18
Through all of this I have remainded quiet, but finally come alive enough to inquire what is so wonderful in hitting a can where you have forty-seven shots and let the works go, which was quite contrary to what I was told, and I don’t feel too cockeyed good about my showing, even if everyone seems to think it wasn’t bad.
“Libby, the point is you did shoot. I have seen them freeze and never shoot. After two or three attempts they go back to their unit. This is one reason we are so short of observers. Shooting from the air, where you are all exposed, with nothing but your gun to keep you steady, is why so many men fail as observers the first two or three times.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a buck private with flying coat, helmet, boots and gloves, which is a squadron issue and fits like it. Asked by Chapman if there isn’t something better in the coat department, he says, Possibly, but there is not time for that. He’s flying at three and is to be on field at two-thirty. “All right, son, you may go, and take your junk with you. I’ll fit Libby out with one of my outfits. Try this helmet, it fits like a helmet should, doesn’t drop down over your eyes. The coat is just right and, if I were you, I would put on a heavier pair of socks as your shoes are good and won’t be awkward like boots. Now for a pair of gloves and goggles and you look the part, which will please our Old Man, who you can bet will be out to see the flight leave. So while you are here, wear these clothes for good luck. You will soon be buying some for yourself.”
What a chap. You would almost think I couldn’t miss. All I could say was thanks. I at least looked like a flyer, regardless of how ignorant or green I might be. So with my new flying coat over my arm I am in front of the hangar at two-thirty promptly, where I find my pilot is Lieutenant Hicks. We have thirty minutes before flight time, as his ship is not out of the hangar. I wander over to wait, where I am assured by one of the mechanics that he is a top pilot, which is sweet music to my ears. Now, if I can just do my part and not let him down. In a few minutes I see him approaching from around one of the hangars, his leather flying coat hanging over his arm, helmet cocked on one side of his head, perfectly at ease and as carefree as a school girl headed for an ice cream parlor.
His first words were, “Stout show this morning, glad to have you with me.” Whether he really meant it or was just trying to build up my courage, I didn’t know. Still, he didn’t think it was anything to worry about when I explained that if I didn’t see the insignia, I couldn’t tell our planes from the enemy. “This, Libby, you will learn, but be on the safe side, have a roving eye, don’t let any ship get in a position to shoot us down. If he is friendly, he will show his colors. Unless he does, let him have it. And tomorrow, if you will go to the adjutant’s office, he will show you silhouettes of all ships, both the enemy and ours. I suggest you study three of our enemy ships, the Fokker, Roland and Albatros. These are the most deadly the Germans have at present. They are faster and have much more maneuverability than our ships, unless it is our Nieuport. And of these we don’t have many. As for our F.E.2b, the enemy have a wholesome respect for it. A good observer can shoot from any angle and has a wonderful range of vision with the front gun. The rear gun is to keep Fritz off your tail when returning home from across the lines, when you can’t turn and fight with the front gun unless forced to. If this happens, you lose your formation back of the lines and have to fight your way home alone. This is tough and is just what the Hun is after. A lone ship they all jump on, so we try to keep formation at any cost if possible. Fighting your way home in a single ship, the odds are all in favor of your enemy The wind is almost always against you because it blows from the west off the sea — this they know and they can wait. Remember, we are taking off in a few minutes. Shoot at anything you see and don’t know. Here comes Price with orders for this show. I’ll give you the information in a few minutes.”
Upon his return to our plane, I am told we are on a three-hour reconnaissance mission. Will dash over into Hun Land below Arras, making a wide circle down toward the Somme River and crossing back into our own front at Albert. Our flight formation is: Captain Gray leading with two streamers on the tail of his ship to denote leadership. Direct on Captain Gray’s right is Price, with one streamer denoting second leader, and on Captain Gray’s left another ship known as left escort. Back and slightly higher would be two more ships, and directly back and higher, our ship which was known as upper back escort and considered to be the toughest spot in the formation.
This I didn’t know, which was just as well, as finding out the hard way might be the right way. It would at least save a fellow considerable worry. Before taking off for the blue sky above, my pilot said there would be nothing for me to do for the next hour except relax and enjoy the ride. Each pilot would climb on his own to gain altitude of ten thousand feet, where we would rendezvous and pick up formation over our own aerodrome, then head for the lines for our dash across and beyond. He suggested that during our climb it would be well if I familiarized myself with the ground, picking out landmarks which would be easily recognized from the air in the event your pilot got lost and you had to direct him home. “It will not be necessary to be alert for the enemy until we pick up formation and start for the lines, which I will point out to you, so for an hour I’m on my own.”
With this bit of information — nothing to do and one hour to do it in — I take my pilot’s advice and study my map, where I see many things I have never seen before. I am able to spot La Basse Canal, woods, roads all having different shapes and sizes. There are the two main roads leading to Arras, one from Saint-Pol, the other from Doullens. Both are straight as a string with a line of trees on each side, something one could never miss from the air. And from Arras, where these roads come together, extending back from our lines to the above-mentioned villages, are several air fields, including our own, which is hidden in a woods on the Arras-Doullens road. This much I have learned, so how could one miss? If lost, pick up the road and follow it home. These roads, together with a few special woods, proved my guiding light in the next months, and while I did not know it at the time, these first few minutes would in days to come be responsible for my safe return many times. With this aerial observation complete, I have plenty of time before the rendezvous to think. So what does one think about your second time in a plane, sitting like a bottle of water in the nacelle of an F.E.2b, with a machine gun on either side with whom you have just a slight acquaintance, headed for God knows where? My mind turns to my favorite people, Father, Brother Bud and my darling Aunt Jo, the home in Colorado where Father and Brother are or should be. Aunt Jo in Boston, none of whom have had a line from me. I can just hear Father say, My God, that boy didn’t even learn to write! I think of my favorite horses which meant so much. I think of all my many friends in the Canadian Army, and particularly the three I left this morning, Coap, Baldy and Cornell, and how they would get a kick out of me up here in the sky with a pilot and machine guns going somewhere.
Somewhere I know nothing and care less about, though when we return I am supposed to report where we have been and what I have observed. Why, when I had started to Tahiti, did I go to Canada? Tahiti, where your breakfast falls out of a tree in your lap, where they grow grass with girls in it who have a shake which has nothing to do with machine guns, and best of all where one never worked. How the hell had I taken the wrong direction and the wrong boat? This ends my dreams, goodbye Tahiti. For Captain Gray just sailed past with the streamers on his tail and the rendezvous is on. There is no time wasted. The big ships fall into formation with no effort and we are on our way toward Arras, where the trenches are well in view, and I can see in every direction for miles as the sky is exceptionally clear. One can see into Hunland, far as the eye can reach. What is to happen is in the lap of the Gods, but I am now alert on my knees, hoping for the best. I remember the advice given me by my big brother, who, while I was growing to the ripe old age of nineteen, had helped me more and had been closer than any other human. “Say, Pard, take it easy, don’t be tense and if trouble comes, your muscles will tighten up fast enough in action,” so maybe I don’t have too much to worry about. It’s possible the enemy may have someone as green as me. After all, they are only human.
Practically all the towns below us are piles of brick and rubble. About this time Lieutenant Hicks points down to row upon row of trenches zig-zagging every way, with a blank spot of blown-up dirt splintered with trees in between, separating the German trenches from ours. This strip, wide at some spots and narrow at others, is the famous No Man’s Land. But I am ten or twelve thousand feet up, which I don’t know as the observer has no altimeter, so I quickly lose interest in trenches and look around and concentrate on our own problem.
Our formation is slightly forward and below us, when out of the blue and to our right making directly for us, only slightly higher, is an enemy ship out of which is coming what I take to be puffs of smoke, but which I learn later is tracer ammunition. Instantly I grab the Lewis which is resting in a clip on the left of my nacelle, to throw it over so I can get into action. In doing so I fall back with the gun on top, having missed the clip where I was supposed to anchor the Lewis. When I have kicked the gun off and into position to shoot, the Hun is almost directly in front of us and has gone into a vertical bank. There are two big iron crosses, one on each wing, with the body of the ship in between. Again I press the trigger of my Lewis and let the forty-seven rounds go, no aim, no nothing. I just shoot. I am not thinking, everything I did was automatic, as the Hun disappears from my view, going along about his business.
I gather myself together and change the empty drum to a full one in case the guy comes back, which I hope he won’t. Our formation was somewhat split up but is quickly back in place. What has happened with the others I don’t know. The thought occurs to me that Mr. Hun was a rather bad shot or we would be out of circulation, though I did notice some holes in our wings that were not there when we left our field. The guy must be as green as I am.
The remainder of the trip down toward the Somme and crossing back into our territory is uneventful. I have seen nothing on the ground which meant anything to me when Captain Gray fires the white light, signaling we can go home on our own, the formation is over. Lieutenant Hicks raps me gently over the head with his glove, sticks out his hand to shake. It’s okay with me, I’m just as happy to be alive as he is, the flight is over. My first flight, over in nothing flat. Nobody hurt, but I should be dead, certainly. The Hun had beat me to the first shot, but my pilot didn’t seem to mind, and why he was so pleased I couldn’t understand. The boy is sure a great pilot. He never changed direction from the second we were in action, nor did he toss the big ship around. I hoped he would be mine for the duration, which wouldn’t be long if I didn’t move quicker and shoot faster.
Being dumb is no handicap if you are lucky and keep your mouth shut. When we landed Captain Gray and Lieutenant Price had landed ahead of us. Having never landed from a flight before, several people by the hangars meant nothing to me, and I was quite unprepared for what happened. Climbing out of the plane, which I am doing like a veteran as this is my second time, I hear the sergeant major say, “Colonel Shephard is on the field and wishes to speak to you. I’ll take you over, and by the way, congratulations,” which surprises me, but then my pilot says, “Go ahead. I’ll wait because I want to help make out the report of your victory.”
The colonel is more definite, giving me a hearty handshake, with the remarks, “First flight, first fight, keep up the good work, because when they go down in flames they don’t come back.” And I didn’t even know. I wasn’t even sure I had hit the machine. Must have hit the petrol tank with the entire burst of forty-seven. I know now I have much to learn, as this was pure luck. But for the grace of God it could have been the team of Hicks and Libby.
And here am I getting credit for something I didn’t even see happen because I had been changing the magazine on the Lewis gun. At least I will tell Chapman the real truth about the entire affair, also how lucky his clothes have been. Going to my quarters with Chapman, it is now past six o’clock. I find him more pleased than any of the others except my pilot. He tells me the fight was reported back to our squadron from one of our artillery observers’ posts almost before the fight was over. That is why the colonel and others were on the field when we landed. “Old man, while you wash up, I will report to our mess that we won’t be in for dinner, and I will take you to a place I know at the edge of our woods where there lives a French lady and her daughters. Her husband and sons are away at war, and she is having a tough time. She will cook us some eggs and potatoes, and serve a rare bottle of champagne, all this at practically nothing. The food is good, the champagne better and the few francs help her live. Then we will return and give the bulletin board the once-over for tomorrow’s orders, for we are both a cinch to be up once if not twice. So let’s celebrate. Tomorrow is something else.”
Losing no time with my washing, with a quick lick at the hair, we dash through the woods on a trail known well to Chapman. We are quickly at the chateau, where my friend is more than welcome. I know he is giving me a build-up, as at the word American they are bubbling all over the place. As I spoke no French, my conversation was limited to what little English they spoke. The food was good, the champagne wonderful and, as Chapman says, a change from the sergeant’s mess, with a chance to visit over a bottle without a crowd. “The change from scotch and rum is good once in a while, and the lady appreciates the francs, so if I am not around, come over by yourself, as she only takes people she knows well into her home, owing to her two small daughters.”
Back at our quarters in the tent waiting for orders to be posted, I tell my friend all about the fight, the fact I had not seen the Hun go down in flames, how awkward I was in shooting and that, had it not been for pure luck, both Hicks and myself would be a couple of dead ducks. His reaction is marvelous and gives me just the help I need. Handshakes and congratulations are fine if you are through flying, but me I’m just starting. What I need is help and I get it.
“Libby, what you tell me is good news. You remember everything you did which you think was wrong. Hell, man, you were working automatically, faster than you could think. If a flyer stops to think every time he is in trouble, he is in real trouble. A good flyer does things instinctively, not after thinking it out. The main thing, you didn’t freeze when in trouble but came up shooting. As for taking your finger off the trigger to shoot in bursts, forget it. This was the proper time to shoot the works. It did the trick where a burst might not, and you might not have time for a second burst. As I told you after lunch today, an observer in our F.E.2b does everything but fly the plane. It is the toughest job in the air today. That is why headquarters are trying for observers all over the place. We have in this squadron at the present time all officers, some of them like you are, on probation, trying to make good so they will rank in the RFC as second lieutenants where in their own units they may have the rank of captain, even majors, and will return with this rank to their old unit if they fail with us or if during the thirty-day training period they feel flying is not for them. Today we are three observers short in our squadron, with you the first private to try since I have been attached to the Twenty-third, and your success today, call it luck if you wish, is something every observer in this squadron would give his eyeteeth to have done. So I predict you will be flying with top pilots like Price, Hicks, Captain Gray, and not the green ones, especially over the lines. And I have a feeling that one of the best pilots, Lieutenant Price, will come up with you as his regular observer. Wait and see.”
“Me on wild horse I broke to ride. My home town, 1911.”
In His Majesty’s service in France with a motor transport unit of the Canadian Army.
“Coap” Coapland, a close friend in motor transport who shared a billet with Libby.
The F.E.2b (Farman Experimental 2b), the RFC’s all-purpose fighter, bomber, and reconnaissance plane in 1916. In this “pusher” plane the propeller was in the rear. The observer—the gunner—sat in the front cockpit, ahead of the pilot’s, and fired a Lewis gun positioned forward or another mounted over the top wing for rear action. NASM, SI negative 83-7382. Inset: TheAerodrome.com.
Captain Stephen Price (right) and Lieutenant Libby (center) emerging from Buckingham Palace on December 13, 1916, after having been decorated with the Military Cross by King George V.
Price and Libby in their EE.2b at 8,000 feet over Bapaume on September 23, 1916. The discoloration on the right wing reveals fast work to repair damage suffered in a crash the previous day.
Eleven Squadron, winter 1916. An aerial view of No Mans Land taken by Libby, showing enemy lines at top.
“Heading for Hun Land!” Captain Libby and his observer, Lieutenant Pritchard, in a Strut-and-a-Half Sopwith in Forty-third Squadron, July 1917. In this tractor-type plane, the propeller was in the front. The pilot, armed with a forward-firing machine gun synchronized with the propeller, sat in the front, and the observer was in the rear.
The men of B Flight of Forty-third Squadron, May 1917.
Albert Ball, the friend and ace whom Libby credited with saving his life many times. Not yet twenty years old when he scored his first five victories, Ball shot down thirty planes in four months over the Somme. History of Aviation Collection, University of Texas at Dallas.
Oswald Boelcke, the German ace, “was a fine gentleman and a great fighter, who … had the respect of all the RFC fighters and was a good enemy.” History of Aviation Collection, University of Texas at Dallas.
Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, who became Germany’s top ace, was judged by Libby to be a step down in gallantry. History of Aviation Collection, University of Texas at Dallas.
Some of the enemy planes faced by Libby: (top to bottom) Fokker EI monoplane, Halberstadt D.II., Roland, Albatros D.I History of Aviation Collection, University of Texas at Dallas.
Libby in front of Forty-third Squadron barracks, May 1917. The man at the left may be Flight Commander Sam Collier.
The Airco D.H.4, longer, heavier, and with more speed and climb than the Sopwith, was flown by Libby in Twenty-fifth Squadron, his last assignment in France. NASM, SI negative 78-6157.
So while my friend goes to the bulletin board to see who does what to who, I have time to meditate and wonder what it is all about. From seven-thirty this morning I have left my motor lorries, which were as close to the front as motor lorries can go, have made the trip to Twenty-third Squadron, have been up twice and in contact once with the elusive Hun and have had nothing but luck. So tomorrow I promise myself to do something which will give old Lady Luck some help by studying all planes, both ours and the enemy, and the machine gun will be my baby. I want to live, and now that I am in this scrap and can’t back out, me and the machine gun will be as one. My mistakes of today I shall remedy tomorrow, so the next Hun who ties onto me will get shot loose from his underwear and it won’t be just luck!
Perfectly relaxed and satisfied now that I know what is necessary, I find I am not on the early flight but my friend is up for early photography, and other orders will be on the board later. With his advice to sleep in and have a good breakfast and don’t worry, if they want you they will find you, we hit the cots for the night. At seven-thirty I am up and shaved, so to the mess for breakfast. As I am finishing, Chapman comes in, having just landed from his early flight with the news, as he puts it, a very uneventful flight. True to my decision of last night, I go to the adjutant’s office where I study the silhouettes of planes, which will be a big help in recognizing the enemy. Then to the gunnery where I work with the Lewis until lunch, and am told by an orderly I am up for the one-thirty flight with Price as pilot.
What could be sweeter? Price or Hicks, not one of the new boys who have never been near the lines. In Price’s ship I steady the machine gun mounting, especially the back one between pilot and observer. This gun is a nightmare, nothing to hang on to except the gun, sticking up in air, anchored to a steel rod. A quick sideslip by your pilot would toss you so clear of the machine you would never get back. With a steady pilot it might not be too bad. At least better to be trying, rather than be shot down from the rear by some playful Hun.
The flight was an easy one. Price in his usual place as second leader, we spent three and one-half hours in the air as a defensive patrol for the purpose of protecting the helpless artillery planes directing artillery fire, poor guys that can’t defend themselves and are utterly dependent upon protection from either the F.E.2b fighters or scouts and are always a prey for some enemy flyer trying to build a reputation as a great fighter by picking on the lone, defenseless ships. No enemies were seen, except far back in Hun Land, which gave me a chance to experiment with the Lewis in bursts of from five to ten rounds. The back Lewis I didn’t try, first because it had not been necessary, and second, I wanted to become a little more sure of myself before waving around in the breeze with nothing but a steel rod for support.
The next few days were uneventful from a standpoint of combat. I learned to use the camera and also to dispose of the ten twenty-pound bombs that are arranged five on a side under the wings. When ordered, we carry these for use against artillery emplacements or anything moving on the ground. But I learned to dispose of them quickly if it appeared we were going to engage in a fight, for if just one enemy bullet hit one bomb, our careers would end abruptly. Regardless of where we might be, so long as we were in enemy territory, at the sight of a Hun coming our way or even close I pulled the gadget which released the bombs. This was always a relief and put us on more or less equal terms, except we were always on their side of the trenches, with nowhere to go with engine trouble but down. We have had several brushes with the enemy. No one hurt. On our side a few holes through our wings . . . It begins to look like the Twenty-third is in for a quiet war. I am on my tenth day, have only been over the lines with Price and Hicks, although up a couple of times with green pilots just to show them the lines and landmarks from our side of the trenches. Beginning to feel like an old timer, being told by Chapman and Price that I am a cinch for my commission, which is at least encouraging. The first step toward an observer’s wing, something I now want to earn. It is a mark of distinction respected by all flyers and, in my case, will be earned the hard way.
The enemy must have gotten a new barrel of brew or some other stimulant, for today we had just crossed into their territory when they came from all directions, breaking up our formation. Price and I are surrounded by them, and one beautiful Fokker monoplane expecting to make a sneak attack slips by and under us, but the Kaiser’s boy gets a big surprise because, when he makes a quick turn to pick us off, Price has the big F.E.2b half turned and this time I am not excited and have control of myself. A quick burst of ten does it. His war is over, ours is just beginning.
We fight our way back across our lines. Holes everywhere, and most serious of all, one of the struts between our wings is shot through and is dangling in the breeze, but our flying wires are intact, so we are okay. Home to report, we have lost one ship with pilot and observer, down out of control. Hicks came through but his plane was badly damaged. We have one plane to our credit, confirmed for sure. Price says we have two, but of one I am definite, so report one, other results unknown. The poor mechanics and riggers will have to work all night as the five ships that returned have been hard hit. Another ship to replace our loss will be flown up from the base.
This was my second real engagement with the enemy and my first real dogfight, where there are unknown numbers milling around in enemy territory. We’re greatly outnumbered by the enemy. Here I learn the true value of a cool, experienced pilot like Price, who is alert and able to maneuver so the observer can keep the front gun in action, as in a dogfight the back gun is useless for the quick action necessary to keep the enemy from shooting you loose from your tail.
This boy Price is a honey. The grin on his face would give anyone confidence, and his apparent lack of fear I would learn more about in days to come. Back in my quarters I review the show to my friend Chapman. I am of the mind we have done rather poorly. We go over with six ships and lose one with two officers, and only Price and I have one single-seater Fokker to offset our loss. My friend tells me we are damn lucky to get back with anyone, as there were over fifty Huns in the air and we caught only the front end. What saved our skins was a flight of our own scouts coming to our rescue. This I didn’t see or report. While I’m not doing too badly with the gun, I must learn to see everything going on around me, even while handling the Lewis. I feel pretty cheap and wonder how my report of our flight will affect my promotion. I have as good a pair of eyes as anyone flying, only I was concentrating too much at close range. I am now on my twentieth day with the squadron and in Price’s ship, trying to figure some way of improving my shooting, when the major climbs up on the edge of our ship. “I have today sent through your recommendation to headquarters for your promotion as second lieutenant in the RFC, and very soon you will receive orders with six days leave for England to get your uniforms.” This is the news I have been working for and didn’t expect quite so soon. I could have fallen on the Old Man’s neck if he hadn’t been hanging on the side of the ship, I was so pleased.