made a habit of sneaking across our lines
during the spring, and its leader had become known among our infantry
as the “Little Red Devil,” and one still hears him spoken of by the
people who were in the trenches at that time. We had often tried
to catch him on one of these expeditions, but he and his scarlet
followers always chose a moment when our fighting patrols were engaged
on another sector of the front. Then, dashing across the lines, the red
Albatrosses would shoot down one of our older machines which we were
employing then on observation work.

This morning I had an extra feeling of bitterness toward the Richtofens
for their mean attempt to trick, and I went after them again with a
feeling of exalted strength. I was above them as before, and, after
one dive, they turned away east and gave up their idea of setting upon
our artillery workers. I considered it unwise to go down and actually
mix in the middle of them, as they were all good men. So I contented
myself with harassing them from above, as I had done in the previous
fight with the quintet that morning. They were apparently much annoyed
at this, and kept steadily on their way east. I followed for quite a
distance, and then sat over them as one by one they all went down and
landed.

On the way home I had a skirmish with two German artillery machines,
but we did not get within very close range of each other and nothing
happened. They were frightened a bit, none the less, and sped away.
In a little while, however, they plucked up courage and came back to
resume their work of spotting for the German guns. This time I tried
going at them from the front, and it proved exciting, to say the
least. I approached the leading Hun of the pair head on, opening fire
when about 200 yards away. He also opened fire about the same time.
We drew nearer and nearer together, both firing as fast and direct as
we could. I could see the Hun bullets going about 3 feet to one side
of me, passing between my upper and lower planes. My own were doing
better work, and several times it seemed certain that some of them were
hitting the front of the enemy machine. On we came, each doing over
a hundred miles an hour, which would have meant a colliding impact
of more than two hundred miles an hour. With big engines in front of
us for protection, we were taking the risks of each other’s bullets.
Thirty yards away we were both holding to our course, and then, much
to my relief, be it confessed, the Hun dived, and I thought I had hit
him. I turned quickly, but in doing so lost sight of him completely.
Then a second later I saw him, some distance away, going down in a
slight glide, evidently quite under control, but I think badly hit. The
other machine followed him down and neither of them returned. I had
very little ammunition left, but stayed on the lines another fifteen
minutes hoping for one more fight.

It came when I sighted one of my favourites--an enemy two-seater--at
work. I got directly above him, then dived vertically, reserving my
fire until I was very close. The enemy observer had his gun trained up
at me, and the bullets were streaming past as I came down. I missed him
on my dive, so shot by his tail, then “zoomed” up underneath and opened
fire from the “blind spot” there.

I don’t know what was the matter with my shooting this morning, for,
with the exception of the machine I hit from the side, it seemed to
have become a habit with my enemies to dive away from me and escape.
I did not seem to be able to knock them out of control. This one, like
the others, dived steeply, and though I followed and fired all of my
remaining bullets after him, he continued in his long straight dive and
landed safely in the corner of a field near the city of Lens. Two or
three “Archie” batteries took “bites” at me as I crossed the lines for
luncheon.

Then came my thrilling adventure of the afternoon. The many experiences
of the morning had put me in good humour for fighting, and immediately
the midday meal was finished, I was up in the air again, with my
squadron commander, to see if there were any Huns about looking for a
bit of trouble. We patrolled along the lines for twenty minutes, but
saw nothing in that time. Then, as I was leading, I headed further
into enemy territory, and presently, to the south of us, we saw five
Albatross scouts. We went after them, but before we had come within
firing distance, we discovered four red Albatrosses just to our right.
This latter quartette, I believe, was made up of Baron von Richtofen
and three of his best men.

However, although we knew who they were, we had been searching for
a fight, and were feeling rather bored with doing nothing, so after
the four we went. The Major reached them first and opened fire on the
rear machine from behind. Immediately the leader of the scouts did a
lightning turn and came back at the Major, firing at him and passing
within two or three feet of his machine. In my turn I opened fire on
the Baron, and in another half-moment found myself in the midst of what
seemed to be a stampede of bloodthirsty animals. Everywhere I turned
smoking bullets were jumping at me, and although I got in two or three
good bursts at the Baron’s “red devil,” I was rather bewildered for two
or three minutes, as I could not see what was happening to the Major
and was not at all certain as to what was going to happen to me.

It was a decided difference from the fighting of the morning. The
Germans seemed to be out to avenge their losses, and certainly were in
fighting trim. Around we went in cyclonic circles for several minutes,
here a flash of the Hun machines, then a flash of silver as my squadron
commander would whizz by. All the time I would be in the same mix-up
myself, every now and then finding a red machine in front of me and
getting in a round or two of quick shots. I was glad the Germans were
scarlet and we were silver. There was no need to hesitate about firing
when the right colour flitted by your nose. It was a lightning fight,
and I have never been in anything just like it. Firing one moment,
you would have to concentrate all your mind and muscle the next in
doing a quick turn to avoid a collision. Once my gun jammed, and while
manœuvring to the utmost of my ability to escape the direct fire of one
of the ravenous Germans, I had to “fuss” with the weapon until I got
it right again. I had just got going again when von Richtofen flashed
by me and I let him have a short burst. As I did so, I saw up above me
four more machines coming down to join in the fight. Being far inside
the German lines, I at once decided they were additional Huns, so I
“zoomed” up out of the fight to be free for a moment and have a look
around. The moment I did this I saw the approaching machines were
tri-planes, belonging to one of our naval squadrons, and they were
coming for all they were worth to help us against the Albatrosses. The
latter, however, had had enough of the fight by now, and at the moment
I “zoomed” they dived and flew away toward the earth. I did not know
this until I looked down to where the fight should still have been in
progress. There was nothing to be seen. Everybody had disappeared,
including the Major. It was a sad moment for me, for I felt I had
surely lost him this time. After circling over the spot for five
minutes or more and exchanging signals with the tri-planes, I started
for home with a heavy heart.

On the way I saw another machine approaching me, and got into fighting
position in the event it should prove hostile. As we drew nearer
together I recognized it as another Nieuport, and then, to my great
joy, I realized it was the Major. He had flown west at top speed as
soon as he saw the fight was over and I was not to be seen. He was
afraid I had followed the Huns down to the ground in my excitement, and
was very anxious as to what had happened to me. Upon recognizing each
other we waved our hands in the air, then came close enough together to
exchange broad grins. We flew side by side to the aerodrome and landed.
I found my machine had been very badly shot about, one group of seven
bullets having passed within an inch of me in one place. It had been a
close shave, but a wonderful, soul-stirring fight.




CHAPTER XII


The first few days in May we spent escorting machines taking
photographs. It was rather exciting work, for several times we went
very long distances into Hunland and stayed over there for hours. It
was also very nerve-racking work, as you listen constantly for the
least break in the smooth running of your motor, knowing that if it
fails you are too far from home ever to get there by gliding. At such
times my thoughts always reverted to the ignominy one would feel in
helplessly landing among the Germans and saying “Kamerad!” Far better
to die in a fight, or even yield up the ghost to a despised “Archie,”
than tamely submit to being taken prisoner. Then, too, all the time you
are loafing about taking snapshots from the air, the anti-aircraft fire
gets very fierce.

On one occasion we went over to photograph an aerodrome in the
vicinity of Douai, a city you can see from the top of Vimy Ridge on any
clear day. We had with us in all about twenty machines, and were a very
formidable party indeed. As luck would have it, we spied two Germans.
With two or three other of our fighting pilots, I quickly dodged to
one side to try to engage the Huns before they could see the whole
crowd of us and be frightened away. But, no luck! They made off the
minute we turned our noses in their direction. We proceeded over Douai,
and in turning around once or twice, the machine actually taking the
photographs was lost. I mean by lost that it got mixed up with the rest
of us and it was practically impossible in that number of machines to
pick it out again. The result was we went around and around in circles
for half an hour trying to find out where it had gone. It was like
an old-fashioned game of “Button, button, who’s got the button?” and
was so amusing I had to laugh. Around and around we went. The strain
began to get on the nerves, of course, as every minute seemed to be an
hour, and we all felt we should be getting away from there as soon as
possible. But when you are in great danger, the smallest things make a
keen appeal to your sense of humour, and the idea of the whole twenty
of us playing such a foolish game in such a dangerous spot could not
help having its funny side. Several of the others, on landing, told me
they had felt the same way about it, and had had many good laughs.

Needless to say, the anti-aircraft guns under us were having the time
of their unprincipled lives. They never had had such a huge bunch of
good targets to shoot at, so they blazed into the midst of us with
all the “hate” they had. But we had the luck, and hardly a machine
was touched. We were flying at 13,000 feet, and that seemed lucky in
itself. Many shells broke with loud bangs just under us and over us,
but none at 13,000 feet. We were annoyed but not worried.

Finally, somebody got fed up with all this running around in aerial
circles, and started toward home. We had all been waiting for something
like that to happen, and every one of us streaked off in the leader’s
wake. We got back safely enough, but, to add to the fiasco of the
expedition, it turned out that the man who was taking the photographs
made some awful error and snapped the wrong places altogether. For a
period of fully half an hour he had to listen patiently and quietly
while the rest of us tried to think up a punishment to fit the crime.
Later that afternoon we had to eat all our words, for while we were
lunching and discussing the morning’s work, the photographer pilot,
all alone and without further orders, had quietly gone over the lines,
taken the proper pictures, and returned safely with them. It was a
brave thing to do, and we admired him for it.

The next day was a very successful one for me. I had several fights,
and for one was later awarded the “Distinguished Service Order”--my
second decoration. We had been taking photographs again, with another
large escort, as on the day before, and were returning homeward when
an enemy single-seater approached slightly below us. I went down and
attacked him, and we fought for quite a while, exchanging shots now
and then, with no result other than the escape of the enemy. The other
machines had continued on their way and were nowhere to be seen when
I climbed away from my unsuccessful duel. Being left alone, and of no
further use to the photographers, I felt I might as well look around a
bit. My search for enemy machines soon was rewarded. I came upon five
of them doing artillery observation work. They were all two-seaters,
and consequently my legitimate prey. The Huns were nicely arranged
in two parties, one of two and the other of three. I decided that as
the party of three was nearer, I would tackle it first. Remembering
my former experience in diving into three enemy artillery machines, I
was wary of a trap, but went after the bunch with a firm determination
I would not make a “hash” of it. The trio made away as I approached.
Furious at the thought that they should escape scot-free, I forgot
my caution and went after them pell-mell. I didn’t care at the time
whether there were any hostile fighting machines above me or not. I
wanted to teach the cowardly two-seaters a justly deserved lesson.
Catching up to within 200 yards of the rear one, I saw that all three
were firing at me from their back guns. I was so much faster than the
Huns I could zigzag on my course--wondering as I did so if I resembled
an ocean greyhound dodging a submarine! Finally, I closed to within 20
yards of the fleeing Germans and let go at them. The rear machine was
my easiest target. Soon I saw my bullets going into the observer’s body
and I feel sure some of them must have passed on from him to the pilot
who was seated directly in front. The observer’s face was white as a
sheet, and, out of pure terror, I think, he had ceased to fire at me.
The pilot now was gazing back over his shoulder and was too frightened
to manœuvre his machine. He had turned into a sort of human rabbit, and
was concerned only with running for his life. Fifteen rounds from my
gun sufficed for that machine. Down it tumbled, a stricken and dying
thing.

As the other two machines were some distance off, I did a circle to
see the falling Hun crash. When I did this, the other two suddenly
returned underneath me and opened fire from a spot where I could not
see them, one coming within a hundred yards. Almost at the same moment
that they attacked, four enemy scouts came diving out of the clouds,
two of them firing as they dived at me. I turned on the nearer of the
two-seaters and, firing forty rounds at him from the side, managed
to shoot him down. I then went straight at the four scouts, opening
fire on one that was coming straight head-on. He swerved slightly at
the last, and flashed by me. I ducked away into a cloud to consider
the situation for a moment, but in the mist, in my excitement, I lost
control of my machine and fell in a spinning nose-dive for quite a
distance. When I flattened out at last, the enemy scouts had flown
away, but there beneath me, still slowly spinning to his fate, was
my second two-seater. Three of the missing scouts now appeared some
distance above me. I decided it was not a very healthy spot, and made
away for home, perfectly content with having added two more Hun scalps
to my score.

[Illustration:

                                            Canadian Official Photograph

“Archie” at work.]

It was great flying-weather, and next day I had four fights in
forty-five minutes. I could have had more, but had to return for want
of fuel and ammunition. First of all, I spotted two of my favourite
two-seaters doing their daily observations, some three miles on the
German side of the lines. I was very careful now about the way I
approached these people, and went at it in a more or less scientific
manner. Climbing to just under the top of a cloud, where I was more
or less invisible, I watched them carefully for five whole minutes as
they went back and forth on their beat, and I carefully figured out
just where I could catch them when they were nearest our lines. I also
kept a very close eye on some enemy fighting patrols lurking in the
distance. Picking a moment when they were well away, I flew over some
more sheltering clouds, then came down and dashed at the two Huns. I
managed to get twenty rounds into the nearer one, and pretty good shots
they were, too, but nothing seemed to happen. At least nothing happened
to the Hun, but something went wrong with my engine, and fearing it
would fail me altogether, I broke off the fight and made for home.

Just after I made our lines, the engine began running perfectly,
so I went back for my two-seaters. Only one of them remained. This
convinced me that the other machine had been hit badly enough to make
him descend. The one left behind was very wary, and I saw I could not
get within two miles of him. So I gave him up as a bad job, and flew
up and down the lines until I discovered another pair of two-seaters.
These also proved to be shy and I chased them well back into their
own country. It is discouraging work, and very aggravating, to chase
machines that will not fight. For my part, I find that I get in a
tremendous temper and am very apt to run unnecessary risks when I meet
another enemy. It is a case of anything to relieve one’s feelings.

The last twenty minutes of the three-quarters of an hour were spent
first in stalking an enemy scout, that also escaped; then the two
machines I had previously attacked in my second fight, some minutes
before. But again I was unable to get within close range of them,
although I finally flew above and got between them and their own
aerodrome. I dashed at the two head-on, but finished my ammunition
before I had done any damage.

In the afternoon I had three more fights, the first one being very
unsuccessful from my point of view, but certainly a very exciting
affair. I was out with my own patrol, six machines strong, and we
had not been on the lines very long before we met up with a lone Hun
two-seater. From a distance he looked like one of the shy fellows I had
been chasing most of the morning, and I led the patrol straight at him,
quite confident in my own mind that he was going to be an easy victim.
I was convinced of this when at first he appeared inclined to run
away. I opened fire at him at 200 yards, whereupon a marvellous thing
happened. The German pilot turned in a flash and came head-on into the
six of us, opening fire with two guns. Much to our amazement, he flew
right through the centre of our formation. The unexpected audacity of
the Hun caught us entirely off our guard. It was a bad bit of work for
us to let him go right through us, and we were all deeply disgusted.
We turned on the fellow with all the fury there was in us, but he
was quite ready for us. We seemed to be fighting very badly, and the
honours were not coming our way. The fight lasted about three minutes,
and during that time I, for one, was caught badly by the German. While
trying to correct a stoppage in my gun, he turned on me and got in a
very fierce burst of fire, some of the bullets passing close to my
body. He also got one of the others a few seconds later trying to do
the same thing, and then, to cap the climax, he turned away, broke off
the combat, and escaped as free as a bird, with probably only a few
bullet-holes in his machine. He must have been a very fine pilot and
a very brave man, for he put up a wonderful fight, and I have not the
slightest hesitation in saying he probably enjoyed it much more than we
did.

A little later I was flying around when I saw dead beneath me a
green-and-black machine, with huge black crosses painted on it. It
was one of the new type of enemy scouts, and, as I later discovered,
had a very good man piloting it. I dived at him, but he did a great
turn, climbing at the same time, and by a clever manœuvre managed to
get directly behind me. I had a hard time getting rid of him, as he had
me in a very awkward position, and every second for several minutes I
expected that one of his bullets which were passing close by me would
find its mark.

But even in a perilous time like this my sense of humour would out, and
I thought of a verse from “The Lobster Quadrille”:

      “Won’t you walk a little faster?”
        Said a whiting to a snail;
      “There’s a porpoise close behind me,
        And he’s treading on my tail!”

I did not like that Hun porpoise at all, and he was treading on my tail
like the very shadow of Death itself. However, he made a slight mistake
on one of our turns, and a few seconds later I got into a position
where the fight began anew on rather different terms. For several
minutes we flew around in a circle, both getting in occasional bursts
of fire. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some scarlet German machines
approaching, so I snatched at an opportunity that suddenly appeared and
escaped.

A few minutes later, on returning to that spot, I saw that the Hun
scouts had found another one of our machines by itself, and were
all attacking it. So I came down from above and created a momentary
diversion by opening fire with my last ten rounds, and thus gave the
British machine a chance to escape. Our pilot slid speedily out of the
fray.

We were up late that night attending a show given for the squadron by a
travelling troupe of concert people from the Army Service Corps. It was
past midnight when I got to bed, and I was up again at four, having an
early-morning job on hand. I will never forget the orderly who used to
wake me in those days. He positively enjoyed it.

After a cup of hot tea and a biscuit, four of us left the ground
shortly after five. The sun in the early mornings, shining in such
direct rays from the east, makes it practically impossible to see
in that direction, so that these dawn adventures were not much of a
pleasure. It meant that danger from surprise was very great, for the
Huns, coming from the east with the sun at their back, could see us
when we couldn’t see them. At any rate, one doesn’t feel one’s best at
dawn, especially when one has had only four hours’ sleep. This was the
case on this bright May morning, and to make matters worse there was
quite a ground mist. The sun, reflecting on this, made seeing in any
direction very difficult.

We had been doing a patrol up and down the line for an hour and a
quarter, at a very high altitude where it was cruelly cold, so I
decided to lead the patrol down lower. There did not seem to be an
enemy in the air, and for a moment I think my vigilance was relaxed.
I had begun to dream a bit, when suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire
awakened me to the fact that there was a war on. Not even taking time
to look from whence it all came, I pulled my machine up and turned
it like lightning, looking over my shoulder during the whirl. This
instinctive manœuvre saved my life. An enemy machine, painted a
beautiful silver, was coming vertically down at me firing. He just
missed me with his bullets, and, “zooming” up again, he made a second
dive. This time I pulled my machine back, and with my nose to the sky,
I fired at the Hun as he came down. I then flew sidewise and evaded
him that way. It had been a clear case of surprise so far as I was
concerned, and I had a very narrow squeak from disaster.

Altogether, there were five Huns in the attacking force, against the
four of us. We were flying in diamond formation, and the pilot bringing
up our rear had seen the Huns just before the attack, but not in time
to warn us. Counting the five enemy pilots, he wondered which one
of us was going to be attacked by two Huns instead of one? The next
moment he saw the Germans split up as they dived at us, and he was the
unfortunate one to draw the two. It was a lucky thing for the rest of
us, taken wholly by surprise, that we each had but a single machine to
deal with. Our rear-guard was better prepared, and although we all had
our troubles, we managed to clear away without injury.

Next day we had rather a dramatic touch. After the morning’s work we
were sitting at luncheon and the second course had just been served,
when a telephone message came through that two enemy machines were
at work on the lines. They were directing artillery fire of several
hostile batteries on some of our important points. The request came
through from the front line to send somebody out at once and drive the
undesirables away. Talk about Wellington at the battle of Waterloo!
This had that beaten in every way. We felt like a lot of firemen, and
in a very few minutes after we got the message another pilot and I were
out over the trenches. Five minutes later we were engaged in deadly
combat with the two enemy machines. They had seen us as we approached.
We were hungry and were anxious to get back to our muttons. So there
was no shilly-shallying about the fight--it was a case of going in
and finishing it in the shortest possible order. So the two of us
waded in side by side, opening fire on the rear enemy. With our first
burst of fire, it dived on its nose, did a couple of turns as it fell,
and finally crashed into a field beside the river. We then turned our
attention to Hun No. 2, but he was a mile away by this time and winging
it for home as fast as ever he could. We were willing to waste ten
minutes more away from the festive board to have a go at him, but he
showed no sign of returning, and we streaked home to our interrupted
meal. It had all been very short and sweet, and most successful.

I had now come to the conclusion that to be successful in fighting in
the air, two things were required above all others. One was accuracy in
shooting, and the second was to use one’s head and take no unnecessary
risks. Consequently my plans from about this time forward were to
take a minimum of risks, and whenever things looked at all doubtful
or bad, immediately to make my escape and wait patiently for another
opportunity. The patience part in carrying out this campaign was
the hardest, but I managed to control myself, and found it much more
effective than constantly blundering into danger like a bull in a
china-shop.

For instance, one day I saw a single enemy scout flying at a tremendous
altitude. I climbed up carefully some distance from him, and got
between him and the sun; then, waiting until he was heading in exactly
the opposite direction, I came down with tremendous speed and managed
to slip underneath him without even being seen. I could make out each
mark on the bottom of his machine as I crept closer and closer. My gun
was all ready, but I withheld its fire until I came to the range I
wanted--inside of 20 yards. It was rather delicate work flying so close
under the swift Hun, but he had no idea that I was in existence, much
less sitting right below him. I carefully picked out the exact spot
where I knew the pilot was sitting, took careful aim, and fired. Twenty
tracer bullets went into that spot. The machine immediately lurched to
one side and fell.

I had quickly to skid my machine to one side to avoid being hit by the
falling Hun. After he had passed me a little way, I saw him smoking.
Then he burst into flames. That pilot never knew what happened to him.
Death came to him from nowhere.

Shortly after this, learning by accident that a patrol from another
squadron was going across to take photographs, I offered to accompany
them as escort, and was accepted. The anti-aircraft fire that day was
really terrible. I flew well above the photographers and was more
or less out of reach of the “Archies,” but the other machines were
getting it hammer and tongs. All got through the barrage, however, and
we proceeded to get our pictures. Then we headed straight for home.
About this time I noticed several of the “little red devils” flying
about underneath us, so I watched them carefully, suspecting they were
climbing to attack some of the photography machines. I also began to
climb so as to be practically out of sight in the blue sky, and I
managed to fool them altogether. Two of the devils soon came at one
of our machines, and at the same time I dived into them. One of the
pair turned away, but I managed to get in a good shot at the second
one at 30 yards. He immediately flew out of control, and I watched him
falling for what seemed to be a long time. I was now down to the level
of the photographers and remained with them for the rest of the trip.
The “Archies” gave us another hot greeting as we recrossed the lines. I
kept dodging about as quickly as I could, for the fire was too close to
be pleasant. Shells were bursting everywhere. There was no use turning
to the right, for you would stick your nose into two or three exploding
shells in that direction. And there was no use turning to the left, for
three or four would be bursting there. They seemed to fill every nook
and corner of the air. I was greatly tempted to put my engine full out
and leave the patrol to get home by itself, but I did not. I stuck with
the heavier machines, dodging around them like a young sparrow among a
lot of crows.

The photographic machines were badly hit, and three of them had been
so damaged they could not be used again. My own machine was hit in
several places, and I never looked back upon that volunteer excursion
as one of the pleasant experiences in my young life. This was the last
fighting I had for two weeks, as the next day I went to England on two
weeks’ leave.




CHAPTER XIII


When I left for my leave to England, I was not very keen on going.
The excitement of the chase had a tight hold on my heart-strings,
and I felt that the only thing I wanted was to stay right at it and
fight and fight and fight in the air. I don’t think I was ever happier
in my life. It seemed that I had found the one thing I loved above
all others. To me it was not a business or a profession, but just
a wonderful game. To bring down a machine did not seem to me to be
killing a man; it was more as if I was just destroying a mechanical
target, with no human being in it. Once or twice the idea that a live
man had been piloting the machine would occur and recur to me, and it
would worry me a bit. My sleep would be spoiled perhaps for a night. I
did not relish the idea even of killing Germans, yet, when in a combat
in the air, it seemed more like any other kind of sport, and to shoot
down a machine was very much the same as if one were shooting down clay
pigeons. One had the great satisfaction of feeling that he had hit the
target and brought it down; that one was victorious again.

When I reached England, however, I found I was in a very nervous
condition. I could not be still. After a week there, in which I enjoyed
myself tremendously, I found I was getting quieter, and realized that
my leave was probably doing me a world of good. My last week of leave I
enjoyed without stint, every minute seeming better than the one before.
To make it still more ideal, I did not have the usual dread of going
back to France--I was looking forward to it. I realized that this short
rest had quieted my nerves and had left me in a much better state of
health, so that when the two weeks were up and the day came for my
return I gladly got on the train leaving Charing Cross, and all day
looked forward to my return to the squadron. By great luck, I managed
to catch an automobile going in my direction from Boulogne, and
arrived at the aerodrome the same night I had left London. I felt like
a small boy returning home for his holidays. I was plied with questions
as to what “good old England” looked like, what I had done and what was
happening in “Blighty”; and in my turn I was full of questions as to
what had happened in the squadron while I was away. Many things had:
several people had been killed, and quite a number of Hun machines had
been shot down by our pilots. A great many exciting and a great many
amusing fights in the air were related.

It was typical of the attitude of these comrades of mine that when a
man had been in an exceedingly tight corner and had managed to squeeze
out of it, it was later related as a very amusing, not as a very
terrible, incident, and as the narrator would tell his story the others
would shriek with laughter at the tale of how nearly he had been hit
and how “scared” he had been. It was such a wonderful way to take life
that, upon looking back at it, I feel that nothing the future can ever
hold for me can excel those wonderful days. Face to face with death
every day, but always with the best of comrades and the most tried of
friends, it has left a wonderful memory with me.

The day after rejoining the squadron, I did my first job at 9 o’clock
in the morning. I must admit I felt very funny in the machine. I seemed
to have lost all “feel” of it and could not turn or fly it properly at
all. However, that day I had two jobs, and by the end of the second
luckily had run into no exciting episodes.

Then came the reaction. I felt a wonderful thrill at being back in the
air again, and handling my beloved Nieuport. It seemed that nothing was
dangerous, and that to throw this machine about in the air was just
the best sport that had ever been invented. I remember racing along
close to the ground, seeing how close I could make my wing-tips come to
the sheds and trees without hitting them. It was all just a wonderful
thrill, and no thought of peril entered my head. That evening I went up
and spent an hour in flying, just for the pure pleasure of it. Life
was as sweet as it could be, and I saw the world through rose-coloured
glasses.

That night the romance of our life at the front was brought home to me
again. We spent the evening after dark standing around a piano, while
one of our number played popular songs, the remainder singing in loud
and varied keys, going on the principle that if you cannot sing, at
least you can make a joyful noise.

About 9 o’clock a party of ten others arrived from a squadron stationed
near us, and we had more music and songs with them. Everybody was
happy; flying and fighting had been forgotten for the moment, and war
was a thing far, far away. Toward the end of the party we went to
the farmyard near by, appropriated some small pigs only a few months
old, and placed them in the room of one of our pilots who was dining
out. Then, about 11 o’clock, when he had come back, we went into the
next room to listen through the thin partition to his remarks when he
entered his pig-filled boudoir. In a small space about 10 by 6 over
fifteen of us were jammed anxiously waiting for the climax of the
evening. In the other room the little pigs were grunting away merrily,
and it was all we could do to keep from roaring with laughter. It was
pitch black, and with the funny little squeals coming through the
partition there would occasionally be a bit of a scamper, for although
we at first placed the pigs on the bed, on looking over the partition I
saw they were moving around the room in formation, one of their number
evidently having assigned himself the position of leader of the pork
patrol.

Unfortunately, the episode fell through miserably, as the pigs took
up a station near the door, and when the owner of the room returned
and opened it he walked across to light his lamp. The pigs, seeing the
opening before he had seen them, made a dash and managed to get out,
with a great chorus of squealing. They hid under the huts, and it took
the rest of us several hours to find them and take them back to their
mother.

After going to bed, I was awakened by one of my dogs scampering out
of the hut. I listened for a minute and heard voices outside, got up
and walked out in my pyjamas. It was a perfect moonlight night, without
a breath of wind, and bright as could be. Outside two or three others
were standing in pyjamas, and after asking what was the matter I was
told there was a German machine overhead. Listening carefully, I could
hear the beat of a Mercédès engine about a mile away. We could not see
the Hun, but could hear him quite distinctly as he flew past. Then came
the explosions as a few bombs were dropped, and then more explosions
as the anti-aircraft guns located the moonlight marauder and began to
fire. We could see little bursts of flame as the shells exploded high
in the air. It was a beautiful show. The light was too bright even to
see the stars, but these fierce little bursts of flame dotted the sky
first in one spot, then in another, and gradually travelled in a line
towards the trenches, as the enemy made in that direction. He got away
safely, however, and we returned to bed.

In our home in a beautiful green orchard, our life was full of the most
extraordinary contrasts. One minute we were as far removed from the war
as if we were in South America, and an hour later we would be fighting
for our lives or carrying on in some way directly connected with the
mad world-struggle. It all added to the lure of life and somehow made
the real fighting, when it came, seem less real and tragic.




CHAPTER XIV


The second day after my return I began another three months of
strenuous battles. The squadron had been assigned a new kind of work
to do, in addition to regular patrol. This lasted throughout a great
part of the month of June, and gave us some very strenuous mornings,
although the afternoons were generally easier.

My first fight occurred in the early morning, about 7 o’clock, when I
was leading a patrol. The clouds were very low, being about 4,000 feet,
the lower part of each cloud having a thin hanging mist about it. This
made it possible to fly just in the mist, without being seen at more
than 200 yards.

I had been gazing far into enemy territory, and suddenly saw five enemy
scouts dive out of the clouds, then, after coming in our direction for
a moment or two, dive back into the mist. I thought they were trying
to surprise us, and crawled up as close to the clouds as I could,
heading in their direction. Suddenly they loomed up just in front of
us, and evidently were more surprised than we were. I only managed to
get in a short burst, when my machine gun jammed hopelessly; but the
remainder of the patrol gave chase to the Huns as they turned to run
and scattered them helter-skelter. One man appeared to be hit, and one
of my men went after him in a vertical dive to 1,000 feet from the
ground, when the enemy suddenly regained control, and darted across his
own lines, escaping.

Later in the day I went out by myself, and, flying over Vimy Ridge and
Lens, was watching a ground battle taking place there, when suddenly I
saw a single scout of the enemy underneath me. He did not see me, and
I dived at him and managed to fall into the much-desired position just
behind his tail. I opened fire, and my tracer bullets could be seen
going all around the pilot’s seat. I had considerable speed from my
dive, and was going much faster than he was, so whirled past him. Then,
to avoid getting him behind me, I “zoomed” up and, after reaching 500
feet above, made a quick turn to see what had happened. To this day I
have not the faintest idea what happened. My enemy entirely disappeared
from view. I looked all around underneath, and everywhere else, but
could not see him. Later, I telephoned to the anti-aircraft batteries
and infantry stations near the front-line trenches, but they could give
no information. That particular Hun must have dissolved.

Ten minutes later I had another fight. I had seen, some distance away,
two of the enemy. They were fighting machines, so I reconnoitred
carefully, and a little later discovered two more Huns were flying
2,000 feet above them. I climbed up, and looked carefully from a
distance at these; then climbed a little higher, with the idea of
attacking them, when I suddenly saw two more Huns 3,000 feet above the
second pair. It was a layer formation, and a favourite trap of the
Huns, their idea being that our machines would come along and attack
the lower pair, in which case the middle pair would come down on top
of them, leaving the highest pair in reserve. This had been tried
innumerable times, and had been more or less successful, but, long
since, our people had become wise and always watched for anything of
that sort. By pure luck, that morning, I saw the top pair, and, flying
away off to one side, climbed as fast as I could until 2,000 feet above
them; then followed along. I was quite certain there was no fourth
pair, and also knew that the third pair would be very keen on watching
underneath them to see that their comrades were not attacked. It was a
case of the trappers trapped; and, successful on this occasion, I was
always on the look-out for the same sort of thing after that day, and
succeeded in bringing down some of the top-side people on several other
occasions.

This day I dived down at the top pair, one of which was flying directly
behind the other. I did not touch my trigger until I was fifty yards
from him; then opened a stiff fire. This machine, as on the previous
time I had used a similar trick, knew nothing of what was coming to
him at all. He also probably never knew what hit him, because, slipping
to one side, his machine went into a spin and fell completely out of
control. I did not wait to attack the other man, as I was underneath
him; and by the time he had turned to see what was happening, I was a
quarter of a mile away, and going for home as fast as possible. It was
the first machine to my credit since my return from England, and I was
greatly pleased.

By this time I had become very ambitious, and was hoping to get a large
number of machines officially credited to me before I left France. With
this object in view, I planned many little expeditions of my own, and,
with the use of great patience, I was very successful in one or two.

The next day I was out with my patrol again in the morning, and met six
enemy scouts. There were six of us as well, but in the earlier part
of the “scrap” which immediately followed, my gun, which seemed to
be causing me a lot of trouble, again jammed, and I signalled to the
others that I had to leave the fight. I dived away, and landed on an
aerodrome near by to correct the jam.

Three-quarters of an hour later I was again in the air, but could not
find the patrol, so I flew up over Vimy Ridge. There was one of my old
friends, a big, fat two-seater, and I went after him with joy in my
soul. Three times I managed to get in a burst of fire, diving once from
straight above and once from either side, but I did not seem to be able
to hit him at all.

Glancing suddenly over my shoulder, I saw two enemy scouts coming to
the rescue from above. They had been sitting away up in the blue sky,
in order to protect this machine, and, luckily for me, had not seen
me sooner. I cleared off, and carefully thought how I was to get my
revenge. Nothing in the world but that fat two-seater attracted my
attention. I was annoyed at having missed him, after such good chances,
and was determined I was at least going to have another good go at him
before giving up. The only trouble was the two enemy scouts above, and
I did not know how to get rid of them. They had seen me, and probably
had their eye on me at the moment.

I flew away, and came back in five minutes. Luck was with me; another
one of our machines had flown slightly above the two enemy scouts, who
had turned and fled from him. He had chased them, and they had made a
detour, evading him. All this I took in at a glance, and saw that they
were trying to get back to protect their two-seater comrade, and had no
desire to fight, themselves. Seeing my opportunity, as the two-seater
did not seem to know that the scouts had temporarily deserted him, I
dived at him again, and this time closed up to within 50 yards before
opening fire. Then, taking an accurate aim, I pulled the trigger. I
can remember to this day how carefully I aimed that time. I was dead
behind him, and I picked out the finest point in the pilot’s body where
I wanted my bullets to hit. The observer in the two-seater ceased
firing at me a moment before I opened, and began to work frantically
at his gun. It had the jamming habit, too. A few rounds were enough.
The machine put its nose down, dived vertically a short distance,
then went into an uncontrolled spinning dive, and I watched it as it
fell racing down towards the ground, with the engine full on. As is
always the case, it seemed to take an age before it reached the ground.
Finally, it crashed into the centre of a village, striking between two
houses.

Ten minutes later I had climbed up and was above the two scouts, so
decided to give them at least a scare. I opened fire at long range,
and, for a moment, thought I had hit one of them. He went into a spin,
but 2,000 feet below flattened out and flew away. The other one climbed
and I could not catch him, so turned and flew north.

Another two-seater, who had been flying along the lines, was now 3,000
feet above me. I opened fire at him from underneath, at very long
range, but, of course, could not hit, the range being too long.

Many exciting fights occurred with the machines doing artillery
observation. They were a very difficult proposition. They knew for a
certainty they would be attacked, and would fly in threes and fours,
or more, going about on their beat all together, and helping their own
lines, and at a height of 3,000 feet. It made it very difficult for
us to attack, as, the height being low, we would have to make a dash
across the lines at them, and then back again. Over and over again
one would carefully figure out where they would be nearest the lines,
then, at that moment, dash across at full speed. The enemy, immediately
upon seeing the anti-aircraft shells burst around you, would turn east
and fly towards home, going as fast as they could, and at the same
time losing height. It meant that really to destroy or damage them,
one had to fly ten or twelve miles in to catch them; then they would
only be at a height of some 500 or 1,000 feet. This was our task. The
anti-aircraft fire was terrific, going in not as bad as coming back;
but the moment we turned to come home all the guns in the neighbourhood
would open at us, and, if we were low enough, we would also be
subjected to the most intense machine-gun fire from the ground.

This did not occur once a week; it was a thing that happened to each
one of us three and four times, or even more, in the course of a
morning’s work, and was the most trying job we had to do. Most of
the fights followed the same lines, three or four of us crossing at
full speed, zigzagging slightly in our course to upset the aim of the
“Archies,” and then following closely the enemy machines, which were
all the time directing a steady machine-gun fire at us. Our object was
more to frighten them away than really to bring them down. Then would
come a quick turn, and a dash back home. This would be very hard to
do. One would turn suddenly to the right or left, trying to evade the
bursting shells, but they were cracking on all sides. It would seem
that one could not possibly get through them, and the thought that one
little bit of shell in the engine would put the whole machine out of
business was enough to give anybody nerves. As it was, we were nearly
always hit by small fragments, but this was considered nothing, and, of
course, no reason for not liking the job. My previous experience in
escorting the photography machines had taught me that other people have
to stand anti-aircraft fire as well as ourselves, and for them, being
larger and slower, it is a thousand times worse.




CHAPTER XV


My record of machines brought down was now in the vicinity of twenty,
and I saw I had a rare chance of really getting a lot before going on
my next leave--at the end of my second three months at the front.

With this object in view I planned an expedition into the enemy
country, to attack an enemy aerodrome. I had carefully thought it out,
and came to the conclusion that if one could get to an aerodrome when
there were some machines on the ground and none in the air, it would be
an easy matter to shoot them down the moment they would attempt to come
up. It would be necessary for them to take off straight into the wind,
if there was a strong wind at all, so I could not be surprised that
way, and would be able to hit them if I came low enough, before they
would get a chance to manœuvre or turn out of my way.

I planned this expedition after much thought, and set it for June 2nd,
as that was to be my day off. Dawn was the hour I considered advisable,
as there would be very few machines in the air, and I would have a
great chance of evading trouble on the way to the aerodrome. I spent my
spare moments, the next few days, arranging the details.

In the meantime I had several more fights. On May 31st I went out in
the morning about 8 o’clock, and the sky seemed deserted. However, I
crossed over into enemy territory, and in a few minutes sighted two
machines. They were flying south. I followed, and suddenly they began
to spiral down. Apparently they had just finished their time in the
air, and were coming down to land. So I flew as quickly as I could, and
reached the nearest one, whom I attacked, firing a burst from 50 yards
range. I missed him completely, I think. He turned, and we had quite
a fight, lasting four or five minutes. Luckily, his companion had not
seen us, and had kept on going down. My opponent seemed a very good
man, and every time, just as I thought I was going to get in a burst
of fire, he would make some clever manœuvre and evade me altogether,
with the result that I was having a very hard time myself, and had
to keep my eyes open so that he would not get a good shot at me. For
a moment or two I was a bit worried, but suddenly I managed to get
slightly behind him, and at a favourable angle, only 15 yards away. I
pulled the trigger, and his machine fell out of control. Much pleased,
I waited over the spot to see him crash--which he did.

The next morning, remembering my bad shooting in the beginning of this
fight, I spent some extra time on the target at the aerodrome. During
that day I went out no less than four times, looking for a fight, but
in only one case did I even get near enough to open fire at an enemy
machine; that time only getting within 150 yards of it. Two of us went
after him, but, as usual, he decided that it was not healthy, and
putting his engine full on, dived away as quickly as he could go, to
the tune of our machine guns behind him. However, it had no result
except to frighten him. He did not return. The remainder of that day
all the German machines seemed very nervous, and we could not get
within range of any of them.

Now came the day planned for my expedition. I wrote my name on the
blackboard, the night before, to be called at 3 o’clock, and sat down
for the last time to consider exactly if the job was worth the risk.
However, as nothing like it had been done before, I knew that I would
strike the Huns by surprise, and, considering that, I decided the risk
was not nearly so great as it seemed, and that I might be able to get
four or five more machines to my credit, in one great swoop.

At 3 o’clock I was called and got up. It was pitch-black. I dressed,
and went in to tell two of my friends that I was off. They were
not entirely in favour of the expedition, and said so again.
Notwithstanding this, I went on to the aerodrome, and got away just as
the first streaks of dawn were showing in the upper sky.

I flew straight across the lines, towards the aerodrome I had planned
to attack, and coming down low, decided to carry out my plan and stir
them up with a burst of machine-gun fire into their hangar sheds. But,
on reaching the place, I saw there was nothing on the ground. Everyone
must have been either dead asleep or else the station was absolutely
deserted. Greatly disappointed, I decided I would try the same stunt
some other day on another aerodrome, which I would have to select.

In the meantime, for something to do, I flew along low over the
country, in the hope of coming on some camp or group of troops so as to
scatter them. I felt that the danger was nil, as most of the crews of
the guns which ordinarily would fire at me would still be asleep, and I
might as well give any Huns I could find a good fright. I was in rather
a bad temper at having my carefully laid plan fall through so quickly,
and nothing would have pleased me better than to have run across a
group of fat Huns drilling in a field, or something of that sort.
However, nothing appeared, and I was just thinking of turning and going
home, or of climbing up to see if there were some Huns in the upper
sky, when ahead, and slightly to one side of me, I saw the sheds of
another aerodrome, I at once decided that here was my chance, although
it was not a very favourable one, as the aerodrome was pretty far back
from the lines. To make good my escape from this place would not be as
easy as I had hoped. Furthermore, I was not even certain where I was,
and that was my greatest worry, as I was a bit afraid that if I had
any bad fights I might have trouble in finding my way back. Scurrying
along close to the ground, zigzagging here and there, one’s sense of
direction becomes slightly vague.

Another half-minute and I was over the aerodrome, about 300 feet up.
On the ground were seven German machines, and in my first glance I saw
that some of them actually had their engines running. Mechanics were
standing about in groups. Then I saw a thing which surprised me very
much--six of the machines were single-seaters, and one a two-seater. I
was not very anxious for the two-seater to come up to attack me, as in
taking off he would have a certain amount of protection from behind,
with his observer, while the single-seater could have none. However, in
this, luck also favoured me, as the two-seater did not move at all.

I pointed my nose towards the ground, and opened fire with my gun,
scattering the bullets all around the machines, and coming down to 50
feet in doing so. I do not know how many men I hit, or what damage was
done, except that one man, at least, fell, and several others ran to
pick him up. Then, clearing off to one side, I watched the fun. I had
forgotten by this time that they would, of course, have machine guns
on the aerodrome, and as I was laughing to myself, as they tore around
in every direction on the ground, like people going mad or rabbits
scurrying about, I heard the old familiar rattle of the quick-firers
on me. I did not dare go too far away, however, as then I would not
be able to catch the machines as they left the ground, so turning
quickly and twisting about, I did my best to evade the fire from the
ground. Looking at my planes, I saw that the guns were doing pretty
good shooting. There were several holes in them already, and this made
me turn and twist all the more. Then one machine suddenly began to
“taxi” off down the aerodrome. It increased its speed quickly, and I
immediately tore down after it. I managed to get close on its tail,
when it was just above the ground, and opened fire from dead behind
it. There was no chance of missing, and I was as cool as could be.
Just fifteen rounds, and it side-slipped to one side, then crashed on
the aerodrome underneath. I was now keyed up to the fight, and turning
quickly, saw another machine just off the ground. Taking careful aim
at it, I fired from longer range than before, as I did not want to
waste the time of going up close. For one awful moment I saw my bullets
missing, and aimed still more carefully, all the time striving to get
nearer. The Hun saw I was catching him up, and pushed his nose down;
then, gazing over his shoulder at the moment I was firing at him, he
crashed into some trees near the aerodrome. I think I hit him just
before he came to the trees, as my tracers were then going in an
accurate line.

I again turned towards the aerodrome. This time my heart sank, because
two machines were taking off at the same time, and in slightly
different directions. It was the one thing I had dreaded. There was
not much wind, and it was possible for them to do this. I had made up
my mind, before, that if they attempted to do this I would immediately
make good my escape, but I had counted on being higher. However, true
to my intention, I began to climb. One of the enemy machines luckily
climbed away at some distance, while the other made up straight after
me. At 1,000 feet, and only a few hundred yards from the aerodrome, I
saw that he was catching me, so turned on him and opened fire. We made
about two circuits around each other, neither getting a very good shot,
but in the end I managed to get in a short burst of fire, and this
machine went crashing to the ground, where it lay in a field, a few
hundred yards from the aerodrome.

The fourth machine then came up, and I opened fire on him. I was now
greatly worried as to how I was to get away, as I was using up all my
ammunition, and there seemed to be no end to the number of machines
coming up. I was afraid that other machines from other aerodromes
would also come in answer to telephone calls, and wanted to get away
as quickly as I could. But there was no chance of running from this
man--he had me cold--so I turned at him savagely, and, in the course of
a short fight, emptied the whole of my last drum at him. Luckily, at
the moment I finished my ammunition, he also seemed to have had enough
of it, as he turned and flew away. I seized my opportunity, climbed
again, and started for home.

To my dismay I discovered four enemy scouts above me. I was terrified
that they would see me, so flew directly underneath them, for some
time--almost a mile, I should think--going directly south. Then,
deciding that I must do something, I took the bit in my teeth and
slipped away. They did not attempt to attack me at all, so I am not
sure whether they even saw me or not.

I now headed in the approximate direction of our lines, and flew in
rather a dazed state toward them. I had not had any breakfast, and was
feeling very queer at my stomach. The excitement, and the reaction
afterwards, had been a bit too much, as well as the cold morning air.
It seemed, once or twice, that my head was going around and around, and
that something must happen. For the only time in my life it entered my
thoughts that I might lose my senses in a moment, and go insane. It was
a horrible feeling, and I also had the terrible sensation that I would
suffer from nausea any minute. I was not at all sure where I was, and
furthermore did not care. The thrills and exultation I had at first
felt had all died away, and nothing seemed to matter but this awful
feeling of dizziness and the desire to get home and on the ground.

By the time I reached the aerodrome, however, I felt much better,
and flew over our still sleeping huts, firing off my signal lights
frantically, to show them I had certainly had some success. I landed,
and my sergeant immediately rushed out and asked me how many I had
bagged. When I told him three, he was greatly pleased, and yelled it
back to the mechanics who were waiting by the shed. Then, as I crawled
out of my machine, I heard the remarks of the mechanics around me. They
were looking it over. Everywhere it was shot about, bullet-holes being
in almost every part of it, although none, luckily, within 2 feet of
where I sat. Parts of the machine were so badly damaged as to take a
lot of repairing; but I used the same patched planes in the machine for
some time afterward, and always felt great affection for it for pulling
me through such a successful enterprise. I personally congratulated the
man who had charge of my gun, suddenly realizing that if it had jammed
at a critical moment what a tight corner I would have been in.

Within three or four hours I had received many congratulations upon
this stunt, and what I had planned as merely a way of shooting down
some more of the Huns I found the authorities considered a very
successful expedition. It pleased me very much--and, of course, I have
always kept the telegrams of congratulations which I received that
day. At first I had been disappointed in the net result, for when I
started out I had rather hoped they would all take off as the first
machine did, and that I would be able to bag, at the very least, four.
But, on looking back at it, I think I was over-optimistic, and was very
lucky to have brought down as many as I did.

That afternoon I was still suffering from the excitement of the morning
and, although tired out, could not sleep, so with one other man I
climbed in my machine and flew about fifty miles south, to pay a visit
to another of our aerodromes there. We left to return about 5 o’clock
and had more excitement, as a rain-storm was coming up, and for the
last ten minutes had to plough through a drizzle. It was pretty dreary
work, and I was very glad to see the aerodrome again. An hour later I
was sound asleep in my bed, and did not awaken until the next morning.

Next morning we had a most discouraging time. For several days there
had not been many German machines on the lines, and we had been very
successful in stopping them from doing their artillery work. But on
this morning, when, with our usual confidence of finding only one or
two, we slipped across the lines after them, we suddenly made out
everywhere, groups of four or five; and, counting them up, I found
there were no less than twenty-three German machines within three
miles of the front. There were only three of us, so it was rather
puzzling what to do. In some way we had to stop the machines from doing
artillery work, and it was not a very pleasant prospect for three to
pile into the middle of over twenty, with the likelihood of still more
coming from other directions. However, we stayed just on the German
side of the line, and they did not seem very anxious to attack us. So,
whenever two or three would get separated from the others, we would
pretend to go near them, and they would shy away towards the rest of
their machines. It was terribly annoying to have to sit there and see
so many fat Huns go unmolested, and after we landed we agreed that if
it ever happened again, one of us would go back, get more machines
to help, and then we would engage the lot in a real battle royal. So
many times we could not find any of them, when we were just dying for a
fight; now they were in such huge numbers it would be folly to mix up
with them.

We managed to have three short goes at different artillery machines in
the course of half an hour next day, but they were not “having any,”
however, and turned away and fled towards home.

Another time, while flying on the lines, my engine suddenly stopped
dead. Nothing I could do had any effect on it, and I glided back toward
home. At first I was a bit afraid I would not even clear the shell
area, and it meant crashing into some deep hole, but there was a slight
wind behind me, and with the help of this I glided on and on into clear
country, where there was an aerodrome.

In one week I had no less than three engine failures, although I have
hardly ever had one at any other time. But, as luck would have it, I
was always able to glide down and just reach the same aerodrome. I
got to know it quite well by the end of the week.

[Illustration:

                                            Canadian Official Photograph

The Lewis Gun on my Nieuport.]

On June 8th fortune favoured me. I had had two indecisive combats,
when, to my great joy, I saw in the distance another layer formation
of six Huns in groups of two. So I manœuvred again, to attack the
top pair. After creeping up slowly and carefully behind one of them,
I opened fire, and he went straight away into a spinning nose-dive,
which he could not come out of, and crashed into the ground. The other
machine of the top layer saw me, but had no desire to fight, and dived
away immediately toward the rest of his formation. I pointed my nose
down at him and fired, but he was too far away and escaped.

This was again my day off, so I had deserted my own part of the lines
and flown away up north where the battle of Messines was raging, and I
had heard there were more German machines up in that direction. It was
a good tip, and I was glad I had come.

A little later I saw the same or another formation of four, flying
about in a group. I did not feel like going down and getting into the
middle of them, so I stayed above and tried the old game of diving and
coming up again, just to worry them. It evidently did, as they only
stood for it twice, and then, losing height, made away as fast as they
could go.

Over a week passed now before I had another fight at all. Many times
I sighted enemy aircraft, but they were always in the distance, and
after a hot chase I would have to give it up. Then would come the
disagreeable return journey against the anti-aircraft fire. By this
time I was getting to hate the German guns, as they often caught me
at low altitude and made the way home so nasty. One night when a
shell burst near me, I happened to see the flash of the gun that was
firing, and as it was almost directly beneath me, I threw my machine
out of control, with a sudden inspiration, and let it fall for several
thousand feet. Then, about two thousand feet from the ground, I
opened fire at the battery on the ground. I was too high to see just
what effect my fire had, but it evidently silenced them, and from
later results certainly annoyed them very much, because every time I
crossed the line on “Blue Nose,” this gun would open fire fiercely,
concentrating on me, no matter how many other machines were in the air.

About five miles south of this position, on another day, I was
flying at a height of 2,000 feet, and saw another “Archie” firing,
so I dived down to about 500 feet from the ground and scattered some
flaming bullets around him. This battery also gave “Blue Nose” special
attention from that day on.

It became a favourite habit of ours, about this time, when there were
no enemy machines up above, to come down low and attack the enemy
trenches, from a height of from 100 to 500 feet. We would come down
behind them, and, diving at them that way, open fire. It evidently
frightened the Huns very much, from reports which we later heard.

In the June evenings the sky was a beautiful sight at sunset. If there
was any wind blowing at all, the mist would be cleared away, and one
could see almost to the end of the world. The ground was a riot of
beautiful colours, and the dusty roads stretched away like long white
ribbons.




CHAPTER XVI


All of June was marked by the most perfect weather. The prevailing
strong west winds stopped and a light breeze blew constantly from
the east. Some days there was hardly a stir in the air. From dawn
until sundown there was rarely a cloud in the sky, and although the
heat-waves from the effect of the sun on the earth made flying very
rough when near the ground, the days were wonderful, and we all felt
like kings.

The mornings were very busy, as there were many calls to chase away
hostile aircraft; but the afternoons we generally had to ourselves, and
although it was necessary to stay right on the aerodrome, we found many
amusements there.

The mess was situated on the very edge of the aerodrome and about
twenty yards from a farmhouse, which possessed the most extraordinary
farmyard I have ever seen. There were pigeons by the hundreds, and
all kinds of fowl possible to imagine. A small pond in the middle of
the farmyard afforded exercise and amusement for a flock of ducks. The
raising of pigs, however, seemed to be the farmer’s great specialty,
and to these pigs I owe many amusing hours.

One afternoon, while looking through the farmyard, three of us decided
to capture a large hog and trail it back to our quarters to shoo it
into the room of a friend, who was at the moment sleeping. It was very
easy to get the idea, but for inexperienced people it was a difficult
job to get the porker.

After much mature deliberation we decided upon our victim--the largest
and dirtiest one in the farmyard. It was lying half-buried in the mud
near the pond, so with a few small pebbles we woke it up and frightened
it on to dry land. Then began the chase. Two or three times we managed
to corner it, but with a series of grunts and squeals it would charge
one of us and make a clean get-away. Finally, seeing no other course
open, we drove it into a small pig-pen which had only one outlet, an
opening with a door covering it up to about 3 feet high. Opening the
door, we shooed the pig in. It seemed to have no objection, and after
it went one of my comrades with a rope. I carefully closed the door and
bolted it from the outside, so that the pig could not force it open.
Then, peering over the top, I witnessed a remarkable scene. The hog
was now desperate and tearing around in a circle, squealing for all it
was worth. My companion with the rope was trying to fix a noose on one
of the hind legs. In doing so the pig kicked him, and turning, nearly
knocked him over as it rushed past. The next phase was a cry of “Open
the door and let me out.” The airman was as badly frightened as the
hog. Suddenly, with an extra squeal, our supposed victim made a leap up
the door and, firmly fastening fore legs on to the top of it, worked up
like a fat gymnast and fell over on the outside. By this time we were
all laughing so hard we could not interfere, and the pig got away.

Refusing to be beaten, we employed the services of a small French boy
to help us, and he sneaked up behind another huge pig and fastened
the rope to a hind leg. I then took hold of it to drive it home, but
the poor beast, upon learning that he was tied up, had no intention of
giving in, and immediately started away at a furious gallop, dragging
me after it. Once around the farmyard we went, and half again, before I
tripped on a stone and fell flat, and this pig also escaped. You see, I
was having no luck with Huns.

Again the French boy came to our rescue and secured Mr. Pig, showing us
how to drive it properly. This we did, and managed in the course of the
next three-quarters of an hour to get the pig as far as the officers’
quarters. To drive him in was a difficult matter, but with numerous
assistants and much noise and shouting he finally entered, but, of
course, the sleeping man had been awake long since. However, we got the
pig into his room, where he was standing in his pyjamas, and to see a
brave man frightened is a rare sight, but the rest of us had the chance
then.

We took the pig into the mess to show him about, putting him in a
little cage made of the fire-fender. He seemed quite satisfied here for
a moment, then, deciding that he would like to get away, stuck his nose
under the edge of the fire-fender, heaved it over his back, and with a
disgusted grunt walked out. Feeling that he had earned his freedom, we
let him go.

Every afternoon after that we found much fun out of the different
animals in the farmyard. The French people were as pleased as we were
until some of their ducks stopped laying, when, of course, we made good
the value of the eggs that came not, and a great many more that would
never have come.

One afternoon we secured three ducks and a lot of paint. One duck we
painted with circles around it of red, white, and blue, just like the
Allied markings on our machine. Of the other two we painted one red
and one bright blue. They did not seem to appreciate it, but they were
distinguished-looking ducks until about two months later, when they
began to moult. Then one would see wandering through the grass a weird
sight looking like a moth-eaten bird, a dirty scarlet in some places
and a dirty white in others. It would be a horrible sight close to, but
from a distance quite pretty, resembling some bird of paradise.

These ducks we tried hard to train, trying to teach them to walk on the
ground in formations the same as we flew in the air. They were not very
adept pupils, however, and, instead of walking at correct distances
apart, would keep looking behind at us, and jostling into the men on
the right and left.

One afternoon we got as many as sixteen ducks, and after giving them a
good luncheon, by way of celebration for their outing, we put them on
the roof of the mess, where they all sat in a stately row, quacking in
spasms.

These incidents, though simple to tell now, at that time afforded us
the greatest amusement, and as we were in no way cruel to the animals,
the French people who owned them did not seem to mind.

However, perhaps one day we carried it a little far, as we tried to
find the effect of alcohol upon the ducks. This was most amusing with
two or three, because, although they did not like the first drop of it,
when they had been forced to swallow that, they eagerly cried for more.
Their return home was a ludicrous sight, sitting down on the ground
every minute or two, and always walking in a “beaucoup” zigzag course,
as the French would say. Once we got hold of the head drake of the
flock, and, imagining him to be able to stand a little more than the
rest, gave him a drop too much, with the result that he unfortunately
died. It took quite a bit of broken French and more expressive French
notes to reconcile the owner to his loss, but after a long and painful
conversation of nearly half an hour he was in a better humour and,
incidentally, a richer man. With that our attention to the ducks
ceased, although by this time three-quarters of the flock had been
painted various hues.

We now returned to the pigs, and found much fun with the smaller ones.
These also were painted, and we always referred to their different
parts in aeronautical terms, such as calling their legs their
“under-carriage” and their bodies their “fuselage.”

One little pig we had was a most successful picture. His legs and the
under-part of his body were all painted scarlet, his nose and tail as
well. On his back were huge red, white, and blue circles. The rest of
his body was touched with red, white and blue, his ears being blue. It
was very good paint, and the result was a beautifully shining, coloured
pig. When he returned that night to the others they stood off and gazed
at him in amazement, and for days would not associate with him. It was
indeed a red-letter day in his existence, as he was certainly THE pig
amongst all pigs.

Using the French boy on another occasion, we again secured a large sow.
Upon her we painted black crosses, a huge black cross on her nose, a
little one on each ear, and a large one on each side. Then on her back
we painted Baron von Richtofen. So that the other pigs would recognize
that she was indeed a leader, we tied a leader’s streamer on her tail.
This trailed for some 3 feet behind her as she walked, and was exactly
the same sort of thing that the leader of a patrol of aeroplanes uses
so that he can be identified.

When the “Baron” returned to the farmyard everything else there
immediately concentrated its attention upon the weird sight. Chickens,
ducks, pigs, and geese all followed the big sow as she walked around.
It was certainly a successful circus for our friend von Richtofen, and
every time she moved around that farmyard she had a good following of
multi-coloured admirers.

Upon the express condition that we would not paint them, the farmer let
us have his rabbits in the afternoon. He must have had over 200, and
we would go in with a blanket and get about twenty-five small ones,
then take them out and drop them in the green grass, where we would sit
around under a tree, and play with them or watch them eat. They were
amusing little things and passed away many hours for us.

However, dogs were our special favourites, so far as pets were
concerned, and every stray dog we could find we would pick up and bring
home. Finally we had a huge collection of them, with a variety of
names ranging from “Kate,” “Rachel,” or “Horace” to “Black Dog” and
“Nigger.”

They were all good dogs, and I remember well when little Kate, whom we
had raised from a puppy, was lost. We all felt very badly for days. She
was reported in the squadron books as “missing,” as she had gone out
and had not returned. Poor Kate! her life had indeed been hard. As a
puppy, her first accident was when she had “crashed” off the top of a
piano, and had broken one of her fore legs. This was no sooner mended
than somebody walked on her when she was sitting in front of the fire,
and broke another. A month later an automobile ran over her on the
road, and broke a third and badly injured her body, so that she was a
little cripple, and hopped along on three legs, although how she ever
used them nobody knows. Her body was all twisted, and she had no good
points except a very charming manner, which made us very fond of her.

“Nigger” was one of my own dogs. One night, returning after having
dined with some other unit, I found “Nigger” outside my hut. He was a
big dog, looking very much like an Airedale, only black. It was pouring
rain and very cold, so I took him in and let him sleep on my bed with
me. He had a most affectionate way about him, and although quite the
smelliest dog I have ever known, it was a pleasure to have him about.

The other dogs each had their good points. Rachel--who was a little
deformed fox-terrier we had picked up on the road simply because she
was the ugliest-looking thing we had ever seen--turned out to be a
wonderful ratter, frequently taking on rats twice as long as she was,
and, although getting badly bitten herself, she would invariably come
out of the scrap victorious. Nobody would claim Rachel, but she got fed
somehow, and also got quite a lot of attention, so she stayed with us.

By way of sports, we played tennis a great deal, and did considerable
riding, two good horses having been lent to the squadron for that
purpose. Then, too, as the place seemed to be infested with rats, we
managed to get together some good ratting parties, and with the help
of some of the dogs had many successful hunts.

Carefully blocking all the holes in the ground, with the exception of
one or two, we would send smoke down one of these, and with a little
preliminary squeal three or four rats would rush out of the other. One
afternoon, inside of half an hour, we caught eighteen rats.

Another sport, and a very good one, was to take a 22-calibre rifle and
try to shoot individual pigeons on the wing. It was a very hard thing
to do and required much practice. Luckily we did not hit too often, as
we paid well for each pigeon we shot down. I remember one afternoon
firing 500 rounds and only hitting one pigeon, and I considered myself
lucky to hit that one. This sport was much encouraged, as it was the
very best practice in the world for the eye of a man whose business it
is to fight mechanical birds in the air.

Every now and again we would be given a day off. This day would be
spent, usually, in either sleeping all day or roaming about the
orchard in silk pyjamas, or else one would go and visit some friends
who possibly were stationed near. It was a great thing, as it always
left us keen for work the next day.




CHAPTER XVII


By this time I had learned nearly all of the fundamental principles
of fighting in the air and had more or less decided upon exactly what
tactics were best for me to use. I also realized the exact limit of my
ability in carrying these various tactics out, and in fighting acted
accordingly. I was more than ever firmly resolved now that, having got
so far in the game and past its most dangerous stages, I would take
no foolish risks, but continue to wait for the best opportunities. It
was very hard to restrain oneself at times, but from the middle of May
until I left France in August, I lost only one man out of my patrol
killed, and he was shot down on an expedition when I was not with him.

When flying alone, on a day off or something like that, I took
queer chances, it is true, but flying with the patrol often let
opportunities slip by because they were not quite good enough; but when
the right ones came, we were quick to seize them and were nearly always
successful.

I had learned that the most important thing in fighting was the
shooting, next the various tactics in coming into the fight, and last
of all flying ability itself. The shooting, as I have said before, I
practised constantly and became more and more expert at it, with the
result that finally I had great confidence in myself, and knew for a
certainty that if I only could get in a shot from one or two of my
favourite positions, I would be successful in downing my opponent.

To those who have never seen a war machine I would explain that to
control one, the pilot has to manipulate but a single lever which we
call the “joy-stick.” It is very much like the lever with which you
shift gears on an automobile, but it moves in four directions. If you
would want your machine to go down, the instinctive move would be to
lean the body forward. Therefore, the fighting aeroplane is so rigged
that when the pilot pushes the “joy-stick” forward, the nose of the
machine points down. In the same way, if he pulls the “joy-stick” back,
the nose goes up and the machine climbs at any angle he wants it to.
In turning, it is necessary to bank the machine, otherwise it will
skid outwards. It is also just as necessary that the machine is not
banked too much. This is one of the first things a pupil is taught when
learning to fly.

The “joy-stick” also controls the banking. By moving it to either side
you can tilt up whichever wing is desired. At his feet the pilot has a
rudder bar which controls the horizontal direction of the machine. If
he pushes his left foot forward and banks slightly, the machine turns
slowly to the left. To go to the right, there is only necessary a push
with the right foot and a slight bank. The pilot thus has both feet on
the rudder bar, holds the “joy-stick” with his right hand, and with
his left controls the engine of the machine by holding the throttle in
his hand. He is always able to do anything he wishes, either with the
engine or the machine itself. When firing the gun, he simply moves his
thumb slightly along the “joy-stick” and presses the lever which pulls
the trigger.

To be able to fight well, a pilot must be able to have absolute control
over his machine. He must know by the “feel” of it exactly how the
machine is, what position it is in, and how it is flying, so that
he may manœuvre rapidly, and at the same time watch his opponent or
opponents. He must be able to loop, turn his machine over on its back,
and do various other flying “stunts”--not that these are actually
necessary during a combat, but from the fact that he has done these
things several times he gets absolute confidence, and when the fight
comes along he is not worrying about how the machine will act. He can
devote all his time to fighting the other fellow, the flying part of
it coming instinctively. Thus the flying part, although perhaps the
hardest to train a man for, is the least important factor in aerial
fighting. A man’s flying ability may be perfect. He may be able to
control the machine and handle it like no one else on earth, but if he
goes into a fight and risks his life many times to get into the right
position for a good shot, and then upon arriving there cannot hit the
mark, he is useless. Unable to shoot his opponent down, he must risk
his life still more in order to get out and away from the enemy, and
that is why I put aerial gunnery down as the most important factor in
fighting in the air.

Tactics are next important because, by the proper use of the best
tactics, it is so easy to help eliminate risks and also so easy to
put the enemy at a great disadvantage. Surprise is always to be aimed
for. Naturally if one can surprise the enemy and get into a proper
position to shoot before he is aware of your presence, it simplifies
matters tremendously, and there should be no second part to the fight.
But it is a very hard thing to do, as every fighting man in the air is
constantly on the look-out for enemy machines. To surprise him requires
a tremendous amount of patience and many failures before one is ever
successful. A point to know is the fact that it is easier to surprise
a formation of four or six than it is to surprise one or two. This
is probably because the greater number feel more confident in their
ability to protect themselves, and also are probably counting upon each
other to do a certain amount of the looking out.

When flying alone or with just one other, it is always a case of
constantly turning around in your seat, turning your machine to right
or left, looking above and around or below you all the time. It is a
very tiring piece of work, so it is but natural that when you have
three or four other men behind you, you spend more time looking in the
direction where you hope the enemy machines are, if you want to attack
them, and to looking at any interesting sights which are on the ground.

In ordinary fight or duel we had tactics, of course, to suit the
occasion. The great thing is never to let the enemy’s machine get
behind you, or “on your tail.” Once he reaches there it is very hard to
get him off, as every turn and every move you make, he makes with you.
By the same token it is exactly the position into which you wish to
get, and once there you must constantly strive for a shot as well as
look out for attacks from other machines that may be near. It is well
if you are against odds never to stay long after one machine. If you
concentrate on him for more than a fraction of a second, some other
Hun has a chance to get a steady shot at you, without taking any risks
himself. To hit a machine when it is flying at right angles to you
across your nose is very hard. It requires a good deal of judgment in
knowing just how far ahead of him to aim. It is necessary to hit the
pilot himself and not the machine to be successful, and also necessary
to hit the pilot in the upper part of the body where it will be more
certain to put him completely out of action at once. When a machine
goes into flames it is largely a matter of luck, as it means that
several of your bullets have pierced the petrol tank and ignited the
vapour escaping from it.

In our tactics we used this cross shot, as it is called, considerably;
mainly when, after a combat has been broken off for some reason, guns
having jammed or the engine running badly, it becomes necessary to
escape. Upon turning to flee, your opponent is able to get a direct
shot at you from behind. This is decidedly dangerous; so, watching
carefully over your shoulder and judging the moment he will open fire,
you turn your machine quickly so as to fly at right angles to him. His
bullets will generally pass behind you during the manœuvre. The next
thing to do is to turn facing him and open with your cross fire.

In fighting in company with other machines of your own squadron one
must be very careful to avoid collisions, and it is also necessary to
watch all of them carefully as well as the enemy, because it is a code
of honour to help out any comrade who is in distress, and no matter how
serious the consequences may seem, there is only one thing to do--dash
straight in, and at least lend moral support to him. In one case I had
a Captain out of my own squadron, a New Zealander, come eight miles
across the lines after both his guns had choked, and he was entirely
useless as a fighting unit, just to try to bluff away seven of the
enemy who were attacking me. It was unnecessary in this case, as I had
the upper hand of the few machines that were really serious about the
fight; but it was a tremendously brave act on his part, as he ran great
risks of being killed, while absolutely helpless to defend himself in
any way.

All fights vary slightly in the tactics required, and it is necessary
to think quickly and act instantly. Where a large number of machines
are engaged, one great thing is always to be the upper man--that is,
to be slightly higher than your particular opponent. With this extra
height it is quite easy to dive upon him, and it makes manœuvring much
easier. If, as is often the case, you are the “under dog,” it is a very
difficult position, and requires great care to carry on the fight with
any chance of success. Every time your opponent attempts to dive at
you or attack you in any way, the best thing to do is to turn on him,
pull the nose of your machine up, and fire. Often while fighting it is
necessary to attack a machine head-on until you seem to be just about
to crash in mid-air. Neither machine wants to give way, and collisions
have been known to occur while doing this. We prided ourselves that we
hardly ever gave way, and the German was usually the first to swerve.
At the last moment one of you must dodge up and the other down, and
there is great risk of both of you doing the same thing, which of
course is fatal. It is perhaps one of the most thrilling moments in
fighting in the air when you are only 100 yards apart, and coming
together at colossal speed, spouting bullets at each other as fast as
you can.

Once you have passed you must turn instantly to keep your opponent from
getting a favourable position behind you, and then carry on the fight
in the usual series of turns and manœuvres. An extraordinary feature
of these fights which occupied any length of time, and entailed such
manœuvring, was the fact that they were generally undecisive, one
machine or the other finally deciding that for some reason or other it
must quit and make good its escape. In nearly all cases where machines
have been downed, it was during a fight which had been very short, and
the successful burst of fire had occurred within the space of a minute
after the beginning of actual hostilities.




CHAPTER XVIII


A new kind of enemy was meeting us now--a two-seater machine which
mounted a small cannon, or shell-firing gun. This was a sort of
“pom-pom” gun, discharging about a one-pound shell, which would either
burst upon percussion or after travelling a certain distance through
the air. Several times, while attacking machines doing artillery work,
we were surprised to see little white puffs around us, and realized
suddenly that these were small bursting shells. However, they did no
harm that I know of, and the Huns did not seem to be able to make even
decent shooting with them. The first two or three times we met up with
them they rather frightened us, and we kept away from their field of
fire, but after a little bit of experience we found there was nothing
to worry about. Their shooting was so bad the shells invariably burst
well to one side. Personally, I much preferred “pom-pom” to the wicked
rattle of a pair of machine guns pointing at me and their smoking
bullets whining by.

Day after day we chased these machines away from their work, only to
have to go out an hour later and chase them again. Sometimes we would
force them right down to the ground, and that would often finish them
for the day, but it was very seldom that anything decisive occurred.

On June 24th in the early morning, while leading a patrol, I ran into
a German pilot of exceptional quality. Another fighting patrol of ours
had been attacking him, when I saw him, and I headed in their direction
to watch the fight, but they evidently had had enough of it, and left
him. We, in our turn, took him on, and there followed an extremely hot
engagement. He managed to get into the middle of us, and it was all we
could do to keep from colliding as we attacked him. Finally, to add
to our disgust, he broke off the combat of his own sweet will just at
the moment he felt he had had enough, and dived away. As we followed,
diving after him, he would turn under us, then dive again, and repeat
this performance. It was a most trying thing. I would dive after him,
then the moment I stopped firing and pulled up to turn and watch where
he went, I would probably just miss by inches one of our own machines,
also diving at him, with his eyes on nothing but the enemy. The danger
of collision in such an attack is very great, and requires a constant
look-out.

Later in the morning I went out again, alone, and saw two enemy scouts.
I climbed up above them, and watched carefully, deciding that I would
take no chances of losing them. Finally, I discovered that they were
patrolling a given beat, and by waiting up above, at one end of this
beat, I was able, just at the moment that they turned to go back along
it again, to dive down, approaching them from behind, and come up
behind the rear one without him seeing me. I got within 20 yards of
him, and, just slightly underneath and behind, I pulled the nose of
my machine up and with very careful aim opened fire. A second later
and his machine smoked a bit, then suddenly burst into flames and fell
toward the ground. The other one had dived away from me at first, but
now climbed back to attack me. I dived at him twice, and opened fire
both times, but without result. The second time I think he was hit, but
not seriously, as he dived away and escaped, going through the clouds.

Not long after that I met three more of the enemy, and had a funny
fight with them, by worrying them from above. In the course of a number
of short dives I suddenly ran out of ammunition. They had seemed, up
to this moment, quite keen to fight, and so was I, but now I decided
I must get away somehow. I was somewhat surprised when I discovered
that at the same moment I commenced to escape, they also did. We both
noticed at the same time that the other side was willing to break it
off, and as the Hun turned to attack me behind, while I was escaping,
I turned to try to bluff him away. It worked perfectly, and the whole
three of them again turned their noses east and flew away. It had been
some time since I had brought down an enemy machine, and I hoped the
one in flames this day would change my luck for the better again. I
think it did, for in the week which followed I brought down five in all.

Victory flew with me the following day when I managed to get two more
scouts on my list. While flying alone, I saw three of them protecting
a two-seater. They were very intent upon watching their charge and had
not noticed me, so I flew away some distance and climbed well above
them, to make certain they had no machines in layer formation above.
Then I dived on the three scouts. Again I surprised the rear man, and
after twenty-five rounds, well placed, he burst into flames and went
down. The other two were at the moment turning towards me; but upon
seeing the fate of their comrade, one of them dived away and went
down near the two-seater. The other one turned to engage me. In the
short fight that followed, he got some bullets very close to me, and
I to him, but for three or four minutes neither of us seemed able to
get an appreciable advantage of the other. Then, suddenly I managed
to get a chance from an angle I knew very well, and opened fire. He
immediately dropped out of control, and I dived after him, firing as
he fell. Having finished one drum of ammunition, I had to come out
of the dive to put a new one on. The other scout and two-seater were
still in the same place, so getting above them I tried two dives, but
without result. The observer on the two-seater was doing remarkably
good shooting, and I did not like to get too close, as it seemed a poor
way to end a morning’s work by being shot down after starting so well.
Finishing my ammunition at fairly long range, I returned home.

My luck still held the next day when I found some more scouts, in
straggling formation. The rear one was slightly above the rest, which
was very much to my liking, so down I went after him. Again the
surprise was successful, and, after a short burst, out of control he
went. I was getting quite callous in doing this, and was afraid of
myself becoming careless. The only danger I ran was in the fact that
I might become careless, and if caught while creeping up behind these
people, and they had a chance to turn on me, it would be a very unhappy
position to be in. However, this time it was as successful as the rest,
and as two more scouts who were next highest seemed willing to fight,
I went down after them. As I approached, one of the two lost his nerve
and dived away. The other made a turn to come at me, but I opened fire,
with rough aim, while still a hundred yards away. It was a purely lucky
shot, and one of my bullets must have accidentally hit an important
wire in his machine, as suddenly, while doing an exceedingly quick
turn, two of his planes flew away and his machine fell in pieces.

I did not have any more luck for several days, most of my fights being
in the usual job of chasing away artillery machines--taking all the
risks, and never having a chance to get in a decent shot.

A few days later, while out in the morning, thick clouds prevented
our seeing very much. Several times, while going around or under the
clouds, I would suddenly catch sight of an enemy machine, then lose it
again a moment or two later. Once I saw a scout about 300 yards away,
but he immediately dived toward some clouds, and I could only open fire
from long range in the hope of frightening him down. Meeting up with
one of my own squadron, who was also flying alone, a few minutes later,
we discovered a machine directly underneath us. Down we both went at
him, and opened fire, but he also disappeared into a cloud, and we flew
away. Five minutes later he again appeared beneath us. Down at him we
went, but again he dug himself into the clouds.

After each fight it would be necessary to make certain where you were,
as a strong wind from the west kept blowing the machines in toward
Hunland. I had five fights in the course of the morning, but none of
them was successful or very exciting.

The next day at noon, however, I had enough excitement to last me for
some time. While on patrol and flying nearly three miles up, I saw
approaching us from the direction of Germany a fast Hun two-seater
of the enemy. I guessed at once he thought to cross our lines, and
flew to attack him. He had seen us, however, and headed in the other
direction immediately. I found I could not catch up with him, so, in
great disgust, gave up the chase; then, on thinking it over, decided
that if he had orders to cross the lines he would probably make another
attempt. So I flew well off to one side and climbed as fast as I could.
I could just see him--a speck in the distance--and could see that he
also was climbing. Finally, when he reached what he surmised was a safe
height he approached our lines again. I did not make another attempt
to stop him, hoping that he would get well across, and then I would
come between him and his own country. He saw me attempt to do this,
and evidently hoped to evade me by climbing up still higher. A height
of eighteen thousand feet was reached, and we were still climbing at
about the same pace. He went well into our territory, and I followed
at a great distance, watching carefully; then, the moment he started
for home, went after him. At 19,500 feet we approached each other. I
opened fire while coming head-on at him. He swerved slightly, and in
doing so upset my aim. If we had been lower, I would certainly have hit
him, but the great height and great cold had made my hand numb and a
little unsteady in controlling the machine. He flew across, in front of
me, and I turned with him to get in another shot. His observer’s face I
could make out, as he was firing his gun frantically at me. We passed
only about 10 yards apart, yet I was shooting so badly I did not bring
him down. Then, in holding the nose of my machine up, to get a last
shot at him, I lost too much speed, and suddenly fell several thousand
feet completely out of control. By the time I had straightened out the
enemy had escaped, and, in disgust, I rejoined the rest of the patrol
and continued to fly up and down the lines.

Just as we intended returning, I saw five of the enemy some distance
away, and underneath us, so flew over and engaged them from above. The
fight was at 7,000 feet, the height I liked the best, so I went into
it vigorously. Suddenly, while diving on a Hun machine, I heard the
rattle of a pair of machine guns just behind me. I was certain that I
had been trapped and was being fired at from a few feet behind me, so
turned quickly, just to see one of our own machines shoot by underneath
me. I continued my dive again, but the opportunity was lost, so went
down after another one of the machines. For ten minutes this fight
continued. Many times I would dive down, open fire, and then come up
and turn away, at the same time avoiding others of our machines which
were diving and firing as they came. At last I was successful. One of
the Germans seemed to be enjoying the fight and had the impudence to
loop directly under me. I happened to be diving just as he reached the
top of the loop, and as he was coming out of it I got a direct shot on
to the bottom of his machine, as it was turned upside-down. He fell out
of control and crashed on the ground underneath us.

Another machine had now joined the fight--a machine from one of our
naval squadrons stationed in France--and he also was doing very
well, as I saw a machine which he fired at fall out of control. Then
suddenly, the remainder of the Germans--they had been reinforced by
others--turned away and escaped, flying very near the ground. We
returned home, and I waved to our new acquaintance from the naval
squadron, so he followed me back to the aerodrome and landed beside me,
to tell me that he had also seen my machine crash. It turned out that
this man was the one who was leading the naval flyers and was next to
me, at that time, in the number of machines which had been brought down
by an Englishman then in France. It was his twenty-fifth machine.




CHAPTER XIX


We were greatly excited now over the fact that in a few weeks we
expected to have a new type of machine--a much faster and better one
all round. It also had two guns instead of one, which made a great
difference; so night and day we dreamt and thought of these new
machines and the time we would have when they arrived.

The next week was a quiet one, only a few Huns being seen, and the
engagements we had were short ones, at long ranges. But on the evening
of July 10th we had a most interesting time. The day had been very
cloudy, and there had been no flying. In the afternoon two of us
went off in a car to pick up some friends and bring them back to the
aerodrome in the evening. This was the day that Rachel was first found
and brought to be a member of our squadron. My flight was detailed
for a job at 7 o’clock that evening; but when that time arrived, the
clouds were so low we decided it would not be worth while going up, so
all roamed down to the tennis-court. The weather became a bit clearer
when we had finished three or four games of a set. It was part of a
tournament we were playing, and quite an interesting game was on when
suddenly a messenger came down with the news that six machines were
to leave the ground. We all ran to our machines. We were still in our
white flannels, and dressed more for comfort than a fight in the air.
There was no time to change, however, so into the machines we crawled
and started aloft. The Major, deciding there must be some excitement in
the air, otherwise we would not have been sent out, decided to follow
us.

Twenty minutes after we had been told on the tennis-court that a job
was on hand, we sighted some Huns flying slightly above us. It was
now a wonderful evening, everything clear as crystal, and one could
not but feel that such a thing as a German should not be allowed in
the sky, to spoil the beauty of the dying day. So, regardless of
position or tactics of any kind, I led straight into the German
formation. They were evidently a new squadron on that part of the
front. They were flying machines of a bright green--machines which
I had never seen before. However, they were no more courageous than
most of their comrades, and when they saw us coming, although they had
every advantage, they turned to go the other way. We cut them off,
and managed to come in partly underneath them. There were twelve of
them and seven of us, counting the Major, who had followed us into
the fight, and a merry mix-up began at once. Several times I became
entirely separated from the rest, and was in a very dangerous position.
Once, after chasing one of the Huns for a moment, I turned, to find
another one coming down directly at me, so I pulled up my nose to fire
straight at him. The same moment a third Hun came diving at me from
the side. He had an excellent shot, and knowing I could not shoot at
him at the moment, on he came. I felt I was certainly in a very tight
corner, when suddenly, with a flash of silver above me and the rattle
of a machine gun, I saw my Major’s machine go dead at the German. It
was a wonderful sight. The Hun quickly turned away, and at the same
time the other man who was attacking me turned also. I then lost sight
of the Major, but continued in the whirlwind of the fight. Round and
round each other the whole lot of us went, like a lot of sparrows in a
great whirlwind. Suddenly one of the Germans appeared just in front of
me, and I opened fire dead at him. Down he went out of control, and I
turned to engage some more, but after a few minutes they all dived away.

The people at home on the aerodrome were now having a most exciting
time. A little over half an hour after the patrol had left the ground
they saw a silver Nieuport come streaking home. It landed, and they
could see by the number that it was the Major’s machine. They went up
to him, and he quietly crawled out and spoke to the people around him,
saying that there was a big fight on over the lines, and we were all
in the middle of it. He then turned and walked to the office, where he
telephoned to report that he had been in a fight. Then, sending for
the medical orderly, informed him he had a “scratch.”

The medical orderly almost fainted when he saw blood pouring down the
Major’s sleeve. It turned out that when he had been diving to save
me, a chance bullet from one of the Huns, who was sitting safely at
the edge of the fight, had struck his machine, actually hitting the
switch, where it exploded, one fragment of it entering his forearm and
going right up above the elbow. It made a very nasty wound indeed. The
bullet, as well as smashing the switch and his arm, had done other
damage, destroying several instruments and breaking an oil-indicator.
The moment he realized that he had been hit, the Major carefully set
about with his other arm to turn off the oil and adjust the switch, so
that it would work properly. It was a delicate job, and all the time he
was bleeding freely. Then it was necessary to get clear of the fight.
This, of course, is a difficult thing to do at the best of times, but
in a case like the Major’s it would have seemed almost impossible.
Luck, however, favoured him, for at just that moment a chance came,
and he took it. He slipped away towards our lines and, losing height,
came toward home. The next thing he feared was the fact that he might
faint in the air from loss of blood, so, terrified of this, he held
his arm over the side in the cold air, and that partially stopped the
bleeding. He then came down and landed.

As I have said, the people at home were having a most exciting time.
The sudden leaving of the rest of us for a job over the lines had been
quite a dramatic affair, and now, as they sat on the ground, first
appeared one of the machines, back in half an hour, with its pilot
wounded, then not a sign of the rest for what seemed a very long time.
They wondered if we had all been shot down, or what in the world could
have happened. However, in an hour and a half the rest of us were back.
We had been looking carefully, in the hope that we would find some more
of the enemy, but had only seen two of them, which we were unable to
catch up with. We did not know what had happened to the Major until we
landed, by which time he had gone to the hospital. Four days later we
were all pleased to see him back on the job again, although, of course,
unable to fly. He had been operated on, but to lie in bed in a hospital
was agony for him, so, slipping away, he managed to get back to the
aerodrome, where he stayed. A few weeks later, unfortunately for us, he
was promoted to the rank of colonel, and left. The squadron felt very
badly at his loss for some time, and only the fact that the man who
took his place was also of the same calibre ever reconciled us to it at
all.

The Huns seemed now to be concentrating a lot of flying in the
evenings. Every evening, when we went out, we were certain of a fight,
and usually a long fight, sometimes lasting as long as half an hour,
and on one occasion lasting for three-quarters of an hour. These fights
were always referred to as “dog fights,” as it nearly always meant just
dashing in, then out again and in again, and never really doing any
harm, yet always in a terrible sort of mix-up.

On July 12th I was successful in coming up behind some Huns and
managed to get another one down--crashed. Then, for several days, I had
no more luck, although combats were numerous. On one occasion I was
nearly caught in a bad trap, when, on following a machine, I suddenly
saw about twenty more trying to close in around me. I left off the
chase, and got out just in time.

Almost every evening we would find well-laid traps set for us, and it
required careful manœuvring and tactics to avoid falling into them.
Several times, indeed, we did, and it took a lot of trouble to get out
safely. Four or five Huns would come along, and we would engage them;
then, while having a “dog fight,” suddenly as many as fifteen to twenty
more would appear from all angles and join in the fight. This thing
happened every day, and the Huns were evidently out to get us. They
were devoting every energy to it, and if the men in the air had been as
determined as the people on the ground who ordered them to go out, we
would have had a more difficult time of it.

One evening, while out, I managed to surprise a Hun, and got within 15
feet of his tail plane before I opened fire. Just a few shots, and he
burst into flames, and fell. His companion did not stay, and managed to
escape from me, diving vertically toward the ground. I shoved the nose
of my machine down until it was pointing vertically as well, opening
fire on him as the two of us dived; but his was a heavier machine than
mine, and it fell faster, so he rapidly increased the distance between
us, with the result that I was left behind. Coming out of my dive, I
headed in a homeward direction. On the way, I saw a large “dog fight”
going on, as many as twenty-five machines being engaged in it. I flew
over to the mêlée as fast as I could reach it, afraid as usual that
it would be over before I could get there; but luck was with me, as I
managed to catch, on the edge of the fight, an enemy who was trying to
attack one of our machines. He did not see me, and was flying straight
away, so the shot was an easy one and could not be missed. I opened
fire, and he fell out of control. Then, unable to watch him down, I
went on to the other combats. Later, some of the other people reported
they had seen him strike the earth, crash, and burst into flames; so
there was not much doubt as to his fate.

This “dog fight” lasted for twenty minutes after I had joined it.
Several times the only intimation I had that anyone was firing on me
would be the streaks of smoke as some bullets had passed near by.
Sometimes the shooting would be so bad it would be over a hundred yards
away; at other times within ten feet of me. But owing to the rapid way
in which one manœuvres during such a fight, it was a very difficult
thing to hit a man. The excitement of the fight, and the fact that
it is necessary to watch all the time to avoid colliding with your
friends, does not give one time to think of the danger of being hit,
and, to tell the truth, you do not realize that these little streaks of
smoke which go by you are really deadly bullets.

The next day, while out, I tried to surprise three of the enemy, but
failed, and found it necessary to engage the top one. I was slightly
under him, and it was a difficult proposition. However, I managed to
get as close as 50 yards and opened fire. The other two were now so
near me that I felt it unhealthy to concentrate my attention altogether
on one. For a few minutes, then, I had it rather warm. Every time one
would begin to fire at me, I would switch the nose of my machine in
his direction and fire a few bullets at random. This would make him
turn away for a second. Then I would switch it to another. Suddenly
an opportunity for escape presented itself. I took it as quickly as
it came, and managed to get clean away. I then flew higher, and later
found two more of the enemy, flying together. Again I decided to try
a surprise, and this time was successful. Thirty yards away I got my
sights well in line with a point on the enemy machine which would mean
that I was going to hit the pilot, and I pulled the trigger. A moment
later his machine side-slipped, turned completely over on its back, and
then went down. Anxious to make it a double success, I turned to catch
his comrade, but he had decided to escape, and was 300 yards away.
I fired a few shots at him, just to hurry him up, and then turned
to watch the machine I had brought down. It was still falling out of
control, and away below me I saw it tumbling like a piece of paper
thrown from a high window. Eventually it disappeared through the clouds.

I did not have any feeling of compunction in cases like this. The
idea of killing was, of course, always against my nature, but for two
reasons I did not mind it: one, and the greater one, of course, being
that it was another Hun down, and so much more good done in the war;
secondly, it was paying back some of the debts I owed the Huns for
robbing me of the best friends possible. Then, too, in the air one did
not altogether feel the human side of it. As I have said before, it was
not like killing a man so much as just bringing down a bird in sport.

In going into a fight now, I felt none of those thrills which I used
to feel at first. I was quite cool and collected, but probably did not
enjoy it as much as I did in the days when a certain amount of anxiety
and fear was felt just before the fight started. But the moment my
machine gun commenced to fire, I felt the old feeling of exultation,
and this always remained with me throughout the whole of every fight I
have had.




CHAPTER XX


The new machines were almost ready now and at any time we were to use
them, but in the meantime I was working hard with my Nieuport. One
day at noon, while out alone, I came as near being brought down as
it was possible to be. There were very few machines in the sky, and
about a thousand feet above some clouds I saw three of the Huns. If I
had followed my old tactics, I would have carefully gone far away and
climbed to high above them, then come down from that direction; but I
suppose “familiarity breeds contempt,” and I imagine I was getting a
little careless. Anyway, I had not the patience this time to waste all
of those minutes, so I climbed straight up at them. It meant that I was
going much slower than I would otherwise have been, with the dive. They
were out of a squadron--I could tell by their markings--that I had
often before attacked, and probably before I had seen them they had
seen me.

They let me come on up underneath them, knowing that I would not fire
until I was at very close range. Then, when I was about 100 yards away
and some 100 feet below, the whole three of them turned on me. I did
not even have time to attempt an escape; the whole three were diving
at me at once, all firing. It was an awkward moment, so I pulled
my machine back and fired straight at one of them; then, switching
quickly, I gave a burst to another. By this time the third was down to
my level, so, turning, I faced him and opened fire. He “zoomed” up and
reached several hundred feet above me, from where he dived again. It
was a terrible moment, and I could not think how to escape, as they had
the most favourable positions from which to attack me, and no danger of
anybody worrying them while they were doing it.

Then suddenly I realized that the clouds were only a thousand feet
below me, and even less by this time, as I had been losing height, so
with a kick of my rudder I threw my machine suddenly out of control,
and let it stay out of control until I was enveloped in a soft, white,
fleecy cloud. Here I knew that it was hopeless to try to regain
control, so I waited. I must have gone through the clouds for over
a thousand feet--it seemed years and years. I was terrified that it
might be a thick, thick cloud, all the way down to the ground. However,
suddenly I saw things appearing, and underneath me was the ground. I
was in a spinning nose-dive, but it was easy to recover control, and I
flattened away and flew straight back to the aerodrome. It was a lesson
to me, and, strange to say, the last occasion upon which I had a good
opportunity to try that stunt, as a few days later we went on to the
new machines.

When our first job on the new machines came, it was a great moment for
me. I felt that at last the time had arrived when I could really do
some good work, so went after it with my heart altogether on it.

On our first job we were told we must not cross the lines--only just
stay on them, and chase anything away. You can imagine how pleased I
was, after carefully getting up to the required height, and feeling
this wonderful, new, high-powered machine under me, suddenly to see
an enemy machine on our side. I gave chase, but it slipped across the
lines when I was only half a mile away. I was very much annoyed to be
unable to follow it.

To get on these new machines, after the old ones, made one feel that
all you had to do was to open fire on any old enemy at all--just get
near enough to him to do that--and he was bound to be yours. As a
matter of fact it was almost that easy, and the strenuous days of
fighting that I had experienced on a Nieuport were really gone. The new
job was much less of work and much more of pleasure.

Then my disgust was great when the weather became bad, and stayed that
way for three days. However, by this time I had been able to get my
machine into better order, and was keener for a fight than I had ever
been before.

I went out alone as soon as the weather was fit, and after patrolling
over the enemy territory for several hours I saw one two-seater at a
tremendous height. I could not get quite up to him, but when a thousand
feet underneath, I pulled my machine back until it pointed straight up,
and fired that way. I did this twice, but both times failed to do any
damage. We had then reached so far into enemy territory that I thought
it advisable to return home, so turned and came back. The anti-aircraft
fire seemed to be absolutely nothing to worry about, compared to what
it had been in the slower machine. We were twenty-five miles an hour
faster, and it made a great difference. The shells seemed all to burst
behind me, and far away. I felt that all the risk had gone, and that I
was now in for a real good time in France.

On the 28th of the month I went out in the evening to do a patrol, just
on the German side of the lines. Faithfully I stayed at this place for
over an hour, but then it became more than I could stand, as there was
not a German machine in sight. I decided to take a look in Hunland. I
flew about fifteen miles in before I saw a single German, and then,
well off to one side, there were three of them. I did not care whether
they had seen me or not; all I wanted to do was to get right into the
middle of them and mix it up, so I came straight at them. They had
seen me, however, and one, detaching himself from the rest, came in my
direction. He came straight at me, and we approached head on, both of
us with our engines in front, and both firing two guns. I could see
his bullets streaking by about 5 feet to the left of me, and mine, as
I watched them through my sights, seemed to be making better shooting.
He suddenly swerved, but I managed to get into a favourable position
behind him in the course of one or two turns, and again opened fire.
This time I was altogether successful, as his machine suddenly burst
into flames. The others had kept well away, and were now escaping as
fast as they could. I did my best to catch one up, and if we had only
been a little higher would have done so, but I felt I was getting too
close to the ground that distance behind the lines, so opening fire
from long range, I shot away about 100 rounds, then turned and headed
toward home. It was my first Hun shot down in this new type of machine,
and the first in the squadron.

Late one evening I went out again in a Nieuport, and got mixed up in a
bad “dog fight.” It lasted for three-quarters of an hour, and during
that whole time I don’t think fifteen seconds went by that I did not
have to turn my machine sharply in one direction or another, or do some
other manœuvre.

While engaging a few machines at the top of the fight, I saw underneath
me a Nieuport, evidently in difficulty in the middle of a lot of Huns,
so with one other of my squadron I started down to him, fighting
all the way and striving for nothing but to frighten the Huns off,
in order that we could get there in time to help our man. He seemed
to be fighting very well, as his machine was turning around to the
left, banking vertically, and turning very quickly. At 12,000 feet we
started this, but by the time we had reached him he was 500 feet from
the ground. I had long ago wondered what was the matter, as he was
going down almost as fast as we could come down to him. I could not
understand why he did not see us, and in some way realize that if he
stayed there a moment we would be down to help him; but instead his
machine kept turning, doing a left-hand spiral, and going down rapidly.
At 1,000 feet from him we managed to frighten away the two Huns, who
were both engaging him. Then, turning to clear the fight, I looked over
my shoulder to see if he was following; but no--he was still in the
spiral. I was afraid, for the moment, that he thought I was another
Hun, so went off to one side for a bit, but he continued spiralling,
and realizing that something was very wrong, I flew back toward him.

Just at that moment his machine spiralled straight into the ground,
a few hundred feet underneath me. I made two or three turns over the
spot, regardless of the fight above me, to determine whether or not
he had been badly hurt, but could not see. I expected, every moment,
some people to come running up and work at the smashed machine to get
him out, but there was no sign of anybody moving. The other Nieuport
that had come down with me was lower than I was, and the idea seemed
to come to both of us, as the country appeared smooth enough, to land
and see what was wrong. We both thought we were well this side of our
own lines, as the trenches could be seen about three-quarters of a
mile to the east of us. Picking out a smooth piece of ground just near
the smashed machine, I came down to glide on to it. Then, hearing the
crackle of rifles and machine guns around, I put my engine on again
and turned away, cursing the people on the ground for firing at me,
thinking all the time it was our own troops making a mistake. I had now
come down to a height of several hundred feet, and suddenly saw German
uniforms in a small hollow in the ground underneath me. It was a narrow
escape, as both of us might have landed there and quietly been taken
prisoners, without ever having a chance to escape.

A few days later I learned that in this particular place the people
holding the line were not in trenches, but in outposts, practically in
the open field, and the line of trenches behind them was the Hindenburg
line, where the Germans evidently intended retreating, when necessary.

Almost every one of my fights in the new machine were successful. Three
of us went out early one Sunday morning, when the sun, shining from
the east on a thick ground-mist, made it very difficult to see. Clouds
were also in the sky, making it impossible to go above 7,000 feet. Our
new type of machines were evidently greatly feared by the Germans,
as the moment we approached the lines, two two-seaters of the enemy,
while just specks in the distance, were obviously signalled to from the
ground, for they immediately dived straight down and did not return.
This happened again fifteen minutes later, when we sighted another of
the artillery machines. They were terrified of this type, and would not
stay to fight us.

Then suddenly I saw four enemy scouts, and at the same moment they saw
us. They approached, obviously with the intention of attacking us,
but when only 300 yards away recognized the machines we were flying,
and turned away quickly. They had been looking for easier prey, and
were not very anxious for battle. We went after them, though, and
owing to our superior speed were able to catch up with them. Into the
middle of them we went, and there followed a merry scrap. One of our
trio, by some misfortune, got mixed up in a bad position, as he was
not seen again, and must have been shot down. The other man’s guns had
both jammed at the beginning of the fight, and he was so furious at
this bad luck that for several minutes he stayed in the fight, just to
bluff the Huns. Then one of them made it a little nasty for him, and
it was necessary to escape. Back to the lines he went, making short
dashes of 100 yards every now and then, two Huns following him all the
way, and firing at him as he went, but owing to pure good flying and
clever manœuvring he was able to avoid even having his machine hit.
Then, on looking back from the lines, he saw the fight going on some
distance over, and realizing that I was alone in the middle of it he
came back all that way, without either of his guns in working order.
I referred to this in an earlier part of my book, and I still think
it one of the bravest deeds I have ever heard of, as he had a hard
time getting back to me, and then also in escaping a second time. He
returned to the aerodrome, landed, had his guns fixed, and immediately
hastened out again in the hope he would be able to help me.

[Illustration:

                                            Canadian Official Photograph

Remains of a Hun Two-seater, brought down in flames.]

I, for my part, was having the time of my life. The rattle of my two
machine guns was too much for the Huns, altogether. They did not like
it at all. I was above the whole lot of them, the original four having
been joined by three others now, and they were trying to separate
enough so that one or two of their number could get to one side, then
climb up and get on top of me. But the moment one of them would begin
to go over to one side I would begin to climb, until I would point my
nose in his direction, and, flying at wonderful speed, shoot across
there, opening fire with rough aim, and down he would dive under the
rest. This actually went on for fifteen minutes, during which time
another of the enemy came along, and seeing only one British machine in
all those Huns, felt safe in attacking me. I opened fire on him with my
two guns, and the rattle of them again was sufficient. He did not even
return the fire, but dived down and got under the other seven.

After this had gone on about ten minutes, I realized that actually
to bring them down I must do better shooting, so picking out the one
which was higher than the rest, I concentrated on him and got within
50 yards of him, when I opened fire. He immediately turned over on
his back, righted himself, turned over on his back again, and then
fell completely out of control. The others I was unable to get, but
continued in the fight in the hope that I would be more successful.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see a heavy thunderstorm coming up
from the direction of the aerodrome. I had to keep my mind on this, as
I realized that it was a matter of judging just how long I could keep
up the fight before I must make a break for it. At last I decided I
had better go, so after a final survey of my “docile children,” who
seemed to be just sitting under my thumb, I picked out the two or three
highest ones and pointed my nose in their direction, on which they
dropped down obediently. Then, seizing the opportunity, I dashed away
and escaped. They must have been very furious indeed and it must have
been bad for the morale of the German infantrymen and gunners on the
ground to look up and see one British machine on top of all these Huns,
holding them absolutely under his dominion. I reached the aerodrome ten
minutes before the thunderstorm broke.

Bad weather then held again for over a week, and it was impossible to
fly at all. The evening that it cleared up I was leading my patrol--all
of us on the new machines--when I sighted eight of the enemy two miles
the other side of the lines. It was just a half-hour before dark, and
the light was very bad. I put my engine full on, and headed in their
direction. My machine being slightly faster than the remainder of my
patrol, I managed to get a bit ahead of them, and carefully picking
out the leader of the enemy formation, opened on him. After I had fired
about twenty rounds, he turned completely around and headed under me.
I turned my sights on to another of his formation, and tried to catch
him. Then, over my shoulder, I suddenly saw the machine I had first
fired at burst into flames in a most extraordinary way. It happened
quite near two of the rest of my patrol, and incidentally rather
frightened them, as the machine, which had been smoking slightly,
suddenly burst into the whitest flame and fell to the ground, like
a ball of livid fire. The man had evidently not been killed, as the
machine was not falling out of control, but diving almost vertically
toward the ground. Several times, out of the corner of my eye, I
glanced at it as it still fell. Probably it was the bad light that
made the flames show so white, but the glare was seen for twenty miles
around by people on the ground.

I then made an acquaintance whom I grew to know quite well during the
next week or so. It was a silver machine, with small black crosses on
it. The pilot had carefully painted his machine, as the silver had been
put on to represent the scales of a fish, and covered his planes as
well as the body of his machine. During this fight he caused me a lot
of worry. Several times I was just able to concentrate on one or two
others, when this flying fish would butt in, and force me to a great
deal of manœuvring to escape him. Over and over again, while under me,
he would pull up his nose and open fire. I would then point my nose
down and open back at him, and he would turn away. This was his one
weakness--he would not come head on; so I tried that bluff whenever he
began to fire at me.

It was well that I knew this during the fights which followed in the
next week. In the middle of this fight both of my guns suddenly jammed,
and I could not get them to work. I struggled with them, all the time
manœuvring around so that I would not be hit myself. One of the enemy,
besides the silver man, had noticed that my guns would not fire, and
the two of them came at me and came right up close on one occasion.
Just as they did this I managed to get my guns to work, and opened
fire, sending the second man down out of control. Old “Silversides,”
however, had been too wily even to get near the range of my guns, and
did nothing but cause me a lot of worry. It was getting dark now, and
time to break off the fight, so I decided to escape. Once again the
silver fellow came butting in. Every time I would turn toward the
lines, he would come at me and open fire. I would dart across his
sights, giving him a hard shot, then suddenly turn as if I were going
to fire at him. He would turn the nose of his machine away immediately,
and I would have a chance again to make a dart for the front. In this
way I managed to reach the lines, where he left me. I then returned
home, with two more machines to my credit.

The next machine I got was the fortieth aeroplane I had brought down,
and, counting my two balloons, my forty-second victory. I had gone
out in the morning, about half-past eight, and there did not seem to
be many aeroplanes in the sky. I saw a single-seater some distance in
toward Germany, and went in after him. He was, however, no picnic. The
pilot was one of the very best. Several times we almost got shots at
each other, but never a good one. Finally, I opened fire at random, and
was greatly surprised to see him go into a spinning dive, but it looked
suspicious, and I watched. A little below me he regained control. I
dived vertically after him, but was diving too fast, so shot right by
him, and he turned away and tried to escape, diving in the opposite
direction. I had a second dive after him, but he again went into a
spin, even before I had opened fire, and continued spinning straight
into the clouds, where I lost him. I had the comfort, however, of
knowing that he was not very happy in that spin, as all the time he was
going down I was rattling away at him with my guns.

Fifteen minutes later I brought down that fortieth machine. I had seen
a two-seater at a tremendous height above me, just a speck in the
sky. I was not sure at the moment whether he was British or German,
and decided, as there was nothing more interesting, to fly in his
direction. He was about two miles our side of the lines, and I imagine
now that he was busy taking photographs. When I was about a mile away
he saw me, and headed for home. I was still 2,000 feet underneath him,
and, owing to climbing, was not approaching very fast. However, he did
the thing I wished for most of all--he put his nose down to lose height
and gain more speed. I was much faster than he was, so I flew level. In
a few minutes he had reached my level, and was still losing height. We
were now four or five miles inside his own lines, and I was also losing
height slightly to gain greater speed. Finally, I managed to get partly
into the blind spot underneath his tail, and was rather amused at the
observer firing away merrily all the time at me, even when he could
hardly see me. I decided to stay there for a minute, in the hope that
his gun would jam, or something of that sort happen. Then I proposed
to dash in and finish him off at close range. But we travelled on
another two miles without anything happening, and had now come down to
6,000 feet. It was getting too low for my liking, and we were too far
from home, so opening my machine full out I shot in to 75 yards from
him, and fired. One burst did the trick, and he began falling in every
conceivable sort of way. I rather hoped he would go into flames or
fall to pieces, but nothing of that sort occurred, and finally, in a
spinning nose-dive, he crashed into a field.

Then I had one of the nastiest times of my life--the return trip home.
At 6,000 feet I started. Every anti-aircraft gun in the neighbourhood
opened fire at me, and they did some wonderful shooting that day.
Everywhere I turned there seemed to be huge shells bursting. Several
times I heard the little “plank” as they hit my machine in some place,
and once quite a large piece struck a plane. I decided that I would
lose still more height, in order to come home at a tremendous pace,
but in my excitement had forgotten which way the wind was blowing, and
have later decided that that was why I was such an easy mark. I was
going straight into the teeth of a forty-mile gale, and consequently my
speed was much slower than I thought it was. The “Archie” people seemed
to have gone mad, or anxious to use up all the ammunition they had in
France; anyway, the air was black with bursting shells, and after I had
finally reached the lines I looked back, and for five miles could see
a path of black smoke from the shells which had been fired at me. They
must have fired 500 in all, but luckily I was still intact.

One day, just at this time, I had truly a wonderful surprise. It had
been a very rainy day, and as there was no flying I went over to lunch
with a cousin of mine, who was stationed only three miles away. After
luncheon I returned, and upon seeing my new squadron commander went up
to speak to him. He told me that the General in command of the Flying
Corps had been trying to get me on the telephone, and said he wanted
to speak to me when I came in. I could not imagine why so important a
person as the General should want to speak to little “me,” but rang
him up. My cup of happiness overflowed when he told me that he wanted
to be the first to congratulate me upon being awarded the Victoria
Cross.




CHAPTER XXI


I could hardly hold myself down after hearing the great news.

Walking across the aerodrome to the squadron headquarters, which was
stationed on the other side, I had tea with the men there and then came
back. The next night we had a big celebration in the way of a dinner,
and managed to collect guests who came quite big distances to be there.
It was a wonderful success, lasting until after midnight, and several
of our guests remained all night and returned early the next morning.

I had a most exciting fight soon after this. The Germans seemed to know
my machine, which I had had specially marked with red, white, and blue
paint, and in nearly every fight I found that many attempts were made
to trap me. Several times I had very narrow escapes in getting away,
but always managed at the last moment to squeeze out of it.

It was while flying just under the clouds, I suspected a trap, as the
machine with which I was fighting did not seem particularly anxious
to come to close quarters, so pulled my machine back and “zoomed” up
through the clouds. The layer was very thin, and I suddenly emerged in
the blue sky on the upper side, and just as I did so, I saw the last of
a group of German scouts diving vertically. A little to one side there
was a huge black burst of German high explosive. The whole thing was
obvious to me at once. The pilot under the clouds had led me to this
particular spot, while the people above had been signalled when to dive
through to get me.

My revenge was very sweet, because in the heat of the moment, not
minding the odds, I dived after them. I came out to find them still
diving in front of me, so being not far from one machine, and directly
behind it, I opened fire with both guns. It did not need careful
shooting; the man went down, never knowing he was hit, continuing his
dive straight into the ground. I then pulled up and climbed back into
the clouds, and over them, and got away without even a bullet-hole in
my machine.

That same afternoon I had several more fights, and ran up against my
silver friend again. He was a most persistent rascal, although not very
brave in actual fight, and would never leave me alone when I was trying
to quit a combat. Several times he followed me right back over our own
side of the lines, firing every chance he could get. But even when he
was fairly certain my guns were not working, he would not come to close
quarters, which, however, was probably lucky for me. He was not a good
shot from long range, but the next day he managed to get underneath one
of our machines and shot it about quite badly, causing it to return at
once and land, seriously damaged.

Several indecisive fights took place about this time, much on the same
lines as many others I have described; each one as exciting as the
others, but much the same story, both sides ending by breaking off the
combats and returning. Several times we lost pilots, and also several
times others of the squadron shot down enemy machines.

The weather was very bad for some time after this, and although we
prayed and prayed for just a few days to get a chance to fight, each
morning would find us more restless and worked up because there did not
seem to be a chance to get into the air at all.

I was especially keen at this time to fly every moment that was
possible, because I had learned a few days before that I would probably
be returned to England shortly, for a job there of some sort. I was
not at all keen on this, but being a soldier it was not, of course, my
opinion that counted, and my work was simply to do as I was told, and
to go where I was sent.

One evening I fell into a very nasty trap indeed, just at dusk. I
had suddenly seen a single machine of the enemy in front of me, and
slightly below. It seemed too good to be true, and I should have known
that there was something funny about it; however, down I went on top
of him, but somehow missed with my first burst of fire. He dived away
a bit and I kept on after him, but by continually diving he kept just
out of my reach. This started at 10,000 feet down, and I finally found
myself at 2,000 feet, and well in the enemy territory. Then, at last,
I suspected a trap, and looked about to see what was likely to happen.
Sure enough, from above enemy machines were coming down after me, so I
turned toward my own lines. There in front of me were twelve more of
the Huns. This left nothing to do but turn back and fly farther into
enemy territory. This I did, losing height so as to increase my speed.
Along I went, with the whole swarm behind. It was lucky for me that my
machine was so much faster than theirs. I had to zigzag in my course
until I was a least 400 yards in the lead of their first machine, then
I flew straight. Dusk was coming on, and I was late and worried as to
what to do.

However, there was no advantage in giving in, so I went on as fast as I
could tear. I was terrified that I would meet another patrol, but after
I had gone about twenty miles straight east, I realized the chance
for that was very slight, and this comforted me a great deal. But I
was still worried as to how I was to get home, as I knew they would
wait higher up for me if I climbed. As dusk settled down, I managed
to shake off the pack and get completely out of their sight. Then I
climbed steadily and turned back toward our own lines. It was light
in the upper sky, but quite dark near the ground, and I was at least
thirty miles over the German lines. I was never so mad in my life, the
annoying part being that such a simple little trick had fooled me into
getting into such a nasty position. I had to fly by compass in the
approximate direction of home, and just as I reached the lines sighted
a lighthouse which I knew, flashing in the dusk. I was happy then and
able to land in the last five minutes of light. If I had been just that
much later, it would have meant a bad crash landing, for I would have
had no idea as to the exact spot where the aerodrome was; but luck was
with me still, and I came down without even straining a wire of my
machine.

I was disgusted with myself, as it was a bad show, taken all around,
and so mad that I would not hand in a report to tell the shameful tale
on me.

The day that I learned I was likely to return to England I went out
in the evening, and in a very short space of time crammed in a lot
of excitement. Flying around beneath the clouds, I had been unable
for a time to find anything to fight. There was a complete layer of
clouds all over the sky, and this made flying in enemy territory very
difficult. The dark sky was such a good background the anti-aircraft
guns could pick you out with great accuracy. I forgot about such
troubles quickly when I saw several of the enemy some five miles on
their side of the lines. Wanting to surprise them, I climbed up to the
clouds and then through them. At first I went into what seemed a very
sullen cloud, with dark grey and heavy mist all about me, the view
being limited to a space of 10 feet. As I climbed higher up, the colour
grew lighter and lighter until at last above me was nothing but blue
sky and sunshine. The top of the clouds was as flat as a table. It
looked as if one could land on it and sit there all day.

I kept flying along, carefully watching my compass to get the correct
direction, also gazing at the beautiful cloud-pictures around me,
when suddenly, just above, I heard the old wicked rattle of a pair of
machine guns. Pulling up, I looked about and saw coming down straight
on me from in front, three enemy scouts. The leader, to my great joy,
I recognized as the man who had trapped me so badly in the fight just
told of. He was well ahead of the other two, who were trailing behind
him, and I knew, if I could only shoot well, I would have a chance to
get him without being worried by the others, until they could reach
the fight. On we came, head on, both firing as fast as we could. I saw
his smoking bullets going streaking by about 4 feet above my head, and
what annoyed me a bit was the fact that they were passing that spot in
a well-concentrated group, showing that he had his shooting well in
hand and was quite cool. I have never fired with more care in my life.
I took sight on the engine of his machine, knowing, if I hit it, some
of the bullets would slide along its edge and get the pilot, who was
just behind. On we came toward each other, at tremendous speed. I could
see my bullets hitting his machine, and at the same instant his bullets
scattered badly, so it was obvious he had become nervous and was not
shooting as well as before. Suddenly he swerved, and tried to pass
slightly to my left. I kept going straight at him, firing both guns.
My bullets were all around the pilot’s seat by this time and seemed to
be hitting him. The next machine had come in now, firing at me, and
too near for me to turn after the first one, so I turned toward the
second Hun. My third opponent did not like the look of the fight, and
kept well off to one side, diving away to escape a few seconds later.
I looked over my shoulder to see what was happening to the first man,
and was overjoyed to see his machine, a mass of flames and smoke, just
commencing to fall. The second man I manœuvred with, doing almost two
complete turns before being able to get in the shot I wanted. Then
there was no trouble at all. With the first round he also burst into
flames, and fell, following the other through the clouds. I looked
for the third man, who had just dived away, anxious to wipe out the
whole crowd. I dived after him. Down through the clouds we plunged,
and, emerging, I saw he was well out of my reach, so I turned to watch
my two victims. They were both falling within a thousand feet of each
other, two flaming masses, crashing in death to the earth.

In a few days I was to go on another leave to England, so I put in
every moment that I could in the air, trying to increase the number of
machines to my credit. In this way, one evening, I came upon three,
and managed to surprise them in the old way that I had done so often
when I was flying a Nieuport. I dived on the rear and highest one, but
found I did not have the patience to crawl up to my usual range. Two
guns hardly made it necessary as before, so I opened fire at a little
over 100 yards. As in the old days, there was no second stage to it at
all--down he went completely out of control; and I stayed above, the
other two having escaped, and watched him falling 8,000 feet.

This was my forty-fifth victory, and the next day I had my forty-sixth
and forty-seventh, in two fights shortly following one another.

It was the evening before I was to leave for England, and, to my great
disgust, I had been unable to catch sight of a single German. So I flew
north to watch a Canadian attack at Lens. There was a great battle
going on, and for fifteen minutes I watched it raging. Then, chancing
to look up above me, I saw a two-seater of the enemy coming toward our
lines. It really seemed to be just a godsend, so I went straight at him
almost head on--that is, coming up slightly from below, but in front
of him. I fired at him as I came, and as no result appeared, when I
was 100 yards away, I dived and came up, pointing my nose straight up
into the sky, as he flew across over me. Then I fired again. Suddenly
the planes on one side of the Hun appeared to break and fall back, then
to sweep away entirely, and the machine fell in fragments. It was not
a nice sight. I had evidently hit the machine in a lucky place, which
had caused it to break, but in all probability the occupants were still
alive. However, it was not for me to pity them at that stage of the
game, and I could not put them out of their misery, so I remained above
and watched them fall.

Two scouts had appeared just before I attacked this two-seater, but
when I went toward them they had flown away. A minute later I saw
them flying toward me. They did not want to fight, though, and turned
away, heading in an easterly direction. The range was too far for me
to open fire, so I chased them a bit, a distance of about two miles.
They managed to keep 300 yards away, and as the wind was blowing
me into Germany at the rate of sixty miles an hour, besides my own
speed, I decided it was not worth while. Before leaving off the chase
I thought I might as well send a few shots after them, as it might
be my last chance to fight in France. I took very careful aim on the
rear machine and opened fire. The Hun suddenly went into a spinning
nose-dive and fell toward earth. I did not think for a moment I had
hit him at that range, but watched to see just what game the German was
playing. Down he went all the way from 13,000 feet to the ground, and
crashed--a complete wreck. A lucky bullet must have hit the pilot and
killed him instantly. It was indeed my last fight in France, and the
next day I went to England on leave, and also to attend an investiture
at Buckingham Palace, at which I was to receive the whole three of my
decorations.




CHAPTER XXII


When I left the aerodrome to start for England I had a vague feeling I
would not be back again. I had heard nothing more about my transfer,
but the very fact that there was a great deal of uncertainty made me
anxious, and I remember, when leaving the old place, turning around
to have a last look at it. I was lucky to find a car going all the
way to Boulogne that day, and with four others, one of whom was going
back to England for good, made the trip. On the way we stopped at a
village where there was a famous farm for French police-dogs. We spent
an interesting hour there, while the French lady who owned the dogs
showed us all around her beautiful place. The dogs were of all ages,
from two-weeks old puppies to full French champions. We left there just
in time to reach Boulogne for luncheon--my last meal in France, as I
managed to catch a boat for England at 2 o’clock.

Eight o’clock that night saw me in London, and I was certainly glad
to get there. At 9 o’clock I was in the middle of a big dinner, given
by several of my friends, after which we went to a dance. It seemed
years since I had been near London, and every sight and every sound was
joyful to me. A few days later, though, I left town and went to the
country.

About this time word came through that I was not going back to France.
I was very disappointed. I reported for duty, but was given a few
weeks’ more leave in which to rest up. During this time I went to
the investiture by the King. I had, on the previous day, received a
telegram of instructions, telling me to report at Buckingham Palace
at 10.30 in the morning dressed in service uniform. At 10.10 I was
there, not wishing to be behind time on such an occasion, and realizing
I had better find out before it happened just what was expected of
me. Walking into the Palace I came to a hat-stand, where everybody
was checking things. I handed in my hat, gloves, and stick, whereupon
I was told to hang on to the gloves, wearing one on my left hand
and carrying the other. Then, following a number of other officers,
also there to be decorated, I came to a room in which a General was
standing. I asked him where I was to go, and he asked me what I was
getting. I began the long rigmarole of V.C., D.S.O., and M.C., but
before I had finished he told me to go in with the D.S.O.s, as I was
the only V.C. So I slipped away into a room where there were about 150
other officers. After waiting there for over half an hour, another
General came in, and gave us explicit instructions as to what to do in
the King’s presence. It was a terrible moment for all of us.

Finally, the doors opened and we were headed toward the room in which
the King was standing with his staff. Following some Generals and
Colonels, who were being admitted to the Order of St. Michael and St.
George, it came my turn to march in. I knew my instructions well. Ten
yards across to the middle of the room, and then a turn to the left and
bow. Imagine my consternation, when, at the first of those ten paces,
one of my boots began to squeak. Somehow or other I managed to get to
the proper place, where I was facing His Majesty. Here I had to listen
to an account of my own deeds, read by one of the staff, while I myself
stood stiffly at attention. Then, approaching the King, he hooked three
medals on my breast. These had been handed to him on a cushion. He
congratulated me on winning them, and said it was the first time he had
been able to give all three to any one person.

After a short, one-sided conversation, in which my only attempt to
speak failed utterly, although all I was trying to say was “Yes, sir,”
he shook hands with me, and I bowed and backed away, turning and
walking thirty squeaky paces to a door in the corner of the room. The
moment I reached the outside of this door I thought I had been thrown
into the arms of a highway robber. A man suddenly stepped from one
side, and before I could stop him had snatched the three glittering
medals off my chest, and was fifteen yards ahead of me on the way down
the hall before I realized what had happened. I took after him, not
knowing what to do, but he picked up three boxes from a table, put the
medals in, and handed them back to me. Then he returned to meet the
next man coming out, who incidentally was a great friend of mine and
also in the Flying Corps. The next thing to be feared was the crowd at
the Palace gates, and the photographers. Luckily, I had a car waiting
in the enclosure, and thus managed to evade everybody.

A week later I was promoted to the rank of Major, and also learned
that I had been awarded a bar to my Distinguished Service Order
ribbon. Good news, like bad luck, never comes singly. A few days after
that I heard I had been granted permission to go home to Canada for
a visit. The notice was short, but within eighteen hours I had made
all arrangements, and was on a train to catch the boat sailing from
Liverpool next day. Within two weeks I was home.


THE END


       _Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,
                        London and Aylesbury._




Transcriber’s Notes


Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs
and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support
hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to
the corresponding illustrations.

Page 1: “Missisauga” was printed that way.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75637 ***