21
Posted on our bulletin board is the good news that I am fully qualified and entitled to wear the single wing with the “O” which denotes observer. This wing I shall always be proud of, prouder than I shall even be of my pilot’s wings, whenever I qualify for them. When I think of all the observers who have “gone west” that were flying when I started, I have indeed been awfully lucky Today I know my luck is in. I have been flying with Lieutenant Russell of A Flight, substituting for Captain Quested. We are over Bapaume, where we are engaged by a flight of Albatros and are in good position to win our battle, when all of a sudden my pilot goes into a sideslip and then a big dive down to fifteen hundred feet where there is really a dogfight. He damn near loses me over the side with his sudden move and no warning. Without any chance to recover, we are in the midst of Fokkers, Rolands and the Germans’ pet Albatros. All seem to take a poke at us. I am only able to get a shot at one Albatros with my front gun. My pilot seems to have gone wild. We are all over the skies, with lead hitting our F.E.2b from every direction. At five hundred feet we cross our lines and land in the first vacant space. As neither of us has been hit, I survey the situation. Our upper, emergency petrol tank in the top plane has been hit and petrol has been flowing out of it, two struts are shot and broken, the top wing is drooping. The pilot’s altimeter, peter tube* and compass have been ruined, and my back Lewis gun has been hit. Also there are holes everywhere, except in us and our engine. I am reminded of Sergeant Chapman’s remark: If the Hun doesn’t get the pilot or engine, the old F.E.2b will stagger home. It is almost impossible to break one up in the air. Nothing truer was ever said, because here was a ship that the Hun rated as shot down. Still we were down on our side of the lines, with a plane completely out of commission other than the motor and propeller. This has been Lieutenant Russell’s first time to lead a formation. What happened to the other five ships of our formation, I don’t know. What to say, I likewise don’t know, so I keep still.
Out of a small hill about one hundred yards from us emerges an officer of the artillery. The hump of what looks like a hill is an artillery emplacement. With his greeting, “Are you boys in trouble, and can we help?” I want to say, “No, Major, we just stopped to pick wild flowers,” but settle for asking him if we could notify our squadron of our location. He very graciously says, “Certainly, come into our quarters. We will relay a message back to your headquarters.”
The artillery quarters are all underground and very good in comparison with the underground quarters of the infantry. Here we park, enjoying some scotch and soda until the CO’s private car arrives to take Russell and me to our squadron, leaving the poor old F.E.2b to wait for our crew, who are following with truck and trailer. On the way back Russell is very nervous and asks me what I am going to report. Who am I too condemn anyone? So, setting his mind at ease, I tell Russell he is a hell of a flyer and should be on single-seater scout, but as long as he is flying a pusher ship with an observer he will have to learn to rely on his observer and his Lewis gun for some protection, or he may not be so lucky next time. My report was brief and to the point: Engaged enemy aircraft at eight thousand, then dropped to fifteen hundred to assist Forty Squadron in dogfight. Results of combat unknown. Our ship disabled, causing us to land back of our lines. When I show my report to Russell, he is very pleased and grateful. What the three who returned report I don’t know. We lost two of our best pilots and observers, as only four of our formation of six were able to make it back.
Next morning our rigger sergeant gives me a report on the condition of our plane. He and his crew count one hundred and eighty-six holes in the ship, with two bursts hitting the leading edge of the bottom plane. Also, one of the tail booms was clipped. The ship is a complete write-off, except the engine and propeller. How any two fellows can be so lucky with that much lead from every direction, where it only takes one bullet to do the job — our guardian angel must have really worked overtime. Tomorrow Price returns from leave, thank God. I’m sorry he has to get in this mess, but as he does I’m glad he’s my pilot.
The last few days would be a horrible shock to Father. He never expected me to survive too long. He was sure if I didn’t get killed accidentally, I would die of consumption. That I won’t, not here. I may die of lead poisoning, but after what just happened with Russell, I seem to be on the crest of the wave. I have been trying to write, but why worry Father? If he knew, every day would be a nightmare. If anything happens to me he will know soon enough. I would surely like to tell him that I am a man without a country and see what he has to say about that. I lost my citizenship by joining the Canadian Army. So, after this war, I shall join the Tahiti folks and grow bananas or something, because they tell me this war is going to make the world safe for Democracy. It doesn’t matter if you are a participant or not, everything will be safe for everyone. All we have to do is crucify the kaiser and his flying corps, and Democracy reigns forever. Whatever Democracy is I don’t know. If it takes this war to make it safe, it couldn’t have been much to start with. Over here, I am sort of a curiosity. Everyone treats me wonderful, but still wonder why I am here. If I could answer that one, I would be a world champion. Certainly, it has nothing to do with making anything safe for anyone, except for Price and me when we get in a fight. If we come out safe, I am satisfied for the present.
Every few days I am asked about a guy by the name of Ford,* who had some idea of having the boys out of the trenches by Christmas. What Christmas, I don’t think he said. He must have a lot of guts to try and kid the British, who have lost so much and seem to be fighting everyone’s battle that any such comedy is a complete loss at this time. All I know about the bird is he invented some kind of a contraption which runs and scares all animals to death. I wonder if he lost his citizenship, messing around the edges of this safety business?
I have decided to write all my family when I go back to England for my pilot’s wings, which will be after this Somme affair is over or slows down on account of weather. This is what I call being a real optimist. Price is back and brought me six new observer’s wings, one for each uniform and one extra. He is a peach and knew my confirmation was coming through, so his batman, who is in civilian life a tailor, is sewing them on. Good old Price. It’s good to have him back. Tonight is Thursday, our night to drink His Majesty’s health. With Price back, I shall endeavor to do more than my share, because in matters of this kind I don’t want to be backward. Someone might think I am just another American, or not interested. I am now senior observer of the squadron, which means I have lived longer than the others. I have six enemy planes confirmed. Next to me is my good friend Lieutenant Allen, who flies with a South African by the name of Turk who is a wonderful pilot. We have lost Ball and Foot. Both have been promoted to captain and are off to England for leave and then will return with a complete squadron of Nieuports. Eleven Squadron will depend on help from Twenty-four and Forty Squadrons with their D.H.2s and other Nieuports that are attached to our wing. We never cross the lines without one or two brushes with the Hun. They are very foxy take no chance on the front end of our F.E.2b but try and get our formation split. Then, working three or four together on a lone ship, they attack from back and under, which is a tough spot for a lone EE. This method has accounted for many of our losses, while Price and I have worked out a plan to offset their advantage. Others are not so successful, mostly because the other pilots don’t work as close with their observer and can’t handle the big F.E. like Price does. God, we need new and faster ships bad. Price says there will be several faster and better squadrons of our ship out this fall with a gun synchronized and shooting through the propeller, which will take the place of our pushers. Everyone knows the folks in England are working as fast as possible to give us new ships, but if they don’t hurry, who in hell is going to fly them?
Every day we are taking a licking, but every day we go back for more. One has to admire these English boys. With barely enough experience to fly a ship, they sail into Boelcke and his gang like a bunch of old timers. They are short on experience but long on courage. I’m real proud to be one of them.
This damn war is just one thing after another. You don’t only have to fight Fritz, but you might die with the hiccups, or an overdose of alcohol. Socially, Price and I are not such a success. Every so often some artillery unit that goes back for a rest period and to de-louse has a couple of our officers as guests for dinner. It is usually an occasion for much hilarity and drinking, then a little more drinking. On one such occasion, Price and I were chosen by our commanding officer to represent Eleven Squadron. This was fine, only we had no time or warning. So we started with a large handicap — we did a morning show, then caught an afternoon patrol and didn’t land until five o’clock where we were met by our major at the hangar, giving us the news we were to attend a dinner with Twenty-sixth Battery as his representatives. We were to take his big Crosley car and sergeant driver and were due there at seven, so if we hurried and changed we wouldn’t be too late. This was sad news, for I had other plans such as enjoying a good dinner at our mess and going to bed early. We don’t even have time to snatch a quick drink.
The sergeant driver tells us he knows where we are going quite well. They are billeted in a chateau in a woods twelve miles back of us. We leave everything to said sergeant, until we discover the guy is lost. He is completely lost, on some side road covered with trees, dark as a black cat, with only a lousy flashlight and a poor map. Price wisecracks, “Glad I have my own observer. No need to worry.” That’s what he thinks. In the air we can both find our way anyplace; here on the ground at night is different. I figure we are far past our destination, so turning back to another crossroad we find a dimly lit chateau where we are put on our way in the right direction. Arriving late, we find everyone going strong. While dinner is waiting, the cocktails are flowing, so in nothing flat we are separated and given the old rush act of one cocktail after the other.
Their billet is in a chateau slightly off the road, with the usual high fence and back yard where there are pigs, chickens, a cow and the standard manure pile square against the back door. The table is set in a long room which could have been used for anything in peacetime, but has been converted into their dining room, at least for their rest period. Having had too many cocktails too fast, Price and I are seated as honored guests to the right and left of our host, the commanding officer, and directly opposite each other. When the cream of tomato soup arrives, taking possibly as much as three spoons of soup, I am deathly ill. Up come the soup and cocktails, hitting right in the center of the table in the general direction of Price. Here is the world’s most embarrassing moment. You know you can’t die, but you have to move, and move you do, out the back door with soup and cocktails flying every way. You just want air. Air you have on a big dead log up against the manure pile, with pigs running around grunting and giving you the once-over. You’ve finally reached your proper environment, sick and with the pigs. Then the back door flies open and out comes your pal and pilot. If I thought I was sick, he is sicker, sharing my log but too ill to talk. He is having a heaving good time.
Here are two of Eleven Squadron’s best in a manure heap with pigs, while inside I can hear much hilarity. They are having a swell time while we are in disgrace. Which doesn’t appear to be troubling Price, for he is trying to die like a man, sitting up and weaving on our mutual log, while a curious pig gives him a sniff every once in a while just to see if he is human or some new kind of a pig. Finally an orderly shows up with two glasses of water, asking us if we would care for some. Price hasn’t yet reached the talking stage, so I take care of the orderly with a few well chosen words and tell him to find our sergeant and send him to us immediately. I am going to load my sick pilot in the big Crosley and head for home — to hell with those guys, they won the battle without even a struggle. But there will be other days, I hope. A short while ago I didn’t care, but now life is returning. This must be true with Price, for he just kicked a pig in the ribs that was trying to eat his shoe. The squeal that came out of Mr. Pig convinces me my pilot has returned to the living.
The blooming sergeant finally puts in an appearance, so without any fond farewells we leave our manure heap and our pigs. Putting my pilot in the big roomy back seat, where he immediately falls asleep, we cover him up with a robe and I climb in the front seat with the sergeant. Every time we would make a quick stop, there would be a thump in the back where our passenger had fallen off, and we would rearrange him although he didn’t give a damn. So, the sergeant having been cautioned to take the stops a little easier, we arrive at our castle in the woods, our pup tents. It is not really late, as our stay at the battery dinner was brief, if dirty. Neither one of us is in any condition to report to Major Hubbard, even if he should be up. I’m just getting nicely settled in my sleeping bag when there is a scratching on the flap of my tent. It is Price’s batman. He has tried to awaken Price to notify us we have the early morning show. This means five o’clock. Neither of us has enjoyed any food since lunch. We both missed afternoon tea, and our dinner was a sad affair. Telling the batman to be sure and call us plenty early and have a good hot pot of tea to help wake us up, I am asleep but fast.
Morning comes, bringing the batman with our tea and a couple of big drinks of rum, which will cure anything. All you have to do is swallow it. This Price can’t do. While he sips his tea, I drink the rum and then sip a little tea. It’s surprising how quick I am revived even before we take off. I am feeling better, and with the first whiff of fresh air blowing on my face I am back to normal and hungry. The Huns this morning are very friendly. No one bothers us except the usual archie or anti-aircraft shells bursting around. This is always par for the course. The minute you near their lines, if there are no enemy ships in the air they are always poking at you with the antiaircraft guns, and do occasionally score a hit, but the average is practically nil. At least they have a lot of practice, and are always trying.
Before lunch, even before we have a chance to report to Major Hubbard about our recent dinner engagement, all pilots and observers are called to the mess hall for a meeting, which is very unusual. The meeting only lasted a few minutes. The major explained that GHQ wanted and asked for volunteers. It seemed they were desperate to establish some kind of ground communications, so some swivel-chair pilot had evidently worked out the brilliant plan to stretch a line between two poles about twenty feet high and about twenty feet apart and attach the message to the line, then have the observer catch the line with a hook secured to a light cable, which could be reeled in fast, complete with message. This was to be tried on our air field. All that was needed was a pilot and observer to volunteer. Major Hubbard asked everyone to think it over before volunteering and to let him know by evening, as tomorrow would be the day. Some of the general headquarters officers would be on our field to watch the stunt.
Of one thing I am damn sure: I don’t want any part of this business. But I keep still, waiting for Price to say something. Which he finally does, asking what I think and should we give it a whirl. Price is the senior pilot of our squadron. His work or action carries a great deal of authority. So I tell him that, in my opinion, with one of our RE.2b ships, the stunt they are contemplating is rank suicide. If they would use a tractor ship, like the artillery planes where the engine and propeller are in front, they might have a chance, as all these planes are equipped with a wire cable on which they let down a piece of lead to conduct their Morse code with their artillery battery. I feel sure that, with our pushers, where the engine and propeller are in the back between a set of tail booms, what with the speed and wind, the message and cable will be whipped into the propeller and cut off the tail.
All this my friend and pilot takes in, then asks, “Do you mind if I tell the major what you have just told me, and I shall tell him we are not volunteering.”
“Sold America, and also tell him about our stout effort last night, and don’t overlook the damned pigs. This he will enjoy.”
Lunch is over. I feel a little disturbed. Certainly our wing commander will expect Price and me to be the first to volunteer. I know, or think I know, that Colonel Shephard has not had anything to do with the new idea. It must have come from the boys higher up. Certainly, if it works, whoever does the flying will be a very popular team, but me, I would rather take my chances with a Hun in the air. What we need is some fast machines, or at least something more, as the boys from Hun Land are flying all over and around us. To live you have to be fast and lucky. Meeting Price at tea, I tell him I hope that my feeling has not caused any reflection on his rating in the squadron. His reply is typical of his thinking. “Libby, if you are wrong and Allen and Turk are fortunate, that will be good. They are two of the best. But right or wrong, we stick together, regardless of what anyone thinks.” This is the first I have heard of Allen and Turk volunteering. They are both my good friends and two of our best flyers. Allen is a top observer, devoid of fear, and is at his height with the old Lewis and a Hun to work on. God, I hope I am wrong. These boys deserve to live, or at least go down fighting. The rest of the day I will stay to myself, because everyone is wondering why Price and I are not doing the stunt and have not even volunteered. This I don’t want to talk about, because I could be wrong. Certainly, if no one had volunteered it would have been rather embarrassing to our major. So tomorrow will tell. I only hope we are in the air when they make the test. I just haven’t the heart to watch, I am so sure of disaster. The minute dinner is over, Price and I hit for bed. After last night and a lot of good natured kidding, we are sadly in need of rest. Before retiring, we find we are up for the twelve o’clock show, which pleases me mightily, as I don’t want to be around at two o’clock when the fireworks comes off.
Footnotes
*The peter tube was a crude arrangement that allowed the pilot, who might be in the air for several hours, to relieve himself when necessary.
*Henry Ford, the automobile manufacturer, was a vocal non-interventionist, as were many Americans, especially in the Midwest. But with the sinking of the Lusitania and consequent loss of American lives and the revelation of the sinister Zimmermann Telegram, in which Germany tried to intrigue Mexico to start a war with the U.S. in exchange for the promise of the return of Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, American isolationism began to waver.