17
On one of the bleakest rainy and miserable mornings while in France, I took a look at the bulletin board in the orderly room of my motor unit. Why, I will never know, for as a full-fledged private any orders I might receive came direct from some non-commissioned officer. Certainly this look changed the war for me in a way I didn’t expect, and with a speed I didn’t anticipate. From what happened to me, if one doesn’t believe in fate one should never look at a bulletin board, especially during a war.
The notice which attracted my attention was from the Royal Flying Corps headquarters, stating that anyone who wished to become an officer in the Royal Flying Corps might, regardless of present rank, apply through their commanding officer with recommendation of a general, and would be given a thirty days’ trial as an observer on probation, at the end of which time if service was satisfactory he would be given a commission as second lieutenant in the RFC, or return to his original unit at former status.
True, I know nothing about aeroplanes or what an observer is supposed to do — but one thing I do know, they don’t fly in the rain, and we have been living in rain for months. One can reach up and get a handful of water anytime, it just stands in the sky. The only question is how high is up.
Me, I’m not thinking of flying, but it might be a nice way out of this damn rain. I have no desire to be a hero either, living or dead, though if fate is kind, being a second lieutenant would be good, as all second lieutenants I knew seemed to have it easy.
So without consulting any of my buddies, I find Sergeant O’Brien and ask him to take me to our commanding officer, Major Red Harris. Sarge objects that this is going over the captain’s head. All of this I know, and I also know if I don’t get direct to the major, my chances are not too good, as up to now I haven’t been associating with any generals, and it appears one is necessary or at least his blessings are, and I know this can all be arranged if the Old Man is interested.
So, with much arguing, Sarge gives in and we head for the orderly room where the major is working.
The Old Man is busy with some people when we arrive, but upon seeing O’Brien, he inquires what he wants. After O’Brien tells him (with not too much glee) that I have requested an interview, we are told to wait. This I know is good news, and in a very few minutes my faith is justified, for we are called over to the major’s desk, where he dismisses O’Brien. Then to my utter surprise he says, “Libby, I would like you to be in the Royal Flying Corps and have given it much thought, especially since the bulletin has come out — they need men badly and I will do everything I can for you. Be at the officers’ mess at one p.m. and we will go see General Lindsay and I will ask him to sign your papers, also to write a special letter of recommendation, because I am sure you will be a credit to us and the RFC. Libby, when did you see the notice on our bulletin board?” When I reply, “About twenty minutes ago,” he remarks, “That bulletin has been there for two weeks and you are the first to apply. Will Captain Parmalee be surprised, as I predicted you would be the first, although this is much later than I expected.”
This reception and kindness from the Old Man are more than I expected, so with many thanks and a big salute I proceed to make myself as presentable as possible for my meeting with General Lindsay.
We have been, we have seen, we have conquered. General Lindsay signed my papers and wrote the letter requested by Major Harris, all of which goes in Canadian headquarters mail tonight. This is much faster than I hoped for, but true to army routine I was quite sure we wouldn’t hear from the RFC for at least thirty days, which was usual unless it was leave — then you could depend on a sixty days’ wait.
On my way back from General Lindsay’s headquarters, I thought of my buddies with the big trucks and particularly three of my closest, Coap, Baldy and Cornell, the four of us sticking together whatever the occasion might be since we were thrown together in October 1914. Most of our unit had certainly seen us drive away down the cobblestone road between the big lorries parked on each side, me in the front seat of the big Daimler with the driver, the Old Man in the back seat taking the salutes, and unless O’Brien had opened his big mouth the entire column would be dying of curiosity. Of one thing I was certain, that right or wrong they would be with me to a man.
I thought I was sure of at least a thirty days’ wait before any action would be taken by the RFC, and if accepted, I would have thirty days’ training by RFC to become a second lieutenant, which in itself wouldn’t be too bad. Certainly there would be no flying without a great deal of training.
Of flying I knew nothing, plus having never even been near a plane, even on the ground. As I was coming out of my dream of what was to be and not to be, we reached headquarters, where I gave the major my best salute and unfortunately ran into Sergeant O’Brien. The first thing to come out of his Irish mouth was, How did our hero make out? He was a good sergeant, tough as hell at times but always for his men.
So I gave him all the information with my own opinion as to the length of time we would have before hearing from RFC — if ever.
The old boy was direct and to the point. “You are always willing to bet on anything. I’ll give you odds you hear in less than a week with orders to report for duty. And something else, you won’t go back to sit on your royal American for training to be a second louie. You will be up in the clouds the first day you start. They are so short of pilots and observers, that is why the bulletin. Man, did you ever see any of our guys win a fight? The Hun has more ships, more men, more everything, that is why they are scraping the bottom of the barrel for flyers. This rain can’t last forever. Spring and summer are coming and it will be tough for all combat troops. Our flying corps will be up there and you will be up there. If I had the guts I would go with you, but I have several little O’Briens in Canada, so unless I break my neck with a motorcycle or a stray bomb gets me, I will come through. But you can bet on one thing for sure, you will have every one of our motor transport pulling for you. I’ll even offer up an Irish prayer occasionally. And will still bet you on the time if you want some.” Oh God, if I could only tell a bum of a sergeant to go to hell!
To say that this conversation slowed me down would be an understatement, he was so sure of what he was talking about. I was beginning to think I had moved too fast. I wasn’t mad at anyone, life was good, even in the rain, and there were many places in the world I wanted to see, none of them in France.
By the time I reached the billet where my three pals were, I wasn’t too dissatisfied with myself, and here, as I expected, I received a royal welcome. They had pinched a gallon of Jamaica rum from the rum truck, French bread, canned butter with a couple bottles of vin rouge, the good red wine which makes bread taste like cake. They all agreed that Sergeant O’Brien was not only nuts but didn’t know from nothing. That no outfit would let you go into combat without training. So with good food, good friends, the rain outside, we four settled the question to our satisfaction at least for the night. It was the end of a perfect day.
The next three days were the usual routine, clean our trucks, load and at night deliver our load as close to the lines as we could go, where the horse transport would take over. On the third day after my trip to General Lindsay’s headquarters, I hear O’Brien outside of my truck. Upon sticking my head out from under the canvas top to see what the battling Irishman might want, I am greeted with the remark, “Boy, you owe me some dough. How much did we bet? All right, so we didn’t bet — but I was right, they must be hungry for men. Three days today and I have orders and transportation to RFC headquarters where you are to report to a Colonel Bennett for an interview. Major Harris has ordered his driver to pick you up at seven A.M. and drive you to the depot, where the train leaves at seven-thirty. After the interview you return to us. Evidently the interview decides your fate. Maybe if you don’t look too good you won’t get the job, but boy you better or the Old Man will never be the same, and you can’t let the Old Man down. Good luck!”
Catching the early morning train back toward the base as per orders, I arrive at eleven-thirty, where I am met by a driver of an RFC Crosley tender and we take off for general headquarters. Here Colonel Bennett’s quarters are pointed out to me. The colonel is a fine looking man with the RFC wings on his chest together with several ribbons which are significant of service or decorations, I don’t know which as none are familiar to me.
The colonel gives me the kind of welcome which makes one feel good, not stiff or formal, but puts me perfectly at ease with the remark, “Libby, we are glad to see you. This won’t take long, it is only routine. We will take your weight and height first.” This being done by his Sergeant Collins, there are a few questions.
Do you know anything about aeroplanes? Absolutely nothing, I answered. What makes you think you can fly? I don’t know, I have never been near a plane. Can you ride a horse? Now, what a horse had to do with flying I didn’t know, as horses don’t fly, but here I was on safe ground, so I assured the colonel I was an expert with horses. This pleased him more than I expected, as he was the owner of several polo ponies, and we had a nice discussion about horses in general.
Our interview was evidently over, as he instructed Sergeant Collins to take me to the sergeants’ mess for lunch and see that I had transportation to the railroad station for my return trip. His last remark was, “You will hear from us.” Good or bad, he didn’t say.
Going to the sergeants’ mess seemed very unusual to me, as in our Canadian Army privates didn’t eat with the sergeants, nor did sergeants eat with the officers. There was a mess for everyone according to his rank, and me, I’m plenty rank, which is nothing. So I ask Collins about it. He says that circumstances alter cases, that while I was now a private, I was making application to become an officer and would, when I reported to active duty with some squadron during my probation period, eat with the sergeants and share their quarters until receiving a commission or being sent home.
“And I might tell you that you will soon be in the RFC, because you have passed the Old Man with flying colors, and at staff meeting in the morning he will recommend you and a decision will be made as to which squadron needs you the most, as we are awfully short of observers, especially in the fighter squadrons. So, before you are back to your own base forty-eight hours, you will receive orders where to report.
“The thirty day probation will be up to you. Yours will be a highly specialized service with many responsibilities, where more fail than succeed, but to succeed is wonderful. To have earned the observer’s wing is a mark of distinction and combat service.
“Here we are at the mess. Let’s meet the others. Every one of us would give our eyeteeth to be an observer in our RFC. And every one will be watching your future with interest.”
I lunched with as nice a bunch as I have ever met, then to my train back to the only place I know as home in France — my motor unit.
It is a funny world here. I have been wet to the gills for months. Today the sun is out. Don’t look like it will ever rain again. Me, who was looking for a dry job, looks like I have it, all right, because I am told the Old Man wants to see me. This can mean only one thing, he has news from the RFC with orders for me to report somewhere some place in France. Too bad it had to stop raining. Also too bad they didn’t lose the orders for a few days, this is faster action than I am used to. At the present moment I am not mad at the Heinies or anyone. Boy, if I can believe the two smart sergeants, O’Brien and Collins, I am about to engage in a fighting war where the boys are using real bullets. Me, who wanted to travel. Looks like I am going in the wrong direction. At least I’ll have a look at how high is up. Oh well, I know what my big brother would say, “Move easy and take it in stride.”
So up to the major’s quarters, where I receive my orders together with much advice. Bidding farewell to major and staff, I make the rounds, bidding goodbye to all my friends, and if a guy ever had a lot of good luck thrown his way, I am the boy. Going back on the same seven-thirty train I had so recently traveled, my destination was not so far. I would be met at Le Hameau station, again by an RFC tender, only this time I would be headed for active duty in Twenty-third Squadron, RFC. With this information under my belt, I and my three pals Coap, Baldy and Cornell decide to do a little celebrating. This relieves all pressure, so that when morning comes along and with it the seven-thirty train, I feel no pain. In fact, I’m almost happy about the whole thing. When the conductor gives me a shake to prepare me for my departure at my station, I gently feel my head to be sure it is mine. I step off the train almost into the arms of my escort with the tender, and climb up in the front seat where there is more air, hoping for a long ride as I am in no hurry to do any more moving than necessary. It just isn’t to be. In a very short five miles, we drive through a clump of trees into an opening and, whether I like it or not, this will be my home for thirty days or less.
The driver has completed his mission, turning me over to a sergeant major who instructs said driver to put my bag in the orderly room temporarily. He slips me the sad news that his instructions are to bring me out to the hangars to meet our commanding officer immediately I have arrived. As we move toward what appears to be an abandoned field, I spot nine big, highly colored heavy canvas structures, three in a row on three sides, with the fourth, open side facing the field, which was, I found very soon, the landing field for the planes. In each hangar were two ships, which made a complete squadron of eighteen planes. Standing out a short distance from the hangars in the field were three men engaged in apparent serious conversation, so we came to attention and the sergeant gave a salute.
The senior of the three, Major Ross Hume, says, “Welcome to the Twenty-third Squadron, Libby.” This before the sergeant could open his mouth. “Libby, we need observers. This is Lieutenant Price and Lieutenant Hicks, both of whom are in need of a good observer. What do you know about a machine gun?” Up to now no one has ever mentioned machine guns, so, when I assure the major I know nothing, he shows no shock, but immediately tells the sergeant major to take me to the gunnery sergeant for a half hour of instruction and shooting on the gun range, then to bring me back and Lieutenant Price would take me up for twenty minutes practice shooting at a gallon petrol can on the field. “Libby will eat with the sergeants and share quarters with Sergeant Chapman.”
This doesn’t seem possible. I left my base at seven-thirty, it is now ten-thirty, and if his orders work out, hell, I could well be dead by noon. While I don’t feel so good, I am real glad of our party last night, for the way things look, I may never have another. So away to the gunnery but not in high spirits. Here I am taken over by another sergeant to coach me with the Lewis gun, which comes very easy, possibly because I have been used to other guns most of my life.
At this time the Lewis used only a drum of forty-seven rounds, later ninety-seven, and to a fellow who could shoot at all, even forty-seven rounds was a lot of firepower, something I never dreamed of shooting. Evidently my performance on the range is satisfactory, for back we go to the hangars. The major’s first words are “How did he do?”
“Wonderful, sir, I think he will be fine.” What a blow!
“Very well, Sergeant, put a gun on the front mounting of Lieutenant Price’s plane, have it wheeled out for practice at ground. Show Libby how to get in the ship and use the gun when in flight. Notify Lieutenant Price when ready.”
The ship which was rolled out was the pusher type, with the propeller in the rear. The pilot was in front of the motor in the middle of the ship and the observer in front of the pilot. When you stood, all of you from the knees up was exposed to the world. There was no belt and nothing to hold on to except the gun and sides of the nacelle. Fastened to the bottom and toward the front of the nacelle was a hollow steel rod with a specially fitted swivel mount for anchoring the machine gun, which could be swung from side to side or to the front as the occasion demanded, giving it a wonderful field of fire.
Between the observer and pilot was another gun, which was for the purpose of fighting a rear-run action over the top wing to protect your tail. The mounting consisted of a hollow steel rod, into which a solid steel rod was fitted to work up and down with the machine gun on the top. To operate this you simply pull the gun up as high as possible, where it locks into the fitting, then you step out of the nacelle and stand with a foot on each side. From this position you have nothing to worry about except being blown out of the ship or being tossed out if the pilot makes a wrong move. This gun, I know, I am not going to like much. Brother, no wonder they need observers! All this I learn from the sergeant while waiting for Price to arrive. Who does, as nonchalant as a hog on ice. The engine starts, much to my sorrow, and we taxi out to the far end of the field, where we are to take off toward the woods where the entire squadron is hidden, with the hangars nestling against the woods’ outer edge. My instructions are, when we turn back toward the field and come within range of a red petrol tin which Lieutenant Price shows me on the way out to take off, to shoot the tin in bursts from the gun, then to change drums and repeat the performance once more, then land.
All this is old hat to the lieutenant, but not to me, who one hour before had never had my hand on a plane, and have had my first contact with a machine gun a few minutes previous. I’m flat on my bottom for the take-off, then I am supposed to either stand or get on my knees to be in position to shoot on our way back. This I am preparing to do, when he throws the ship in a steep bank to turn. I almost swallow my tongue, and my eyes are full of tears, for I have no goggles, so we fly over and past the target, which I don’t even see.
This I know is very bad, a very poor showing on my part. Something must be done. Sure I can’t disgrace my old friend Major Harris with such a rotten show. As Price makes his second trip toward the target, I am in position with the gun pointed where I think the target will show up. This it does and I press the trigger and can see the petrol tin bounce and roll over — how could one miss with forty-seven rounds? — as I forget and let the whole works go. Now to change drums for one more shot. When I release the clip which holds the empty drum in place, it is caught in the wind and flies out of my hand, just missing the propeller and my pilot’s head with no damage, but this could have ended our careers forever. Again I know I have done something very wrong. So slipping the full drum in place on the Lewis, I wait again for the target to appear in sight, and again the entire forty-seven go and I see the petrol tin this time really roll. We are past the target in position to land. My pilot throws the ship into what I learn later is a steep bank, turns and lands, tax-ies up to the petrol tin to see what happened to our target. If there were no holes when the tin was put out, there were now plenty. And in front of our hangar stood the major and two sergeants. His remark of “Good show, Libby” helped a lot. I felt terrible about losing the drum, so mentioned it to Lieutenant Price, whereupon he called the gunnery sergeant, asking him if he had explained how to change drums in the air. He immediately said he hadn’t. Was told to always do so in the future. Asked to show me my quarters which were with a Sergeant Chapman, the sergeant accompanied me over to a pup tent well back in the woods which contained two cots, my bag and Chapman’s personal flying things, with a mirror hanging on the pole for shaving, together with a couple of beautiful flying coats.
In a few minutes Chapman arrived. He was a fine looking fellow, about my size and build, and was one of the three sergeant pilots in the RFC. Was attached to the Twenty-third on special duty, flying a single-seater Martinsyde Scout used for reconnaissance and photographic work. He was an old timer and a top pilot although just a boy. After a few minutes of visiting, he said, “Libby, let’s go to the mess.” Then he stopped. “I just heard you are quite handy with a machine gun. I also know you had a busy morning. Suppose we refresh before eating.” With this he reached in a pocket of one of his flying coats and came up with a flask, pouring a couple of large portions, and handing me one with the remark, “This may not cure you, but it will never hurt,” which was too true, as it was the British ration rum of which there is none richer.
This is God’s gift to man, and is issued by the British wherever they have combat troops. Three swallows and you never have any pain, either mentally or physically. The British should know, it has been a standard with them for years. Chapman didn’t know that a few hours previous three characters — Coap, Baldy and Cornell — would have told you that the British ration of rum would cure gout, leprosy, smallpox or what have you, and while they weren’t trying to cure me of anything, it was certain they were trying to preserve me in a state known only to embalmers, and now after my refresher with the good sergeant, I am alive, I think.
To lunch, and if the flying corps is willing I will catch a little rest. This seems in order, so both stretch out on our cots while Chapman is giving me some much needed advice about the entire flying corps and our squadron in particular, many things which would be of help to me in the future. And one thing he told me — which relieved my mind of any doubt that, without even trying, I had gotten myself into one hell of a mess — was his explanation of our squadron’s purpose and activities:
“You know, Libby, all F.E.2b squadrons are all-purpose squadrons. While being primarily a fighting squadron, they can do anything, such as reconnaissance or bombing, and while the Hun is faster and more maneuverable, the F.E.2b in the hands of a good pilot and observer is hard to defeat.
“In fact, it is so solid that unless they hit the pilot or engine, the ship will keep afloat and limp home, often riddled with bullets, and here is where you come in. The observer is the most essential part of the team. You do all the shooting, all the photography, all the bomb dropping, if bombs are used. And you’re entirely responsible for your pilot’s life. True, the pilot flies the ship. He gets you there and back, and a good pilot will put you in a position to shoot and will not get panicky, tossing the ship around, throwing you out of position to shoot or defend yourself. If you’re lucky, you can be with Price, Hicks or Captain Gray until you are used to the air. After that, even with a green pilot your chances are good so long as you can shoot. I am not telling you this to get your wind up, but to help if I can, because anyone on their first time in the air who shoots like you did will be one surprise to the Hun.”