|
“I am afraid these letters are awfully full of my own
‘shows,’
but none of the other chaps will tell me about theirs, so I
can’t
describe them to you; however, it’s much the same for all of
us.
Please forgive me, and don’t think it’s swank!
“There are
rumours that leave is going to start again soon, so I
hope to see you in
a few weeks.”
One day in early June General Allenby, then commanding the
3rd Army,
was to inspect the squadron at nine o’clock in the morning.
The
squadron commander had gone out by himself in his Nieuport at
dawn,
unshaved, in pyjamas, a Burberry, bedroom slippers and snowboots,
a
costume which many of us used to affect on the dawn patrol. The line
was
unusually quiet that morning, so he ventured almost to Douai,
and on turning
west saw a formation of eight or nine machines over
Vis-en-Artois, near the
front line, well below him at about 8,000 feet.
They turned, and the sun
glinting on the fuselage showed a bright flash
of red. This meant that they
were Huns, and not only Huns but “the
Circus.” Having the advantage of
height, and as the formation was very
near the line, he determined to try and
do a little damage. He flew
towards them from the east and from the sun, and
diving on the top
machine, fired a burst and pulled sharply up, being careful
to retain
his height. After a few dives of this kind without doing much
apparent
damage, an S.E.5 patrol of 56, which had seen the scrap, bustled
up,
and a very pretty “dog-fight” ensued, in the course of which one
of
the Huns detached himself from the melee and appeared to be going
home.
This was the Nieuport’s opportunity, so, hardening his heart, he
dived right
in, making good shooting. The Albatros appeared to take no
notice, but flew
straight on. (In parenthesis it may be observed that
this is a good sign, as
it usually means the pilot is dead, for if the
opposing machine begins to
perform frantic evolutions, the pilot is as
a rule very much alive, and not
in the least “out of control.”) Flushed
with excitement, the Nieuport man put
the stick (control column)
between his knees, and going down on the tail of
the Albatros, began
to put a fresh drum of ammunition on to his Lewis gun,
with which alone
this type of machine was armed. While thus busily engaged
something
made him turn his head to see about twenty yards behind him the
white
nose of a grim-looking Albatros. Swifter than thought the Nieuport
was
wrenched to the right, and even as she turned the Albatros’s
Spandau
guns spat out a burst, which riddled the engine and cut the
bottom
out of the petrol tank, allowing all the remaining petrol to
pour
on to the pilot’s feet. The height of both machines at this
moment
was about 5,000 feet, the locality just east of
Monchy-le-Preux,
and but for the attentions of the Boche machine it would
have been
comparatively easy for the Nieuport to glide back to Arras and
perch
on one of our advanced landing grounds, or on the race-course;
but
with a bloodthirsty Hun on one’s tail and a dead engine, the
problem,
however, was not such a simple one. Twisting and turning like a
snipe,
the Nieuport began to descend, taking care to make his turns as
much
as possible towards our side of the line. Mercifully the wind was
from
the east. Close behind followed the Albatros, firing short bursts
at
frequent intervals, but always wide, because it is not easy to hit
a
machine whose pilot knows you are there. It was a stout Hun,
however,
who would not be denied, but continued the chase down to 300 feet,
a
few hundred yards west of Monchy-le-Preux, when he suddenly turned
and
flew home to report, no doubt, a British machine destroyed. With
a
gasp of relief the Nieuport pilot turned his attention to the
ground,
and, seeing nothing but shell-holes beneath him, made up his mind
that
a crash was inevitable. Suddenly a strip of ground about a
hundred
yards long and very narrow, but free from shell-holes, caught his
eye,
and, putting in a couple of “S” turns, he made a good slow landing.
The
machine ran on and had almost stopped when a shell-hole appeared,
and
she ran very gently into it without doing any damage whatever.
A
couple of dusty gunners walked up and before speaking produced a
packet of
Woodbines, one of which the Nieuport pilot greedily took
and lit. Inquiries
showed that an advanced anti-aircraft section was
near-by, where the
officer-in-charge gave the airman breakfast and,
better still, produced a
telephone, with the help of which he got into
communication with his
squadron, and ordered a car to come straight
through Arras and up the Cambrai
road. It was getting late, and an Army
Commander’s inspection was not a thing
to be treated lightly. Further
inquiries disclosed an Artillery Ammunition
Column in a little valley
who lent him a horse and an orderly. There was no
saddle, but the pilot
climbed gratefully on to the animal, which had very
rough paces and a
hard mouth, and set out towards the road. In a short time
he met the
car and drove furiously through Arras and back to Le Hameau, only
to
see Allenby, the R.F.C. Brigade Commander (General J. R. Higgins),
and
George Pretyman arriving at the station. His costume being hardly
that
prescribed for inspections, the wretched officer dived into his
hut,
did the quickest shave on record, and timidly approached the
glittering
cortege.
Everyone was furious with him except General
Allenby, who was rather
amused and very kind. He got, however, a
well-deserved and proper
“telling-off” from the Brigadier and Wing Commander,
and saw the troupe
depart with a feeling of profound relief.
The
account of this scrap has been given at some length, but it should
not be
assumed that it was in any way exceptional. It should be
remembered that
during the squadron’s history there have been about
1,500 distinct combats in
the air, all of which deserve a detailed
description. Within the limits of a
book of this kind, however, it
cannot be done.
[Illustration: THE HARD
TENNIS-COURT AT FILESCAMP FARM, MAY 1917.]
[Illustration: 60 SQUADRON’S
NIEUPORT SCOUTS LINED UP IN THE SNOW AT LE
HAMEAU AERODROME, NEAR ARRAS
JANUARY 1917.]
We made a hard tennis-court in Tetus’s orchard with red
_pierre de
fosse_ from the Bruay mines, and discovered that Caldwell,
Molesworth,
Horn, and both Lloyds were all good tennis players. With the
beginning
of June things quietened down on the 3rd Army front. Colonel
Pretyman,
O.C. 13th Wing, put the squadron on to wireless interception. This
term
needs, perhaps, a little explanation. Everyone knows, of course,
that
both German and British artillery observation machines were fitted
with
wireless sets, by means of which the pilots corrected the shooting
of
the gunners for whom they were observing.
These wireless messages
were “tapped” by our compass stations, and it
was discovered that two of
these stations could get a cross-bearing
on any machines registering for the
enemy artillery. By linking up
the compass station with an aerodrome by
telephone, it was possible
to send off a patrol of scouts to chase off or
destroy the artillery
machine as soon as he began to send down fire signals,
i.e. as soon as
he was actually directing the fire of the enemy batteries.
This was
useful, though exhausting work for pilots; for the Hun, who did
his
registration chiefly in the morning, when the sun was behind him in
the
east, usually saw the scouts coming before they saw him, and turned
and
dived three or four miles back behind his own lines, where it was
very
difficult to attack him, even if he was visible, which usually he
was
not, as our scouts were looking for a machine at five or six
thousand
feet in a certain place, whereas it was probably at that moment at
a
height of 1,500 feet some five miles east of the bearing given. As
soon,
therefore, as the scouts, seeing nothing, turned back to return
to the
aerodrome, the Hun swung up again and resumed his registration.
The British
pilots, on returning to their aerodrome, would find an
irate squadron
commander who had just got a telephone message from the
compass station to
say that V.K., or whatever the call sign used by
that particular machine
might be, was working again quite happily, and,
“What the devil was 60’s
patrol doing, anyhow?” Off the wretched patrol
had to go again, only to go
through the same performance. It is only
fair to say, however, that they did
get a good many two-seaters in this
way, though the main result was, perhaps,
seen rather in the enormously
decreased amount of artillery observation the
Germans were enabled to
do, than in hostile artillery machines shot down by
us.
This work, however, was genuinely exhausting, as in order
efficiently
to answer the compass calls, as they were termed, three or four
pilots
always had to be standing by to leap into their machines and be off
the
ground, in formation, inside of two minutes. Nevertheless, they
became
extraordinarily smart at this manœuvre, and answered to the
hunting
horn--doubled blasts of which were the signal at that time--as
keenly
as a fashionable pack of foxhounds. Only those who know how
irritating
a thing an aero engine can be when you are in a hurry to start
can
appreciate the high standard of efficiency attained by 60’s
mechanics,
which made it almost a certainty that the 120 seconds limit would
not
be exceeded.
The next few paragraphs will show how this manœuvre
struck one of the
pilots at this time:
“60 SQUADRON
R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_July
1917_.
“The tennis-court we made three months ago is now in
topping
condition, so we decided to get up a tournament amongst
ourselves.
Yesterday we drew lots for partners. The unlucky lad who drew
me
is a ‘coloured troop,’ that is he hails from South Africa. He
is
quite good at the ‘Willies,’[24] and so I think we have got a
fair
chance. I expect you wonder where all these weird names come
from.
They are invented by one of our flight commanders, who is also
a
‘coloured troop’ and one of the leading lights of the squadron.
All
jobs are washed out to-day as the weather is ‘dud,’ so two of
us
are going over this afternoon to the village near-by to
purchase
articles of furniture for the ‘Hotel de
Commerce.’
“You will be pleased to hear that we are getting a new
kind of
grid. It is supposed to be a good deal faster than the Hun,
and
can dive to 300 miles an hour, so I’m told. We shall probably
have
a quiet time while we are getting used to them, and only do
‘line
patrols’ for the first fortnight or so. A French ‘Ace’[25]
landed
here to-day; he says the Huns are getting a pretty bad time
down
south. Jolly glad I’m not a Hun airman these days, with men
up
against me like some of our chaps. Most of them are fairly
old
hands at the game now, and we are really beginning to
properly
annoy our friends across the way. The work has been fairly
hard
lately: two patrols in the morning, one generally at dawn and
the
other about noon, with ‘wireless interruption’ in the
afternoon.
The latter is rather a strenuous job. This is how we work it:
When
a Hun two-seater begins to register on any part of our front,
a
telephone message, giving his height and locality, is
immediately
sent through to the wireless squadron. Each scout squadron
in
the wing takes it in turn. As soon as the Recording
Officer[26]
receives the message, he sounds a horn. Three of us who
are
standing by in readiness immediately jump into our machines,
and
the leader gets hold of the position and height of the Hun.
Then
we push off as quickly as possible to the lines, and a sort
of
‘hide-and-seek’ begins. We try if possible to hide in the
clouds
and approach the Hun when he is off his guard. He, on the
other
hand, departs hurriedly into Hunland when he spots us, and as
soon
as we go he comes back to carry on his job. We then turn on
him
again, but he is off like a flash, and so it goes on until the
next
three machines relieve us. It is really quite amusing at
times,
and, although we do not often bring our man down, we give
him
such a devil of a time that he hasn’t much of it to spare for
his
companions on the ground. Our ‘stunt merchant’[27] is good at
this
game, and continues to add to his score, seldom coming back
without
firing his red light. He works by himself a lot now, preferring
to
surprise the Hun by hiding rather than by trying to get him in
a
scrap. Wish I could do the same. I always feel so fagged after
a
patrol, that I haven’t got the energy or the patience to sit up
in
the clouds waiting for a chance to bag a ‘lone Hun.’
“You
remember the petrol tank which was so shot up the time I was
brought
down? Well, I am having it made into a topping inkstand.
The souvenirs
are coming in in fine style, and I hope to have quite
a good collection
by the time I see dear old ‘Blighty’ again.”
After the battle had died
down the sorely tried pilots were given,
whenever possible, one day’s rest in
three, and the following letter
shows that the device was
appreciated:
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F.,
FRANCE.
“_June 1917._
“It is funny hearing the war
again after being on leave so long. We
had quite a good crossing,
although I had a deuce of a time getting
on to the boat at Folkestone.
The silly ass of a porter had carted
all my baggage on board, including
the leave warrant, which was
in my British-warm pocket. I had to persuade
the A.M.L.O.[28] I
wasn’t a Hun spy, and, after a long discussion, he let
me on.
“The Major seemed pleased to have me back, and they all had
great
stories to tell about our ‘stunt merchant,’[29] who had
been
putting up a jolly good show by bringing down umpteen[30] Huns.
His
star turn was the shooting up of an aerodrome. He started off
at
dawn by himself and arrived over the aerodrome he had planned
to
attack. Finding that there was nothing doing here, he pushed off
to
look for trouble elsewhere. Suddenly he saw the hangars of
another
aerodrome. He attacked these with much gusto, and when the
Huns
came up to do him down, he crashed two of them and drove
another
into the trees. He also managed to flatten out a large number
of
mechanics and put pukka wind up the rest. You can imagine how
the
fat old Huns ran, as nothing like this had ever happened to
them
before. I believe his name has been put in for something big in
the
decoration line.
“It has been arranged that we get one day
off in every three,
which gives us a bit of spare time. We had ours off
to-day. Four
of us aviated over to Paris-Plage, near Etaples, this
afternoon
and tested our grids by firing into the sea. Afterwards we
landed
opposite the Hotel Continental and left our machines there under
a
guard. We wandered about the village for a bit, and then
started
for home, stunting[31] about to amuse the populace, which
had
collected on the front to see us off. We all got home safely
just
as it was getting dark.”
CHAPTER
IV
PASSCHENDALE AND THE NORTHERN BATTLES
The centre of
interest had now (June 1917) shifted to the North. The
Messines Ridge had
been taken, though we heard nothing of it till it
was over, and many of the
Hun _Jagdstaffeln_, as their scout squadrons
were called, had moved up to
Flanders.
On July 22, Scott, who had been wounded in the arm a few days
before,
was promoted wing commander and sent to the XI or Army Wing of
the
2nd Brigade allotted to the 2nd Army in the Ypres sector. C.
K.
Cochrane-Patrick, D.S.O., M.C., who had been doing brilliantly in
23
Squadron on Spads, succeeded to the command of 60, who were at
that
time being re-equipped with 150 h.p. S.E.5s, this being the newest
type
of scouts, as the Nieuports were by then rather out of date.
Not
quite so much fighting was done during July and August, as the
change of
machines from an air-cooled rotary engine (the 110 h.p.
Le Rhone which had
served us so well) to a 150 h.p. water-cooled
stationary (the Hispano Suisa)
naturally took some getting used to.
These machines were again replaced in
late August with 200 h.p.
Hispano Suisa S.E.5s, which, though a more powerful
engine than the
150 h.p., was much more difficult to keep serviceable.
Nevertheless,
Bishop (who was soon posted to Home Establishment--H.E., as the
R.F.C.
called it), Caldwell, Rutherford, W. Jenkins (afterwards killed in
a
collision with West-Thompson over Poperinghe), Molesworth, M.C. and
bar,
Hall, S. B. Horn, M.C. (whose dog Lobo was a squadron pet), and
G. Lloyd,
M.C. (who was promoted to captain and sent to 40 Squadron as
flight
commander), were all distinguishing themselves and adding to the
squadron’s
laurels.
In the following extract Molesworth again graphically describes
a fight
in which he was very nearly killed:
“60 SQUADRON
R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_June
1917._
“Yesterday I had the narrowest shave I’ve ever had since I
first
started Boche-strafing. I was properly caught out this time,
and
really thought things were all up.
“We were just over the
Drocourt Switch,[32] near Vitry, when a
dozen Huns got what you might
call ‘uppish.’ We tumbled into a
proper mix-up and, as there were only
five of us, the Huns managed
to break up our formation. We had arranged
that, should this
happen, we were to return to the line independently and
re-form,
so I started towards Arras, following the
Scarpe.[33]
“Just as I was passing over Gavrelle I espied three fat
Hun
two-seaters making south-east.
“‘Here we are, my son,’
says I to myself. ‘We’ll just hop down and
put the gust[34] up one of
these Huns.’
“No sooner said than done. I pushed my nose down and,
when within
range, opened fire. The next thing I knew was a perfect
hail
of bullets pouring round me. Here is a rough description of
my
thoughts during the few minutes that followed:
“Crackle!
crackle! crackle!
“‘My cheery aunt! There’s a Hun on my
tail.’
“‘By jove! The blighter is making my grid into a sieve.
Confound
him!’
“‘Let’s pull her up in a good climbing turn and
have a look at him.’
“‘Heavens! It’s “the
Circus.”’[35]
“‘I wonder if old Richthof is the leader. The dirty dog
nearly
caught me out this time. Silly ass! didn’t hold his fire
long
enough, or he’d have made me into cold meat by
now.’
“‘Let’s give him a dose and see how he likes
it.’
“‘Here he comes straight at me, loosing off with both
guns.’
“‘I hope we aren’t going to collide.’
“‘Missed!
Bon! Everything’s A1. Wish I’d hit him, though!’
“‘I must pull her
round quick or he will be on my tail.’
“‘Hang! I can’t shoot for
toffee, but he’s pretty “dud,” too, thank
heavens!’
“‘Once
again, boys, round with her. Let him have it hot.’
“‘No good. Try
again.’
“‘Confound it! There’s my beastly drum empty. I must spin
and
change it.’
“‘Good enough! Now where’s the
blighter?’
“‘My Harry! He has got me stiff this time; here he comes
down on me
from the right.’
“Crack! crack! crack! bang! zip!
zip!
“‘There goes my petrol tank; now for the
flames.’
“‘Cheero! No luck this time, you old swine. Wait till I get
you
next show.’
“‘Here goes for the
ground.’
“Luckily for me, my friend and his pals, who had been
watching the
scrap, thought I was done for. They therefore chucked up the
sponge
and departed.
“I managed to pull the machine out, just
scraping over the
trenches. The engine was still running, although the
petrol was
pouring out all over my legs. A few minutes afterwards
the
engine conked out altogether, and I had to land in a field. I
was
immediately surrounded by a crowd of men, who had seen the
fight.
Amongst them were some artillery officers, who took me off to
their
mess and offered me a ‘tot,’ which was very thankfully
received,
while they sent off a message to the squadron. The following is
the
official list of damage done to my machine:
“Six bullet
holes in propeller.
“Cowling[36] shot away.
“Large holes
in bottom of petrol tank and sides.
“Main spar[37] right-hand top
plane broken.
“Rear right-hand under-carriage strut badly
damaged.
“Twenty-eight holes in fuselage[38] and ten in the
planes--two
or three missing the pilot’s seat by less than an
inch.”
During the 3rd Corps’ attack on August 19, 1917, Lieuts.
Jenkins,
Steele, Thompson, Rutherford, and Sergt. Bancroft did good
work
shooting up infantry in trenches and by harassing the troops
assembling
for counter-attacks.
On September 7, 1917, the squadron was
moved up to the XI Wing to
help in the battles for the Passchendale Ridge,
which were already
in full swing. Leaving the comfortable Filescamp station
and the
hard tennis-court with great regret, they were moved into tents
on
Marie Capelle aerodrome, near Cassel, where 20 Squadron was
already
stationed. The 2nd and 5th Armies were then attacking almost
every
day, and 60, in addition to their ordinary work of offensive
patrols,
wireless interception, etc., co-operated by low flying and firing
at
troops and transport on the ground. Twenty-five-pound Cooper bombs
were
carried at this time and dropped on suitable targets.
Capt.
Chidlaw-Roberts, Lieuts. Rutherford, Whiting, and I. Macgregor
were now
prominent, while Patrick, himself a brilliant fighter, was
always ready to
give his squadron a lead.
Chidlaw-Roberts got a lot of Huns during
September, and Caldwell and
W. Jenkins continued their successes of the
summer, while J. Crompton,
Young, Capt. Hammersley, Lieut. W. Sherwood, and
2/Lieut. Carter were
others who were conspicuous during the October
fighting.
It was in September that Capt. J. K. Law, one of the sons of
Mr. Bonar
Law (another of whose sons had already been killed in
Mesopotamia),
joined at Marie Capelle. He was a tiger to fight, and, had he
come
through his first month, would probably have made a great name
for
himself. He did several “shows” over the line, and his machine was
shot
about badly in every one of them. On September 21, a patrol
operating
in the neighbourhood of Roulers, led by Hammersley and
including
Whiting and Macgregor and Law, saw twenty-four hostile machines
and
engaged eight of them. A general engagement took place, in the
course
of which Law was shot down and killed. He had absolutely refused
to
stay any longer at home, where he was doing most useful work
training
pilots, but insisted on being sent to France.
Life was less
easy during the autumn, as the Boche had begun
continually to send over
night-bombing machines. Our scouts were not
very successful in dealing with
them, for it is very difficult to see
another machine in the air at night
even though it may be visible from
the ground; and, although several attempts
were made at this time by
70 and 29 Squadrons, stationed at Poperinghe, to
attack these night
bombers, they never succeeded in engaging one. The chief
difficulty was
that one could not ask pilots and mechanics to work all night
as well
as all day. If it had been possible to take a scout squadron or
two
off day work and set them to deal only with the German night
bombers,
there is little doubt but that they would have achieved some
measure
of success in spite of the shortage of searchlights. The
authorities,
however, would not hear of this, as there was too much to be
done by
day to spare one of our none too numerous fighter squadrons for
night
work. Much later in the war, July 1918 to be exact, 151 Squadron
was
sent out equipped with Camels fitted for night flying, and this
squadron
alone very nearly exterminated the Boche night bombers
on the 1st and 3rd
Army fronts. It was in this squadron that D. V.
Armstrong added so greatly to
the reputation he had already gained,
and it was with them that he was
killed. As things were, however, in
1917 the enemy dropped their bombs
nightly almost with impunity, as
anti-aircraft fire was not very effective at
night, and machine-gun
fire from the ground was useless against machines
which rarely flew
lower than 5,000 feet.
During this autumn series of
battles a somewhat novel system of
message-dropping was tried. All scout
pilots were ordered to carry
cards conveniently fixed in the nacelle, on
which they wrote such
information as they had secured during low-flying
patrols; special
attention was to be given to the massing of enemy supporting
troops
and to the development of counter-attacks, the symptoms of which
were
the approach to the “debussing”[39] points of motor transport
vehicles
or trains from which troops could be seen disembarking and forming
up.
These cards were slipped into a message bag and dropped in a
field
marked with a white cross, near Locre Chateau, not far from the
line,
which was the 2nd Army report centre. The information thus
given
occasionally enabled our heavy artillery to direct their fire on to
the
targets indicated. On one occasion, in October, a pilot reported a
big
gun being moved along a road near Menin; the Corps heavies opened
on
it within ten minutes of the message being dropped, and another
pilot
of another squadron reported, half an hour later, a heavy gun at
the
same place to have been destroyed by a direct hit. Information of
this
kind was very necessary, as the German policy at that time was to
hold
their front line positions lightly against our initial assaults, but
to
counter-attack very strongly and swiftly about two hours or so
after
our first attack had been delivered.
Lieuts. F. Soden, W.
Rutherford, and W. Duncan all distinguished
themselves by giving accurate
information during these battles, while
Selous, a son of the big-game hunter,
was also proving himself to be a
fine patrol leader and
Hun-getter.
The last-named--the worthy son of a famous father--was killed
on
January 4, 1918, while leading his patrol. He dived at some
enemy
machines several thousand feet below, and in the middle of his
dive,
the speed of which the other members of the patrol estimated at
not
less than 300 miles per hour, the wings of his S.E.5 came right
off.
As good a flight commander as ever we had, he was a very great
loss
to the squadron. Without, perhaps, the brilliance of Ball or
Bishop
he, like Caldwell, Summers, Armstrong, Hammersley,
Chidlaw-Roberts,
Belgrave, and Scholte, to name a few only of the best,
played always
for the squadron, and not for his own hand. He took endless
pains to
enter young pilots to the game, watching them on their first patrols
as
a good and patient huntsman watches his young hounds.
The character
of Selous, like those whom I have mentioned, not to speak
of many others whom
their comrades will remember, attained very nearly
to the ideal of a
gentleman’s character as described by Burke, Newman,
and Cavendish in the
extracts given below, for which I am indebted
to a report by Lord Hugh Cecil
on the education of the future R.A.F.
officer. These noble sentiments so
fully describe the kind of man the
British love and admire that it is perhaps
not inappropriate to quote
them:
“_Character of a
Gentleman_
“But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters,
economists,
and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe
is
extinguished for ever. Never, never more shall we behold
that
generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission,
that
dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which
kept
alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted
freedom.
The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the
nurse
of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone,
that
sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt
a
stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it
mitigated
ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which
vice
itself lost half its evil, by losing all its
grossness.
“This mixed system of opinion and sentiment had its origin
in
the ancient chivalry; and the principle, though varied in
its
appearance by the varying state of human affairs, subsisted
and
influenced through a long succession of generations, even
to
the time we live in. If it should ever be totally
extinguished,
the loss, I fear, will be great. It is this which has given
its
character to modern Europe. It is this which has distinguished
it
under all its forms of government, and distinguished it to
its
advantage, from the states of Asia, and possibly from those
states
which flourished in the most brilliant periods of the
antique
world. It was this which, without confounding ranks, had
produced
a noble equality, and handed it down through all the
gradations
of social life. It was this opinion which mitigated kings
into
companions, and raised private men to be fellows with
kings.
Without force or opposition, it subdued the fierceness of pride
and
power; it obliged sovereigns to submit to the soft collar of
social
esteem, compelled stern authority to submit to elegance, and gave
a
dominating vanquisher of laws to be subdued by
manners.”
(BURKE: _Reflections on the Revolution in
France_.)
* * * * *
“Hence it
is that it is almost a definition of a gentleman to
say that he is one
who never inflicts pain. This description
is both refined and, as far as
it goes, accurate. He is mainly
occupied in merely removing the obstacles
which hinder the free
and unembarrassed action of those about him; and he
concurs with
their movements rather than takes the initiative himself.
His
benefits may be considered as parallel to what are called
comforts
or conveniences in arrangements of a personal nature: like
an
easy-chair or a good fire, which do their part in dispelling
cold
and fatigue, though nature provides both means of rest and
animal
heat without them. The true gentleman in like manner
carefully
avoids whatever may cause a jar or a jolt in the minds of
those
with whom he is cast--all clashing of opinion or collision
of
feeling, all restraint or suspicion, or gloom, or
resentment;
his great concern being to make everyone at their ease and
at
home. He has his eyes on all his company; he is tender
towards
the bashful, gentle towards the distant, and merciful towards
the
absurd; he can recollect to whom he is speaking; he guards
against
unseasonable allusions, or topics which may irritate; he is
seldom
prominent in conversation and never wearisome. He makes light
of
favours when he does them, and seems to be receiving when he
is
conferring. He never speaks of himself except when compelled,
never
defends himself by a mere retort; he has no ears for slander
or
gossip, is scrupulous in imputing motives to those who
interfere
with him, and interprets everything for the best. He is
never
mean or little in his disputes, never takes unfair
advantage,
never mistakes personalities or sharp sayings for arguments,
or
insinuates evil which he dare not say out. From a
long-sighted
prudence he observes the maxim of the ancient sage, that we
should
ever conduct ourselves towards our enemy as if he were one
day
to be our friend. He has too much good sense to be affronted
at
insults, he is too well employed to remember injuries, and
too
indolent to bear malice. He is patient, forbearing, and
resigned,
on philosophical principles; he submits to pain, because it
is
inevitable, to bereavement, because it is irreparable, and
to
death, because it is his destiny. If he engages in
controversy
of any kind, his disciplined intellect preserves him from
the
blundering discourtesy of better, perhaps, but less educated
minds;
who, like blunt weapons, tear and hack instead of cutting
clean,
who mistake the point in argument, waste their strength on
trifles,
misconceive their adversary, and leave the question more
involved
than they find it. He may be right or wrong in his opinion,
but
he is too clear-headed to be unjust; he is as simple as he
is
forcible, and as brief as he is decisive. Nowhere shall we
find
greater candour, consideration, indulgence: he throws himself
into
the minds of his opponents, he accounts for their mistakes.
He
knows the weakness of human reason as well as its strength,
its
province, and its limits. If he be an unbeliever, he will be
too
profound and large-minded to ridicule religion or to act
against
it; he is too wise to be a dogmatist or fanatic in his
infidelity.
He respects piety and devotion; he even supports institutions
as
venerable, beautiful, or useful, to which he does not assent;
he
honours the ministers of religion, and it contents him to
decline
its mysteries without assailing or denouncing them. He is a
friend
of religious toleration, and that, not only because his
philosophy
has taught him to look on all forms of faith with an impartial
eye,
but also from the gentleness and effeminacy of feeling which is
the
attendant on civilisation.”
(NEWMAN: _Idea of a
University_, Discourse VIII, Section 10.)
* * *
* *
“He has besides the principle of common honesty, which
would
prevent him from doing wrong, a principle of nice honour,
which
will always urge him to do right. By honour I do not mean
a
fashionable mistaken principle which would only lead a man to
court
popular reputation and avoid popular disgrace, whether the
opinion
upon which they are founded is false or true; whether the
conduct
which they require is in itself just or unjust, or its
consequences
hurtful or beneficial to mankind. I mean a quality which is
not
satisfied with doing right when it is merely the
alternative
of wrong; which prompts a man to do what he might lawfully
and
honestly leave undone; which distinguishes a thousand
different
shades in what is generally denominated the same colour, and is
as
much superior to a mere conformity to prescribed rules as
forgiving
a debt is to paying what we owe.”
(LORD JOHN
CAVENDISH: From speech proposing Mr. Thos. Tounshend
for Speaker,
1770. _Parliamentary History_, vol. xvi, col.
737, A.D.
1770.)
On November 8, Pope, an old member of the squadron, who had
come
through the Arras battle with us, destroyed two hostile
two-seaters
in one day. This was a good pilot and a popular officer, who for
some
reason was a long time before he began to get Huns, but, having
once
found his form, became a very useful and formidable fighter. He
went
home soon after this, and showed himself to be an exceptionally
gifted
trainer of pilots, both in flying and fighting.
On November 20
the Cambrai attack was launched by the 1st and 3rd
Armies, and the pressure
in the air on the Passchendale sector became
sensibly less. This meant that
the low-flying patrols, which were extra
to the ordinary O.P. work, ceased
for the time being, a relief which
was very welcome because low flying was
never popular, the pilot being
not only exposed to very severe fire from the
ground, but also, being
so low, was at a disadvantage when meeting enemy
machines, who could
dive upon him at their leisure, and frequently availed
themselves of
this privilege.
By this time they had made themselves
quite comfortable at Marie
Capelle, and the necessary precautions had been
taken to give
protection against bombs. It is really remarkable how soon a
good
squadron will make itself at home in a new station, and how, if
all
ranks work together, messes, recreation rooms, and a theatre rise
up
like pumpkins. Sixty could always make themselves comfortable, as
the
following extracts from the letters of 2/Lieut. R. W. Maclennan
will show.
These letters have been collected and published, after
Maclennan’s death from
wounds on December 23, 1917, by his father, a
well-known Toronto barrister,
who has courteously allowed them to be
reprinted. They describe his arrival
at the squadron from the base:
“60 SQUADRON
R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_November 28,
1917._
“When the tender came we collected our kit and started on a
long
cold ride to the aerodrome, which we reached in three-quarters
of
an hour. The first thing was to report to the squadron commander,
a
captain who last summer had been one of my instructors. He was
in
temporary command in the absence of the Major, who was on
leave,
but has since returned. When we went to the mess we ran into
a
lot more of Central Flying School boys, who had been there in
our
time. There are about twenty-four officers in the squadron,
and
more than half of these are Canadians, so I feel quite at home.
As
a new-comer I shall not get much flying during the first
fortnight.
I shall do all I can round the aerodrome for practice, so that
when
the time comes for me to go over the line I shall know
something
about it.
“Of all the S.E.5 squadrons in France, we
seem to have struck the
best. It is one which has done exceedingly well
in the past. Both
the late Captain Ball and Major Bishop belonged to it,
and there
have been fewer casualties than in any other similar
squadron.[40]
Having had so few, the chaps have been in the game a long
time, and
so have had wide experience, and this is bound to be of
inestimable
benefit to new people. The aerodrome is a good twenty miles
behind
the line, and is practically immune from shell fire. None
have
landed anywhere near for months.
“You ought to see our
quarters. I share a hut with three others and
we have lots of room. The
huts are like half a barrel laid on the
ground; the curved roof is
corrugated iron and the ends are wood.
We have several tables,
comfortable chairs, our camp beds, and
innumerable rugs on the floor. A
coal stove and an oil stove give
plenty of heat, and petrol lamps give
excellent light. I have not
had such comfortable permanent quarters since
leaving Canada, and
yet we are within sound range of the guns, which
never cease. I was
able to bring over practically every article of kit I
possessed. An
infantry officer would have had to leave nine-tenths of it
behind.
“One great comfort is that here we can wear just exactly what
we
like. We can come to breakfast in pyjamas and wear
comfortable
old clothes all day long. Puttees I am discarding for good,
and
in their place will wear long stockings. They have always been
an
abomination, as their tightness stops circulation and induces
cold.
We do not wear belts and can fly in sweaters. In fact, it will be
a
long summer holiday with lots of excitement thrown in. Leave
comes
round every three months, and lasts for fourteen
days.”
* * * * *
“60
SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_December
2, 1917_.
“To add to the comfort of the mess, besides dogs, we have a
fairly
good piano and a gramophone. Every time anyone goes on leave
he
brings back a few records, and the collection is now quite
large.
“The hours for actual flying are of necessity short on account
of
the shortness of daylight. Consequently we get lots of time
for
exercise, most of which consists in kicking a Rugby ball
around
the aerodrome. It is about the best way of keeping warm in
these
cold days.
“Our tenders frequently run to St. Omer and
even as far as
Boulogne, so when not flying there are chances of seeing
these
places. It does seem funny to be able to go from practically
the
trenches to Boulogne (within sight of England) almost any time
we
want to. We in the R.F.C. are about the only people who can do
this.
“When artillery horses are in need of rest, they are sent back
from
the front line. We have two or three at the squadron, and I
shall
probably get some riding if I can pluck up courage enough to
try.
“It is bound to be muddy here before the winter is over; at
present
everything is dry. In preparation for later we have
‘duck-boards,’
or wooden slat-walks, laid down between all the huts, the
mess, the
hangars, etc. On a dark night it is rather a problem to keep
on
these boards. This reminds me that my little pocket flash lamp
is
almost indispensable out here.
“All the heavy labour in
this part of France is now being done by
Chinese coolies, brought
specially from China for this purpose.
They are enlisted as soldiers and
wear a peculiar blue padded
uniform. They are employed around the
aerodrome levelling ground,
putting sand-bags about the huts as a
protection against bombs,
making roads and paths, etc. They are terribly
interested in our
phonograph, and if we leave the door open they almost
come in. To
keep them out, the interpreter has painted a large sign in
Chinese
characters, and it sticks up in front of the mess and gives
it
quite an Oriental appearance.
“Moving picture shows are
given every night or so in a Church Army
hut in the camp. We had several
good films last night. It hardly
seems at all like war
yet.”
* * * *
*
“FRANCE,
“_December 3,
1917_.
“I am still merely watching operations from the ground. Two
fresh
pilots have been posted to the squadron since Hemsworth and
I
arrived, and we shall probably commence flying to-morrow if
the
weather is suitable.
“Great interest is being shown out
here in the coming general
election in Canada, and the authorities are
endeavouring to have
every Canadian register his vote. Quite contrary to
army precedent
and regulations, the authorities are openly urging
everyone to vote
against Laurier. Most of us share this view, but it is
interesting
to see the officials of an army in the field canvassing votes
for
one party.
“The Canadians are no longer near us. I imagine
they needed a rest
badly after their recent push.
“You ought
to see our strength in dogs. The squadron boasts sixteen
canines at
present. The officers’ mess possesses five. We are very
proud of them.
Besides these, we have six pigs and twenty-five
hens. There is no
shortage of eggs about the mess.”
* * * *
*
“FRANCE,
“_December 9,
1917_.
“Since last Sunday I have been waiting, waiting, waiting for
a
flight, and not till last Thursday did I get it. The day
was
cloudy and the visibility poor. Hemsworth and I were to have
a
practice flight, and we spent about twenty minutes at it. When
we
finished, I had lost sight of the aerodrome and so had he, for
I
could see him flying aimlessly one way and then another, diving
on
one hill and then on several more. As our aerodrome is near a
town
perched on a high hill, I knew what he was looking for, but
none
of the hills seemed to be the right one. After that he flew
east
for a time, and, although I knew such a course would take us
into
Hunland, I followed, deciding to go with him as far as the
trenches
and then turn west again. Just our side of the line I spotted
a
town[41] which I recognised from the great relief map we had
at
Oxford. It is a town that has undergone more shelling than
any
other during the whole war. I never saw such a sight of
desolation.
Nothing but shell-holes in all directions. Practically all
the
buildings in ruins, and every now and then a shell would burst
in
the desolate city with a blinding flash. Of course, I could
hear
nothing of the explosion. I knew my way back to the aerodrome
and
felt much relieved, as it is most undignified to get lost
on
one’s first flip. I opened my engine and soon caught up the
other
machine, and signalled Hemsworth to turn round and follow me.
We
were at the aerodrome twenty minutes later. I have not been in
the
air since owing to a temporary shortage of machines.
“...
The little town[42] near our aerodrome, perched on a high
hill, has a
fine square, from which a beautiful church can be
seen, and the square
and streets are cobbled. The road which leads
into the town from the east
enters through a short tunnel, which
emerges right into the square
itself. When I was last there,
several howitzer batteries were coming
from the line for a rest,
and the caterpillar tractors, which haul these
huge guns, were
grunting and chugging from the tunnel into the town, and
through
it, making for some spot further to the rear. All units which
come
out of the trenches for a rest are sent far enough back to be
out
of earshot of the guns. The Casino, at the highest part of
the
town, is devoted to military purposes. From it a wonderful
view
of the Western Front may be had, puffs of smoke in the
distance,
captive sausage observation balloons, aeroplanes, and roads
teeming
with hundreds and hundreds of motor-lorries slowly crawling
along.
A batch of miserable-looking German prisoners were engaged
in
cleaning the streets. Their appearance gave the impression
that
they must have been reduced to sorry straits before their
capture,
as they all looked white, pinched, and sickly. I think they
are
pretty fairly treated by our people, and certainly given enough
to eat. |
|
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