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 today 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 warflying. The clouds were very thick this day and rolled under us at times in great cumulous 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 recognise 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 Communique: “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 50 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 today 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 realised 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 realised 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 further 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 50-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 eleven 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 schoolmate 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.