B00D2VJZ4G EBOK (50 page)

There is an art in this game. On a cloudy day one can hop in and out of the clouds, greatly to the annoyance of some Archie commander who, just when he has got range and direction and is about to let fly, finds that his bird has disappeared into a cloud. He fills that cloud with H. E., but his quarry emerges from another near by with a gesture of derision which the gunners below may imagine, though cannot see.

On a sunny day, Archie is up early, for he knows that aircraft will be silhouetted against a blue sky. Then the experienced pilot hops in and out of the sun, there being no clouds, while the Archie commander rubs his smarting eyes and uses strong words.

To-day favoured the latter game, which we played with zest for some little time. Then, having carefully spotted the A. A. position, we got it carefully on our bomb sights, and sent our greetings in the form of the two bombs we had brought.

I was about to swing round and head for home and tea, when I espied a spot on the horizon towards the south-east. It might be an enemy raider coming to pounce on our helpless balloons, or it might be one of our own. Anyway, we would see, and, pointing out my intention to my companion, we speeded off in pursuit. We were in luck! From far off the shape of the aircraft showed its alien origin, and we began to prepare for chasing him home again.

First I pressed the trigger of my forward gun, which loyally answered with a rapid ‘Ta-ta-ta-ta,’ a noise which, my companion told me afterwards, nearly made him jump overboard with fright. I had forgotten him and he had forgotten my front gun! Then quickly I beckoned him, quietened down the engine and shouted a series of instructions, and, as the engine roared out again, I heard a few rounds fired from his rear gun and knew that all was well.

The next minute we had come to grips with the enemy, a wicked looking single-seater, much lighter and faster than us, and with every advantage except that his one gun fired only forwards, while, in addition to my similar gun, my companion had one on a swivel mounting which revolved easily and allowed him to fire in almost every direction.

Our plan of campaign, therefore, was that I should manoeuvre the machine so as to keep the enemy in a position where he would be a good target for the rear gunner, who could give all his attention to firing.

We circled round each other looking for an opening. Then I suddenly reversed my direction, bringing the other alongside us, and within easy range where he would be simply raked from stem to stern, while his fixed forward gun pointed harmlessly away from us. I waited to hear my companion’s gun as he took advantage of the position, but not a sound came, and the next fraction of a second I was swinging round for dear life with the ‘Zip-zip!’ of bullets round my ears. The second’s delay had given the other the chance he wanted, for he was now under our tail out of reach of both of our guns and it was some seconds more before I could shake him off.

However, I got him once more in a good position, waited for the sound of gun-fire, but again silence, and again I dived desperately out of a stream of bullets.

‘Fire, you fool!’ I yelled, though not a word could reach him, and I dare not turn round, while all the time the darting little wasp, who seemed aware of my plight, came buzzing behind and resisted all my efforts to avoid him.

There was only one thing left to do. I must try to fight him off with my forward gun, and I turned to do so, when, wonder of wonders, I saw him fall into a steep dive and make for home, having seen a triangle of our machines appearing out of the blue.

And now for an explanation from this idiot behind! I spun round angrily, but words were impossible. He was sitting there strapped as usual to his seat, but with his face a mass of blood, while his gun hung uselessly from its mounting!

After a rapid spin to earth and a landing at the first favourable spot, he told me what had occurred.

We had not been hit by Archie’s shrapnel. I had seen him quite fit after that. The disaster had befallen him before we engaged in the air duel.

It was that silence after the first gun-test which should have told its tale. He had decided to test the gun-mounting also, but, being accustomed to the poorly kept machines at home, had expected to find it equally difficult to move. He had not thought that here on active service, where the space between life and death is measured in hundredth parts of a second, each mounting is kept thoroughly oiled, and will spin round at a touch. Consequently he had seized the mounting, pulled it round quickly, and the heavy gun, resenting such rough treatment, had revolved on its easy bearings, and had smitten him violently over the head, knocking him out completely.

Well might I have waited for the sound of his gun.
He had not even been aware of the fight!

Rev. J. H. Haswell enlisted as a private in the Royal Welch Fusiliers in 1916, became corporal, and in 1917 commissioned in Royal Flying Corps as second lieutenant. Promoted lieutenant in May 1918, and proceeded to France. Served there until 1919 (May) with the Royal Air Force. Became missionary in West Africa (Primitive Methodist)
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August 8th, 1918. Who of those who were on the Somme will forget that day when we started to push the enemy back along the long, straight road which leads from Amiens to Peronne?

I had just joined my squadron as spare pilot. It happened that an observer had been wounded the previous day, and my flight commander asked if I would act as an observer for a time. Of course I said ‘Yes.’ What else could I say?

Thus it was that on August 8th I had my first experience of a bombing expedition over the lines. The objective was an ammunition dump somewhere along that same long, straight road. Fourteen machines flew in V-shaped formation, so close that an observer on one side could make faces at his friend flying on the other.

For an hour we circled on our own side of the lines, gaining height. Referring to my map, I found I could look down on the Forest of Crecy, where centuries ago another army of ours had fought, but with what different weapons!

Now we were heading east, sweeping along at ninety miles an hour, three miles up. At such an altitude, details below cannot easily be picked out, and because of my lack of experience we were over the target and dropping bombs before I realized we had crossed the lines. At a signal from my pilot, I pulled the two wires and released the bombs from their rack below the fuselage. Then I leaned over the side to watch them fall.

Have you ever looked down from a high building and felt as though you must throw yourself down? As I watched those two bombs falling, second after second, getting smaller and smaller until they became invisible, I felt an almost irresistible impulse to slip over the low wall of three-ply wood that was the side of the cockpit, and follow them. I had to turn away.

So far, we had had the sky to ourselves, but as we turned for home I became aware of a number of black specks on our left, rapidly growing into a flight of enemy scouts. They did not dive on us, but hung behind, peppering away at the end machines of the V formation.

Everyone of us opened up with his two Lewis guns, and I had my first sight of a machine sent down in flames. Who hit him it was impossible to say, since he was the foremost in the attack, and the target of at least six guns. He suddenly dived. Petrol vapour streamed out like smoke behind him, then burst into flames. I watched as he rushed downwards, to fall to pieces 1,000 feet below.

His companions disappeared, and we were left to go home in peace. In the distance I noticed a number of machines carrying out most wonderful evolutions. There must have been twenty, twisting and turning like worms writhing in a fisherman’s bait tin.

At the lines we dived and broke formation. My pilot flew low, perhaps 100 feet up, and we looked on the ground that had been fought over that morning. The earth was tom up. Here a tree stump, there a heap of ruins, a wrecked gun, a dead horse, a deserted tank half buried in the mud. It is impossible to describe how desolate the scene appeared. Soon we were back at the aerodrome, taking off our flying suits.

‘Poor old Baker’s done,’ said my pilot. ‘Didn’t you’ see him go down?’ I had not noticed any of our men drop out, but it was true. Only thirteen buses landed. I was no longer a spare pilot.

‘Those fellows were having a good time stunting, just before we got to the line, weren’t they?’ I asked.

‘Stunting?’ said Johnson grimly. ‘That was a dog fight. Our bombers and Jerry’s scouts. That’s what would happen to us if we didn’t keep formation.’

‘Why didn’t we go and give them a hand?’

‘Nothing to do with us. Our business is to drop bombs and get home as quickly as possible.’

One soon gets to know people in an Air Force squadron. There was Mills, who always stayed in bed until the last possible moment, and at the cry ‘Raid on!’ would hastily don his flying kit over his pyjamas and climb into the machine.

There was Macdonald, who, unknown to the C.O., was so short-sighted as to be unable to judge his height, and had to give the controls to his observer when about to land. Biddard, who rouged his cheeks and reddened his lips; and Machin, whose father was a boot manufacturer, and kept his son supplied with an extraordinary collection of footwear.

I was soon to see changes. One by one as the days went by, familiar faces disappeared, and new ones came.

Mills went off one day alone, on a photographic expedition, returned with a dud engine, and was well cursed by the C.O. for not getting the job done. He went off again, and never came back. Whether he was killed or spent the rest of the war roaming a prison camp in pyjamas, I never knew. It was not the C.O.’s fault. He was being hurried by the wing commander, who in turn, no doubt, was responsible for the photos to someone higher up. One machine and its occupant was a small price to pay for them.

Macdonald was lucky. He went home after six months’ flying with ‘nerves.’ Biddard came down one day in a raid on Namur, and was taken prisoner, unhurt, but no doubt sadly missing his rouge and lipstick, which he had left behind. That evening in the mess, raid orders were posted up just like the football teams we used to put up at school only a few months before. Machines, with pilot and observer, were set out each in its position in the formation. Being a new pilot, I was given a comparatively safe position near the front.

At dawn next morning we were awakened by the cry ‘Raid on!’ and hurried out for a quick breakfast of boiled eggs. The engines were being run up by mechanics, and we were soon in. A heavy mist hung over the ground. One by one the engines were opened out, the machine moved forward, gained speed, and at last rose up.

Soon we were in formation, circling to gain height. Below us stretched a sea of cotton wool, the earth being obscured by ground fog. Ahead, we steered into the rising sun, straight for the lines. I had no difficulty in keeping in formation; we had practised that when in the training squadron.

Nothing happened as we crossed the lines and neared our objective. Then suddenly, a dirty yellow cloud unrolled itself about 20 yards on my right, and a hoarse ‘Woof’ followed. It was ‘Archie,’ an anti-aircraft battery.

Another and another followed, and we were soon flying through slowly dispersing clouds of smoke. It seemed impossible to avoid being hit, and before I realized it, I had soared 200 feet above the rest. I was no better off. As I turned to avoid one burst, I would see another appear in front of me.

The range had been changed, and while the formation sailed peacefully below I was catching the lot. However, we left it behind, and I resumed my place. On several subsequent occasions, I have seen young pilots do the same thing, to fall easy prey to Fokkers lurking above waiting for ‘Archie ‘to disrupt the formation.

Over the target we dropped our cargo, then as we turned, we met the enemy scouts as before. Why they did not dive on us from the front and split us up I do not know, but their policy was always to hang on behind. Our observers opened fire. Streams of tracer bullets shot out from each gun, and our machines began to sway from side to side, and up and down, yet still keeping in the V shape, which it would have been fatal to lose.

For fifteen minutes it went on. Above the roar of the engine could be heard the sharp rattle of machine guns. Little rags of fabric would spring up in the wings as bullets tore them, and all the time the pilot must keep his hand on the throttle and his eyes on the machine ahead, swinging and dipping until collision, seemed imminent, yet always keeping a little above and to one side, so that the guns in front might protect his blind spot under the tail.

We reached the lines, and our attackers vanished. We could fly steadily now, and I had time to look behind. My observer was leaning on the side, white-faced, and gazing longingly at the ground below. I realized he had been wounded, and the awful thought flashed through my head that he might fall across the controls, setting the machine into a dive from which I might be unable to pull out.

Hastily I motioned to him to sit down, and dived steeply for home.

Every minute I expected to feel his weight on the elevator wires, and I was never more thankful than when my wheels touched the aerodrome. My engine stopped as I landed, and I stood up and waved. The ambulance, always ready, dashed across, and my observer was carefully lifted out. I never saw him again: wounded men were always hurried away, lest the sight of them should affect the nerves of the rest.

I looked at my bus. The planes were torn, and the ailerons sagged loosely.

It was half an hour before the next man came in, then one by one the stragglers arrived. Three messages came later, reporting forced landings up and down the country, but four of our machines were never heard of again. That was my first air raid as a pilot.

Of course it wasn’t always like that. We made two and sometimes three raids a day. Sometimes we had trouble with aircraft or ‘Archie’ or both; often we had none. Twice we took over new aerodromes, following our slowly advancing infantry. New faces appeared and old friends dropped out, and in three months I found myself senior pilot of my flight.