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I wish I knew how to really pray. I would try and help my friends, so please, O Lord, do your best.
Our mission is over Bapaume, and here we always run into difficulties — just far enough over that, if crippled, it’s hard to get back, and for some reason the Hun defends this area at any cost. They evidently have a project going which they are trying to keep secret. With an early lunch we are on our way for three and a half hours. While we are both alert to our own business, our minds are active with what is going on back on our own air field. For once we take pictures of the Bapaume area without being jumped by a bunch of Boelcke’s boys. They must be up to something; it’s far too quiet to be natural. We make a complete half circle into Hunland and out over the Somme without firing a shot. Sure, some of their ships were in the air, but they don’t attack us, and we don’t bother them, a very friendly and unusual occurrence.
At three-twenty Price fires the white light, and we head for home with but one thing in our minds. Coming in from three thousand and getting in position to land, we both see the nacelle of the F.E. in one part of our field and the tail in another, which confirms my worst fear — that the tail would be cut off. Upon landing we find everyone out of sight except the mechanics and riggers cleaning up the mess, and we are given the ghastly detail by one of the sergeants. Turk came in fast and good. Allen let down the hook, which caught the message and cross rope. With the speed forward and jerk when contact is made, the line and hook are thrown up and into the propeller, cutting the tail booms square off. Allen was thrown clear and Turk came down with the engine on top of him. Both were killed instantly, without a chance. It is not the way any flyer wants to finish. Price says nothing, just reaches out and shakes my hand, which expresses more than words. I feel terrible, two of our stoutest boys. I know our major must be sick. We are all used to death but not in this form. Our major won’t preside at our dinner tonight. He is over to wing headquarters, so Price, being senior officer, is at the head of the table.
Tomorrow is the day we have been waiting for. It is another push on the Somme, and we will get to see our tanks go into action. This will mean two shows a day, four hours and three hours, low flying, strafing the infantry and roadways and also providing a cover for the tanks. It will be the very first time this kind of equipment has ever been used in warfare. We sure as hell need something to help the poor infantry. This may be it, and probably why our major is at wing headquarters for dinner, working out our flying programs for tomorrow.
September 15, 1916: The tanks are in action. We have been on top of them for four hours, and I am supposed to make a report of their progress. I only counted forty. How many there are supposed to be I don’t know. To say that they are something new would be very accurate. They were not only new to the German infantry but to ours as well, and very new to some of the poor guys driving them. I saw one jumping along like an ant on a hot rock. He flopped from one trench to the other until free of the trenches, then started spinning around in a circle like something was wrong with his steering apparatus. Poor guy was in Hun Land going around in a circle. What happened I don’t know. I saw another flopped over in a trench side-wise, going nowhere. Another hit a mine crater on his nose and stayed there. He couldn’t back up or go ahead. He needed someone with a cable to lift him out of his hole. I am told later that forty-nine tanks attacked, and one-half were put out of action for one reason or another. But also that the other half broke through and took some ground. Tanks may become a big success, they may be the weapon of the future, but this first bunch I don’t think could have done much to bolster the infantry morale.
We have done seven hours today, all in enemy territory from five hundred to five thousand with no combat for our flight, although C Flight picked off a couple of the Kaiser’s pets this morning. This was the day we expected the worst. No savvy. Why the powers to be sent in only a few tanks puzzles me, unless they were just for a trial, because there must be at least a thousand parked back of our lines. If they are ever going to use them, now is the time for the infantry, and our air corps needs something to give us a boost too.*
September 17, 1916: We now know where Boelcke and his squadron have been. They have been changing over to new Alba-tros D.I and Halberstadt D.II scouts. This morning Boelcke and his crew went into action on our C Flight. Just as they crossed the lines, we lost our entire flight of twelve men and six ships, plus two of our D.H.2s. It is the worst defeat we have ever suffered. We have lost three out of a flight before, but a complete loss of all six ships is horrible, and two of our best scouts on one show seems almost impossible. I knew it was too good to last, for the last few times we have been over, Price and I have had no action. Now with Mr. Boelcke in his new and faster machines, we will really catch hell. The bad news was given us at breakfast. As it was our early flight that has been wiped out, we are to catch the nine o’clock offensive patrol, which means we are going over strictly to do battle. This loss will upset all the boys commanding and may hurry up the delivery of some new and faster ships we need so badly. They sure won’t get here in time to do B Flight any good, so we have to do the best with what we have. We are told there will be F.E.8s and D.H.2 scouts to help us in our coming battle, for come it will. With Boelcke and his boys full of success, they will be hard to live with. Price calls our flight together before climbing in our planes, tells everyone regardless of what happens to stay as much in formation as possible, and to protect each other’s tail, and if anyone is hit get as close under our ship as possible without colliding.
We are only scheduled for a three-hour flight, which can be over much quicker if we are contacted by the Hun. Hurt by the morning defeat, our wing commander has thrown all our F.E.8s and D.H.2s, a few Nieuports, with many F.E.2b into the air. Price leads his formation into what should be the Hun’s favorite hunting ground. While there are enemies everywhere and our scouts are seeing plenty of action, we don’t get close enough to shoot. The Hun don’t even make one pass at us. Whether they were satisfied with their morning’s kill of F.E.2b, I don’t know, but Price, who is spoiling for a fight, stays over until we are almost out of petrol, then home without firing a shot.
Tonight there will be twelve new faces at our dinner, and there should be six new machines in the hangars. All the flyers will undoubtedly be new and green. It just isn’t possible to have any old timers. There can’t be any left. Price and I are the only originals of Eleven except our major, who I know has suffered terrible with our losses. He is a wonderful commanding officer and a good pilot, but commanding officers are not allowed to fly. They are too important to lose. Dinner tonight will not be much, but the twelve new boys will have to be made welcome, for certain they are not going to be enthused with their future.
Among our new officers are four very interesting chaps each in his own way. One is Captain Mitchell, formerly of the infantry, where he was wounded and invalided back to Blighty via Boulogne clearing hospital. While in England recuperating, he applied to be an observer in the RFC and, like all observers, he is on the usual thirty days probation. If he makes good, he stays with the RFC; otherwise back to his infantry with his present rank. He is just as inexperienced as I was several months ago, only he has one advantage: he has been in action and knows all about a machine gun. Him I am going to give all the help possible, for I shall never forget how green I was and how badly I needed help and advice. He told me a story which I’m sure is true and shows how sportsman-like the British are and how they play the game, even in war.
There are under the British command troops from every place where the Union Jack flies — Australians, Canadians, Indians, South Africans, New Zealanders and one particular detachment of Gurkhas. The Gurkhas, who speak no English, were put in the trenches under British commanding officers, using their own noncommissioned officer with an interpreter. These boys the Gurkhas are no marvels with firearms, but with a very special knife, similar to a bowie, they have no equal. The first night in the trenches is quiet. There is no movement from the Germans, and the Gurkhas are becoming familiar with their new home. Their British commanding officers are satisfied they have some good fresh troops. This they have, only how fresh they don’t know. At about midnight of the second night, when the officer or officers commanding are in some other part of the trenches, the Gurkhas disappear quietly through the barbed wire fence in front of their trenches. And on their bellies, with nothing except two beautiful knives, slip into the German listening post in No Man’s Land, where they play “Home Sweet Home” on the Heinie’s throat with a real sharp knife before the gentleman knows his throat is being cut. Then on down to the communication trench to the main trench, where a lot of nice fat boys are dreaming about their Fatherland. The sad part for these boys, they are awakened with a nice friendly Gurkha whittling on their throat. After this successful operation, just for souvenirs or keepsakes, they whittle off a pair of ears, then return to their trenches as quietly as they left.
How many of the enemy the friendly Gurkhas butchered was never made official, but there was so much hell raised by the German high command as to a very unethical warfare that the Gurkhas were immediately pulled out of the trenches. But if the Gurkha who was wounded and in the same ward with Captain Mitchell is a fair example, they did quite an operation. This fellow had a very overripe smell and wouldn’t let anyone touch or bathe him. Until they gave the boy a hypo, and from a wire tied around his waist they extracted twenty-two pair of ears. It sounded not bad to me after our loss in Eleven, but with the British it wasn’t cricket, so the poor Gurkhas are out of a job.
Among our new members is Norman Read, an American, the first I have me in the RFC. He is a Yale man, a traitor to Harvard as he comes from Boston, Massachusetts, and paid his own way over to join the American Escadrille with Bill Thaw, Bert Hall, Norman Prince and Victor Chapman, all original members of this French Air Service squadron made up entirely of Americans and under French command.* But he changed his mind and qualified as a pilot with the RFC as a lieutenant and is with us for his first action. He is a wonderful chap and will be a wonderful addition to our squadron, unless his back, which he hurt in a bad accident while learning to fly, gives out. There is another very new pilot, Tommy Malloy, quite young, a typical English pink cheeked boy who I have taken a great liking to. There is another observer by the name of Bogart Rogers from Winnipeg, Canada. He’s new but alert and, if lucky the first two times across the lines, will make a great observer, as with a machine gun he is a real good one, and after all, that is what keeps a pilot and observer alive.
Tomorrow we have new orders. Eleven is to do patrol duty fifteen miles back of our lines at a height of eleven thousand. Our mission is to fly back and forth for four hours to keep any German planes from coming over. This we do for four days, not knowing what it is all about, except there must be some conference or important people we are supposed to protect. On our fourth day of this very boresome warfare, we of B Flight are asked to be in our best field uniform and in front of our ships at two o’clock. Without any warning, and while we’re hoping to hell it isn’t any more of the Indian dignitaries, His Majesty and escort come around the corner from one of the hangars. We are inspected; he shakes our hand and thanks us for our splendid service. Here is the fellow I have been doing my best to keep well all these months on Thursday evenings and other days as well. He looks healthier than I. Anyway it has been fun, so will keep up the good work just in case he might have a relapse. After all, don’t Cox & Co. have some dough for that purpose? This was the person we were flying a protective patrol for. Price is thrilled to his ears. It is evidently an honor not accorded everyone, and quite unexpected.
With our four days off for patrol duty, we have missed the fighting at the front, where our casualties in the air have been very bad. The Germans with their new ships are making the best of their superiority. Today has been B Flight’s first contact with Mr. Boelcke’s new ships, and we came out rather well. There were at least one hundred ships, both ours and the Germans’, in a dogfight over Cam-brai. Our formation is split so it’s every man for himself. We have no chance to regroup. It is up to everyone to fight their own way home. Our scouts are marvelous. Until one has seen one of our single-seater pushers fall out of the sky on a Hun’s tail, you haven’t seen anything. When a trail of smoke from the rotary hits the sky and the machine gun goes to work, it is a sight to thrill anyone. Although not so fast as the Germans’ new ships, on the level they are magnificent in combat. With a top pilot like Hawker or Green at the controls, the Hun is still in for a bad time. Price and I have credit for two, which were confirmed by Twenty-four Squadron, and three we put down as results unknown, although Price is pretty sure of them. In a dogfight of this kind, one is lucky to come out safe. To hell with who did what to who.
There are some rumors that Price will be sent back to England for a rest period. We have both been out all summer on the F.E.2b, which with due respect to all our scouts has been the savior of the Somme. If Eleven could have the new F.E.2 with the Rolls Royce engine, we would give the Hun a hell of a battle. Why they gave Number Twenty Squadron the first ones, where they are north of us and don’t have the activities of the Somme, I’ll never know, especially when Eleven has, with the Huns brought down by Albert Ball, the greatest number of enemy planes destroyed by any RFC squadron. And without my friend Ball’s, we are the third. This includes all scouts and combat squadrons on the Western Front.
Norman Read has been sent back for hospitalization with his back. Lucky stiff, I’m glad. What is going to happen to me I don’t know, though I understand I am past due for England and my pilot’s training, which will be just a rest, for to fly as a pilot will be easy, thanks to Price who has taken a special interest in teaching me the F.E.2b. This I could solo on without any training. I started on this show from Canada, just for the trip and to see the world, with no thought of their so-called Democracy. With good pay, good clothes, no responsibility and no place to spend my money except girls, life was sweet. Girls weren’t expensive, all of them trying to do their bit for King and Country What more could a fellow ask?
The Canadian girls were not quite up to standard when we left Canada, but most likely quickly got into the mood. But the English girls had been at war longer. If you were in uniform, you deserved the best. The French mademoiselles are all for winning the war. They are with you down to their last chemise. As a blooming private I had more time for play with no responsibilities and plenty of money, which wasn’t too necessary. And my chances of living were one hundred to one in my favor. Now what happens? There are still girls, but who the hell can romance with Fritz breathing down your neck and every day getting worse? Father, you sure raised a simple son.
Tonight I was going out and raise hell, but when I send Price’s batman to Major Hubbard with my compliments, asking if I may be excused from dinner, I get a message back with the major’s compliments, stating he would appreciate my presence at dinner and to please notify Captain Price. What the deuce goes on? This is the first time he ever refused me anything, and his wish is a command. So what is in my mind will have to wait. It can’t have anything to do with flying, for business is never discussed at dinner. I suppose we have guests, and I hope it is the damned artillery. I would like another crack at them. Whatever it is, my major, I will be there, for you I will do most anything.
Price comes into my tent, and I tell him we are both requested to stay in for dinner. He is just as much in the dark as I am, except he thinks Colonel Shephard may be our guest, as he is our wing commander. This could well be the occasion for some special, important information, such as the announcement of new ships.
Dressing for dinner with the usual slacks and tunic and leaving the Sam Browne in our tent (as the only person wearing a Sam Browne at dinner in a British mess is the officer of the day), we go early to our mess to partake of a cocktail or two before the major shows up. This is just a practice run to get in condition for the evening’s festivities, as we are both expecting Eleven Squadron to have guests. Price and I are standing off to one side with Bogart and Tommy Malloy, when our major appears. He is alone with no guests and joins us for one cocktail. Then the usual seating and dinner, which is always of the best. With nothing apparently happening, evidently something has misfired. Dinner is almost over — they are serving the demitasse and liqueurs to those who partake — when Major Hubbard stands up, saying, “Gentlemen, may I have your attention for a few minutes?” Everyone is quiet, as this is very unusual. “Gentlemen, I have a duty to perform which is for me a great honor and privilege. I have for months had under my command two officers whose performance in the line of duty has been of the highest. Working as a team they are unparalleled, with so many stout efforts to their credit I hesitate to mention just one. To these officers the RFC and Eleven Squadron owe a debt of gratitude, and it is my honor to announce to Eleven Squadron that His Majesty has awarded the Military Cross to Captain Stephen Price and Lieutenant Frederick Libby for conspicuous gallantry while engaging and destroying enemy aircraft.”
Then all hell breaks loose. I am completely taken by surprise. Everyone yelling “stout fellows,” everyone shaking hands. I don’t move. This I never expected in a thousand years. Price is down at my end of the table congratulating me, when I should be up at his end. He is my senior, but I do come out of the haze long enough to thank my major, and the sincere pleasure expressed in his handshake and congratulations mean as much as my decoration. To be called worthy of this honor was all I asked. The decoration I never expected. As a former American who has lost his citizenship, I wonder how Congress would like them apples.
I have been in Eleven Squadron for months, and this is the first award or decoration given to any member, although I understand my friend Albert Ball has been awarded the Military Cross since his return to England. If there ever was a boy who deserved a decoration, this boy does. Price is more than happy. He tells me the MC is only given to officers and is only given for combat, which means anyone with the Military Gross ribbon has earned it in battle. He also tells me that when we return to England, we will be decorated at Buckingham Palace by His Majesty. I wonder what Father will think. He has always had a warm spot in his heart for the English. I shall write when I get to England. Here I just can’t write. Everything is too uncertain. My darling Aunt Jo in Boston will be as happy as Price, and will she be surprised when she finds her boy is mixed up in something America doesn’t think important. They could be wrong.
Footnotes
*Winston Churchill, who was instrumental in having the concept of the “tank” developed, had literally begged Prime Minister David Lloyd George not to give away the secret that the British had tanks by employing them in a piecemeal fashion. He argued instead to wait and use them in concentrated strength on a decisive push, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.
*Formed by the French government in April 1916, the Escadrille Américaine first saw battle in May of that year. For political reasons having to do with America’s neutrality, the squadron was renamed the Escadrille Lafayette in December 1916.