Fighting the Flying Circus

by Captain Eddie V. Rickenbacker

  At this period we began to notice that the German air tactics seemed to pin all hopes for success upon formation flying in our area. Larger and still larger numbers of enemy airplanes clung together when they ventured into hostile skies. From flights of three to five machines in one formation, their offensive patrols now included whole squadrons of twenty or more machines in one group.

  Certain advantages undoubtedly accrue to such formations. Mere numbers serve to scare away the more cautious air fighters, and even the most daring find themselves confronted with such a bewildering and formidable number of antagonists that to attack one must necessarily include defending oneself against several. The Germans were limited in the territory they covered by thus combining their airplane strength, but while directing their attack upon one special sector, such as the Chateau-Thierry sector, they could operate very successfully with these large formations, and were able to sweep away all opposition from their paths.

  Squadron 94 therefore began to practice flying in similar large formations. Day after day we called together all our available machines and took to the sky, met at a designated altitude and forming a compact group we circled about, executed the various maneuvers that must attend an offensive or defensive movement, and strove always to keep all our airplanes in such a position that no single one could ever be cut out and subjected to an attack by an enemy formation. This was a valuable lesson to all of us, and later on we accumulated quite a respectable number of victories by reason of our familiarity with this method of squadron formation flying. Especially valuable is this formation flying to the inexperienced pilot. One illustration will serve to demonstrate my meaning.

  On the evening of June 18, 1918, a few days after I had returned to the command of my First Flight in Squadron 94, we were notified by the British bombing squadrons that they were undertaking a raid upon the railroad yards of Thionville that evening at seven-thirty o'clock. Thionville, or Diderhofen as it is called by the Germans, lies west of Metz and is the favorite gateway to the front from the German interior in the direction of Coblenz and Cologne. Huge supplies were kept there and several squadrons of enemy machines were always on the alert to repel these bombing raids upon their city.

  Calling the boys together, I asked for volunteers to go with me on this protective mission for the British. Six pilots stepped forward and we immediately prepared our plans.

  Lieutenant Hamilton Coolidge had just joined our Group and had not yet made his first trip over the lines. He asked permission to accompany us, and thinking this would be a good opportunity to keep an eye upon him, I consented to his going. We were to meet the bombing machines over Thionville at seven-thirty sharp, and at an altitude of sixteen thousand feet. We arranged to get above our field and circle about at two thousand feet until all were ready, then form our positions and fly over in close formation.

  As we were getting off the field I noticed that Squadron 95 was likewise sending up a number of machines. Later I learned that they too had heard of this bombing expedition of the British and were going over to see it safely home. Unfortunately they had picked upon the sam altitude and the same place for their rendezvous that I had selected.

  In ten minutes more I realized that there would be a hopeless tangle of the two formations if I persisted in collecting my followers at the prearranged rendezvous. All the machines were circling about the same position and collisions would be inevitable if the newer pilots were permitted to maneuver about in all this confusion. I accordingly flew about in a wide circle, signaling to my pilots to draw away and follow me. Time was pressing and we must get to Pont-a-Mousson by seven-thirty, even if we were not in our best formation. Two or three of the pilots understood my signals and followed after me. The others got into the other formation and went along with it. Some of the inexperienced pilots, including Ham Coolidge, lost both formations and came on alone.

  Arriving over the Moselle at Pont-a-Mousson exactly on the minute, I saw in the direction of Metz a heavy Archie fire. This meant that Allied machines were there and were attracting German fire. I flew in to see what it was all about and found a single Salmson machine, belonging to the American Number 91 Squadron falling in a sharp vrille. At four thousand feet he picked himself up and regaining control of his machine he leveled off for home. I accompanied him back over the lines and saw him safely off for his aerodrome and then turned my attention again to the British bombing machines. Near Saint-Mihiel I found part of my formation following Lieutenant Loomis. Ham Coolidge had attached himself to this party.

  We cruised about together until dusk began to gather, and still there was no sign of the British machines. Suddenly Loomis left me and started for home with Coolidge in his wake. I decided one or both of them had experienced engine trouble and watched them disappear with no misgivings. It was indeed time we got in as the ground would be considerably darker at this hour than one would expect to find it, with the western sun still shining in one's eyes at fifteen thousand feet elevation. I dropped down over Pont-a-Mousson and getting fairly into the twilight, turned my machine toward home.

  Arriving in the vicinity of my landing field, I was suddenly surprised to see a Nieuport flash past me going in exactly the opposite direction. I didn't know who it could be, but it was now so dark that longer flying would be almost suicidal. Feeling instinctively that it might be one of the new pilots, I banked over and started in pursuit. A mile or so this side of the lines I overtook him.

  Swerving in closely ahead of the stranger, I wigwagged my wings and circled back. To my great relief, I saw that he understood me and was following. We soon made our way back to the Toul aerodrome and landed without accident. Getting out of my machine I went over to ascertain the identity of my companion. It was Hamilton Coolidge.

  After a question or two Ham admitted that he had become confused in the darkness, had lost sight of Lieutenant Loomis and for some reason or other became convinced that he was flying in the wrong direction. He had reversed directions and was flying straight into the enemy's lines when I had so fortunately passed nearby and had intercepted him.

  Formation flying then has its uses in other ways than in combat fighting. We had made a confused mess of our formation on this occasion and but for a miracle it would have ended in the loss of a new pilot who later was to become one of the strongest men in 94 Squadron.

  One of the comic little incidents that are always rising unexpectedly out of the terrors of war came from my meeting that day with the Salmson machine from Squadron 91. I was just going to bed that night when they called me to the telephone. A member of 91 Squadron wanted to know who was in the Nieuport machine that had escorted him across the lines that evening from the vicinity of Metz. I told him I thought I was the man he sought.

  'Well,” he said, “I am Lieutenant Hammond of the 91st, and I want to thank you for your help.”

  I told him there had been very little to thank me for, since there were no enemy airplanes about, but I thanked him for calling me up. Then I asked him what had caused him to fall into a mile.

  “Those blooming Archibalds!” he informed me. “They've got the finest little battery over that vicinity that I've ever seen. I was coming peacefully home with all my photographs when hell suddenly busted loose below me. Their first shell exploded just under my tail and I went up a hundred feet tail first. Then I began to fall out of control. Evidently my elevator wires had been severed, for I couldn't get her out of the spin for four or five thousand feet. Just as I finally straightened out along came another shell and did the same thing to me all over again.

  “I fell again, this time feeling certain that I was a goner. You came along while I was going down the second time. I managed to get her straightened out, as you know, when you and I crossed safely over the lines without any more hits.

  “But say, Rickenbacker,” he went on, “do you know what I'm going to do? I've got a sharpshooter's badge that I won while I was in the Light Artillery. I've wrapped it up in a small package and tied a long st
reamer on to it. I've written a note and put it in, telling those Heinies that they are more entitled to that badge than I am—and here it is. Come along and go with me tomorrow morning and we'll drop it down on their battery!”

  I laughed and told him I would be ready for him tomorrow morning over my field at eight o'clock. We would go over and brave the Archie sharpshooters once more, just for the satisfaction of carrying out a foolish joke.

  But the next morning I was awakened at three o'clock by an orderly who told me Major Atkinson wished to talk to me over the telephone. Even as I stood by the telephone I could hear a tremendous barrage of artillery fire from the German lines. Something big was on.

  CHAPTER XVII

  A Perplexing Bank of Fog

  The heavy firing that was now so apparent to me had awakened Major Atkinson in his bed at headquarters, which was in a building adjoining us. He had immediately called us up to order us to take a patrol over the lines at the first break of day and ascertain what this unusual demonstration could mean. I looked at my watch. It was then just five minutes past three. In another hour it would be light enough to leave the field.

  Running over to Lieutenant Meissner's billet, I roused him out and then went on to waken the three or four pilots in his flight. In ten minutes all five of us were in the kitchen stirring up the cooks to provide coffee and toast. I had already telephoned the hangars and ordered all our machines out on the field in full readiness.

  At a quarter to four we were in our cockpits and were leaving the field. Two other pilots had joined us. It was just beginning to grow light enough to make out the tails of the machines ahead of us.

  I directed Lieutenant Meissner to have three of his pilots fly at an altitude of five thousand feet, and for him to take the other two pilots in his formation and fly below them at fifteen hundred feet above ground. I, myself, was to keep as close above the contour of the ground as possible and see what the Germans were doing in their first- and second-line trenches.

  With all details of our mission fully understood, we set off and made directly for the north, where the heaviest shooting seemed to be going on. As we neared the lines I could see the constant flashing of the German guns in the darkness. The greatest activity appeared to be just halfway between Pont-a-Mousson and Saint-Mihiel. Here in the vicinity of Seicheprey the country lies comparatively flat between the mountains which border the Moselle on the one hand and the Meuse on the other. I knew this locality well and could fly at only a hundred feet from the ground without fear of striking against some mountainside in the darkness.

  The Huns were doing most of the firing. This was plainly evident from the continuous flashes. The noise of the exploding shells was deadened by the roaring of my airplane engine. As I neared the center of all this excitement I sheered off to the north and flew down low enough over the German trenches to permit the tornado of German shells to pass well over my head. Along this course I followed the entire length of the trenches, back and forth, back and forth, until I was convinced that there were no massed bodies of enemy troops waiting for the barrage to cease before they poured forth over the top.

  The more I studied the situation the more puzzled I became. I saw the German shells bursting close behind our lines. From the nature of the bursts I knew they were high-explosive shells. This was the usual preliminary to a sudden rush over the top, yet there were no German troops there waiting for the moment of attack.

  The whole German front was covered with a dense fog. The intermittent gun flashes showed but dimly through this mist. Off to the east and the west, where the rivers Meuse and Moselle might be expected to emit a fog of this sort, the landscape was clear. It was all very puzzling to me.

  On each of my excursions back and forth over the German trenches I piqued down from my low level and fired long bursts into their lines with my two machine guns. I could see my tracer bullets cutting through the mist and burying themselves within the enemy's trenches. It was still too dark to distinguish the ground at any distance from the trenches, but I was positive that if any considerable number of men were there they were well under cover.

  At last I ran out of ammunition. I decided to fly home, make a report of what I had seen and replenish with fuel and cartridges.

  I telephoned my report to Major Atkinson while the mechanics were looking after my 'bus, and in ten minutes I was back again for the region of Seicheprey. By this time the first streaks of dawn were lighting up the ground. While still a great distance away I again noticed the strange clinging bank of fog which began at the German line and covered a space about three miles east and west and half a mile deep. On the American side of the lines the ground was entirely free from this mist.

  As I again approached the German trenches I saw more activity there. I dived upon them, letting go long bursts from my guns. Instantly they disappeared from view. It was a very enjoyable game I had as long as any heads remained in view, but after one or two dashes along this front I could find no more targets. The Huns had retired to their underground dugouts.

  Many a German fled in terror before my approach that morning. I found myself chuckling with delight over the consternation I singlehanded was spreading throughout that German camp. Coming down immediately over the trenches, I would observe a group of soldiers standing outside a dugout, all leveling their rifles at me. With a sudden swerve I would bring them into my sights, and long before they could cram themselves within the opening I would have a hundred bullets into their group and would be beyond their reach. I could imagine the terror and helplessness my presence inspired among the slow moving troops below. I was having the time of my life.

  One particular battery of JJS lay a mile back of the lines and seemed to be having a particularly jolly party. Their flashes almost doubled the other batteries in rapidity. I determined to fly over and pay them a visit, since none of the infantrymen seemed to care to stick up their heads in the trenches. Accordingly I turned a bit to the rear and came in upon the battery from behind and at about one hundred feet above the ground.

  As I neared them I saw six or eight three-inch guns standing side by side in a little clearing, the line of gunners all rushing swiftly to and fro, picking up and passing forward the fifteen-pound shells. The guns were firing at the rate of almost one shot each second. A continuous flash could be seen from this little battery, so rapidly did the gunners work. In a twinkling after my first shot the whole battery became silent.

  Pointing my nose directly at the end of the line, I pressed my triggers and raked the whole line before straightening out my airplane. Then with a quick bank I came about and repeated the performance. Before I had started back every man had fled for shelter and not a gun was firing. I circled about again and again, chasing the scattered groups of gunners to their respective dugouts and firing short bursts at their heels as they fled. It was the most amusing little party I had ever attended. I couldn't help wondering what kind of reception I would get if a sudden panne (forced landing) dropped me within their clutches.

  One more dash at the next battery and my ammunition was again exhausted. I returned to the aerodrome, where I found that Lieutenant Meissner and his pilots had returned without anything new to report. At seven-thirty we all reassembled for breakfast.

  We were still discussing the extraordinary episode of the morning and had none of us arrived at any reasonable explanation for the enemy artillery activity when a visitor was announced for breakfast. He came in and introduced himself as Frank Taylor, representing the United Press Association. We welcomed him heartily and began plying him with questions as to the latest news.

  He told us he was out of touch with events lately himself for he had been up all night with the American Gas Organization, which had just been experimenting with their first gas attack on the German trenches north of Seicheprey! Then we all shouted! The earlier puzzle became as clear as daylight to us.

  The attack had not been announced generally and Major Atkinson himself was in ignorance as to its hour f
or demonstration. The Germans, awakened by the fumes at three o'clock this morning, had very naturally imagined that it would precede a sudden attack by our troops. Consequently they ordered out all their available artillery to shell the advanced positions of the Americans, thinking they would destroy masses of troops in waiting.

  The fact was that none of our troops was there, but were soundly sleeping in their beds until the terrible uproar of the German guns kept them awake. The whole gas attack was but an experiment by our forces, and so far as I have learned was the first time gas was used in war by our American troops.

  This cleared up the whole mystery for the Toul aerodrome and we made a particularly merry breakfast over it. Personally I would have refused a great deal in exchange for the morning's experience, for I had felt the gratification of knowing I was putting to flight some hundreds of the enemy soldiers while enjoying the choicest hour of hunting I had ever experienced.

  Mr. Taylor invited me to accompany him to Baccarat, a small metropolis of that region of France, lying between Luneville and Dijon. As we passed Luneville and proceeded eastward I again noticed the unusual tranquillity of this sector of the war zone. The British Independent Air Force had its hangars of large Handley-Page bombing machines along this road. These huge airplanes carried loads of high explosive weighing two thousand pounds. Nightly these squadrons flew over to the Rhine cities and laid their eggs in and about these railroad centers and factory localities. To my amazement I discovered that this British aerodrome was but twelve miles behind the lines. The German Rumplers came overhead every morning and photographed the field, but no attempts were made to destroy the Handley-Page machines by either shelling from the lines or by airplane raids. The Germans are a funny people!