26
My regular observer, Pritchard, is on leave, so I have Flamer Jones. This boy is a regular top observer, also an expert with the Lewis and always full of fight. As far as he can see a Hun, he wants to go after the guy Hell, if I let him have his way, we would be in a scrap all of the time. He’s the damnedest blood-thirsty observer in our squadron. It’s good to have this boy; you can always be certain he won’t be caught dreaming. On our recent trip over the lines, he knocked off a Halberstadt scout. Stout fellow.
Our Thirteenth Wing is acquiring new squadrons, with new and better ships. Even closer to the lines than we are is a squadron of Sopwith Triplanes with a real group of pilots. These ships are going to give the Hun hell. Wish I could be on one for at least a week. Fifty-six has the improved S.E.5, while Sixty Squadron with Bishop has the new Sopwith Camel. It is still rumored we are also to have Camels. If it only comes off, I will be happy.
Our wing is supposed to have a new squadron with the latest Airco D.H.4. This baby has a three-hundred-seventy-five Eagle Rolls Royce engine with a greater ceiling than any ship on our front, and is faster than any of our enemy planes, especially above ten thousand.
It is certain I’m going to be transferred to some other squadron as a flight commander. My promotion to captain came through today and I have been acting flight commander of C Flight for the past two weeks. I would like the Sopwith Triplane or the D.H.4, although I hate like hell to leave the Forty-third with fellows like our Major Dore, Captain Balfour and my friend Captain Collier of B Flight.
Every day in the RFC, all active combat squadrons receive a communique giving a resume of the previous day’s action. We have one pilot in our wing who writes a wicked report. He must be good, but not quite as good as his last report, which I have just read. I will try and recall the report as near as possible.
It seems early in the morning, before anyone else was up, he has his plane wheeled out, goes over to a German air field and routs the Hun out of their beds, strafes the hangars and waits for Mr. Hun to come up. The first two off the ground he knocks off, then gets two more trying to get off. The next two, he chases into a tree and leaves them there like Santa Claus, then destroys two more, so home to breakfast.
God Almighty! Excuse me while I vomit. I have been in this man’s flying corps for almost two years. We have waited over the Hun’s air field for him to come up and he always does, but it is not that easy. And besides, this particular air field doesn’t have a tree anywhere near — of that I am sure. I have been there and have photographs to prove it. It could be the boy was having a nightmare, but nevertheless it came through in a communique. This and other reports by the same pilot are the only ones in almost two years that have ever upset me, because all the RFC boys bend over backwards in reporting their victories. They never make this kind of a claim, where there is no chance to confirm. Oh yes, he was in his pajamas and flying coat no less! Quite a stunt. I am still sick at my stomach. If my major will give me permission, I am going to look this air field over and if the damned Hun have grown a tree anywhere within five miles of their field since yesterday, I am going to consider the Hun very unsportsmanlike. Anyway, this guy isn’t an Englishman. An Englishman would never write this kind of nonsense, and when I think of Albert Ball and his conservative reports, the kid must be amused or disgusted if he knows about this. Likewise our enemy the good Baron von Richthofen. One thing about the British I shall always like — they never glorify the pilots or observers. They take the attitude that’everyone is trying, and they have their own way of showing that you are appreciated.
Mr. Hun is no longer supreme in the air. Our RFC has new ships, and we are giving the Kaiser’s boys a going-over they won’t forget. For the first time since my joining the RFC, we are flying over the lines when the odds are not all on the enemy’s side. Old man Richthofen even has a hard time getting to our poor artillery ships. Sure as hell, when he dives on one of them, some of our scouts are there for protection. So the foxy old baron is having trouble shooting sitting ducks. His party is about over. One of our boys is sure to catch him away and alone. Then we will see how good he really is. God, if Ball was alive with this new triplane, which is a little beauty. I have a leave before transferring to my new squadron and am told that when I return I will at last go on D.H.4s, the finest and latest plane on our front.
Tonight at the Savoy, members of the Forty-third who are in London are giving a dinner to our old commanding officer, Major Sholto-Douglas, who was hurt in the accident with my ship and invalided home. He is one of the finest gentlemen and commanding officers in the RFC, and it is good to know his recovery is assured. It is a fact that I have never met a commanding officer in this man’s army that hasn’t been tops. Someone certainly knows how to pick them, which was equally true with my old Canadian motor unit. To find a finer kind of commanding officers than we had — Major Red Harris, Captain Parmalee, Captain McKinnon and Lieutenant El-lard — just couldn’t be done. They are all tops for my money.
I haven’t enjoyed leave this time as usual, although I have done the same things and visited my old friends. Stayed out to Captain Price’s home for a weekend. Am restless and anxious to get back to my new squadron, where we will see what I can do with my new ship. For once I will have an even break with the enemy.
Back to Forty-third Squadron where I am to fly with C Flight until Twenty-fifth Squadron arrives on our air field, which they are to share with Forty-third. This is good news, for I won’t be far away from my old crowd — what there is left of them, as today in a low strafing flight on the roads over Hun lines and back of Messines we lost one of our best and finest flyers, Captain Harold Balfour, commander of A Flight. We were busy with a low flying enemy, and I didn’t see what happened. God, I hope he was able to land back away from the infantry. It’s hell if you don’t. If Boelcke was alive, we would hear soon. With this crowd of Richthofen’s, I don’t know. Balfour is the son of Lord Balfour, former prime minister of England and also our former commanding officer just as Sholto-Douglas is son of Lord Douglas. Both are awfully stout fellows, which I have found is characteristic of this type of Englishman. They ask no favors, but take the war in their stride regardless of who they may be in civilian life.*
I have been given credit for two Huns in the last two days, both confirmed, nothing to compare with a certain pilot in our wing. He is still raising hell on paper. No one seems to see him do it, but if his arm holds out he will pass Ball’s record, which seems to be the general idea. My new squadron arrived today under command of Major Guest, and I am moving across the field to my new quarters. Twenty-fifth will have an officers’ mess, but our sleeping quarters will be billeted with the town folks of Auchel. Our hangars are practically in the town. I am flight commander of B Flight, and my new ship is a beauty. It has the Eagle Rolls Royce three-hundred-seventy-five-horse engine and is a much longer and heavier plane than my Sopwith. Also, much more speed and climb. It has only one serious drawback: the pilot and observer are too far apart to communicate when in action.
In command of A Flight is an old friend of mine, Captain James Fitz-Morris. He is a top pilot with plenty of guts and a fine record and has been decorated with the Military Gross. Through this excellent pilot I have a complete run-down on the D.H.4. As I have never flown one, I take to the air for a test and to get the feel of this baby, also to try a landing or two. While the Sopwith could be landed anywhere, this ship will be different. It is heavier and has a stationary motor, so will land faster, and with our small field there will be no room to spare.
I found the D.H. easy to handle. The Rolls gave all the power needed, was terrific in a climb and to my surprise landed nicely, much better than I anticipated. Everything considered, it was a vast improvement over any ship that I had ever flown. Its performance gives a fellow a world of confidence, and I was very anxious to try it out on any of Mr. Richthofen’s boys. Things would be real good if I had Pritchard or Jones, my old observers, but I’ll have to train one, as the crop Twenty-fifth have are all new, so here we go again. Good ship with a green observer, but with the Vickers machine gun operating under my control I felt we wouldn’t do too bad.
It is real swell being on the same air field with my old squadron. I can go over to dinner anytime and have my good friends Major Dore and Captain Collier to consult with. It is a real fine arrangement.
To remedy the problem of the D.H.’s pilot and observer being so far apart, we have rigged up a phone connection through a rubber hose. If both pilot and observer just sit still and talk, everything works, but in action the observer always pulls his connection loose, which gives the pilot no way of talking to him in an emergency. I have found one other very bad thing about my new ship. In the observer’s cockpit is a rudder and a place to insert a stick control, which is fastened on the side with clips. The theory is that if the pilot is done in, the observer, from his position, can insert the stick control and with the rudder fly the ship home or at least land. This is a dream that won’t work in reality, for the observers we have are all green and have one tough time just observing. They are all good boys but haven’t had experience. The thing I object to is the open rudder, where anything could fall in front of the rudder bar and prevent the pilot from controlling the ship from his front position.
My feeling about the open rudder is proven right, and that defeet almost costs me my life as well as my observer. Forty-third has asked me over to dinner. After dinner Captain Collier, who is the only one of the old timers left except our major, tells me they are going on a nine o’clock show of road strafing well back of the German lines. He asks me on my way back from Hun Land, where my flight is going on a photographic mission, if I will drop down and give them some cover, if there are any Huns over them. This I agree to do, so next morning I give my other five pilots orders that on our way back, when I fire a red light, we will all dive down and stay just above my old flight and escort them home.
We make our trip over at fifteen thousand feet with no fight or excitement. When we are back in the place I have agreed to join my old flight, I see Huns everywhere. Firing the red light, I drop down on a Hun’s tail. I am giving him the works with my front gun when a Hun dives on us from the rear. My observer empties his Lewis drum and registers a beautiful miss. So I flip the D.H. over to take a crack at Mr. Hun, when my rudder sticks. All I can do is turn one way, while the air is alive with Huns. . . . I continue to fight the big ship, sideslipping toward our line at every available opportunity. I try everything I can to attract my observer’s attention, with no success. Throttling back as far as possible, I release my body belt, turn loose of all controls, climb up in my seat and reach back, hitting my observer a hell of a crack on the head. I yell “rudder” and point. The surprised expression which passes over his face is enough. He reaches down and pulls from in front of the rudder bar the empty drum he had removed from the Lewis to change for a full drum. We are now in a turn at about three hundred feet and well back of the German lines. With my rudder free, I make no attempt to climb but start for home, more angry than I have ever been since joining the RFC. We cross the trenches at about two hundred feet, going like hell until I reach our squadron.
The thing that almost did us both in was so unnecessary, so useless and only took up space in the ship. From this experience, three-ply was fastened over every rudder bar in all of our ships so absolutely nothing could interfere with the control of the rudder in the observer’s seat. In all new ships afterward I understand this control was left out of the observer’s department.
What happened to my Hun, I didn’t know. I had been too busy trying to get out of my trouble and I suppose the Huns thought I was gone for keeps. All I was doing was going around and around, sideslipping and losing altitude, so they evidently gave me up as a victim. Nothing but my guardian angel and my luck saved our bacon. Captain Collier, who saw the whole affair, confirmed my one Hun, which doesn’t mean a damn. I am so glad we were able to get home all in one piece. Good old Collier, he sees everything.
I have for the past two days had the D.H. up to twenty-two thousand five hundred with a full war load, which includes machine guns, observer, petrol and ammunition. This is higher than the S.E.5, Sopwith or any of our ships go. The D.H. has more altitude and is faster above fifteen thousand than any of our ships, or our enemy’s. We have been up for the purpose of catching the one ship the Germans send over on reconnaissance for a fast circle at about twenty thousand feet. The first day we missed him entirely. The second day we caught him on his way coming out of our territory. I was very anxious to get at least one Hun on our side of the lines. We could locate him as our anti-aircraft was throwing up some stuff in his general direction. When his observer evidently spotted us, the old boy began to lose altitude toward a bunch of clouds in the direction of his own lines. Doing our best, we were only able to take a poke at him with a burst from the front gun just as he hit the cloud. Hopping over and past the clouds, hoping to get a real chance when he came out, we lost him completely. All that effort wasted. Such a wonderful chance and I have to miss. Maybe he will choke to death in the clouds. Anyway, we don’t get him, so home to our adjutant who gives us each a shot of oxygen, which together with a couple of scotch and sodas clears up the old head. We are as good as new. Tomorrow we try again.
My friend Captain Morris caught a couple of Mr. Richthofen’s circus and nailed them both quick. Mr. Richthofen will have a great deal of respect for our D.H.4 before very long, as our boys are just beginning to learn how good a ship we have. If our boys in Forty-third could only have Camels, this Thirteenth Wing would be something to write home about.
I have just landed from an early show when I am met by General Shephard from our wing and given orders to report to RFC General Headquarters, London, for transportation to America. This is a big surprise and something I have not asked for or expected, for I am quite happy where I am and have no desire to go to the American service, although I would like to see my family. I ask the general if it is imperative if I don’t want to go. He says certainly not, but I will have to report to London, where I can then decide. Going over to see Major Dore to bid him goodbye and get his advice, I find it was General Mitchell who had the adjutant’s office apply for my transfer to the Americans through military channels. I ask him what he thinks about my going. He says General Mitchell told him that America had no pilots with experience, nor did they have any planes that were worth a damn, that they had to start from scratch, also that Mitchell told him that I would be back with one of the first squadrons and we would fly some of the RFC’s best planes. “After all, Libby, this will be a big help to us and to America, because one of the things they need the most is experience and this you have, both as observer and pilot. You have had a lot of war. The change might be good for you. I would like to see you back in command of a squadron of fresh pilots. You know our boys are tired, especially the old timers. Some new fresh pilots would be a big help.”
Thanking my friend for his kind advice and saying goodbye to all my other friends in Forty-third, I prepare to depart for Boulogne, when I am stopped by my good friend Captain Morris and several of the sergeants and mechanics, who present me with three propeller canes and a new flying coat with a beaver collar. Where they got the coat in so short a time, I don’t know. It must have been one Captain Morris had in reserve and donated. With the cheers and good wishes, I head for Boulogne in a blue and unhappy mood, when I should have been gay and glad just to be out of the war for at least a while. Still, when you live with fellows through some of the shows we had been through, you become attached to the men who go with you, to the end of time.
For the first time in my days at the front, I am in no hurry to reach London. The train to Boulogne is plenty fast, though, as is the boat to Folkestone, likewise the train from Folkestone to London. If I missed any connections, it would be okay by me. I have plenty of time. There is no rush to make a decision before I learn all of the facts. To have lived with and fought with four combat squadrons on our Western Front for the past two years has made an impression which will go with me always, not only the officers, but the grand crews of every squadron. Without these boys, there would be no flying. It is these fellows, the sergeants, corporals, enlisted men, every member of the ground crew that work to see that every plane leaves the ground in perfect condition and ready for battle. They carry a great responsibility. One little slip or mistake by your ground crew would be curtains for a ship, the pilot and observer. While they don’t fly, these boys feel and suffer when their ship and crew “go west.” I have seen them standing out on the edge of our landing field, scanning the skies, hoping against hope that by some chance they will see their ship returning long after the time has passed when their pilot should be home. I shall never forget the day, September 17, 1916, in Eleven Squadron, when all the ground crew of C Flight were standing in front of their empty hangars, knowing that their entire flight had “gone west.” The expression on the faces of these chaps was grief without tears, and was one of the saddest sights during my many months with Eleven. One sergeant said, “Sir, it don’t seem possible. We had such fine officers with perfect ships, and they only left four hours ago. To lose them all in one flight is hell.” All the ground crew of Eleven’s C Flight could do was to wait for six new planes and twelve new officers. To the men of our ground crews of the RFC, who gave so much and receive so little recognition, were it in my power I would create a medal for them similar to the Distinguished Service Order (DSO) for officers. To these fellows, every combat pilot owes his life — period.
For the first time, the boat trip across the channel was a pip. The old boat rocked and heaved, and many people heaved with it. Whether this was a bad omen I don’t know, but if this short seventeen miles should prove a sample of what’s in store for me if I decide to return to America, it won’t be fun. While I was not ill, I was damned pleased when this short trip was over. The little old Channel could be real rough, so I had been told. Now I know.
My first night in my apartment on Jermyn Street I survey my loot. I have canes presented me by my ground crew of Twenty-fifth Squadron, plus a beautiful new flying coat. My old flying coat, which has been with me in every flight since joining Eleven Squadron, is so saturated with castor oil from my rotary engine it can stand alone. My old coat I shall always keep; my new one is something for the future. I have the American flag streamers, along with Lee White’s “Old Bill,” which has been constantly with me as my mascot. Both Old Bill and the streamers show much oil and exposure to the elements, but both are priceless to me. I have several uniforms, almost new, which I suppose will have to go if I expect an officer’s commission in the American Army. While I am doing this, my phone rings and I have Norman H. Read on the wire. He has been trying to reach me every day for a week. He, too, has been reassigned to America and is waiting to see what my decision is before making up his mind. Read has been up to our old RFC headquarters, where he found out I was coming back from the front, so he waited for me. We agree to meet the next day at RFC headquarters, then make our decision for better or worse.
Footnote
*Libby’s prayers were ultimately answered. Balfour, whose father, Arthur, Lord Balfour, drew up the declaration guaranteeing Jews a homeland in Palestine, survived his crash but was made a prisoner by the Germans. Harold Balfour entered politics after the war and won a seat in Parliament. He was later given a lordship himself, and died in 1988.