King of Air Fighters

Excerpt:

. . .  the enemy's ' Archie ' was fairly good at this height, while there was every prospect of Huns attacking us from above. It was not long before the ' goods ' arrived—and it was not wrapped up in brown paper either—it arrived well-cooked and on a plate!

' Archie ' bursts soon bounced our machines all over the sky, while two miles away and about 2,000 feet above, there was approaching a large flight of biplanes led by a Triplane. I watched them for a second or two, and wondered whether they were our machines or Huns'. As we were approaching one another rapidly, I dashed up to Cairns, waggled my wings to attract his attention, and then pointed at the approaching aircraft. He signalled back O.K., so I returned to my position at the tail of the Flight, on the right flank. We were flying in the customary ' V ' formation, with Skeddon and Jones on the immediate left and right of Cairns, then behind them were Begbie and Giles, and behind Giles was myself. This position of honour was given to me owing to my exceptionally good eyesight. It was my duty to warn Cairns of any approaching Huns sneaking up from the rear, or from any other angle. Eyesight plays an important role in air fighting.

When Cairns continued to fly towards and underneath the approaching machines, I naturally assumed they were comrades, but the Triplane puzzled me, and as I couldn't recognise the type of the others, I became more and more anxious. I remembered Mick's advice about fighting Tri-planes. Through my mind flashed the thoughts—Are they Huns? No! Yes! No! Yes! I couldn't make up my mind, but as we were fast approaching, the black Maltese crosses on their wings soon settled the question. For a moment I was fascinated by those little black crosses. It was months since I had seen any. How pretty they looked! And what pretty machines! They were all colours of the rainbow! Black and red, bright blue and dark blue, grey and yellow, etc. It never struck me that they were aeroplanes flown by men—possibly by the crack pilots of the German Air Force. Men whom I knew as Huns. Death-dealing gentlemen, possibly smothered with Iron Crosses and Orders pour le Merite. I looked on them for a moment as rather a pretty flock of birds. But I was soon rudely awakened from my reverie.

Cairns, as soon as he had seen the black crosses, turned sharply left to get away and improve his tactical position, as they were diving to the attack. Skeddon and Jones could easily turn tightly with him, and Begbie and Giles, by crossing over positions, could turn fairly quickly. But I, being so far behind, was left standing, so to speak. The enemy leader soon took advantage of the gap between me and my Flight, and brought his formation into it, ignoring the remainder of the Flight, and soon he was on my tail, firing sweet bullets of welcome to No. 74 Squadron. Wisely I kept my head, and immediately put my machine into a vertical bank, held the stick tight into my stomach, kept my throttle wide open and prayed hard! According to Mick's advice.

It did not take me long to realise that the gentleman who was doing his best to kill me was an old hand at the game. A sure sign of an old hand is that he reserves his ammunition and only fires in short bursts; if he is aiming straight he knows that a burst of twenty is as good as a burst of 200 and much more economical. Having only about 1,000 bullets in all, it is foolish for a pilot to use them up when he knows that his aim is not good, on the off-chance that an odd bullet may hit his opponent. Once he has used up his ammunition, he then becomes defenceless himself. Mick had warned us that we had to be careful of a Hun who fired in short bursts; on the other hand, if the Hun is firing long bursts at you, he said, you can be sure that he is frightened and probably a beginner. 'Fight him like hell, he should be easy meat.' This Hun on my tail was so close that I could easily discern his features. His machine was painted black with a white band round his fuselage just behind his cockpit, and he was flying it superbly. It seemed to slither round after me. Round and round we waltzed, in what was no doubt, to my opponents, a waltz of death, but this morbid aspect of the situation fortunately never occurred to me. Of course, I could see the big idea. The leader was to shoot me down while his eight companions prevented anyone coming to my assistance, or myself from getting back to my lines. Some of them kept above and on the north side (the side that Cairns and his Flight were climbing), and the remainder kept on the west side of me at various heights, so that I would have to run their gauntlet of fire if I chose to quit. As we waltzed around, I kept on repeating to myself, ' Keep cool, Vanlra, he can't hit you. His bullets are going behind.' I could see the track of his bullets as he was using tracers, and this fact encouraged me to keep cool. I had no desire to have a burning bullet roasting my intestines, especially before breakfast! So keep cool I did.

Occasionally I shouted at the top of my voice at him, telling him to do his damnedest. I also used most indecent language. Of course, he could not hear me, but it gave me satisfaction and temporarily acted as a stimulant to my sorely tested courage. While he flew close to my tail but did not fire, I did not mind very much, but whenever I heard the Kak-Kak-Kak of his Spandaus and saw the spurting sheets of flame close behind me, I felt a little anxious of a stray bullet hitting me. Every now and then my attacker would zoom up, and a couple of his comrades would make a dive and zoom attack, hoping that I would get out of my vertical bank—but I wasn't having any, as I knew of this old trick from past experience. Once they got me out of the vertical bank, the gent on my tail (he may have been Richthofen, Udet, or any of the other Hun star-turns as far as I know) would no doubt have soon put paid to my account. After a while I feared, unless I got out of the mess that I was in quickly, the fickle jade Fate might step in and stop my engine, or worse still put a stray tracer bullet through my petrol tank, and send me down to Hunland in a blaze of glory —a glorious death for an airman, but not one that I wanted on my first patrol. I wanted to kill a couple of Huns myself first. As we waltzed around one another sparring for an opening, I kept my eye on the big green mass of trees about five miles away—the Forest de Nieppe. I knew that those trees were in our territory anyway. It was a consoling thought. But I could not make up my mind when to make my dash, the Triplane kept on nagging me with his bullets—so did his companions, and the longer I stayed as their guests, the more attention they paid me. Occasionally two or three would have a crack simultaneously. I would sometimes fire for moral effect only.

The seconds passed like years, and the minutes like eternity. The tension grew as the minutes rolled by, until eventually in desperation I decided to make a bid for home as soon as the Triplane did his next zoom. I watched my opponent carefully, as he was then only about 25 yards behind and he seemed to be grinning as I looked at him over my left shoulder; as soon as I saw him commence to zoom up to change his position I obeyed Mick's instructions and ' put on full bottom rudder ' and my machine did a turn of a spin. When I came out of it, I found I was facing east instead of west, so another spot of bottom rudder to turn her round westward was quickly applied, and there in front, a few miles away, was my landmark—the Forest de Nieppe. Between me and my objective were half a dozen Huns, hungry and angry Huns, just waiting for me to come their way. So their way I went, accepting their challenge like a mad bull charging a toreador. I knew this was my only chance. It was now or never. So, barging through the middle of them—neither looking to left nor right, as I had often done before through a rugger scrum when cornered, I went for home like Hell, kicking my rudder from side to side to make the shooting more difficult for the enemy—and praying hard. It was a grand thrill, that run for the lines—I knew by the incessant angry barking of the enemy's guns that there were hundreds, if not thousands, of death-dealing bullets chasing my little machine. Occasionally during my mad careering, I looked over my shoulder to see whether I was gaining on my enemies; to my joy I could see I was—but the bullets, I realised, were still faster, and it was not until I was well clear of the enemy—half a mile away, that I knew I was safe. It was a joy to see my little S.E.5 gaining ground on the Triplane and the Pfalz, and to listen to the fading rattle of the staccato barking of the enemy's guns as my machine gradually outstripped her opponents. I crossed our lines just to the north of the forest, right down close to the ground and fortunately my enemies feared to follow me owing to the approaching of Cairns from a higher altitude. Cairns then chased them miles over their lines.

The feeling of safety produced an amazing reaction of fear, the intensity of which was terrific. Suddenly I experienced a physical and moral depression which produced cowardice. I suddenly felt that I was totally un-suited for air fighting and that I would never be persuaded to fly over the lines again. For quite five minutes I shivered and shook while my aeroplane careered about the sky almost uncontrolled. Had I been attacked at that moment by the rawest of Huns he would have had no difficulty in shooting me down, as I had temporarily completely lost control of myself and my moral resistance was at its lowest ebb. This depressed state of mind disappeared after a tremendous mental battle, and as suddenly as it had appeared, it left me. The air fighter had triumphed over the coward.

The patrol ended without any victory or loss, and when my machine was examined for bullet-holes, there were none. Mannock was proud of his pupil, and after breakfast, he made an entertaining little speech on the value of listening to good advice and keeping cool in a tight corner. The C.O. whispered a little word of praise which made me happy.

Mick and his Flight were delighted to hear that we had not destroyed a Hun, and they went on their first patrol at 8.25 a.m., full of the offensive spirit. Before taking off, Mannock gave his final instructions, which ended with the remark: ' Remember, to fight is not enough. You must kill.' An hour and a half later the Squadron awaited their return with bated breath, and we breathed a sigh of relief when we counted the full number as they appeared in the distance, approaching from the direction of Cassel. We soon realised that they had been up to some dirty work, for they commenced firing all colours of Very lights as they flew over the aerodrome. Every one was very excited when they got out of their machines. We rushed up to Mannock, and his face was wreathed in smiles as he greeted us with his slogan: ' Always above. Seldom on the same level. Never underneath.' It appears that the air was still full of Huns when they got over the lines. Mick decided to get into a position between the enemy formations and their aerodrome before attacking. Eventually he led his Flight on to a formation of Albatross Scouts over Merville at 13,000 feet. Mick and Dolan each succeeded in crashing an enemy. The first Hun to go down was persuaded to do so by bullets from Mick's guns, and so to him goes the honour of having destroyed the first enemy credited to the Squadron. Later in the day his Flight attacked another formation of Albatross Scouts, coloured black and yellow, one of which was shot down and fell near the Bois de Phalempin. Although all the other members of his Flight say that Mannock was the victor, he himself has put in a report which states that ' The whole Flight should share in the credit of this enemy aircraft.' He has done this to encourage his Flight. What wonderful unselfishness!

The C.O. and Young also destroyed an Albatross Scout apiece during the afternoon. 'C ' Flight tried hard to destroy a two-seater over Ploegstreet Wood on our second patrol, but we had no luck, although most of us tried our damnedest to sock him one. I managed, however, to force one to land, but he did not crash. I came home on the carpet and Jerry gave me a lively time with his flaming onions and ' Archie.'

All Flights did three shows each, and we felt pretty tired at the end of it. Clements has had to go to bed with a splitting headache due to the sudden change of atmospheric pressure during dives. Dolan tells me that Mick swoops on the enemy formation like a hawk on its prey. On my last patrol, my crankshaft broke when we were about ten miles over the Hun lines . . .