Part 28

Immelman was known to have a method of attack peculiar to himself. Instead of approaching his adversary from the side, he maneuvered to get squarely behind him. His study was to hold the nose of his machine almost on the tail of the aircraft he was pursuing. This gave him, Abbot points out, what used to be called in the Navy a raking position, for his shots would rake the whole body of the enemy airplane from tail to nose with a fair chance of hitting either the fuel tank, the engine, or the pilot. Failing to secure the position he coveted, this daring German would surrender it with apparent unconcern to the enemy, who usually fell into a trap. For just as the foeman’s machine came up to the tail of Immelman’s craft the latter would suddenly turn his nose straight to earth, drop like a stone, execute a backward loop and come up behind his surprised adversary, who thus found the tables suddenly turned....”

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

1st Lieut. Philip Benson

Volunteered for night bombing and was particularly efficient in “chassi” work. He gave the Germans a taste of their own medicine—by dropping bombs on German towns and firing upon German supply trains.]

We have left the description of the duel with the English in alarm.

“Ball,” continues the eye-witness, “thousands of feet above us and only a speck in the sky, was doing the craziest things imaginable. He was below Immelman and was apparently making no effort to get above him and thus gaining the advantage of position. Rather he was swinging around, this way and that, attempting, it seemed, to postpone the inevitable.

“We saw the German’s machine dip over preparatory to starting the nose-dive.

“‘He’s gone now,’ sobbed a young soldier at my side, for he knew Immelman’s gun would start its raking fire once it was being driven straight down.

“Then in a fraction of a second the tables were turned. Before Immelman’s plane could get into firing position, Ball drove his machine into a loop, getting above his adversary and cutting loose with his gun and smashing Immelman by a hail of bullets as he swept by.

A WREATH FOR HIS VICTIM

“Immelman’s airplane burst into flames and dropped. Ball from above followed for a few hundred feet and then straightened out and raced for home. He settled down, rose again, hurried back, and released a huge wreath of flowers, almost directly over the spot where Immelman’s charred body was being lifted from a tangled mass of metal.

“Four days later Ball too was killed.”

Shortly before his death Ball wrote to a friend: “You will be pleased to hear that I have ten more Huns, and that my total is now 40—two in front of my French rival. Oh, I’m having a topping time! To-day or to-morrow I’m being presented to Sir Douglas Haig. Am very pleased. I just want to get a few more if I can.”

Ball’s wish was gratified. He got more than a few more and then—died as he had so often lived—fighting against great odds, for when last seen, on the evening of May 7, 1917, he was high above the enemy’s lines engaging three German machines at once.

What slender hope had been left for him was shattered by the War Office intimation that Ball had been killed. The brave young officer lost his life at a village 5½ miles east of La Bassée.

AN AMERICAN WONDER

The Brief but Greatly Achieving Career of Lieut. Frank Luke, Jr.—His Mysterious End

Innumerable are the instances, never to be reckoned, of the sudden meteoric flame of splendid daring—the sudden flash of the courageous soul in achievement, and the equally sudden extinction—that a thousand attested circumstances assure us characterized the terrible passing of the Great War. Happily for the world, always the better for new evidence that “divinity still lives in the hearts of men,” very many of those deeds of devoted heroism have been written into history for the inspiration of high-minded youth.

There was no experience more aptly described as meteoric than that of Frank Luke, Jr., who joined the 27th Aero Squadron near Château-Thierry late in July, 1918, did brilliant service in that connection, and before the end of September had utterly disappeared from the knowledge of men—one of the missing never definitely accounted for.

Frank was a Phoenix, Arizona, boy, barely twenty when he entered the service. After a period of training in Texas he was sent to France and had further training at Issoudun and was then sent to join the squadron near Château-Thierry. He was an enthusiast for flying, never getting enough of it. It was like second nature to him, and he adhered to no rules but his own, apparently indifferent to safety regulations when in the air, and so impatient of restrictions that he almost invariably got lost from his flight when it went out in formation. This gave rise among his fellows to the belief that he was afraid to follow, his getting lost being the deliberate result of “funk.” In course of time, however, they came to understand that Frank Luke held no acquaintance with fear. He simply had a method—method and initiative—and put his abilities to their most effective use. It was so good a method, so wisely reasoned and so admirably executed that in the space of seventeen days he shot down eighteen enemy balloons and planes.

[Illustration: Lieutenant Frank Luke

He joined an Aero Squadron near Château-Thierry, late in July, 1918, and before the end of September he disappeared without being heard from again.]

Lieut. Col. Harold E. Hartney, Chief of Gunnery in the Air Service, at that time Commander of the Squadron to which Luke belonged, gave an account of the young aviator’s first exploit. August 6, 1918, the First Pursuit Group, which included the 27th Squadron, was operating on the Château-Thierry sector. The work was seriously interfered with by heavy barrages of pursuit planes maintained by the enemy to prevent Allied reconnaissance over the territory being evacuated. Col. Hartney says:

HIS FIRST EXPLOIT

“Lieut. Luke believed that if he could get across the opposing lines unobserved and far enough, he would be able to take the enemy formations unaware and swoop down upon the unsuspecting rear man, shoot him down and get away in safety. Accordingly one day he went off on his own at great altitude and crossed over into enemy territory. Far below him he spied an enemy formation of six machines dropping down to land on their own aerodrome. Perfectly aware of the odds against him, he swooped from 15,000 feet to 3,000 feet in one long dive, speeding at approximately 200 miles an hour, closed in on the rear man, and from a distance of no more than twenty yards sent him crashing down.

“The enemy formation had been taken completely by surprise. Before they could realize what had happened or engage Luke in combat the latter dropped to an elevation of less than 400 feet, and, zigzagging, made his way home, dodging anti-aircraft fire and machine-gun nests until he crossed the lines. By then he was completely out of gasoline and was compelled to make a forced landing near the front line. He had seen the enemy machine crash to earth, but was unable to give the location, and therefore he could not get from eye-witnesses on the ground the confirmation required to make the victory official.”

That feat indicated the man. It was very soon apparent that on the occasions when he was “lost” he was off on adventures of his own, planning actions and studying the means to execute them,—qualifying himself for what he conceived to be his most valuable and effective service. He was a veritable hunter.

The morning set for the opening of the St. Mihiel offensive, Sept. 12, 1918, the clouds hung low and the weather was such that ordinarily it would have been regarded as altogether unfit for flying. But Luke was not to be deterred by it. He was off at dawn in quest of enemy planes or balloons and after many vain explorations he finally discovered a German balloon at the extreme right of the American sector, but operated against a portion of the line allotted to other flyers. He returned to his aerodrome, and on reporting the balloon learned that it had been doing great damage by an enfilading fire, but that it had been attacked repeatedly without success both by American and French aviators. Luke offered to destroy the balloon and set off with Lieut. Fritz Wehner, his flying partner. The statement of eye-witnesses from the ground was that Luke dived suddenly out of the clouds taking the balloon wholly by surprise, but the balloon-gun which he was handling for the first time jammed when he attempted to discharge it. He rose into the clouds, got the gun free, immediately dived again and fired the heavy incendiary bullet that sent the balloon down in flames.

DOWNED THREE BALLOONS IN ONE DAY

Two days later he sent another balloon flaming down in somewhat more exciting circumstances. While he was speeding with an escort of other pilots, to attack three enemy balloons operating at an unusually low altitude, his escort became engaged with a formation of Fokkers. This would have made it seem to many pilots unwise to proceed with the attack; but Luke took advantage of the fight above to dive down and begin the assault on one of the balloons which, after several attempts, he succeeded in shooting down, though machine bullets and anti-aircraft shells and flaming onions were showered about him. As the balloon fell burning, Luke flew down to close range and turned loose his machine gun on the Huns on the ground with the desired result of many casualties. When he got back home he found that his machine was so full of bullet holes that a very few more taps would have weakened it enough to bring it down in collapse. But within five minutes he was in another machine and begging leave to go on a further quest.

At 5 o’clock that afternoon he sent down the second balloon in flames. Later he discovered attempts being made to send up another balloon north of Verdun; he hastened back to his squadron and asked to be ordered out at dusk to surprise and destroy the big bag.

He left with instructions not to descend on the balloon until 7.50 (that being for the benefit of his protective escort who would follow him down a few moments later). Precisely at 7.50 the watchers on the aerodrome saw the balloon flare in the darkness and fall to the ground.

And so the story runs; each new adventure a companion thriller to the others, every machine in which he flew being more or less riddled with bullets, and the miracle is that the daring youth passed so many hazards unscathed. Col. Hartney is authority for the statement that balloon strafing is in reality “the most dangerous exploit any man in any branch of the service can undertake.”

Frank Luke in seventeen days accounted for eighteen enemy balloons and planes. He was the first American flyer to win the Congressional Medal of Honor.

HIS END A MYSTERY

But there is an end to successful adventures as to other things, and the brilliant career of this Arizona lad came to abrupt conclusion, leaving the shadow of mystery as to just how the hero passed on. Here is the story of the last exploit as Col. Hartley tells it:

“His next official victory was on Sept. 28, when he shot down a German Hanoveraner airplane which was being escorted by a single-seater Fokker.

“That evening he did not return to his own aerodrome, but remained all night with the French squadron and went out the next day for the express purpose of destroying three balloons. The wonderful story of his exciting fight against hopeless odds and of his glorious death need not be dwelt upon. For his work on Sept. 29 he was awarded the Medal of Honor.

“Briefly, what happened was that he flew over an American aerodrome and dropped a weighted message. The message asked that a lookout be kept for three drachens over on the German side. He was next seen to go over in that direction at a very high altitude, and when very nearly over the drachens was attacked by ten enemy machines. He engaged all of them single-handed and crashed two of the ten. Then he dropped—out of control, as it seemed, but most likely only pretending to be so. When he reached the level of the balloons he shot them down one after another in flames—all three of them. The anti-aircraft guns were very busy about the second balloon. After that he disappeared.”

Beyond this all that is known is more or less speculative. Jan. 3, 1919, the Graves Registration officer of Neufchateau reported to the Chief of the A. E. F. Air Service on the subject of the grave of an unknown American aviator, killed Sept. 29, 1918, in the village of Murvaux (Meuse), and asked for possible information to identify the body. “Reported as having light hair, young, of medium height and rugged physique. Reported by the inhabitants that previous to being killed this man brought down three German balloons, two German planes and dropped hand bombs, killed eleven German soldiers and wounded a number of others. He was wounded himself in the shoulder and evidently had to make a forced landing, and upon landing opened fire with his automatic and fought until he was killed. It is also reported that the Germans took his shoes, leggings and money, leaving his grave unmarked.”

Supporting the report is an affidavit (Jan. 15, 1919) signed by twelve inhabitants of the village that gives the foregoing facts in detail and adds this:

“Certify equally to have seen the German Commandant of the village refuse to have straw placed on the cart carrying the dead aviator to the village cemetery. This same officer drove away some women bringing a sheet to serve as a shroud for the hero, and said, kicking the body, ‘Get that out of my way as quick as possible.’”

Two of the villagers placed the body on the cart.

ONE TO TWENTY-TWO

The Formidable Odds Against Which a Young English Pilot Daringly Battled, Only to Fall 14,000 Feet Into the Sea

German air-raids on London which were entirely without military justification, being a part of the scheme of frightfulness, resulted in the death of relatively few persons; but they roused British resentment to a pitch that had a tremendous influence upon the fighting spirit of the soldiers at the front and the aviators summoned to the defense of London.

In one of the later raids, Lieutenant I. E. R. Young, of the Royal Flying Corps, lost his life in highly dramatic circumstances that proved his heroic quality. The event is best recorded, perhaps, in a letter written by Young’s commanding officer to the father of the daring aviator. The letter was as follows:

“Your son, as you know, had only been in my squadron for a short time, but quite long enough for me to realize what a very efficient and gallant officer he was. He had absolutely the heart of a lion and was a very good pilot. Your son had been up on every raid of late, and had always managed to get in contact with the enemy machines. The last raid, which unfortunately resulted in his death, shows what a very gallant officer we have lost.

“Almost single-handed he flew straight into the middle of the twenty-two machines, and both himself and his observer at once opened fire. All the enemy machines opened fire also, so he was horribly outnumbered. The volume of fire to which he was subjected was too awful for words. To give you a rough idea: There were twenty-two machines, each machine had four guns, and each gun was firing about 400 rounds per minute. Your son never hesitated in the slightest. He flew straight on until, as I should imagine, he must have been riddled with bullets. The machine then put its nose right up in the air and fell over, and went spinning down into the sea from 14,000 feet.

“I, unfortunately, had to witness the whole ghastly affair. The machine sank so quickly that it was, I regret, impossible to save your son’s body, he was so badly entangled in the wires, etc. H. M. S. —— rushed to the spot as soon as possible, but only arrived in time to pick up your son’s observer, who, I regret to state, is also dead. He was wounded six times, and had a double fracture in the skull.”

FROM SADDLE TO COCKPIT

It Was a Problem of Mud That Turned Trooper Bishop Into an “Ace” of the Royal Flying Corps

It was not unnatural that intrepidity in the air should have commanded more of public attention and enthusiasm during the war than did the courage, daring and amazing fortitude of the men in the trenches. The sensation of novelty makes stronger appeal to the curious interest of humanity than do deeds and events no less masterful though more familiar to experience. So it was that the invaders of the air, who fought their duels or delivered their assaults above the clouds, came in for the lion’s share of the popular plaudits,—the miracles of the flyers having the advantage of the romantic and picturesque over the miracles of the men who kept their feet on the earth. That is why there are more stories of the one than of the other. But are they not wonder stories? The career of any of the “Aces,” American, French, British, Italian, German, compels an affirmative answer.

[Illustration:

© _Underwood and Underwood._

Colonel William A. Bishop, a Canadian “Ace” of the Royal Flying Corps]

Among the many is that of Col. William A. Bishop, a Canadian member of the British Royal Flying Corps, his story rather the more interesting by reason of his living to tell it himself after the battles of the air had ceased. He had a record of forty-nine German planes and balloons actually destroyed. In addition to this, he was the victor in eighty to a hundred other fights high in air, the enemy engaged being driven from the field, either because of wounds or of that discretion said to be the better part of valor. In recognition of these achievements he received the Victoria Cross, the Distinguished Service Order, twice bestowed, and the Military Cross—all in a single fighting season and before he was twenty-three years of age. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about it all was that the hero of these officially honored achievements was little known, until the war ended, to the public at large. But that was due to the fact that the British policy was not to emphasize the performances of one branch of the service more than those of another. It is claimed that there were about forty “aces” of the British Royal Flying Corps of whom the world has never heard. Only when there was repeated mention of a name in _The Official Gazette_ was the public made aware that a flyer had won exceptional title to honors.

Bishop went to England as a cavalry officer in a unit of the Second Canadian Division, and expected that his services would be in the saddle, not in the cockpit. That was in July, 1915, in a period of torrential rains and consequent mud—cheer-despoilers of a cavalry camp. It was while wallowing in knee-deep mud that he viewed with envy a pilot gliding overhead in a trim little aeroplane, and the sudden desire possessed him to follow that airy mind-free branch of the service. He talked with a friend in the Royal Flying Corps who approved his purpose, and assured him the transfer could be made quite easily. He got the transfer and was soon training as an observer, his first lessons being flights in a ponderous training “bus” (as the airmen name their planes) that was not equal to a speed of more than fifty miles an hour. In a few months he got the observer’s badge or insignia, an O with a spread wing attached to one side, and within a little while was making observations and taking photographs in France over the enemy lines.

This useful work, so highly important to the men fighting on the ground, was drudgery to him because he was burning to become a fighter. Some six months later his longing was gratified; he returned to England and set about acquiring the knowledge and skill to fly “on his own.” He had the usual experience of the beginner,—elation over his first “solo”; uncertainties, anxieties as to how to get back to earth safely; a somewhat humiliating landing, etc.; but he suffered no misadventure. The first week in March, 1917, he landed in Boulogne with ten or twelve other flying men for his second experience on the fighting front.

[Illustration:

_Courtesy Red Cross Magazine._

In Formation

These airplanes have ascended early in the morning for battle formation. The range of vision is interesting from this altitude.]

KEEPING UP WITH THE FORMATION

The first time he was to go over the lines his orders were to bring up the rear of a flight of six machines, and he found keeping up with the formation such a busying task that he could be conscious of little else. “Every time the formation turned or did anything unexpected,” he says, “it took me two or three minutes to get back in my proper place. But I got back every time as fast as I could. I felt safe when I was with the formation and scared when I was out of it, for I had been warned many times that it is a fatal mistake to get detached and become a straggler. And I had heard of German ‘head hunters’ too. They are German machines that fly very high and avoid combat with anything like an equal number, but are quick to pounce down upon a straggler, or an Allied machine that has been damaged and is bravely struggling to get home. Fine sportsmanship that!

“The way I clung to my companions that day reminded me of the little child hanging to its mother’s skirts while crossing a street. I remember I also felt as a child does when it is going up a dark pair of stairs and is sure something is going to reach out somewhere and grab it. I was so intent on the clinging part that I paid very little attention to anything else.”

Some distance off was another formation on patrol that became engaged with a Hun formation and he saw the young flyer of one of the machines, “one of our own,” going down in flames, but his reflections on that incident were suddenly interrupted by a “bang” of terrifying violence close to his ears. The tail of his machine shot up in the air and he fell three or more hundred feet before he could recover control. It was a shot from an “Archie” (an anti-aircraft gun), and Colonel Bishop says of it: “That shot, strange to relate, was the closest I have ever had from anti-aircraft fire.”

THE GERMAN “FLYING PIG”

In his highly entertaining book, _Winged Warfare_, Colonel Bishop introduces an amusing incident as the finish of this night’s patrol. He says: