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 someday 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 realised it was a machine upside down. The wingtips 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 recognised 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 “headhunter” 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 nine 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 manoeuvre 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 telltale 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 three 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 ten-thousand 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 windscreen just in front of me. This was too much, so leaving my pursuit of the first machine, I turned and paid attention to number two. Hun number one, 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, however, 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.