23
Today, October 3, 1916, has been the toughest and most difficult assignment since Price and I have been together in B Flight. General Headquarters ordered a photographic and reconnaissance report on Valenciennes, which is the greatest distance back of the lines an F.E.2b has ever been. It is a German railroad and shipping center, where there is evidently something going on that is essential to our headquarters. We were instructed to take photographs and report on all rolling stock in the railroad yards, movement of troops or anything unusual and to avoid a fight at any cost, if possible, but to concentrate on our photographing in and around Valenciennes. At the best, with no opposition, the F.E.2b carries enough fuel for four and one-half hours. Using the emergency tank on the top wing, with just an ordinary wind against us returning, we will have petrol enough, as we carry no bombs but all the ammunition and petrol possible. None of our scouts can carry enough fuel to escort us, so they have been ordered to pick us up on our return — just as far back as a scout can reach with safety. Why the hell B Flight always draws the tough ones I don’t know. It must be because Price is such a cool flight commander. We have almost a complete squadron of inexperienced pilots and observers. In our flight we have only one old timer, Captain Adams, who will be second leader on our right with a new but excellent observer, Lieutenant Bogart Rogers. The other four ships of B Flight are all new pilots and observers with not too much experience. This is the first time in our many months to-gether that I have known Price to be so serious. He gave strict orders to the pilots of our five other ships to follow him close in their respective positions, and if attacked to draw in close and not to break formation at any cost. The cameras are carried by the lead ships, Price and Adams with Bogart and me doing the photographing. To save petrol Price has ordered a rendezvous at three thousand feet over our aerodrome, where we will pick up formation and gain altitude while crossing the lines in the direction of our destination.
The trip over is easy, as there is a solid mass of white clouds at six thousand which we climb through, and far as the eye can see are nothing except clouds between us and the ground, with sunshine and space above. While the enemy will hear our motors, they can only spot us by sound, and they don’t expect we are going so far back, so all we have to do is stay well above the clouds and catch a break if possible over Valenciennes and be prepared to catch hell on the way back because the Hun will be up in force to pick us off on our return with plenty of time. Their fast scouts, lightly loaded, can gain altitude quickly.
We run out of clouds before reaching our destination with plenty of sun at an altitude of eleven thousand. We do a good job of photography and reconnaissance. All we have to do is avoid the Hun and any combat, if possible. If our scouts are alert, it may be an easy show. But this is only wishful thinking. We are sitting ducks well back of enemy lines. What pilot could miss such an opportunity? I would give anything just once to be in such a position, with my prey over on our side where I could get to him at my leisure, knowing if anything happened to us, all we would have to do would be to break off the fight and go home. This never happens to us during our months of combat. We have never had a fight back of our lines. The enemy just don’t work that way.
We are in the vicinity of our clouds again, only they are on the move coming our way, and we are in a headwind which is doing us no good, so Price is losing some altitude with our nose slightly down to maintain our speed. We both know this is taking extra petrol. Off in the distance to our right and higher, I can see a formation of ships which are our D.H.2 scouts, while to our left in the vicinity of .Ba-paume are several single ships, which are Albatros scouts. The clouds underneath us are spotty, so Price keeps high enough over these that we won’t be subject to a sneak attack without any chance of defense. The way the air between us and the lines is filling with ships, we are sure in for a battle.
To try and avoid one by going right or left will cost us too much petrol, so Price keeps a straight line, hoping for the best from our scouts. The Hun evidently has orders to get us at any cost, because they are now appearing everywhere with three Rolands coming up fast behind. With none of our scouts close enough to take care of these, the back guns will have to do the job, because we can’t turn and fight with our front guns, which would mean a loss of petrol and possibly a loss of formation. There are now three Albatros flying parallel to us only higher. When the attack comes, Bogart on our right and a new observer to our back each get one of the diving Hun ships. I think I crippled the third, but one of our back escorts is hit in the petrol tanks and is aflame. There is nothing we can do but keep going. We are hit by another flight from higher up. This time I am sure of one and my friend Bogart gets another, and our scouts go into action. We have lost another of our back ships. It is going down in perfect control, which I am sure is motor trouble. If they will just let it land, the boys will be all right, as they are far enough from the infantry to be safe.
The old grin has returned to my pilot’s face, which it always does when the going is the worst. With our scouts everywhere, Price is concentrating on getting the F.E.s across our lines with the pictures. Our nose is well down and the trenches are quite visible. If our scouts stay on our tail, all we need is a little luck and we may even make our squadron. Even if we don’t and have a forced landing, their precious pictures are safe, which seemed to be the principal reason for our trip. Luck is with us and we cross our lines at Arras with enough petrol left to reach home. Our four returning ships show considerable damage, but we have four Huns for certain with three probables. Not a bad show, and everyone is congratulated by General Headquarters, but we lost two ships, which is always a blow. No matter how long you have been flying or how tough you are, there is always the knowledge it could have been you.
This had been Price’s last show. His orders for England and a rest period came in before we took the air for Valenciennes. All our major could do was hope for the best. He didn’t want to tell Price before the take-off. It didn’t seem right to be going on the kind of a mission we have returned from with orders for his leave effective tomorrow, but now everything is good. My friend and pilot is out of action and will have a rest which is long past due. As to what is going to happen to me, even our major is in doubt. He sent a recommendation through at the same time for both of us to return to England, but the GHQ don’t do things that way. We both need a rest as we are edgy, and thirty days with no action might be the answer. And to say I am glad that my pal is on his way is putting it mildly. No more early shows, no more combat for him. He has certainly earned it. I shall miss him terribly. We have become so accustomed to battling our enemy together that to fly with a new pilot is going to be very difficult.
We only have one old timer, Captain Adams, so I suppose we’ll be together, for he is taking Price’s place as flight commander of B Flight. While it has only been a few months since the day I came to Twenty-third Squadron as an observer on probation, it has been a lifetime for many. Of all the officers I first knew, only a few are now living. True, there are several that are prisoners of war, but our losses have been great. It hardly seems possible that Price and I should have lived, where so many have gone west. Today we are the only ones who have survived continuous service. I have my observer’s wing and the Military Cross. Of both I am proud, but with the knowledge that so many have been lost while we have been so lucky, one wonders how long will it last. Of one thing I am sure, if I can just get back for my pilot’s wings and fly a single-seater scout where the gun shoots through the propeller, I may have a new lease on life. Pilots like Price on an F.E.2b are very few, and with a single-seater fighter scout you are on your own. If possible, I would like to join my friend Ball when he returns.
October 28, 1916: My orders have come through for a rest in England, then my training for pilot’s wings. The British have given me credit for ten enemy planes confirmed and eleven probables. This only means I have been lucky and am still alive. One true thing I have found about being a flyer with the RFC is the greatest feeling of good fellowship I have ever known. Just to be a member in any capacity is an honor, and being an American I am glad to be mixed up in this damn war, regardless of what the American Con-gress thinks. The Americans flying with the French under the name of the American Escadrille are a swell bunch, I understand. I’m going to contact them at my first opportunity, since in the RFC the only American I know is my friend Norman Read, who is now in a hospital in England. He’ll be the first person I look up when I land in London.
The joy of being back in London is enhanced by complete freedom from anything to do for some time. I am on leave until the first of January before reporting for my pilot’s training. No early morning show, no responsibilities, and I am at liberty to go where I wish. So my first night I go to visit Jimmy at the Savoy, where life is easy especially if there is no strenuous tomorrow. Jimmy is glad to see me with my observer’s wing and MC ribbon — he is as proud as if I were his brother. Everyone and everything are more natural than on my first visit when I was so new in the RFC. Time either makes or kills you, it doesn’t stand still. In a few minutes Mr. Grant, my tailor comes in. Jimmy has sent word I am with him. So for the rest of the evening my money is counterfeit. They make me feel just like I was home. Tomorrow I am invited to have lunch at Simpson’s with Mr. Grant and his partner, which I am happy to do as I have an idea that I will see my old pilot and friend Captain Price.
The lunch is a big success. Price is present as I was sure he would be, even if it was supposed to be a surprise. Our hosts return to their business, while Price and I linger on until Price has to return to Gosport, where he is temporarily in command of a training squadron.
With my promise to come to Gosport for lunch in a couple of days, we complete a wonderful visit. When I do meet Price at Gosport, I’m introduced to an American also named Price. He is no relation, but is Raymond B. Price, vice president of the United States Rubber Company This is November the fourth, 1916. Mr. Price is in England on a speaking tour, trying to bring the English-speaking nations closer together, and is one of the most interesting men I have ever known. He is not a large man physically but is a giant mentally. I am asked to drive back to London with him, as he has a driver and a car, so we have an opportunity to discuss many things. And one thing in particular: he thinks America should be in the war helping England and France. At Mr. Price’s invitation, I go to our American embassy, where I am introduced to Mr. Page, our ambassador, and his military attache, Captain Chapman. During the remainder of my service with the RFC, these gentlemen become two of my very best friends.
Thanks to them, and to Captain Chapman in particular, I met many wonderful people. Two of the most interesting and enjoyable Americans I was fortunate to meet were Lee White and Clay Smith. They owned and operated the Strand Theatre where, with a change of show every two weeks, they wrote all the songs and music and also did the directing, a most wonderful team. They were in England when the war started and just stayed. They are fellow Americans to be proud of, and through this pair I met many interesting people in and out of show business. Lee White was responsible for Gertrude Lawrence’s early show business success, as the girls were great friends and anyone who was a friend of Lee’s was always sure of help if needed.
One of the principal topics of conversation at the embassy was America’s November election, so on the night of the seventh I agreed to have dinner with Mr. Raymond Price and Captain Chapman at the Savoy Hotel, where we would know the results before going to bed. This we did, but things are not always what they seem, for when we departed for bed Mr. Charles Evans Hughes was elected but in the morning at breakfast Mr. Woodrow Wilson was president. Some mistake in the count or communications, I don’t know which. I only know that Mr. Price and Captain Chapman were two very unhappy men. There was talk of Mr. Wilson being too proud to fight, and they both felt that, with Mr. Hughes, America would be in the war soon. To me it made no difference who was elected. I had a job to do and was making friends doing it, and awfully glad I switched from trucks to the RFC. The pace is faster and a damned sight more interesting.
Today I order a couple more uniforms, not that they are needed, but I’d just as soon be the best dressed officer on leave. Captain Price had on a beauty at our last lunch, and I wanted one just like it. Quite the copy cat. But what’s the difference? Clothes won’t help a fellow in the air, though on the ground they do wonders for the old morale. I have taken an apartment in a gentleman’s apartment house where they serve breakfast until eleven and tea in the afternoon. It is a nice two-room affair, with a large living room with a fireplace and closet space for all my uniforms and bed roll, and is only a little more expensive than my hotel. My new abode is on Jermyn Street not too far from my tailor, and without his influence I would never have made the grade, as there is always a waiting list for apartments.
Mr. Price is returning to America tomorrow. I have written my family, and he will mail the letters in America and look up Aunt Jo’s only son in New York and give him firsthand information to be passed on to my darling aunt in Boston. We are going to have a farewell luncheon at Simpson’s. I have become very attached to the gentleman. He is such a decent person and so sincere, no wonder the English admire him. If I ever go home again he will be one of the first people I hope to see.
The more I see of the English, the more I like them. Everyone takes the war in their stride. There is no crying or bellyaching. London is in a state of total darkness at night, not a peep of light showing. All entrances have double affairs, so there will be no light visible when entering or departing. All windows are heavily shaded, and there are no street lights. So if you’re going anyplace, it helps to know your way. All taxis and cars have absolutely no lights except a small dim light showing from the bottom half of the right headlight. As everyone drives to the left, it is necessary to have some light from the right front.
The theaters are going strong, playing to capacity audiences. . . . George Robie knocking them dead at one theater . . . Beatrice Lillie a honey . . . Lee White and Clay Smith at the Strand . . . Gabby d’les and Pilsnor just returned from America, where she is putting on a new girl show at the Gaiety with a bunch of the youngest undressed kids in the business. They are chaperoned to the teeth. The kids are willing, but they are handicapped with some thirty-year-old crows protecting their honor. The pubs are only open nights from six to eight. There is always a private party in some hotel where a bunch of flyers are whooping it up. A couple of nightclubs open after twelve, and an officer can go there if he has a gal who is a member and can sign the check, for he can’t spend any money here, nor can he dance unless in mufti. The British have a rule which they encourage an officer on leave to follow: He is privileged to wear civilian clothes for the duration of his leave if he desires. This is so, in the event he wants to raise a lot of hell, he won’t be conspicuous in uniform. There is no restriction on his dancing so long as he is in civilian clothes. I like the idea and am going to purchase an outfit tomorrow. Several months ago I couldn’t get into my officer’s uniform fast enough, now I think a change will be nice for a few days.
I have been back from the front a little over a month. Time has certainly flown. I have met so many nice people who have invited me to their home, where I have been treated like one of the family. Whatever we are fighting for, it is worth the effort if it helps these fine people in any way.
Returning to my apartment I have a note to call Price at his home tonight without fail. Before I can call, my phone rings and it is the gallant captain himself, all enthused with the news that tomorrow is the day we are to appear at Buckingham Palace to receive our decoration from His Majesty personally. This is rather sudden notice, but it is the way everything happens in this cockeyed war, so I tell my pal to “lead on, McDuffy” I’m ready. He gives me instructions on what to wear — of course, my best field uniform with Sam Browne and boots — and to meet him in front of the Savoy Hotel at nine A.M. as our date with His Majesty is for ten o’clock.
We meet as per his orders. His first words are, “Libby, let me give the cabbie instructions.” With this we pile in, and Price says, “Buckingham Palace, James.” He tells me he has been wanting to do just that for years but didn’t really expect to have the opportunity.
If he thought he would upset the cabbie any, he must have been surprised, because the cabbie asks, “Do you want the big gate, sir?” This was evidently old hat to our driver, who had been through all this before, including the James business. Arriving at the big gates, we were held up just long enough for a guard to stick his head in and inquire our names and purpose. With no delay the big gate swings open, and we are driven up to the entrance where we dismiss our driver, and before we can touch the door it flies open and we are received by a man in a beautiful uniform with knee pants and a coat to match and a white wig. Our gloves, British warmer and cap are taken and we are turned over to a full colonel, who precedes us to an enormous room with beautiful drapes at the windows, thick carpets and extremely high ceilings. Here we are introduced to a brigadier general, who gives us our instructions as to formality and such and how to proceed when our name is called.
We are to be decorated separately. A very pompous individual has placed a curved pin immediately over our MC ribbon with an open end sticking up. When our name is called, we are to march through a large open doorway where His Majesty would be standing to the left. You go into the room until opposite where His Majesty is standing, stop and do a left turn and bow, then take three paces up to the King. Your decoration has been brought in on a plush pillow by another one of the boys with a white wig and gorgeous uniform. After placing the cross on the pin attached to your tunic, His Majesty may ask you a few questions but always shakes hands. With me, he thanks me for my services. I then step back three paces, bow, do a right turn and go out a door opposite the one I had entered, where my cross and pin are taken by another one of the gorgeous boys, with instructions to pick it up with my coat. It is a beautiful show, put on with all the pomp and splendor which the British do so well. It is something to be proud of and to always remember.
By the time I have reached the cloakroom entrance my cross is there in a beautiful case. Price is waiting, as he went first, so together we are let out once again through the big gates, only this time walking out to where we get a big salute from the guards and are hailed by the camera boys. It has been a wonderful morning, very impressive, and His Majesty more impressive than the entire show. He seemed very tired, much more so than when we met in France. This damned war must be hell for him.
It’s lunchtime, so to the Savoy where Price blows the works on me. Then to my apartment, where we take a nap in preparation for the night. God, what a life. I’ll be glad to get back into action, espe-cially as a pilot, and on the first I report for school. As this is December the thirteenth, it won’t be long.
Price’s and my picture coming out of the Buckingham gate appeared in the London Daily Mirror the next morning, which has stirred up a commotion with many of my friends. I have an invitation to have lunch at the embassy, which I like very much, as Ambassador Page and Captain Chapman are sure one hell of a fine team to represent America. I hope they are appreciated.
I am getting fed up. Nothing to do was fine for a while and did I enjoy it! I could just sit and be happy. I’ll soon have been idle two months with nothing to do except get up in time to go to lunch, then mess around until teatime and wait for the pubs to open, then a show and play all night. I know everyone in town I want to know. The civilians are all busy. Me, I have nothing to do but play. I just rested too fast, so now I need action, and I certainly hope this damn weather doesn’t hold up my training, for with this kind of rain there is no flying, and the poor guys in the trenches are wet to their eyebrows. If the British had left the Gurkhas alone and put a few more in the front lines, the Germans would have surrendered by now or would have at least stopped hearing. I’m all for the Gurkhas, long may they live.
I have been in this war for two years on September the second. This Christmas coming up tomorrow is my third Christmas in service, the first in Toronto, Canada, my second in France in water everywhere and my third tomorrow here in London, where I shall have breakfast at the Strand Palace with Lieutenant Getz Rice and a bunch of Canadians. Then to the big lounge, where Getz will entertain everyone with the hotel piano for hours. When this boy entertains, the professionals come to hear.
Early Christmas Eve at the Savoy Hotel I join Bill Thaw and Bert Hall, two fellow Americans from the Lafayette Escadrille. While I have never met these boys, my friend Norman Read gave me their history. They are both stout fellows and Thaw is the commanding officer of the squadron, made up entirely of American boys who came over at their own expense to help France. I certainly can’t claim this distinction, for I came just for the trip and a free trip at that, hoping never to get into battle. We are to have Christmas dinner at the Savoy, which promises to be quite a Christmas evening. I find they have just returned from America and are leaving for their squadron in France tomorrow. With these two chaps I spend one of the nicest Christmas evenings of my life. We have a table in the big dining room where we enjoy a good dinner, then just relax and watch the dancing till long past midnight. We part with a promise to visit their squadron when I return to France and call it a day.