20
The seventeen-mile boat trip from Folkestone to Boulogne across the English Channel is always interesting. There are days when you know you should have stayed in bed or at least left your stomach there, for when the Channel is in one of her moods, even the strong get weak.
Today the weather is perfect. It is approaching summer 1916. The water is calm, and for the time being I can size up the crowd of fellow passengers. Most of them are old timers returning from leave. On their faces there is no doubt, no expression of uncertainty. They know what is ahead. It is just a question of how long their luck will hold out.
The faces of the inexperienced and new express wonder, doubt and expectancy. They are on their way for the first time to join some combat unit, and for them tomorrow is almost here. There are Indians and Hindus in their colorful uniforms. Ministers of the gospel. Canadian nurses, very snappy and beautiful in their officers’ uniforms. Many RFC pilots and observers. But the most outstanding are the infantrymen going back to a hell on earth, the trenches, with their cooties, rats, mud, water and filth. These boys have no illusions. Every day for them is just another day and tomorrow, if it comes, just another of the same. They are the poorest paid, the poorest clothed, the poorest fed, but are the backbone of the entire army and always fight under the poorest conditions. Thank God for the infantry.
For myself I have no illusions. I am reporting to Number Eleven Squadron, where my only friend is Captain Price. I know we are in for a big push. This was the general conversation on the boat. This will mean many casualties, and to survive will mean a lot of luck.
Arriving at Savoy Air Field, which is Eleven Squadron headquarters, I find almost the same kind of a field as at Twenty-third. Our quarters are in the woods and there is a hedge around and in front of the hangars. To reach the landing field the ships are wheeled out through an opening in the hedge. Coming through the opening toward the headquarters to report, I am spotted by three fellows beating a shuttlecock attached by a long string to a pole. They are in shirt sleeves and really giving themselves a work-out. Quitting their game, they give me a welcome greeting, telling me they are glad I am to be a member of Number Eleven and that Major Hubbard is expecting me, that Price is in the air but will be back for dinner. They are Lieutenant Ball, Lieutenant Foot and Captain Quested.
Quested, being the officer of the day, insisted on taking me to my quarters, then to Major Hubbard to report. Here I receive the most hearty welcome. “Glad you are with us, Libby. Price will be very pleased, as he has been telling me all about your work in the Twenty-third, so in the morning we three will have a talk about something Captain Price has mentioned pertaining to our Lewis machine gun.”
I am again in a pup tent very close to Price and very nice. Arranging my new clothes and bed roll, I wander over to the mess to kill time until Price shows up. And here are several fellows playing cards. Everyone wanting to give me a drink, all at the same time. This crowd I am going to like. There is a spirit here which speaks of good fellowship and teamwork so essential to a squadron.
My first dinner in our officers’ mess at Number Eleven Squadron is a very enjoyable one. Everyone is in high spirits and congenial. As I’m standing around having cocktails with Captain Price and several others, our commanding officer, Major Hubbard, comes in and joins us for one cocktail, then takes his place at the head of the long table, with Captain Price on his right and Captain Quested at his left, while down at our end of the table is the third flight commander, Captain Dowling.
The dinner is excellent, everything from soup to nuts or cheese, if you prefer. When the liqueurs are served, the commanding officer says, “Gentlemen, you may smoke.” This is what many have been waiting for, either his permission to be excused or to light a cigarette. It is a nice custom practiced in all British officers’ messes and protects the non-smoker from suffering through a haze of smoke while eating his dinner. When the commanding officer leaves the table, dinner is over, and you may do anything you wish, but during dinner no one leaves the table, unless first going to your ranking officer and asking permission. This is a tradition with the British and is a deference of respect to your commanding officer. After dinner, Price and I go to my tent where he inspects my new uniforms, which have his hearty approval. He is delighted when I relate all my experiences with his tailor. We are not scheduled for the morning show and agree to have breakfast together, as breakfast is served anytime up to ten o’clock, the only formal meal being dinner. We agree to see Major Hubbard immediately after breakfast.
When we arrive at headquarters, the major wastes no time getting down to business. It is evident he and Price have talked our business over, only our major wants to hear my idea direct before giving his approval, so I explain what advantage I think attaching a buttstock to the Lewis will offer the observer. We have his entire support. I am made gunnery officer, which gives me opportunity and authority to work with the crew of five responsible for the forty Lewis guns used every day, thirty-six on the F.E.2b and one for each of the Nieuport scouts attached to us for escort protection. The gunnery sergeant is an expert and very understanding. He quickly sees the advantage this will give an observer and is personally going to design the buttstock and promises to have one for testing tomorrow.
My quick appointment over many older and experienced men is worrying me. I am not a fully qualified observer with enough hours in the air to have earned my wings, and am wondering if there might be some resentment from these older and more experienced observers. So, to my friend and pilot Captain Price, who quickly straightens me out, explaining, “Libby, no one will ever resent anything that can be done to improve our strength and firepower. If we’re successful, all observers will be using your idea, because to go through this coming push the RFC will take the offensive, which means our casualties are going to be terrible, and the better all observers can shoot, the better chance we have to live. Working as a team, if your idea improves your shooting over what you did at the Twenty-third, I feel with reasonable luck we will be a match for any Hun.”
I am more than anxious to try it out, so tomorrow if the sergeant has it ready, we will try the range first, then in our first show over the lines try it for real on some live target. Our squadron has the usual eighteen F.E.2b. All of these ships have been donated to the RFC by the heads of Indian provinces and bear names evoking their donors, such as the Sultan of Keds, Punjab, Rajah. We have two Baby Nieuports* flown by Foot† and Ball.‡ Foot is the damnedest stunt pilot I have ever seen, while Ball is just the opposite, very young, very quiet, but does his stuff on the end of some enemy’s tail. He is a hell of a fighting pilot who wastes no energy, except where it will bring results. These two fellows are reinforcements for our squadron of F.E.2b and are supposed to pick us up on our way back from Hun Land when the going is at its worst. They can’t carry enough petrol to make the trip with us, but can meet and escort us home.
Sergeant Maxwell has the Lewis ready, so without any delay we try it on the ground range, where it is even better than I expect. On my reporting this to Price, we give it a trial from the air, where I am more than pleased, as it gives me the support I need and leaves my left hand free to maneuver the gun and hang on. All we want now is a crack at Fritz. This will come fast enough because our activities are stepping up.
We will have no trouble finding Fritz. Just cross over his lines and the battle is on. Without waiting for a battle, I ask the sergeant to make a buttstock for our back gun. Here it is needed most. With a free left hand to hang on with and one’s right shoulder to hold your gun in place, your back gun can be a real defense weapon when returning home. But what the hell Fritz is waiting for I don’t know. We have been over three times and have never been in shooting distance. A and G Flights have both had a battle with one loss on our side, but our B Flight has never been close. Our day will come when least expected. Several of the observers have asked for the buttstock and it won’t be long until Eleven will be completely equipped, and if we don’t knock the Hun on his rear end I will be surprised.
We have just returned from my first big show, we along with some sixty other fighter ships acting as escort to thirty-six bombers. The bombers are converted artillery B.E.2c, which have no observer so they can carry more bombs, and are completely dependent on their escorts for protection. The escort consists of F.E.2b, D.H.2, single-seater scouts, Nieuports, a few Martinsydes and F.E.8, the escorts outnumbering the bombers two to one. Our targets are the Douai and Cambrai air fields. The bombers going over are strung out in tandem, one following the other, their mission to drop the bombs and back for home as fast as possible. Their altitude is approximately seven thousand. We of the escort range from eight to ten thousand. Our A and B Flights of Eleven Squadron catch the front end of the bombers going over, where we escort them to their target, then return with the last bombers leaving the target, which gives the Hun ample time to get altitude and catch us going back.
Throwing everything they have in the air from all their other fields, the Huns fill the sky between us and our home by the time we start for our lines.
Dropping down to a thousand feet above our last two bombers, we are in a position to see anyone attacking and set quick, if necessary. Our flight is in perfect formation, when a flight of Huns splits up and attacks from different directions. This is ideal for us, as we simply nestle down close to our lonesome bombers and pick the Hun off when they come in, and here is where my buttstock proves itself. A Hun making a pass at one of our bombers might be too far for a good shot with an unsteady gun but is like shooting fish with the front gun held firm by the shoulder. Two bursts and he is upside down, then into a spin. I thought Price would jump out of our ship, he was so happy, but this was nothing. Almost to our lines, I catch a Fokker moving to come up under the tail of our upper back F.E.2b. Using the back gun with a firm grip with my left hand on the gun mounting, giving a signal to Price to pull the ship’s nose up a little and holding the gun solid with my shoulder, I empty all forty-seven in his middle. Two chances, two wins, two confirmed. Price and Major Hubbard are the happiest men in the squadron, unless it is the sergeant who made the buttstocks — to him should go a hell of a lot of credit. His work and understanding made it possible.
We now have four ships to our credit. Price says we got a couple more at Twenty-third, but four we have official, so to hell with it. The ones we shot stay shot, which is the main thing. There is no guessing. When we are sure, we’re sure. I have quit being sorry for them. If we don’t get them, they get us, so I’m going to be glad about the whole thing.
Out of the entire show, with over a hundred of our ships on the raid, we lose two fighters and no bombers while the Hun lose eight, and two of their best aerodromes take a hell of a bombing. How many ships were destroyed in the hangars was not confirmed. This was one of the first quick raids and was considered a big success. But as Price says, this was a surprise to the Hun. The others may not be so easy.
Others there will be, as all hell is going to break loose in the trenches at some particular sector very soon. Where we don’t know, but think it is in the vicinity of the Somme.
For the boys in the trenches, I have nothing but admiration. They live like damned prairie dogs, buried in the ground, while we of the RFC have the best of everything when on the ground. We may not live forever in the air, but the hours not flying can be very pleasant, providing you don’t worry about tomorrow. If one can get into the mood, take things as they come and just be prepared to do your best when necessary, it is quite a life with never a dull moment. Even if you don’t last too long, you are never bored with time on your hands. True, the odds are heavy against anyone in a combat unit living to a ripe old age, but we only have to fight the enemy in the air, while the boys on the ground have to fight to live — against sickness, pests, cold, muck — even if there is no human enemy* Me, I’d rather be bumped off in the air than be buried under several tons of dirt.
Ball slipped away quietly this evening just before dusk and picked off a couple of ships annoying our artillery machines. This boy is a swell kid. I like him better every day. He is so unassuming, don’t talk much, but has a habit of slipping up under Fritz with his Baby Nieuport and using the Lewis, which is mounted on the top plane, by pulling it down in its mounting with the right hand and shooting like a pistol. The Hun is usually a dead duck. This boy is one hot fighter pilot. This makes four for him in the last three days, as in the raid where Price and I had two confirmations, Ball also had two, which gave our squadron four enemy ships of the eight destroyed that day.
We are doing a great deal of defensive patrol for the purpose of keeping enemy ships from crossing our lines to observe the accumulation of troops and equipment back from the Somme front. There is every form of motor vehicle, including hundreds of new equipment which look like armored cars only more so. They are the first new tanks to reach the front and have never been in action, but are expected to play a big part in the push coming up.
Sure the Hun knows all this, for from a ten-thousand-foot altitude back of their own lines one can see a big movement of troops, trucks and supplies far back in our territory for many miles. Today, A and B Flights are to be inspected by some dignitaries from India, including a sultan, a rajah and what have you. They are the donors of all our F.E.2b, so we will all be in front of our ships when they arrive. Price and I are flying Punjab the Second. What ever happened to Punjab the First, I don’t know. It probably is somewhere over in Hun Land, for as fast as one “goes west,” as they say, another is flown in from the base before you can turn around. Certainly when we lose a ship it is lost for good, as all fighting is done back of the enemy lines. If one of our ships has engine trouble, even if not shot down, it’s lost, while with the Hun it is different. They never engage in a fight with us where the odds are even and on our side of the lines. Always our fights are when we just cross their lines or they wait until we are far back, then attack so we have a headwind to buck, as the wind is against us coming home ninety percent of the time. This, plus a flock of enemy planes . . . Here is where little Albert Ball comes in. He can pick us up with his Baby Nieuport about twenty miles back in Hun Land when we need him the most, especially when we’re getting low on petrol and ammunition. God, but he is a welcome sight moving over your backside to knock the tail off some enemy plane who thinks he has you for sure. Then escort you to your lines and go back for more. He always seems to be where one is in the most trouble. Stout fellow!
Where the devil they coined the expression “he went west” for when a poor soul is knocked off back of the enemy lines, I don’t know. When one crosses into Hun Land, one is always flying east. Yet, whenever a fellow is finished back of the enemy lines, east or not, he has somehow gone west. Somewhere someone became confused, and east is west whether I like it or not.
The big push is at the Somme River and begins on July 1, 1916. Artillery has turned loose everything they have, from both their old and new emplacements, and when they raise their fire to hit farther back to the Hun’s rear, our infantry will go over the top. Our planes are everywhere, protecting our artillery. Planes beetle back and forth across the lines directing their batteries’ fire, watch all roads coming up to the front from Hun Land, and engage in low strafing of troops or trucks moving on the enemy side, together with dogfight after dogfight.
The days are never long enough. Price and I with B Flight have been flying four to seven hours, always back of the enemy lines and always mixed up with the enemy. Our casualties are bad. We have Boelcke and his squadrons opposite us with a new and faster plane. Also the Roland seems to be improved. We are still flying the F.E.2b with the one-hundred-and-sixty Beardmore engine, with the D.H.2 pusher our principal scout, while our Baby Nieuport is giving Boelcke his real competition only we have too few.
Every night at dinner there are always new flyers in our mess, taking the place of our lost ones who have been killed in action or are prisoners of war. Every week Boelcke has one of his pilots drop over a list of our fellows who are prisoners and also the names of the ones who are wounded or killed. Damn decent chap, this Boelcke. The German Air Corps treat all our pilots and observers with respect. They have good quarters, good food and are even allowed a batman from some of our soldiers that have been taken prisoner.
To be shot down and captured by the German Air Corps is not too bad, but to come down close to the lines where the German infantry can get their hands on you is curtains. They shoot you quick and find a reason later. This is owing to the fact that the RFC often give the infantry a bad time by emptying their machine guns in the trenches on the way home, peppering the boys down there and often dropping a few twenty-pound bombs just for practice. Since the RFC are always back of the German lines, while the German flyers never come over ours, the drill is that if one of our planes is out of commission and can’t make it across our lines they are supposed to glide as far away from the trenches as possible, hoping to be picked up by the German flying corps.
The Somme battle still goes on with not much gain by our side, at least from what I can tell from the air. We hear that fifty or sixty thousand of our boys became casualties on the first day alone.
I now have a new job training our observers with the machine gun. This I am glad to do, and any help I can give I am more than willing, for it hasn’t been long since the day I first appeared at Twenty-third Squadron. My own pilot, Captain Price, goes on leave tomorrow for two weeks, for which I am real glad. He needs it very badly, and for two weeks I shall miss that grin of confidence he wears when the going is the toughest. So for two weeks I fly with Captain Quested of A Flight — another stout flyer.
Footnotes
*The Nieuport was a fast and maneuverable French-built single-seat fighter. The Bebe or Baby Nieuport was armed with a Lewis gun fired over the wing, whereas the larger Superbébé, flown by Ball and Foot later, was equipped with a Vickers machine gun synchronized to fire through the propeller, a significant improvement.
†Major Ernest L. “Feets” Foot, an English ace with five victories, survived the war but died in an aviation accident in 1923.
‡Albert Ball became one of the most distinguished British aviators in the war, scoring, as a rookie, thirty victories in just four months over the Somme battlefield.
*But there is, and even when there is no big push, the poor infantrymen have to endure constant sniping and artillery fire, mines and trench raids.