25
Every one is kidding me now that America has declared war on Germany, with good natured gibes such as, How did you get here so soon? It is time America came in, if they ever were going to. England and France have been carrying the load for the world over two years, and before America can give any real help here I’ll be old and gray.
I have been helping all observers as much as possible at the request of Major Dore. We are getting our share of them on probation, and to the new ones I’m devoting a lot of time, both on the range and in practice from my ship shooting at a ground target. Among my pupils is a second lieutenant out of the trenches. He is a fine looking blond boy whose family want him to be a flyer, which is why the lad is with us as an observer on probation. He has been nicknamed Babe because he has such a good complexion, but this boy is no babe. He has seen action in the trenches, in and out for the past year, and has acquired the Military Cross. Cattell is an excellent shot with the machine gun on the range, but the minute he is in the air he becomes deathly ill. He vomits all over the ship and loses interest in target and machine gun and the world in general. Then his one ambition is to land. I have tried three different days at the target from my machine, without him firing a shot. He is just too damn sick. This has been necessary to report to the major, but I have recommended that he be sent on some patrol duty where he won’t see any action, which on a three-hour trip will give our lad a chance to become accustomed to the air. This the major tries twice, but our boy is so sick that the pilot brings him back, for when he is ill, he just don’t care anymore. About this I am very unhappy, for Cattell has told me all about his family and how they want him out of the trenches. With the war as it is, I know the major will have to send him back to the infantry, which is a shame, for he has had one year of rats, cooties and German infantry. I wish I could help. At dinner I learn from the major he has told Cattell the bad news. So my boy isn’t at mess. Immediately after dinner, I head for his quarters. Here is a boy with all the guts in the world, afraid of nothing, which is shown by the MC ribbon on his chest, about to go back to something of which he has a big belly full — the trenches. And not only going back to the trenches, but to his family. He feels that not making good at flying is letting them down. All this is too much for me, so I stick my American neck way out, tell him to slip over to the mess and have himself a few drinks and a sandwich as he didn’t join us at dinner, and I will take care of our major.
To interrupt the major when he is just starting a bridge game, where he is about to take three flight commanders into his camp, isn’t done. When I explain I wish he would give me permission to give Cattell another chance, that I will take him with me as my observer tomorrow as I am up for what promises to be an easy show, the good major says, “Certainly, Libby, this is very commendable, go to it and good luck.”
When I find my boy, he’s half tight, so I join him and we finish the job. For all I know, this may be the proper treatment for his trouble. My plan is to take him with me on our show over the line, regardless of how sick the said stomach is and no matter how bad. All he has to do, if worse comes to worse, is fold up in the bottom of our ship, where time will tell. Of all things, he isn’t to worry. Having done my best for the day with the aid of much scotch support, I put a future flyer to bed without a worry in the world. At least he is happy for tonight. Tomorrow I am in trouble. I tell my friend what the score is and assure him it will be an easy flight, that if his stomach gives the old heave-ho, just let her rip, curl up in the bottom until we finish our show. True to his past, the old boy is sick before we have reached any height and disappears from view. And from the rear comes no sound and I know he hasn’t fallen out, so concentrate on my flying.
It always happens when least expected. A flight of Albatros and Rolands tie into us, and me without an observer, at least one that is conscious. The fight don’t last long. Our leader and flight commander, Captain Collier, knocks one over quick, and I am able to nail one by simply pulling up the nose and pressing the control. The Hun had misjudged and pulled up over me, making himself a sitting duck. Through all of this, I have forgotten my boy and am throwing my plane around through the sky when from someplace, I don’t know where, my engine is hit and propeller split. Shutting off my ignition to avoid any chance of fire, I figure I have altitude enough to make our lines if the Hun don’t get me on the way down. I know that if it is necessary to outmaneuver the Hun without a motor, my loss of altitude will cause me to land back of their lines in the lap of the infantry.
Our formation is completely broken up but, fortunate for me, Captain Collier sees something is wrong and stays on my tail for an escort. Through all of this, I haven’t had any sign of life from my observer. We just clear the trenches and land in between some old reserve trenches without any injury to our plane. Waving to Captain Collier, who is circling overhead, that we are all right, I take a look at my boy, who is a mess but alive, though deathly pale. He climbs out of the plane and flops down on his back, saying, “Oh Mother, oh Mother, I made it.” He is game to the core. Soon as his feeling of equilibrium has returned, he shakes my hand and insists on thanking me as though he had received a Christmas present. Babe and I only made one more trip together. Though he was ill, he was able to use the machine gun when we had a brush with the enemy, not too effectively but at least he was conscious, and after our two flights he continued to do better each trip. He was admired by everyone of our squadron and made good his ambition to be an observer with the RFC.
When Babe returned from leave on May 28, 1917, he brought me a large American flag and a beautiful pair of boots for a present. Major Dore, upon seeing the flag, suggested I use it as a streamer or streamers just to show the Hun that America had a flyer in action. This I did — from May 28 until my return to America. During this period, there were always one or two streamers of an American flag over the German lines. With two streamers on the struts, it denoted leader of our formation. When only one, it denoted second leader. This was not done with any idea of a stunt to be first with anything. It was in the line of duty and at the suggestion of my squadron commander, Major Dore. These streamers were later auctioned off to the highest bidder on a Liberty Loan drive at Carnegie Hall, New York.
Now I know we are in for a big push or battle. Every time we have a big push, we don’t seem to go anywhere except to advance maybe a trench or two. I think it is more to keep the Heinie awake, but it also puts a hell of a lot to sleep, permanently, as both sides take a terrific loss. We of the air corps will be very much in the middle of the whole affair. Today we have orders to move our entire squadron close to the lines. When we take off for the morning show, we are told to land at Auchel, which is just eight miles from the trenches.
Our new home is all ready for us, having been built and completed by prisoners of war, even to a tennis court. The hangars are large wooden structures and look like part of the town. We have separate sleeping quarters for each flight, with a special and separate quarters for our commanding officer and a mess hall and lounge, very spacious and nice. This affair is the swankiest I have occupied since joining the RFC. Our landing field is very small, as usual. It’s an abandoned farmer’s field, where in taking off you have only one side where it is safe to land if your engine conks. The other three sides are slag heaps, two woods and the town of Auchel. With the new pilots we’re getting, we can expect the worst. If it doesn’t happen we’re lucky. Our little Sopwith ships can be landed on a dime after a fellow learns to fly, they are so easy and light to handle. Still, to a green pilot the small field is frightening.
I like our new home very much. This is war at its best, with tennis court and even two saddle horses for the use of our pilots and observers who like to ride. Major Dore has given me charge of these horses and I have been assigned a groom to take care of them. They are a couple of typical English saddle horses with English saddles complete. The war today is looking better. In our new location close to the lines, I am real close to my old motor lorry unit, so, with the major’s permission, I take my little plane and land near their headquarters. They are a wonderful bunch of fellows, my old pals Coap, Baldy and Cornell, with whom I was billeted in our early days in France, and I have a grand visit with my old major and his staff. With such a sincere welcome, it was just like coming home. It is good to know that one has such friends. I have signed papers recommending twelve of my old unit to be given a trial as observers on probation. I only hope they will be as lucky as I have been. At least they will have a trial, and the rest is up to them.
In the future, when I have an early show, I shall dress to the teeth. This morning, we are called early. The weather is dull and cold, with a slight mist in the air. My batman says it’s sure to rain and we won’t have to take off. Still, the ships are out and ready. We have to be there to go if our major says to go. So, though I believe my batman and so does Pritchard, my observer, we hastily put our uniforms over our pajamas. Climbing into our big flying boots, with our helmet and flying coat over our shoulders, we are standing by our ship expecting a washout word from the major. We’re all prepared to hit the bed again, when our adjutant tells us to take off.
I’m sure we won’t be gone long as it’s already misting. With a ceiling less than a thousand feet, we are directly over our lines when the rain begins to pour and my beautiful little rotary gives a cough and is dead. We don’t have a thousand feet altitude. We have no time to go anywhere but down. If we must go down, it’s better to crash in our trenches than in the Germans’, so away we go through rain and lousy visibility. We just miss our back trench and bounce a slight distance, with no harm to our ship. Now it’s raining like hell. We take a look at our surroundings. After a hasty once-over, I decide that if we can get some help with our motor, by clearing a short runway and having a couple of strong fellows hold the ship down until I hit the peak engine speed, we can bounce out of this spot and won’t have to notify our squadron.
As it is as light as it will ever be and raining hard, we head for an artillery repair unit for help and breakfast. Me, I’m hungry and the odd egg will make the world right. Nuts to the ship, she can’t get any wetter than she is now, and these birds are just getting up. Until they have food, I know we won’t have any assistance, so to the officers’ mess and mess it is. These birds certainly don’t live like we do. They think we’re crazy, wanting a shot of rum at this time of the day. We get around that nicely by explaining this is just a continuation of the same day, but when they see the pajamas under our uniforms, they are quite sure we’re nuts. I still haven’t made any attempt to notify our squadron, as this outfit has a mechanic who knows something about rotary engines, and I think we can fly out of our spot with help.
After about an hour and most of their rum, and some breakfast, we’re ready to stagger back to our plane and, if their mechanic is any good, make an attempt to take off. I tell my pal and observer, Pritchard, it will be awful close, it might be well for me to try alone and if I make it I will send a tender back for him. “What, and be left here in my pajamas with nothing to drink? Damn, I’m going with you.” We hope. Our new mechanic turns the rotary over two or three times, does nothing to it. Suggests we give it a try. So, having one big fat boy sit on the tail and two men hold each wing with instructions to jump clear when I wave, we suck some petrol in our engine. At a signal from our mechanic, I throw on the switch. With no hesitation it starts on our first try. Immediately moving the throttle up to our peak, I wave my boys away. The ship makes a jump, hits the ground once more, then bounces off, misses a sunken road and a shell hole and I start to pull her up when again the rotary quits cold. We hop across another sunken road and under a communication wire and wind up on a flat bank. Again, we and our ship are not hurt.
By this time, my boy Pritchard has had enough. He doesn’t think we should repeat. His expression and comments damn near kill me. He is for the time being fed up with the flying corps, so nothing to do but report to the Old Man where we are and why. They are so damned glad to hear from us that nothing is said about reporting late. They were afraid we had gone west for sure.
We can wait for our own mechanic and then fly home, because this spot is much better than our previous landing and, with our own men, it will be a cinch. This I explain to my pal, who isn’t interested. He’s going back to the squadron in the tender. When I explain that I will be home having a nice highball and lunch before he gets started, he still isn’t interested. Twice in one day, he has had enough. He doesn’t mind when we are up in the air with the Hun, but flying around in the trenches with boulders and rocks has no appeal for my observer. And while he don’t know it, I have had more than enough for one day myself. When our mechanic arrives, he works on our ignition a few minutes and, with the help of his crew and Pritchard holding down my machine until my motor hits its peak, I am bounced off of the ground and into the air and am home in two shakes. I am having a wonderful time in Forty-third. I love the little Sopwith after the big F.E. They are so light and easy to fly and can be landed anyplace, so different from my first days in the RFC.
In our squadron I have a very good friend, an Irish boy by the name of Cathey. His home is close to Dublin, and since our acquaintance he has been after me to visit his home on my first leave. He is a wonderful chap and loves horses. In fact, he is the only one I go riding with, because he knows horses and is always talking about his Irish hunter. My leave of fourteen days is coming up soon, so I have promised to visit his home. At the same time, I’ll visit my friend Carruthers’ family. Bob Carruthers is an old buddy of mine out of our motor unit and has tried every time I’m on leave to have me visit Ireland. So, on the one coming up I have promised. They have both written their families. I am honored and delighted, only Ireland is so far from London and I just have a few days. Perdie, our adjutant, with the permission of Major Dore, has worked out a deal to save a full day of travel to London. We will be driven to Saint-Omer, our base for condemned planes going back to England. These are planes that are out of service, are not good for active duty but can still fly if handled carefully and are scheduled to be dismantled for their parts. From Saint-Omer to Folkestone, our field is approximately twenty-five miles across the English Channel. By flying one of these ships over in place of taking the boat, we will gain the one day. All we have to do is climb to enough altitude. If our engine quits, we can glide the rest of the distance. The night before our leave is to start, the major has his driver take us to Saint-Omer, where we arrange to take off early in the morning. There is only one trouble — Perdie has half of France for souvenirs, including a German helmet, a couple of Lugers, some shells and everything a fellow shouldn’t have, especially with a dud ship such as we are sure to get.
The first plane they gave us was impossible. With our load, I could just get off of the ground, make one circle and land. They gave us another. Transferring all Perdie’s junk to our new ship, plus his suitcase tied to the underneath, we again take off. It is a B.E.2e, but I am able to coax it up to one thousand where we should be at least six thousand, ten preferred. We both want to get it over with, so over we go. At the very far edge of Folkestone Air Field, we land with no motor, where a tender picks us up. I register the ship in and leave it where we landed. God is good to some people, why we will never know.
In my little apartment on Jermyn Street, I have made a decision. I don’t like to go to Ireland; I don’t know anyone there, but I have promised the boys I will visit their families. I should be flattered that they want me to go, but Ireland is so far away and I have such a short time. I know if I go to the Savoy tonight, I’m sunk, so I shall get aboard the first train for Wales and the first boat over, stay two days, then back to London. This will keep my promise and not spoil my entire leave.
Without calling anyone or going to the old familiar places, I catch a night train and next morning am on my way on the boat, headed for Dublin. The place I am going to is Killacon, in Kilkenny near Dublin. Here reside the families of both of my friends. They have no warning of the day I shall arrive, only a letter telling them that I will be over to see them when I go on leave. Going to the Car-ruthers’ address first, I am amazed at the size of the place. It is an enormous castle on magnificent grounds, and I am damn sure I have the wrong address. But what the hell, this is the bunk, so I give the knocker a wallop. After a reasonable wait, the door opens quietly on a very dignified butler with a “Welcome sir, we are expecting you. His Lordship has gone to the city, he will see you at dinner. I will show you to your room, then your lunch will be served. I have a paper with a clipping which concerns you. I shall bring it to your room.”
Slowly, I begin to piece the picture together. I am in the home of Lord Wrench, and my friend Bob is one of the family. Lord Wrench is a member of the nobility, and here am I. If my other friend turns out this way, I won’t be surprised.
Corbet, the gentleman who let me in, is a very dignified butler, didn’t know the Catheys, but he had a newspaper in which Cathey’s sisters had inserted a notice with their phone number and street address, just in case I was too dumb to find their home, knowing someone would see the notice and tell me.
I’m beginning to like the place. The country is beautiful. The rolling hills surrounding the village, with the sheep grazing about, is like a lovely picture. Calling Cathey’s sisters after lunch, I am told I can’t ever go anywhere unless I stay at their house a week. This is embarrassing, as I have promised myself I will return to London after two days. Sure, I can’t run out on Bob’s family, so I make a date to have dinner with them tomorrow and talk things over. With my usual luck I had stumbled into a haven for tired soldiers. Between the Bob Carruthers family and the Cathey family, I had the time of my life. The Cathey sisters knew everyone and every place. They showed me the famous Phoenix Park in Dublin and the Guinness brewery, which took a full half day to go through. I kissed the Blarney Stone, which is accomplished by hanging with your head down in a sort of well. I divided my time fifty-fifty and just caught the last boat that would get me back to France at the end of my fourteen days.
I have been many places and met many people, but never any place or any people where I had such a sincere welcome as the twelve days I spent in Ireland among the families of my two friends, Carruthers and Cathey. With these folks, things were wonderful, but there was another side to Ireland which I observed, and it shocked me. The Seinfinners* have just raised hell in Dublin, wrecking many places, and have a great hatred for anything British. The feeling is so strong that the Cathey sisters outfitted me with some of their brother’s clothes. I didn’t put my uniform back on until the day my boat sailed. It is hard to understand thousands of Irish over in France fighting for Britain, while at home in Ireland thousands were fighting their own people. The thing that caused me to take my uni-form off and wear mufti was getting into a compartment of a train with two gentlemen. They took one look at me and promptly left for another part of the train. When I told Lord Wrench about this, he told me they were Seinfinners and would not even ride in the same compartment with a British officer, and suggested that I should wear mufti to keep from having trouble, as someone might really insult the uniform and I would take exception and the fight would be on. Lord Wrench did his best to explain the cause to me, but no part of it makes sense, so I can only feel sorry that such a beautiful country should have this kind of trouble. I had only twelve short days in this lovely spot. I could stay forever, but there is a damned war, which by the time I return will be in full swing. With a push at both Arras and Messines, July will be a hell of a month.
Arriving in London on the morning of July 7, 1917, I am due back in France on the morning of the eighth. Going down Piccadilly with a cabbie to pick up a new helmet I had ordered and a few things to take back to my squadron, I notice people hurrying down tube entrances and buildings. Then I begin to hear a wonk, like anti-aircraft guns. About this time, my driver drives up to the curb, bounces out without saying anything and runs into the first store entrance available. By now I realize something unusual is taking place. Climbing out of said cab and looking up, I see twenty-two German Gothas at about ten thousand with their engines throttled back, coming in over London in a gentle glide, getting in a position to drop their bombs. They have come in and around back of London at a high altitude and are now heading for Charing Cross Station, Buckingham Palace and then for home across the Channel. I am more amazed than even my cabbie for these big babies to be over London in broad daylight, where over at the front we can’t coax them across our lines. It just didn’t seem possible, but real it is, for here come the bombs.
It was all over in a very few minutes. The bombs did some harm; nothing hit the palace. One bomb hit the edge of Charing Cross Station, but not enough to affect the boat train. The main damage was to the civilians’ morale at home. The idea of twenty-two big Gothas, in broad daylight, was a shock to everyone. Naturally, everyone wondered where the hell was the RFC. There was not one fast, equipped ship in England to go up after the German boys. All RFC fighters were at the front in France. Every flyer on leave and all the old pilots in England would have given their eye-teeth to have a ship to go after the Gothas, but owing to lack of communication and surprise, all Gothas made it home safe with no interference. The next day, two of the RFC’s fast fighter squadrons were ordered back for home defense, so there were no more day raids. The Hun changed their tactics, and sent a Gotha on the hour by the hour most every night. Score one for the Hun with a surprise attack, which the British took in their stride. It was part of the war.
For me, the train will leave for Folkestone on time. The damn Hun didn’t even slow my train up, so to the Savoy for a short visit with Jimmy. In the lobby of the Savoy, I see three characters standing in the center, deep in conversation. They are in some kind of uniform. I inquire who and what they are. I am told they are three American officers, one of them a general and the other two lieutenant colonels. The general had a tight fitting jacket which was too short, buttoned up to the top, with the back covering just enough of his rear to leave a baggy seat of pants sticking out. He had shoes and leather puttees, with a round Stetson stiff rimmed hat completing the rest of the gentleman’s uniform. The other officers were a little better dressed, as the seat of their pants was not so baggy. These gentlemen wore caps with a short bill, said caps sticking up on top like a lump on a log. What branch of the American Army these gentlemen represented, I didn’t know, not being familiar enough with American insignias to tell their unit, but of one thing I was sure: If these were our first official representatives, they were the saddest looking officers I have seen since September of 1914.
Sure, clothes don’t make the man. You can fight without any clothes. There are gals who do that every night of their lives, but high ranking officers representing America should look like officers, not something out of a bad dream. Any similarity to Captain Chapman of our embassy? There isn’t. He is snappy not only in uniform, but in his appearance in general. I hope the Americans send Teddy Roosevelt over. He is the only man we have that the British ever talk about or seem to know, and for him they have a lot of respect.
I arrived back at my squadron before any of our fellows knew anything about the raid in London. They were just as much surprised as the civilians of London. What happens now, our RFC headquarters in London will take care of. It isn’t often the enemy catch these boys asleep.
I report to Cathey how nice his mother, father and sisters were to me and thank him for the use of his clothes. We have many good talks together, and for some reason he doesn’t seem quite up to par. I think he needs a leave, though he isn’t due for another month. He seems to have something on his mind. The coming battle, I’m afraid, is worrying him, for he has asked me so many times what he has been doing wrong in his last flights. This is hard for me to answer, as we are in different flights and never in the air at the same time, but I try, though don’t seem to help much. He finally asks me if I will see Major Dore and have him transferred to our B Flight. This I can’t do but promise to talk to Captain Collier tomorrow, our flight commander, which seems to make him feel better.
There is a rumor that Forty-three are to have Camels, the new Sopwith ship that is just out, as Seventy Squadron has already been equipped with them. They were flying the same Sopwith we have. It may be true. They are a single-seater with plenty of speed and maneuverability, which they say can compare with anything the Hun have. God, I would like just once to have an even break with those boys. B Flight has had two fights in the last three days, where we have accounted for three of Richthofen’s best. Captain Collier has two and I have one with a couple probables.
Tonight I was going to visit my old unit, when Major Dore asks me to stay in for dinner. An American general is coming to have dinner with us. God, I hope it isn’t the boy of the Savoy Hotel. Dinner is delayed until the American general arrives, which is nine o’clock. This fellow looks like a general. His clothes are snappy, and he is everything in appearance and action that a general should be. It is Billy Mitchell of the American Flying Corps, only there isn’t any flying corps. It is the Signal Corps: Washington is still trying to make up their mind whether a flying corps is necessary. Here is an American to be proud of. So, being I’m an American, my major asks me to his quarters with General Mitchell, where we talk until very late, so late in fact that the general stays the rest of the night with our squadron, where I am sure he had a wonderful time. Early after breakfast, I ask him about the three birds in the Savoy Hotel. He thought they were out of the Engineers Corps but wasn’t sure. They could be any branch. Certainly they bore no resemblance to America’s General Mitchell.*
Today, I have a terribly sad duty to perform. My pal Cathey and his observer were killed this morning in a dogfight over Messines, and I must write his family, in whose home I had such a wonderful time just a few short days before. What does a fellow say and how does he say it? I almost wish I hadn’t gone to Ireland. Words are so useless in times like this, and certainly writing is one of my very minor accomplishments. The boy was such a gentleman and his family are such wonderful people. A fellow should never become too friendly with his fellow officers; then it isn’t quite so tough. I think back and wonder what would have happened to me had I lost Price in our first year of war. Life is not funny, it’s tragic. Today my sense of humor is completely gone, so I shall write tomorrow. Today is not possible. I shall go down to where we have our two horses quartered and take a ride. It’s either fly or ride, so down to the horses. There is nothing else to do. Tomorrow may be different.
Footnotes
*In 1916 there was a fierce uprising in Ireland against continued British rule of the country, with rebel attacks on British outposts. This ultimately led, a decade later, to the partition of the Irish Republic from Northern Ireland, which today remains under British control. The Sinn Fein and its Irish Republican Army courted aid from, and cooperated with, the Germans during World War I, in hopes of overthrowing British domination.
*Colonel (and later General) William Mitchell was an aviation pioneer in the American army who correctly predicted that air power would be a decisive factor in future wars. His outspokenness on the subject earned him a court-martial and in 1927, after proving that aircraft could sink battleships, he was nevertheless ejected from the military service.