by David Ward
“Got him!” I shouted. There was no time to think about the hit, for a Halberstadt roared right above my top wing. I followed it for a moment but it was moving too quickly for me to catch up. I searched all around, seeking my next quarry.
Everywhere I looked, planes dove and looped, guns chattered in wild acrobatics. The Germans had named their Flying Circus well. While their planes were faster and better armed, our Pups were gloriously agile. I dropped in behind a Halberstadt and fired a burst. The bullets sped into empty space below its undercarriage. The pilot kept adjusting his altitude and shifting from side to side. I followed closely, firing a burst whenever his tail came into my gun sights.
The Albatros suddenly banked and put on a burst of speed. Although I could not keep up with it, my Pup turned so smoothly that it reappeared in my sights. I fired yet another burst and then prepared to shoot again.
At first it looked as if nothing had happened. I could see the pilot trying to adjust something in the cockpit, likely his throttle, when his engine spouted a plume of smoke. I gave a whoop when its nose turned towards the ground. The pilot had painted a skull and crossbones near the cockpit and I made a mental note so I could identify him later in my logbook. It looked as if he were going to crash on our side and our soldiers would find him first. He worked his flaps well, and if he was worth anything as a pilot he would escape without serious injury.
When I banked around again, the remaining two Albatroses and the Halberstadts were racing through No Man’s Land towards Germany. No doubt they were low on fuel and could not risk another minute of fighting. As we re-formed I tried to get a glimpse of Ashcroft. I scanned below for any sign of him, but all I could see was the pockmarked earth and tiny bands of men racing like ants across the surface. We descended low along the ground a few hundred yards behind our lines, searching for him. Nothing. Billy took us home.
“Ashcroft was alive,” I said once we were on the ground. “I saw his head moving, looking about.” We walked towards the hangar. I couldn’t help but think of poor Williams, who had crashed into a tree after surviving a fight.
The same thought must have occurred to Billy, for he kept pressing the other pilots for information. “Did anyone see where he went down?” Billy asked.
“No Man’s Land, for sure,” someone said. “He was headed beyond our lines, trying to keep his nose up.”
Billy and I glanced at each other. There could be several reasons for that. His control stick might have been damaged by a bullet, but at least his ailerons were still working — they would keep his nose up. If he was injured himself then there was no telling what he could or could not do. I held on to the image in my mind of his head moving and looking about — alive when I last saw him.
It was so difficult to write a flight report with Ashcroft still missing. I kept turning around, expecting him to walk in and say something funny. One of the men clapped my shoulder and said I would win a medal for knocking out two planes in a single mission. Ashcroft’s absence kept me from celebration. I wrote as clearly as I could, noting the markings on the Albatros and Halberstadt as I had seen them.
When we got into our hut I sat on my bed and said a prayer aloud for Ashcroft. Billy removed his hat and whispered, “I hope to God he’s all right.”
* * *
Just before midnight the door to our hut opened and a figure crossed the room to stand next to the stove.
“Billy?” I asked, half asleep.
“Hello, Stitch!” called a cheerful voice.
“Ashcroft!” I leapt out of bed and tackled him. Billy joined me and the three of us threw our arms around one another and bounced around in circles as if we were schoolboys. Ashcroft had a cut on his cheek, already stitched, and a black eye. Otherwise, he looked none the worse for wear.
“God save the Aussies!” he said. “Two of them pulled me from my plane in No Man’s Land. We scurried back to our lines with the Hun firing all around us.”
It wasn’t long before more of us were gathered around and Ashcroft told his story three more times in detail. It was a close shave to say the least.
Bullets had ripped through his fuel line and he lost power. He thought he was a dead man when smoke appeared near the propeller, but the damage was only superficial. The flames went out rather quickly and beyond all luck he managed to keep his nose up. He crash-landed in No Man’s Land, bounced twice and lost his landing gear after the second strike. He ended up in an enormous crater with his Pup upside down. Dazed for some time, likely several minutes, he managed to remove his safety belt and fall out of the plane. He was too stunned to move and simply lay in the crater for a long while.
“I could hear a scurrying sound and I thought a troop of trench rats was on its way to chew on my shoes,” he said with a grin. “But it was our lads — Australians, actually — who crept into No Man’s Land to get me out.” He wiped a hand across his forehead and then continued. “There was a great deal of shooting. I guess the Hun sent scouts in as well. I kept my head down. Next thing I knew, someone hauled me to my feet. Then we ran, zigzagging through a maze of craters for cover, bullets striking the ground at our feet and whining over our heads. We scrambled back across our lines. I hopped into a truck and they brought me back here. They were brave lads, those Aussies. I owe them my life.”
We stood quietly for a moment until Billy shouted, “A toast! A toast to Ashcroft and his return!”
As we raised our glasses Ashcroft added, “And to the Aussies, who know the meaning of courage.”
Chapter 10
February 1917
We flew almost daily during that long stretch of dark and freezing days. I had never been so tired or exhilarated in my life. Coffee was now a staple for me, morning, noon and night. For Father’s sake I left alcohol alone. Billy and Ashcroft, however, were awash every other day. The pressure and strain on our emotions was severe, especially after near-death experiences, and it was hard to blame anyone for taking to drink. But there were consequences. Twice Billy stumbled out to the airstrip at dawn after a hard night’s drinking. If I hadn’t stopped him he would have started drinking again before climbing into his plane.
“You’re still drunk!” I snapped at him one day as his propeller started up.
He looked at me indignantly and said, “I like shooting at …” he struggled over the word Albatros before waving his hand dismissively at the air and adding, “… them when I’m drunk.” He tapped my chest as I stood on the step of his Pup. “In fact, I’m a better shot drunk than you are sober.” I jumped down and ran for my plane. If I didn’t hurry, the fool would try to take on Jasta 11 on his own.
The ground crew had my plane readied and we had only started the prop when Billy roared past us on his way into the sky. It was the worst takeoff I’d seen in days.
One of the crew raised his eyebrows at me. “I know, I know,” I shouted. “He’s an idiot. I’ll catch him up.” The man said nothing in return and saluted me as I pulled away from the blocks. There were two other pilots on the sortie, Rogers and Bunyan, both Canadian. They knew Billy well enough to realize what had happened. Both hurried to join me.
Billy was flying at a ridiculous speed. It took me 10 minutes to catch up to him. The other two were well behind us. I scanned the skies. All clear. The artillery boomed below and I shook my head in wonder that Billy had the sense to keep high, out of the range of the anti-aircraft fire. As he neared our lines and No Man’s Land, I pulled even with him. His protective mask was off. He made several unsuccessful attempts to button it into place.
Bunyan caught up to us on the opposite side of Billy and drew even closer for a better look. Rogers flew a hundred feet above, keeping watch for the enemy. When Billy threw his hands up helplessly at his flapping mask, Bunyan yelled and shook his fist at Billy. Then he pointed to the earth below. Billy shook his head, No. This time Bunyan let go of his controls and made a gesture of throttling Billy. Again he pointed down. Finally Billy pulled out and headed back.
Buny
an landed first and was already marching across the field when Billy came down. He botched the landing but still managed to hold it together without losing his undercarriage. Bunyan stood below Billy’s cockpit and told him to come down. Billy got out slowly. When his feet touched the ground, Bunyan grabbed him by the coat and hauled him off at a jog towards the huts. I made to follow but Rogers caught hold of my jacket.
“Easy, Stitch. It will only be what’s good for him. No real harm.”
The two men disappeared behind Hut 4. The ground crew could hardly concentrate on the planes, they were so intrigued by what was going on. Rogers smoked a cigarette and we stood without speaking for several minutes.
Bunyan and Billy came back shortly. Their helmets were off, as were their gloves, and both looked dishevelled. Billy’s nose was bleeding. Bunyan looked as if he had taken a hit to the eye. Rogers stamped out his cigarette.
“Looks as though they came out about even,” he said. “Billy’s made of tough stuff. I wouldn’t last a round with Bunyan.”
As they neared us, Bunyan threw his arm around Billy’s shoulder and they shook hands.
The incident was not reported. In my logbook I wrote: Pilot ill, forced to return 3 miles out. The others wrote the same.
Billy sustained mild frostbite to his chin. The doctor told him that if he had been out any longer, he would have lost a good 5 inches of his face. Billy stopped drinking for several days after that. When he did drink again, he covered the top of his glass just as Ashcroft tried to pour a fourth drink.
“No, no, Ash,” Billy said. “I don’t want to make Bunyan look like a little girl again.” Aside to me, he added, “If I hadn’t got my hand up in time he’d have broken my nose.” He twirled his moustache and said quietly, “Hurrah.”
* * *
A week later three of us went up for dawn patrol. Word of a Hun raid for that morning had been reported the night before and the commander wanted regular patrols even with the foul weather. We were flying so often now that it didn’t seem to matter if the Germans were planning a raid or not; we were either countering or attacking, day after day.
Ashcroft took the lead while Bunyan and I flew off his wing in V-formation. The ceiling was low and we found clear skies at 8000 feet. We also found seven German fighters passing through the same space. Bursting through the clouds, we surprised the Germans as much as their presence surprised us. The moment we saw them, Ashcroft flicked his wings. It was a reflex, a split-second hesitation, as if considering retreat. And then it was gone and he held steady, committing us to the fight.
My blood began to pound and my right hand shook. I glanced at Bunyan. He nodded but gave no signal of his intentions or plans as to how we might fight this battle. If we had one more plane with us we could have broken off in pairs, one to attack and one to defend. But as we’d left the aerodrome, Rogers’s engine had malfunctioned and Ashcroft took us up without him. I was still wondering how we would handle seven planes when Ashcroft signalled to us. Bunyan and I increased throttle and tightened formation.
Twenty seconds later the Hun was upon us. The lead plane had a distinctive colour — bright red. Two planes on the outside of their formation broke away from the others, but I lost sight of them as we engaged the first wave of fighters. Ashcroft banked sharply to port and I followed. Bunyan disappeared below me in an attempt to escape an onslaught from the flank. I managed to stay close to Ashcroft and give him cover, holding off an Albatros on his left flank with a burst of fire. A flash of red paint passed between the sights of my guns and then disappeared.
As we came around in the turn we were beset by attackers from below and above. I understood more than ever what these German flyers meant by calling themselves the Flying Circus. They were everywhere in the sky and flying new machines, Albatros D.IIIs, which could climb quickly and high.
Fear was lost to concentration. Sweat poured down the sides of my face. An Albatros suddenly came up in front of me in order to escape Ashcroft’s onslaught. The Hun banked to port, a classic manoeuvre, in order to expose me to his gunner. Instinctively I banked starboard. As the distance grew between us, I came back over and reduced speed, falling right in behind and slightly below him. The gunner couldn’t reach me without blowing off his own tail.
Before I could fire, there was a sudden loss of power and I wrestled with the ailerons to keep the Pup from going down nose first. The prop sputtered several times and my stomach dropped. Smoke erupted from the fuselage.
Ashcroft and Bunyan were nowhere to be seen as the fighting continued in circles above. Far more alarming, however, was the looming presence of the Albatros that stayed with me. He remained on my tail as I descended. I hunched my shoulders and waited for bullets to rip into my back. When the pilot didn’t fire, I turned to look at him. He eyed the skies around him and then suddenly increased throttle and made to pass me.
As he pulled even he did not pass, but matched my speed, our planes wingtip to wingtip. We stared at one another for a moment, the clouds of smoke from my engine obscuring the view every few seconds. I couldn’t see his face very well, for he was as covered up against the elements as I was. But there was a determination in his gestures, in his presence, that caught my attention. It was then that I noticed the red paint on his fuselage.
My propeller stopped again at that moment and did not restart. I looked one last time at the pilot beside me. He nodded, saluted and then veered off sharply as my plane plummeted towards the earth. Without the engine to provide power, I felt the buffeting wind all the more severely. Running properly, the Pup was a flitting sparrow, but without power, she kept wanting to flip and spiral. At least my engine was no longer smoking. The clouds hid the ground below and I could only hope I was not headed for trees or a hilltop. It was difficult to know if I was gliding towards friendly territory or not, as my attention had been taken with the fighting. The smoke, at least, had lessened greatly.
When I hit the low ceiling of clouds, the Pup jumped and bounced in the turbulence. Again the nose wanted to go down. “Come on, Pup,” I shouted. “Get your nose up! Up, up, up!” At about 1000 feet the clouds cleared enough for me to see something of the ground. It was all trees. At the same moment, out of sheer desperation, I tried the starter again. To my shock, the engine turned. I pulled back on the stick and gained some altitude. Several minutes later, I levelled off. Not knowing if my engine would conk out again, I made straight for base, thankful to be alive and with a good story to tell Billy.
Chapter 11
February–March 1917
When I returned to base, I learned that Bunyan was dead. According to the ground crew, he was found shot through the head — dead before his plane crashed.
After my plane went down, Jasta 11 had pursued Ashcroft and Bunyan without mercy. Ashcroft was struck once in the chest and once in the foot. He lost consciousness and plummeted to the earth. The Hun let him go, assuming he was dead. Ashcroft revived, however, and pulled out from the dive. He miraculously landed his plane and was taken to the field hospital at the base. When I saw him the next morning, the doctor had just removed the bullet from his chest.
Billy came in and gave me a bear hug. “I knew it!” he said. “I just knew it. Stitch has a guardian angel who won’t let us down so easily.” He sobered when he saw me looking at Ashcroft. “He’s done,” Billy said quietly. “I don’t mean he’s dying. No, not him. But he’s through with this war.” He lifted the blanket at the bottom of the bed. Ashcroft’s right foot was missing. “It was smashed beyond repair,” Billy murmured.
It was a terrible shock to see our friend so damaged. “Does he know?” I whispered.
Billy shook his head. “Hasn’t woken up since they brought him in. That’s not a good sign, but the doctor said he could easily have struck his head on the landing. He definitely has a concussion. So that’s likely it. Right now he’s sleeping.”
In our hut that night Billy looked up from his drink quite suddenly and said, “How many Hun do you think I could
kill at one go?”
I stared blankly for a moment.
“How many can I kill?” he added. “Before they get me.”
“I don’t know.”
“I want to get five of them for killing Bunyan and five more for taking away Ashcroft,” he said. “Do you think that is reasonable?”
When I didn’t answer he started to say something else, but caught himself when his voice cracked. It unnerved me to see him like this. With a half sob he added, “I hate them, Stitch! I hate all the Hun. I want them dead. Damn them for this filthy war. They killed my brother and now they’re killing my friends.”
I walked over to our tiny table. I took Ashcroft’s cup and my own and poured a little rum. Then I walked over to Billy. He looked up at me, eyes wide. “But you don’t drink, Stitch.”
“No, I don’t. I do this for Ashcroft and for you. This once only.” I raised our injured friend’s cup. “And we will drink a toast to Bunyan — but only one toast because we know how he felt about pilots and drinking.”
Billy absently rubbed his nose. “Yes, we know how he felt about that.”
“To Ashcroft. And to Bunyan. Sunny skies ahead.”
“To Ashcroft and Bunyan.”
The rum burned my throat all the way down, and I spluttered and coughed up half of it onto the floor. Billy laughed and thumped my back. “Good old Stitch. You’d better stay with tea. We said we’d stick together, didn’t we?” he said, giving my arm a punch. “We’ll take the Hun down together.”
His words suddenly evoked a memory. “I saw him!” I exclaimed.
He looked at me quizzically.
“The Red Baron,” I said. “I saw him. He was the one that sent me crashing.”
“Really?”
“Yes! He conked out my engine and then flew beside me while I struggled to keep the Pup in the air. He could have finished me easily. Instead, he waited until my propeller stopped and then pulled away as I went down. It was uncanny.”