CHAPTER X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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