Part 33

“I maneuvered into an offensive position as quickly as I could, and before the Hun could fire again I had my machine gun pelting him. My judgment must have been fairly good.

“The Hun began to spin earthward. I followed to finish him, keeping in mind, meanwhile, that it is an old game in flying to let the other man think you are hit. This bit of strategy will often give an opportunity to get into a position that will give you the drop on your antagonist. The ruse is also sometimes used to get out of a fight when in trouble with gun jam, or when bothered by a defective motor.

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Sergeant James B. Lepley

_42nd Division, 168th Infantry, Company “M”_

On the night of July 14 and 15, 1918, to the northeast of Châlons-sur-Marne, near Souain, Lepley left his trench in a dense gas attack, and made his way to a wood through a rain of shrapnel. He went in search of two men lost from his platoon. He found them and guided them back to the trenches. A few days later, near Sergy, he led his platoon in a charge upon six machine-gun emplacements, which they captured, together with over thirteen prisoners of the Prussian Guards.]

“I discovered soon that this precaution was not necessary, for the Hun kept spinning down to the ground. He landed with a crash.

“A few minutes later I landed two fields away from the wreck and ran over to see the kill I had made.

“I had hit the Hun about fifty times and had nearly cut off both his legs at the hips.

“There was nothing left in the line of souvenirs, as the Tommies had gotten to the wreck before I did. I carried off a piece of his props and had a stick made of it. That night we had a celebration over the first Hun I had brought down behind our own line since I became a pilot.

“Next day I went out to get another Hun to add to my collection. I was in the act of crossing the Hun lines when, bang! to the right of me came a thud, and my engine stopped. Revenge, I thought. I volplaned to the ground, made a good landing in a field just behind our lines, and, ’phoning up the squad, I then had another engine brought out to replace mine.

AVIATOR PRICE DOWNS THREE PLANES

“On my way to the squadron I witnessed one of the greatest air fights I have ever seen. It took place above the cemetery of P——.

“Three Huns were aloft behind their own lines, and back of them was one of our patrolling scouts.

“The Hun does not believe in coming over our lines if he can possibly help it, and generally he will maneuver so that any engagement will have to be waged over German territory.

“One of our men named Price, who was coming in from patrol, was pilot of the scout, which was flying at the same height as the Hun aircraft, about 12,000 feet. Price was well behind the Hun lines when they saw him, and all three of them made for him at once. I happened to be at an artillery observation post, which I had to pass on my way home, and so was able to get a good view of the combat.

“The foremost of the Huns made straight for Price, and for a minute it looked as though he intended ramming him. The combatants separated again and began to fire upon one another, as the tut-tut-tut of the machine guns told me. Of a sudden one Hun volplaned, while another made straight for Price. I wondered what Price would do, but saw the next moment that he had ‘zoomed’ over the second Hun machine, which just then swooped down upon him. While Price was ‘zooming’ I noticed that the first Hun was falling to the ground, having either been disabled or killed by Price’s machine gun.

“Yet within a few moments the second Hun also crashed to earth, and the third was now making for home as fast as his motor would carry him; but Price chased and quickly caught up with him. It was an exciting race. Price was working his machine gun for all the thing was worth, and before long the third Hun went down.

“Just five minutes had been required for the fight. When I met Price later I congratulated him. I remember wishing him all the good luck a fellow could have. But that did not help, for within a month he, too, came down in a heap.”

Roberts won his lieutenant’s commission and achieved the distinction of Ace before he returned home. He was four times wounded in mid-air.

In April, 1918, the American forces just going into active sectors had three squadrons, two for observation and one for pursuit. Their strength totaled 35 planes. In May, 1918, the squadrons were increased to nine. The most rapid growth occurred after July, 1918, when American De Haviland planes were becoming available in quantity for observation and day bombing service, and by November, 1918, the number of squadrons increased to 45, with a total of 740 planes in action.

“THE RED BATTLE FLYER”

Von Richthofen’s Brilliant Career in the Air an Offset to His Failure as a Uhlan

The cheery egotism of a man fully assured within himself that he merits his own good opinion is the dominant note of Captain Baron Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen’s account of his experiences as a flyer. It is not an offensive egotism; you do not resent it; though you may smile, wondering that a spirit so entirely valiant could so lock arms with that quality of juvenile vanity commonly described as “cockiness.” Von Richthofen was a remarkable fellow, the most debonair as well as the most redoubtable of the German aviators and really entitled to exemption from the opprobrious terms of “Hun” and “Boche.” Though a resolute foe he did not forget that he was a gentleman, an aristocrat, and he played the game on that level. He was easily the foremost of aviators—as far as official recognition can determine priority—at the time of his death, April 21, 1918. He then had a record of 80 downs—70 aeroplanes and 10 observation balloons. His nearest rival at that time was Major Raymond Collishaw, the British Ace, with a record of 77.

Von Richthofen was shot down on the Amiens front, over the Somme, April 21st, and his machine, a new and elaborate triplane of the Fokker type, recently presented to him—its speed was 140 miles an hour and it could climb 15,000 feet in 17 minutes—fell in the British lines. The esteem in which he was held by those who had so often sought to shoot him down was attested in his burial with full military honors and the tributes of genuine admiration heaped on his grave. In the fifteen months of his active flying he became the favorite of the Kaiser and the idol of the Germany Army. Some one has said, perhaps not too extravagantly, that the fall of Amiens, then besieged, would not have compensated Germany for the loss she sustained in the death of the greatest and most beloved of her heroes of the air.

Von Richthofen belonged to the country gentry, of noble family. He entered the Cadet Corps when he was eleven years old. In 1911 he entered the Army. At the outbreak of the war he was a lieutenant of Uhlans. He went to the Western front with his regiment. His first experience with whistling bullets was when he and his company of Uhlans, out to ascertain the strength of the enemy in the forest near Virton, were caught in a trap. They fled in wild disorder, not without casualties. He was in the trenches before Verdun and found it “boresome.” When off duty he sought amusement shooting game in the forest of La Chaussée. So passed several months. Then one day he rebelled against inactivity. It was not the thing for which he went to war. He made his plea to the higher powers. With much grumbling his prayer was granted. He joined the Flying Service in May, 1915. He made his first flight the next day as an observer. Of that experience he wrote in his book:

HIS FIRST FLIGHT

“The draft from the propeller was a beastly nuisance. I found it quite impossible to make myself understood by the pilot. Everything was carried away by the wind. If I took up a piece of paper it disappeared. My safety helmet slid off. My muffler dropped off. My jacket was not sufficiently buttoned. In short, I felt very uncomfortable. Before I knew what was happening, the pilot went ahead at full speed and the machine started rolling. We went faster and faster. I clutched the sides of the car. Suddenly, the shaking was over, the machine was in the air and the earth dropped away from under me.

“I had been told the name of the place to which we were to fly. I was to direct my pilot. At first we flew right ahead, then my pilot turned to the right, then to the left, but I had lost all sense of direction above our own aerodrome. I had not the slightest notion where I was!”

He continued—with steadily increasing knowledge of aircraft—to serve as an observer until October 10, 1915, when, having passed his examination and been accepted as a pilot, he had the ecstasy of his first solo-flight. In his book (_The Red Battle Flyer_, translated by T. Ellis Barker, published by Robert M. McBride & Company), he describes that flight:

“I started the machine. The aeroplane went at the prescribed speed and I could not help noticing that I was actually flying. After all I did not feel timorous but rather elated. I did not care for anything. I should not have been frightened no matter what happened. With contempt of death I made a large curve to the left, stopped the machine near a tree, exactly where I had been ordered to, and looked forward to see what would happen. Now came the most difficult thing, the landing. I remembered exactly what movements I had to make. I acted mechanically and the machine moved quite differently from what I had expected. I lost my balance, made some wrong movements, stood on my head and I succeeded in converting my aeroplane into a battered school ’bus. I was very sad, looked at the damage which I had done to the machine, which after all was not very great, and had to suffer from other people’s jokes.

“Two days later I went with passion at the flying and suddenly I could handle the apparatus.”

THE BOELCKE CIRCUS

It was not, however, until September 17, 1915, when he was a member of the newly organized Boelcke flying squadron that came to be known as the Circus, that he scored his “first English victim.” It was “a gloriously fine day, and therefore only to be expected that the English would be very active,” so under the leadership of Boelcke the squadron took the air. As they approached the front, Boelcke discovered an Allied squadron going in the direction of Cambrai. There were seven of the Allies to five of the Germans. They came within range. Here is a sample of that “cockiness” with which von Richthofen described his various and manifold encounters:

“The Englishman nearest to me was traveling in a large boat painted with dark colors. I did not reflect very long but took my aim and shot. He also fired and so did I, and both of us missed our aim. A struggle began and the great point for me was to get to the rear of the fellow because I could only shoot forward with my gun. He was differently placed, for his machine gun was movable. It could fire in all directions.

“Apparently he was no beginner, for he knew exactly that his last hour had arrived at the moment when I get at the back of him. At that time I had not yet the conviction ‘He must fall!’ which I have now on such occasions, but, on the contrary, I was curious to see whether he would fall. There is a great difference between the two feelings. When one has shot down one’s first, second or third opponent, then one begins to find out how the trick is done.

“My Englishman twisted and turned, going criss-cross. I did not think for a moment that the hostile squadron contained other Englishmen who conceivably might come to the aid of their comrade. I was animated by a single thought: ‘The man in front of me must come down, whatever happens.’ At last a favorable moment arrived. My opponent had apparently lost sight of me. Instead of twisting and turning he flew straight along. In a fraction of a second I was at his back with my excellent machine. I gave a short series of shots with my machine gun. I had gone so close that I was afraid I might dash into the Englishman. Suddenly, I nearly yelled with joy, for the propeller of the enemy machine had stopped turning. I had shot his engine to pieces; the enemy was compelled to land, for it was impossible for him to reach his own lines. The English machine was curiously swinging to and fro. Probably something had happened to the pilot. The observer was no longer visible. His machine gun was apparently deserted. Obviously I had hit the observer and he had fallen from his seat.

HIS FIRST VICTIMS

“The Englishman landed close to the flying ground of one of our squadrons. I was so excited that I landed also and my eagerness was so great that I nearly smashed up my machine. The English flying machine and my own stood close together. I rushed to the English machine and saw that a lot of soldiers were running towards my enemy. When I arrived I discovered that my assumption had been correct. I had shot the engine to pieces and both the pilot and observer were severely wounded. The observer died at once and the pilot while being transported to the nearest dressing station. I honored the fallen enemy by placing a stone on his beautiful grave.

[Illustration:

Painting by Joseph Cummings Chase.

Sergeant Herman Korth

_32nd Division, 121st Machine Gun Battalion, Company D_

Under heavy fire from machine guns and artillery. Sergeant Korth crawled to the crest of a hill, near Juvigny, north of Soissons, August 31, 1918, setting stakes to line the American artillery on enemy machine-gun emplacements. He remained in observation in this perilous position for half an hour, signaling back when American troops were endangered by the fire of the batteries.]

“When I came home Boelcke and my other comrades were already at breakfast. They were surprised that I had not turned up. I reported proudly that I had shot down an Englishman. All were full of joy, for I was not the only victor. As usual, Boelcke had shot down an opponent for breakfast and every one of the other men also had downed an enemy for the first time.

“I would mention that since that time no English squadron ventured as far as Cambrai as long as Boelcke’s squadron was there.”

“Still,” said von Richthofen, in his airily patronizing way, “the Englishman is a smart fellow. That we must allow. Sometimes the English came down to the very low altitude and visited Boelcke in his quarters upon which they threw bombs. They absolutely challenged us to battle and never refused fighting.”

BOELCKE’S FINISH

But October 28, 1916 (when the squadron had 40 downs to its credit), Boelcke, von Richthofen and four others flying in formation saw at a distance “two impertinent Englishmen in the air who actually seemed to be enjoying the terrible weather.” The struggle began. “Boelcke tackled one, I the other. I had to let go because one of the German machines got in my way.” All that seems to have interested him further in the fight was the fact that Boelcke’s machine suffered a sort of collision with one of the other German machines, a part of his planes was broken off, his machine was no longer steerable and it fell. Boelcke was killed.

Some little time after he had brought down his sixteenth victim von Richthofen was given the _Ordre pour le Mérite_ and appointed commander of the Eleventh Chasing Squadron. It was then that the idea seized him to paint his machine a flaming red, which became afterward the personal identification of the Captain, who became famous through the adventures and success he had with his machine—_Le Petit Rouge_, as “everyone got to know my red bird.”

French, English, and American airmen who gained wisdom at the front may find an amusing flavor in a sage remark of von Richthofen about the time he became captain of the squadron. “In my opinion, the aggressive spirit is everything and that spirit is very strong in us Germans. Hence we shall always retain the domination of the air.” Events did not altogether sustain the boast.

But it is not necessary to object strongly to the complacency of a man who fought with undiminished valor throughout his flying career, accounted for 80 enemy machines, and died at last, shot down over the enemy’s lines. If he was self-confident to the degree of vanity, his audacity was truly admirable. He lacked just ten days of attaining his twenty-sixth birthday when he fell. The English grudged him no honors.

THE WORLD’S GREATEST LAUNCHING

American shipbuilders established a world’s record on July 4, 1918, by launching 92 ships of 450,000 deadweight tonnage—one third more than the tonnage produced during the fiscal year, 1915-16. The previous year’s record of total tonnage was 398,000 tons in 1901. American Labor’s answer to Germany’s unrestricted warfare was the launching on one day of 54,000 tons more shipping than had been constructed in any previous year.

[Illustration:

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Lieutenant Pat O’Brien

An American youth who, in the early part of the war, joined the Canadian Royal Flying Corps. Shot down from a height of 8,000 feet, he was captured by the Germans. Afterwards making his escape, he passed through 72 days of harrowing ordeal leading finally to safety.]

PAT O’BRIEN OUTWITS THE HUN

The Remarkable Story of an American Boy in a Seventy-two Days’ Ordeal of Escape from the Germans

The publishers of his book, _Outwitting the Hun_, were not extravagant when they advertised Lieut. Pat O’Brien’s story as “one of the strangest and most thrilling since the outbreak of the war.” No one else had quite such an experience, and that he lived to tell of it was due to indomitable Irish pluck rather than to any favor of circumstances. You get the flavor of the capital book he wrote and the tone of the man from the name he transferred to the title page. There is no Lieut. Patricius, or even Lieut. Patrick O’Brien; but straightforward character-delivery in plain “Lieut. Pat. O’Brien.” and you get from it an odd sort of subconscious assurance that the very extraordinary story he tells of his escape from the Germans is every whit true. Yet, between his being shot down from a height of 8,000 feet and the last item of his seventy-two days of anguish and adventure in escaping the Huns there is many a challenge to credulity. There can be but little of his story reproduced here.

AS A FIGHTING SCOUT

Pat started flying, in Chicago, in 1912. “I was then eighteen years old,” he says, “but I had had a hankering for the air ever since I can remember....

“In the early part of 1916, when trouble was brewing in Mexico, I joined the American Flying Corps. I was sent to San Diego, where the Army flying school is located, and spent about eight months there, but as I was anxious to get into active service and there didn’t seem much chance of America ever getting into the war, I resigned and, crossing over to Canada, joined the Royal Flying Corps at Victoria, B. C.

“I was sent to Camp Borden, Toronto, first to receive instruction and later to instruct. While a cadet I made the first loop ever made by a cadet in Canada, and after I had performed the stunt I half expected to be kicked out of the service for it. Apparently, however, they considered the source and let it go at that. Later on I had the satisfaction of introducing the loop as part of the regular course of instruction for cadets in the R. F. C., and I want to say right here that Camp Borden has turned out some of the best fliers that have ever gone to France.

“In May, 1917, I and seventeen other Canadian fliers left for England on the _Megantic_, where we were to qualify for service in France....

“Within a few weeks after our arrival in England all of us had won our ‘wings’—the insignia worn on the left breast by every pilot on the western front.

“We were all sent to a place in France known as the Pool Pilots’ Mess. Here men gather from all the training squadrons in Canada and England and await assignments to the particular squadron of which they are to become members.”

He was soon “called” to a squadron stationed about eighteen miles back of the Ypres Line. There were eighteen pilots. The routine was two flights a day, each of two hours’ duration. He presently found that his squadron “was some hot squadron,” the fliers being assigned to special-duty work, “such as shooting up trenches at a height of fifty feet from the ground.”

CAPTURED BY THE HUN

Pat holds August 17, 1917, as a day he will “not easily forget.” He has fairly good reason for thinking the day a fixity in his memory, for, as he says:

“I killed two Huns in a double-seated machine in the morning, another in the evening, and then I was captured myself. I may have spent more eventful days in my life, but I can’t recall any just now.”

Considering the fact that he had been shot down from a height of 8,000 feet the miracle is that he became “a prisoner of war.” His fellows of the squadron who had seen the fight took it as a matter of fact that he had been killed outright. One realizes that a chap who could come through that sort of juggle with death was quite equal to his later adventures.

Convalescent, after some time spent in a hospital, O’Brien was sent to the officers’ prison camp at Courtrai, preparatory to transfer to a prison in the interior of Germany. He remained there nearly three weeks, to which he devotes an interesting chapter. He had many fellow prisoners, and, of course, one frequent topic of conversation was “what were the chances of escape?” There were many ingenious plans but O’Brien did not remain to attempt to carry out any of them. September 9th he and six other officers were marked off for transfer into Germany, and later were marched to the train that was to convey them. They were objects of derision to the crowd gathered at the station. There were twelve coaches, eleven of them containing troops going home on leave, the twelfth, fourth class, filthy, being reserved for the prisoners, eight of them under four guards.