|
“Speaking of food reminds me that you may be interested to
know
that we do pretty well in our mess. I quote from our
ordinary
dinner menu: Soup (mock turtle), toast; fish (grilled sole,
mustard
sauce); entree (beefsteak, pastry, boiled potatoes, green
peas);
sweets (stewed prunes, cornstarch pudding); biscuits,
cheese,
coffee. Does this satisfy you? It does me.
“We have
the correct number of machines, six in each flight, and
there are three
flights, ‘A,’ ‘B,’ and ‘C.’ I am in ‘B’ Flight.
There are eighteen
pilots, an equipment officer who is also
quartermaster, a recording
officer (adjutant) and the commanding
officer. So we have twenty-two in
our mess.
“Lunch is served at one o’clock. Sometimes I have spent
the
afternoons walking in the near-by town. Tea is at 4 p.m., and
now
it is dark at that time. After tea we read or play cards
till
dinner, at 7.30. After dinner some music. By the way, we have
a
ragtime band, composed of a piano, a snare drum, two sets of
bones,
a triangle and brass cymbals, and an auto horn. It is ‘some’
band.
We all go to bed fairly early.”
Patrick was transferred
to H.E. on December 29, 1917, to take up
an appointment in the Training
Division of the Air Board--as it
was then--and Major B. F. Moore, Royal
Warwickshire Regiment and
R.F.C., was given the command.
It
was about this time, also, that General Trenchard went home to
become
Chief of the Air Staff, prior to the official formation of
the Royal Air
Force by the amalgamation of the R.F.C. and R.N.A.S.
His successor to the
command of the R.F.C. in the field was General
Sir J. Salmond, who
remained in this position till the end of the
war.
January
1918 passed fairly quietly. Morey collided in the air with
an Albatros
scout during a fight and both pilots must have been
killed, but as this
was some way over the lines, we never heard
the German pilot’s fate. Up
to this time, the Huns had been very
good in sending information about
the fate of our pilots, nor were
we behind them in courtesy. On one
occasion, during May 1917,
a message was dropped on Douai aerodrome, two
hours after his
capture, announcing the safety of a German scout pilot
whom we had
driven down near St. Pol. A study of the lists sent over by
the
Germans showed that just over 50 per cent. of our missing
airmen
were alive--wounded or injured most probably--but alive.
Later,
after March 1918, these amenities were not so nicely observed
and
information became harder to get. February came and went with
the
squadron still at Marie Capelle. A. C. Ball, brother of
Albert
Ball, was missing on the 5th of this month. He was a very
promising
young officer, but it was too early in his flying career to
say
that he would have rivalled his brother. Happily he is alive,
and
was repatriated at the end of the war. Lieuts. H. Crompton
and
W. Duncan, 2/Lieuts. H. Hegarty and V. Priestly may perhaps
be
mentioned as fighting most pluckily and well during this
month.
Soden, by now a flight commander, did a good show on February
5,
1918. He attacked an Albatros scout, which he drove down out
of
control, and was then attacked by two other hostile machines,
who
drove him down from 15,000 to 50 feet, eight miles over the
line;
he came back “hedge-hopping” and banking round trees, and
when
halfway home saw the leading Hun crash into a tree; he then
began
to gain on the other, and, finally outdistancing him, crossed
the
trenches, still at 50 feet, and came home.
On February 18,
Hammersley, Clark, Evans, and Kent took on four
triplanes and got three
of them, Evans and Clark sharing one, and
Kent and Hammersley taking one
each.
During the last month, before moving south, a lot of work was
done,
and a great many bombs were dropped from a low altitude on
rest
billets and other targets, this form of annoying the Hun
having
become fashionable.
Another unusual incident occurred
when W. Kent opened fire, one day
in March, at an enemy scout with both
guns from a distance of about
400 yards. Usually it was considered
complete waste of ammunition
to shoot at ranges exceeding 100 yards,
while 10 or 15 yards was
the really effective distance. This scout caught
fire all right,
however, and crashed in our lines. Bishop did a similar
thing
once in the summer of 1917, but it was not a practice that
was
encouraged.
Hammersley was still doing very well, while J.
A. Duncan, H. D.
Crompton, and J. S. Griffiths were all prominent during
March. H.
H. Balfour, now commanding a flight in 43, but an original
member
of 60, was adequately maintaining the high standard which
was
expected of one who had served in the squadron.
The
S.E.5A., with which the squadron was equipped from July 1917
till the
Armistice, deserves some description. A single-seater
fighting scout, it
was armed with a Lewis gun mounted on the top
plane like the Nieuport,
but carried, in addition, a Vicker’s
firing through the propeller. Its
speed, with the 200 h.p. Hispano
engine, would reach 130 miles per hour
near the ground and was, in
consequence, at least 25 miles per hour
faster than the Nieuport.
This increase of speed made a great difference,
as it meant that
the enemy could not run away, and, further, that the
S.E.5, if
caught at a disadvantage, could outdistance its
adversaries.
Against the advantage gained in speed by this change must be
set
off a certain loss in respect of power to manœuvre quickly,
but,
in spite of this, the change was very greatly to the
pilot’s
advantage.
Every machine has its strong and its weak
points, and though at
first we found the S.E. heavy on the controls and
sluggish on
her turns, and though some were inclined to regret the
silver
Nieuports, yet we soon found that the former was a far
better
fighting instrument. In actual weight the S.E., when
fully
loaded (including the pilot), was about 700 lb. heavier than
the
Nieuport--roughly 2,000 lb. as against 1,300 lb. The new
machine,
too, was distinctly more difficult to land, as the
under-carriage
was relatively a good deal weaker, and, owing to the extra
weight,
she would run on much farther on the ground.
During
the first few months, therefore, a great many machines were
crashed on
the aerodrome, more particularly after leaving Izel le
Hameau, which was
a beautiful landing ground, and moving to Marie
Capelle, where there was
not nearly so much room. There were more
crashes in this period than we
had had since the days of the Morane
“bullets,” and from this point of
view we often regretted the
little Nieuport, which a good pilot could put
down on a postage
stamp anywhere.
CHAPTER
V
THE MARCH OFFENSIVE (1918)
Although this chapter
treats of the events of March 1918 and after,
the following letters,
which were written some months earlier,
and are all by Molesworth, are
reprinted below because they give
an accurate picture at first hand of
the feelings and emotions of
a scout pilot. It must be remembered that
these, as well as the
preceding letters by the same hand, were all
written in the Field,
and that they have not been altered or touched up
in any way.
The author, who is a regular soldier, has now returned to
his
regiment, the Royal Munster Fusiliers, but all who knew him in
60
hope that the future expansion of the Air Force will draw him
back
before long to the service in which he fought so
well.
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F.,
FRANCE.
“_June 1917._
“There is no doubt that
scout pilots have the most exciting
experiences while flying over
Hunland, and it sometimes happens
that these experiences may be their
last. Always they are face
to face with death in one form or another,
always the thread
suspending the ‘sword of Damocles’ may break and they
may be hurled
into eternity. However, we do not think of these sort of
things in
the air, but instead, we are filled with the spirit of
confidence
in our machines, and the ever-present thought that the best
way to
defend is to attack.
“There is the feeling of joy about
it all which is sometimes mixed
with loneliness. You are flying between a
huge expanse of earth or
sea below, merging into the vast spaces of the
heavens above. The
continuous drone of the engine in front of you and the
whistling
of the wind through the wires all add to this sense of
loneliness,
while the bracing air, and the knowledge that you have some
of the
finest machines and companions in the patrol, make you feel
that
flying is absolute perfection.
“Sometimes, however, you
have a rude awakening, either in the form
of a ‘wop’ from Archie, or the
‘rat-tat-tat-tat’ of a watchful
enemy’s machine gun, or again a sickening
check in the rhythmic
beat of your engine.
“This last
experience happened to me a few days ago when I was
leading a patrol of
five machines about three miles over Hunland,
at 12,000 feet. No Huns
seemed to be about. Either Archie had
forgotten our existence, or there
was too much ground mist for him
to see us. It was a perfect day up top,
with a few light clouds
floating about. Away to the north-east we could
just distinguish
the town of Douai, while far below us the intricate
system of the
Hindenburg Line, with its Drocourt-Queant Switch, stretched
like a
great ‘T’ over the shell-marked country.
“We were
cruising along quietly, doing about 1,050 revolutions,
when suddenly
there was a shattering noise in front of me, and
I saw my cowling break
away in bits. Parts of it went through
the planes, luckily doing no vital
damage. Of course the engine
stopped dead, and so I had to put her nose
down for home. It was
quite impossible to reach any of our aerodromes, so
I made towards
Bapaume, keeping my eyes open for a good landing ground
all the
time. The needle on my altitude dial began to drop--11,000,
10,000,
9,000--with corresponding wind-up on my part, until we were
about
2,000 feet from the ground. I knew it meant a crash if I
didn’t
make a good landing, as the engine was absolutely _hors de
combat_.
Suddenly I caught sight of a Bessoneau hangar,[43] and near it
an
F.E. Bird perched on the ground. I did a side-slip,[44] and
landed
into wind, putting the machine down with rather a bump;
however,
there was nothing seriously damaged. Luckily the wind was
blowing
from the north, otherwise I don’t think I could ever have
got
across the lines.
“It turned out that the place where I
had landed was an advanced
F.E.8 landing ground.
“After going
over my engine, I found that a tappet rod had broken
and stripped the
cowling. I telephoned over to the aerodrome and
told them to bring out a
spare engine and cowl. They soon arrived,
and had the machine ready for
me by the afternoon, so I pushed off
home and arrived safely back soon
after.”
* * * * *
“60
SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_June
1917._
“The heat is simply terrific, and the only ways of keeping
cool are
flying or sitting under the trees in the orchard. We spend most
of
the day, when not in the air, in multi-coloured pyjamas, some
lads
even going so far as to fly in them.
“Another awfully
good way of keeping cool is to dig a hole about
a foot deep and 3 feet
long and cover it with a ground-sheet,
pegged down at the corners, so as
to make a bath. You lie in this
with a book and a cooling drink by your
side, and if you are lucky
enough to escape the bombardment of mud,
stones, and various
other missiles which are thrown at you by the more
energetic and
lively spirits in the camp, you can really enjoy yourself.
These
baths have been such a success that we decided to dig a
small
bathing-pool about 20 feet square by 3 feet deep. When we got
this
going the whole population of the nearest village had to come
and
watch us. This was rather disconcerting, as we used to bathe
_tout
a fait nude_. Most of the chaps managed to rig up something in
the
way of a bathing-dress by buying various articles of clothing
in
the neighbouring village--I was forced to content myself with
a
type of female undergarment, which seemed to cause great
amusement
amongst the ack-emmas.[45]
“The village maidens were
highly delighted, and thought it quite
the thing, now that we were
decently clad, to watch us at our
aquatic sports.
“We three
flight commanders have decided to take over a Nissen hut
and knock out
the partition so as to make it into one room; of
course, some wags had to
start painting things on the outside. They
began by printing on the
window in large black letters, ‘Saloon
Bar’; and ended by naming the hut
the ‘Hotel du Commerce,’ as most
of the squadron seemed to collect there,
including Kate and Black
Boy (the special pet dogs of the squadron), who
made it their abode.
“I don’t think I told you in my last letter that
one of my pilots
nearly finished me off. I was leading a patrol, when,
without any
warning, he dived about four yards in front of me. We would
have
collided if I hadn’t managed to yank my machine over on her
back.
He successfully put the wind up me, I can tell you, and I gave
it
to him pretty hot when we got down.”
* *
* * *
“60 SQUADRON
R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_June
1917._
“I hope it will be ‘dud’ to-morrow, as I want to supervise
the
painting of my grids. We have all got the craze of having
them
coloured. Mine are going to have red, white, and blue wheels.
Our
crack flight commander[46] has had a spinner made and painted
blue,
which he says puts the wind up the Huns. I should think they
must
be getting to know him well now, as he has crashed
twenty-five
of them, two of which he got in flames yesterday. He always
lets
us know when he has got one by firing a red Very light over
the
aerodrome before landing.
“Talking about colours, you
ought to see the Huns. They are just
like butterflies, with bright red
bodies, spotted wings, and black
and white squares on their tails, or
else a wonderful mauve colour
with green and brown
patches.
“It was our day off yesterday, so the Major[47] asked me to
go for
a ride with him. We borrowed horses from a cavalry depot
near-by,
and set out in his car for the rendezvous where we were to
pick
them up. We did not intend to go far, but lost our way in a
wood.
The Major is a keen horseman and, consequently, led me over
all
sorts of obstacles, such as fallen trees, etc. Not having
ridden
for three years, I found it rather a job to stick on; however,
I
got used to it. We went up and down vertical banks, and
eventually
had to get the nags over a 3-foot jump, which we managed to
do
with a bit of coaxing. Soon after we arrived at the beautiful
old
chateau of Lucheux, where we were to meet the car. This chateau
was
used by Marlborough during the Flanders Wars. It is now a Red
Cross
hospital. We had a talk to the sisters, and wangled some
topping
roses out of them for the mess. The car was waiting for us, so
we
got into it and drove home.
“When we arrived back, we found
the mess decorated with branches
of trees, which made it look like a
greenhouse. This was to
commemorate the Major’s M.C., which he has just
been awarded for
bringing down Huns. We had a tremendous ‘bust’ in the
evening in
which the Major joined. Speeches were made wishing him the
best of
luck, and then we retired to the ante-room and had a good old
rag.”
* * * * *
“60
SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_July
1917._
“Rotten luck!
“Everything is black to-day. The
Major[48] has been wounded in the
arm; one of my best pilots[49] is going
off to another squadron as
a flight commander, and I missed an absolute
‘sitter’ this morning
on our side of the line. However, every cloud has a
silver lining.
This time it is in the shape of an M.C. for one of our
flight
commanders who thoroughly deserves it. He hasn’t managed to get
a
big bag yet, but there is lots of the ‘good stuff’ in him, in
both
senses of the word.
“We are going to have a great ‘bust’
to-night to commemorate it,
and to cheer things up a bit. The show on
which the Major was
hit was a pretty hot mix-up. We were in the middle of
our tennis
tournament when word came through that a large formation of
Huns
was on the line. It was ‘A’ Flight’s turn for a job, so they
pushed
off, accompanied by the Major. They got into a big ‘dog-fight,’
and
a Hun, who wasn’t in the show at all, took a pot shot at long
range
and hit the Major in the arm, breaking up his switch at the
same
time. However, he managed to get back to the aerodrome all
right,
and went off to hospital soon after.
“We got into
another big show on the 11th, and scrapped hard for
about twenty minutes
over the Hindenburg Line, without any luck. At
last one of the Huns, with
more guts than the rest, came over and
began to attack one of our grids.
I nipped in behind him without
being seen and gave him a dose of lead. I
must have hit his guns or
something, as he had no ginger left, and simply
flew west across
the lines, intending to land on our side. Of course, my
stupid old
gun had to stop, and I discovered, to my annoyance, that there
was
no ammunition left. Seeing that I didn’t fire, the Hun
guessed
that something was up and turned back. I felt absolutely wild
to
see him calmly sneak off into a cloud on his way home.
“On
another occasion, when three of us were attacking a formation
of six
Huns, one of us had a most extraordinary escape. We had our
noses down,
going full out to try and catch the blighters, when
suddenly the Hun
directly under us did a sharp turn. The chap on my
right yanked his grid
over after him. He pulled her over with such
a jerk that one of his
bottom planes came off and fluttered down to
the ground in two bits. I
couldn’t see what happened to him after
that, as we were getting to close
quarters with the Huns. We tried
to scrap them, but hadn’t any luck, as
they wouldn’t put up a fight.
“When we arrived home, I reported that
one of my patrol[50] had
‘gone west,’ as I had seen him break up in the
air. Hardly had I
finished when, to my amazement, he appeared outside the
window.
I could not believe my eyes and thought it was his ghost, but
he
turned out to be flesh and blood, and so we went to the mess
and
had a drink on the strength of it.
“He told me that he had
managed to fly his kite back with great
difficulty. Luckily the top
planes had held. Of course, when he
landed, the machine turned over and
crashed, but he crawled out
unhurt.
“We three flight
commanders went to see the Major in hospital
yesterday. He seemed in the
best of spirits, and had been trying to
‘pump’ a Hun observer, who was in
his ward, by asking him whether
he liked doing artillery work on our part
of the front, but the old
Boche wouldn’t give him an
answer.
“We all hope to have the Major back with us soon, as his arm
is
much better. We miss him ‘some,’ as he often comes with us on
our
patrols.
“Charlie Chaplin isn’t in it now with us! We were
cinematographed
the other day. Some of us stood in a row and tried to
look pleasant
and unconcerned, but this was rather difficult, as
everyone
else was making rude remarks about us. We then bundled into
our
new grids, which we have just got, and started off on a
stunt
formation, nearly running down the old cinema man to put the
wind
up him. After we had done a circuit, my radiator began to boil,
and
I was forced to come down. Thank heavens! it was a good landing,
as
the old man was still at it turning the handle. My part of the
show
was to be known as ‘Pilot landing for more ammunition after
fierce
fight.’”
* * * *
*
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F.,
FRANCE.
“_August 1917._
“The new grids[51] are a
great success, and we have been hard at
work training and doing line
patrols.
“Three of us, led by our famous ‘Hun-strafer,’[52] used them
over
the lines for the first time on the 5th. As a rule we only fight
in
flights, but on certain occasions we volunteer for a ‘circus,’
that
is a mixed formation generally composed of the best pilots in
the
squadron.
“Our numbers were not overwhelming this time,
but we know that the
Huns had got pukka wind-up by the way they
disappeared when we
arrived on the line, so we felt quite confident in
taking on twice
as many as ourselves. Of course we were all out for
trouble, as
we wanted to show what the new machines could do. As soon as
our
leader spotted a formation of Huns, he was after them like a
flash.
I think there were seven of them, but we were all much too
excited
to count. Suddenly they saw us coming, and tried desperately
to
escape, but our leader got into his favourite position, and
the
rear Hun hadn’t a ghost of a chance. The next instant he was
a
flaming mass.
“We simply had it all over the Boche for speed
and, as we had the
height, they could not possibly get away. I picked my
man out as
he was coming towards me, and dived straight at him, opening
fire
with both guns at close range. He suffered the same fate as
his
companion.
“A burning machine is a glorious but terrible
sight to see--a
tiny red stream of flame trickles from the petrol tank,
then long
tongues of blazing petrol lick the sides of the fuselage,
and,
finally, a sheet of white fire envelops the whole machine,
and
it glides steeply towards the ground in a zigzag course,
leaving
a long trail of black smoke behind it, until it eventually
breaks
up. There is no doubt that your first Hun in flames gives you
a
wonderful feeling of satisfaction. I can well imagine what
the
big-game hunter must think when he sees the dead lion in front
of
him. Somehow, you do not realise that you are sending a man to
an
awful doom, but rather your thoughts are all turned on the
hateful
machine which you are destroying, so fascinating to look at and
yet
so deadly in its attack.”
* * *
* *
“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F.,
FRANCE.
“_August 1917._
“Sorry I haven’t written
for some time, but we have been kept
awfully busy as the weather has been
so fine. I have been trying
hard to get another Hun, and only succeeded
the day before
yesterday, when we had another great
scrap.
“Five of us met eight Huns and attacked them the other side of
the
line. I missed my man in the first dive, but turned on another
and
must have hit the pilot, as he spun straight into the ground.
One
of my patrol also destroyed an Albatros by shooting him up so
that
he fell to bits in the air. The remaining six Huns put up
quite
a good fight, and nearly got one of us by doing in his
lateral
control. However, he managed to land all right, as these
machines
are fairly stable.
“On scanning my kite, I discovered
that it had not escaped
scot-free, as a large piece of the tail plane had
been shot away.
“There was tremendous excitement in the squadron
yesterday, as our
‘stunt merchant’[53] has been awarded the V.C. for that
aerodrome
show that I told you about. We celebrated it last night by one
of
the finest ‘busts’ I have ever had. There were speeches and lots
of
good ‘bubbly,’ consequently everyone was in the best of
spirits.
“After dinner we had a torchlight procession to the
various
squadrons stationed on the aerodrome. This was led by our
Very
light experts. Luckily for us, the night was very dull and
cloudy,
or else I expect old man Boche would have had a hand in it
too.
We charged into one mess and proceeded to throw everyone
and
everything we came across out of the window. We then went
over
to the other squadron. The wretched lads were all in bed, but
we
soon had them out, and bombarded their mess with Very lights,
the
great stunt being to shoot one in through one window and out
at
the other. I can’t imagine why the blessed place didn’t go up
in
flames. After annoying these people for a bit, we retired to
our
own mess, where we danced and sang till the early hours of
the
morning. I have still got a piece of plaid cloth about 6
inches
square, which was the only thing left of a perfectly good pair
of
‘trouse’ that belonged to one of our Scotch
compatriots.
“This morning the C.O. sent for me to go to the orderly
room.
He told me that my name had come through for H.E.,[54]
and
congratulated me on having been awarded the M.C.
“Later I
went round to the sheds to say goodbye to the men, and
finally ended up
at the mess to have a farewell drink with all my
old
friends.
“I can hardly realise that the time has come for me to go
back to
Blighty. I shall be awfully bucked to see you again in a few
days,
old chap, and yet I can’t help feeling sad at leaving this
dear
old place--full of memories, sometimes tragic, sometimes comic.
It
is very hard to part with these comrades of mine--‘Knights of
the
Air,’ who live from day to day facing eternity with a smile,
and
laying down their lives, if need be, with such heroism, for
the
cause of freedom.”
* * * *
*
To return to the squadron which we left at Marie Capelle. On March
8,
1918, orders arrived to move up to Bailleul--a good deal nearer
the
line--where they remained for over a fortnight. This aerodrome
was
shelled every day that they were there, and on the last two nights
was
heavily bombed. On March 27 they were rushed down to Bellevue,
near
Doullens, to cope with the offensive which, as few will have
forgotten,
began on the 21st. This move brought the squadron back into the
13th
Wing, in which it served, except for the winter of 1917-18, during
the
whole of its career on the Western Front. After three days at
Bellevue
another move was ordered to Fienvilliers.
On March 30, in the
course of one patrol, Hammersley, the leader,
destroyed two Hun scouts,
putting one on to the roof of a house in
Hem, where it burst into flames;
while Copeland, Hegarty, Duncan, and
Griffiths all shot down hostile
machines, the destruction of which was
officially confirmed. Bartlett also
shot down one out of control. Both
Copeland and Duncan were now piling up
good scores.
On April 12 there was yet another move, this time to
Boffles, where
they stayed until September. For some time past they had been
in tents,
ready to move at a moment’s notice, and by now all the household
goods
which a squadron accumulated during the period of stationary
warfare
had disappeared: the bronze figures and silver basins, brought
back
as mementoes (on payment) after celebrations in Amiens and
elsewhere;
the original of Fleming Williams’ picture of a Nieuport scout;
the
cut-glass reproductions of two of his father’s valuable
decanters,
presented to the squadron by Lord Dalmeny on his departure for
Egypt
with General Allenby; the German signboards, shell-cases, and
other
trophies; all had been left behind or were lost long before the
March
retreat and the subsequent victorious advance were over. This was
a
pity, but could not be helped.
The losses of the Air Force during
this retreat were very heavy
indeed. Usually we used to calculate that the
Germans lost twice as
many machines as the British, according to the reports
issued by our
Headquarters. This thought was a comforting one. Under the head
of
hostile machines destroyed are not included, for the purpose of
this
calculation, those shown as driven down out of control. It should
be
remembered that Headquarters required very clear confirmation
before
officially recognising the destruction of an enemy machine, and
that
many Huns must have been destroyed which were not counted. If one
set
fire to a Boche machine in the air there was no difficulty, as
the
whole sky saw it and confirmation was readily forthcoming; but
where
this was not done, it was not at all easy to watch the victim
glide
down from fifteen or sixteen thousand feet, and to mark the spot
at
which he crashed. It takes a long time to reach the ground from
nearly
three miles up, and there were always plenty of watchful enemies in
the
sky waiting to swoop on to the overkeen pilot who forgot
everything
but his presumably vanquished foe. Once a pilot took his eyes off
a
machine, it was by no means always easy to pick it up again. The
best
type was always careful not to claim a doubtful Hun, and, though
there
were plenty who would like to have done so, the other officers of
the
flight generally knew pretty well when a doubtful claim was put
in,
and soon gave the offender a hint that such conduct did the
squadron
no good. It may, therefore, fairly be assumed that we had
destroyed
the full number of machines claimed. The German method of
calculation
was somewhat different, as they counted a two-seater machine as
two
“victories,” which made their star pilots appear to be more
successful
than ours.
Throughout the war, on the Western Front, the
policy of the R.F.C., as
directed by General Sir Hugh Trenchard, was that our
fighters should
engage the enemy over his territory and never allow him to
cross our
lines. These orders were never executed with complete success, as
it
is not possible to erect and maintain an aerial barrage, so to
speak,
which can completely prevent a resolute pilot from penetrating it
if
he really means to do so, nor can it be said that our patrols kept,
in
every case, always on the other side of the line. Broadly
speaking,
however, we fought over alien territory, the Germans over their
own.
The effect of this was that many a British machine was forced to
land,
disabled by gunfire or through engine failure, and the occupants,
even
though unwounded, were lost to their own side till the end of the
war.
The German pilot, on the other hand, whose engine was put out of
action
in a fight might land safely, get another machine, and be
fighting
again the same day.
Another circumstance which, in fairness
to the Air Force, should always
be borne in mind when the conditions of
fighting in the air are under
discussion, is that on the Western Front the
wind entered very much
into all questions of aerial strategy or tactics. The
prevailing wind
was that west wind which Conrad thus describes in a brilliant
passage,
and which, though it deals with the sea, is equally true of the air
on
the Western Front:
“The narrow seas around these isles, where
British admirals keep
watch and ward upon the marches of the Atlantic
Ocean, are subject
to the turbulent sway of the west
wind.
“Call it north-west or south-west, it is all one--a different
phase
of the same character, a changed expression of the same face.
In
the orientation of the winds that rule the seas, the north
and
south directions are of no importance. The north and the
south
winds are but small princes in the dynasties that make peace
and
war upon the sea. In the polity of the winds, as among the
tribes
of the earth, the real struggle lies between east and west. The
end
of the day is the time to gaze at the kingly face of the
westerly
weather, who is the arbiter of ships’
destinies.
“Benignant and splendid, or splendid and sinister, the
western sky
reflects the hidden purpose of the royal
wind.
“Clothed in a mantle of dazzling gold or draped in rags of
black
cloud like a beggar, the might of the westerly wind sits
enthroned
upon the western horizon, with the whole North Atlantic as
a
foot-stool for his feet and the first twinkling stars making
a
diadem for his brow.”
It was this powerful sovereign, this
pitiless potentate who, five
days out of seven, fought with our enemies
against us, and it is to
be hoped that he is properly humiliated by the
result of the war. How
many curses have been levelled at his careless head by
pilots who, with
trailing wires, with labouring, failing engines, and with
tattered
planes have tried, and often tried in vain, to reach that brown,
smoky
strip of battered terrain which marked the lines and safety, after
a
bitter fight? How often has a patrol, on a day with the wind at fifty
to
sixty miles an hour, at 10,000 feet fought batch after batch of Huns
when on
the Mons-Maubeuge or some other “long reconnaissance,” only
to find that,
though every enemy may have been shot down in flames,
though no black-crossed
machines remained to smirch the sky, inexorable
Zephyrus had swept them
during the fight so far towards the Rhine that
lack of petrol must force them
to land on hostile ground? Who has not
felt, when turning homewards on a
stormy day, that the machine could
make no progress at all against the wind,
but seemed for minutes that
were like hours to stand still over some town or
village? Actually
headway was as a rule being made, but the change in ground
speed from
flying down-wind to struggling against it produced this very
powerful
illusion, and pilots have often thrown their guns, ammunition,
and
even field-glasses overboard with the frantic hope of lightening
the
machine and thus increasing her speed.
No! Zephyrus, who should
have been a Teuton god, and who beyond
question wears the Iron Cross, was no
friend to the Air Force. We
should perhaps have poured out libations to his
eastern brothers--Eurus
and Aquilus--or at very least have recommended them
for the immediate
award of the Distinguished Flying Cross in recognition of
their
invaluable services throughout the war.
The struggle wore on
through May, and during the middle of this month
the fighting in the air was
terrific.
One hundred and thirty E.A. (enemy aircraft) were brought down
by the
Air Force in France between the 13th and 19th of the month.
Belgrave
and Scholte were, perhaps, the most successful, but I. M. Davies,
A.
W. Saunders, Hegarty, V. S. Griffith, W. A. Duncan, were also
very
prominent. During one patrol, led by Belgrave on June 12, in which
he
shot down a two-seater, R. G. Lewis, whose engine presumably had
failed, went
down and landed, breaking his under-carriage. H. A.
Gordon, a Canadian whose
first trip over the lines this was, landed
beside him and got out of his own
machine. At this point some soldiers
appeared and opened fire. Gordon ran
back to his S.E., calling to
Lewis to get in with him, but the latter,
apparently mistaking the
troops for friends, walked towards them. Gordon then
took off and
circled round, meaning to fire, but, seeing Lewis in the midst
of them,
refrained, and returned home with his machine very badly shot about.
He
was killed two months later.
An S.E.5 has carried two before now,
but it is an unpleasant experience
for the passenger, who has to sit with his
legs on each side of the
pilot’s shoulders and to hold on to the top
gun-mounting.
By this time, Bishop was back in France commanding No. 85
Squadron and
was doing wonders. Much of his success was due now, as always,
to his
extremely accurate shooting, the importance of which in aerial
fighting
it is almost impossible to exaggerate.
W. H. Saunders did a
very good show on July 2, fighting continuously
for forty-five minutes,
destroying two Pfalz scouts and engaging five
other hostile
machines.
At the beginning of July, Barry Moore was promoted to command
No. 1
Aeroplane Supply Depot at Marquise, and J. B. McCudden, V.C.,
D.S.O.,
M.C., was appointed to succeed him in the command of the
squadron.
While flying down to take over from Moore, he got his machine into
a
spin near the ground, crashed, and was killed. Though he never
actually
joined 60, and though this history is concerned only to describe
the
exploits of that squadron, a paragraph must, nevertheless, be
devoted
to McCudden’s achievements. He joined the R.F.C. as an air
mechanic
before the war, fought as an N.C.O. pilot with 29 Squadron
during
1916-17, was then given a commission and was posted to 56
Squadron,
where he specialised in two-seaters, that variety of two-seater
which
the Germans would send over very high at 20,000 feet or more on
clear
days to photograph our back areas, and which were not easy to
bring
down. The difficulty was that they were first seen, as a rule, at
a
great height, and our fighting machines had to climb up to them,
which would
take fifteen minutes at least. During this interval which
necessarily elapsed
before the attacking machines could get their
height, the Rumpler or L.V.G.,
which would be flying level, could
usually outdistance the pursuers; if,
however, the British machine
contrived, by flying the inside of the circle,
to keep between the
Hun and the lines, the latter, if he was as cunning as
they usually
were, would calmly continue his photography while his adversary
was
climbing until the latter was about 1,500 feet below him, and, when
his
pursuer was getting close enough to be dangerous, would put his
nose
down slightly, open up his engine and disappear into Hunland, leaving
a
streak of blue smoke, but nothing more tangible, behind
him.
McCudden, however, with great resolution and infinite patience,
studied
the habits of these folk and shot down dozens of them. In
addition,
he was a brilliant and successful patrol leader and one whom the
Air
Force could ill spare. After his death, C. M. Crowe, M.C., who also
had
a fine record both in 56 Squadron and, earlier in the war, with
other
units, was given the command. After a few weeks, Crowe had a
serious
motor accident and was “struck off” the strength, to be posted
later
to 85 Squadron. He was succeeded by A. C. Clarke, an old Etonian,
who
remained in charge till the end of the war.
On August 1, 60,
together with 3, 56, and 11 Squadrons, carried out an
extremely successful
raid on Epinoy Aerodrome. Sixteen machines were
believed to have been
destroyed as a result of this operation and two
large fires were started, the
smoke of which ascended to a height of
over 10,000 feet. 60 and 11 did the
“upper guard,” escorting 3 and 56,
who went down and actually shot up the
aerodrome, whilst the two former
squadrons kept off hostile machines who
might have attacked the raiders
from above.
Raids of this kind were
most successful, but had only lately become
possible on account of the much
larger number of squadrons which were
now available. Up to this time, the
number of machines had been only
just sufficient to get through the ordinary
routine work, i.e. low
flying on battle days, offensive patrols for the
indirect protection
of the artillery machine, by the destruction of the enemy
scouts who
would have interfered with them, and escorts to bombing raids
and
photographic reconnaissances. These last two duties the improved
types
of two-seater fighters now carried out without escorts--the De
Havilland 4s,
9s, and Bristol fighters being quite capable of operating
without protection
by scouts.
During August, R. K. Whitney (who had had a great month in
July),
Doyle, G. M. Duncan, Buckley, and A. W. Saunders (who was now a
flight
commander), were all fighting well. One patrol led by the last-named
on
August 9 accounted for four enemy aircraft.
Lieut. A. Beck now
rejoined the squadron: he had been with us in June
1917, but was sent home on
the representation of his parents, who
complained that he was only seventeen.
Returning a year later, he
speedily showed that his youth was no
disqualification. He remained
with the squadron till the end, was promoted
flight commander, and did
extraordinarily good work.
On August 8 we
assumed the offensive east of Amiens. 60 did a great
deal of low flying and
low bombing, as well as the usual “scrapping”
up above. The Fokker biplane
D.7 first appeared in numbers at this
time. This was an original type of
machine without any external wiring
but with a very thick wing section, which
was braced internally. Its
performance was very good, alike as regards speed,
climb, and power to
manœuvre. Their pilots were usually provided with
parachutes, which
quite often failed to open. From all along the line reports
now came
in showing that the use of the parachute was becoming fairly
general
among German pilots.
In October, while our advance was
proceeding, squadrons of the Air
Force dropped some thousands of boxes of
rations and ammunition for
Belgian troops, whose supplies had been held up
owing to the speed of
the advance. 60, however, took no part in
this.
The map opposite is reproduced by permission of Field-Marshal
Earl
Haig, and is published, I believe, for the first time. It shows
the
situation on September 25, 1918, and makes it clear that the
enemy
feared the Amiens sector more than any other part of their
line.
H. C. M. Orpen, I. W. Rayner, S. V. Mason, M. D. Sinclair, O.
P.
Johnson, G. M. Duncan, and McEntegart were, perhaps, the most
prominent
and successful pilots during the British advance, which was a
time
of continuous and sustained effort on the part of every
officer,
N.C.O., and man in the whole squadron. The strain of sending at
least
two full-strength squadron patrols daily over the line, while
moving
continually, severely taxed the endurance of all ranks. They
left
Boffles for Baisieux on September 17, Baisieux for Beugnatre on
October
14, and finally moved from the latter station to Quievy, an old
German
aerodrome, on October 31.
[Illustration: Situation on Sept.
25^{th}, 1918.
_On this date, the 25^{th} Sept., General Pershing was
in direct
command of the American Armies. Early in October the command of
the
3^{rd} American Army was entrusted to L^{t} Gen. Hunter Liggett
and
command of the 2^{nd} American Army to Major Gen. R. L.
Bullard._
]
By October the Air Force mechanical transport had begun to
wear out,
nor is this surprising when the work it had done is
remembered;
the men were always working hard to keep the lorries and
light
tenders on the road. Moreover, the new aerodromes were always
pitted
with shell-holes, which had to be filled up, and scarcely was
this
task completed before orders would arrive to move again. In spite
of
these difficulties, the supplies of rations, ammunition, etc.,
were
maintained with wonderful regularity by the H.Q. staffs.
The
German Flying Corps continued to fight hard and well up to the
very last day
of the war, and, though their armies on the ground were
retreating fast, no
signs of demoralisation in the air were observed.
During these last days,
throughout September and October, a great
deal of work was done with 148--an
American Camel squadron--most of
whose pilots had been trained in England.
This unit was also in the
13th Wing, and the two squadrons moved forward
together to the various
aerodromes mentioned above. They did several good
shows together,
notably between September 14 and 17, during the attack on
Havrincourt
Wood, when 60 twice a day did the “upper guard,” while 148 flew
low,
bombing troops and attacking low-flying Fokkers. A considerable
amount
of damage was done during the progress of these operations.
For
example, on September 26 one patrol of each squadron, working in
the
same manner, gave a good exhibition of combined work: 60’s patrol,
led
by Rayner, drove down a flight of Fokkers into the jaws of 148,
who
tackled them with such effect that three were “crashed” and one
driven
down out of control. Again, on the next day, during the Bourlon
Wood
attack, 148, protected as before by 60, crashed two enemy
two-seaters,
the destruction of which was observed and confirmed by the
latter unit.
During the whole of the advance towards Cambrai and beyond,
the two
squadrons did at least one “show” a day together until October
30,
when the Americans left Beugnatre, near Bapaume, to go south to
join
their own army near Nancy, a very long and tiresome journey. On the
day
before leaving, their last patrol with us “crashed” either four or five
Huns. |
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