Walter Avery of 95 Squadron accompanied us. Avery was the pilot who had forced down the celebrated Hun Ace, Menckoff, early in August on the Chateau-Thierry front. Menckoff then had a string of thirty-seven victories to his credit and, strange as it may seem, this was Avery's first air combat. Avery disabled Menckoff's engine with one of his bullets and the German pilot decided it wiser to drop down our side of the lines and surrender rather than take the chance of being killed trying to glide home with a crippled machine. Great was his disgust, when he landed, to discover that his conqueror was a green American pilot.
As the formation continued its patrol some distance this side of our lines Coolidge and Crocker left the rest and placed themselves a good distance the other side of Montfaucon. We found no enemy machines in our vicinity, but were not sure that they would not appear as soon as we approached the Doulcon balloon.
As my watch neared the hour I crept a little nearer the point of attack. Looking over the situation ahead of me some four or five miles, I suddenly saw two Spads streaking it ahead with all their speed in the direction of the balloon. I looked at my watch. It was but 3:40. Coolidge and Crocker were each afraid that the other would steal a march on him and were both so anxious to get the balloon that they disobeyed orders and had gone in several minutes ahead of the stated time. Looking around I saw that my formation of Spads was just coming up in implicit obedience to orders. But now, instead of protecting our two picked men, we would arrive there only after the ceremony was over!
As we all opened up in pursuit of the two pilots I saw advancing to cut them off from the balloon a formation of six Fokkers. Then one lone Spad seemed to appear from somewhere in the clouds and flew in to engage the Fokkers. During the brief melee which followed many things happened at the same time. The lone Spad fell to earth and crashed back in Germany. The balloon burst into flames indicating that either Coolidge or Crocker had succeeded in reaching the mark despite the Fokkers. And at the same moment the clouds behind me seemed to be emitting swarms of Fok-ker fighting airplanes which hurled themselves upon our Spads.
They were behind me, for I had distanced the others somewhat and had altered my course to go to the rescue of the unknown Spad which had just fallen. But as I had started too late to be of any assistance I again diverted my course to attack two German biplane machines which I could distinguish coming in to the fight from the direction of Dun-sur-Meuse. I wondered whether it was Coolidge or Crocker or some other who had fallen. Whoever it was, he had made a gallant fight, although if they had obeyed orders and waited for the agreed time of attack he would not have had such odds against him.
One of the biplane machines saw me coming and turned back without notifying his companion. I surprised the latter and after a very brief bit of maneuvering shot him down completely out of control. Knowing it would be extremely difficult to gain a confirmation of this victory so far behind the German lines I waited about for a few moments until I saw him crash into the ground. I was satisfied I had destroyed him, whether anybody else ever knew it or not. In fact this victory of mine never was confirmed.
Many twisting combats were in progress as I gained again the part of the heavens above Doulcon. Several machines had fallen but whether friend or foe I could not distinguish from this distance. The Spads were scattered all over the sky and our formation was hopelessly broken up. I determined to call them together and take them back to our lines. Our balloon was in flames, our mission ended and we were taking unwise risks fighting ten miles within the German lines where a mishap would drop any luckless pilots prisoners in their territory.
The enemy pilots were only too willing to let us go. As I collected my pilots about me and headed for home the Boches lost no time in widening the distance between us. I dropped back and saw that the last of the Spads had crossed the lines and were well on their way. Then, noticing something going on east of me near. the city of Verdun, I made a detour to investigate.
It was a combat between two machines that was going on just south of our front. Hastening ahead with all possible speed I arrived there at a most fortunate moment, to find that Ted Curtis of 95 had just been forced to abandon an attack on a German L.V.G. by reason of a gun jam. The Hun pilot was endeavoring to make his escape as I reached him from one side and a Spad that I later recognized as belonging to Ham Coolidge came in on the other.
Diving down with terrific speed I began firing at one hundred yards. With my first burst I noticed the gas tank of the enemy machine catch on fire. Ham began firing as he approached on the other side but already the two unfortunate occupants of the observing machine realized their coming doom. The L.V.G. descended rapidly, the wind fanning the flames into a fiery furnace. The two unfortunate aviators must have been burned to a crisp long before the ground was reached. When the crash did come there was a great explosion and all that remained of the airplane was a black cloud of smoke and dust that ascended a few yards and was scattered to the four winds.
Adjusting matters that night I found that Ham Coolidge was the hero of the day with the balloon and one Fokker to his credit besides one-half of the vanquished L.V.G. Thorn Taylor, Will Palmer, and Crafty Sparks had each brought down a Fokker, making a total of five besides the two-seater that I had crashed back of Dun. Our lead was now safely beyond that of our next rival—27 Squadron. And from that day it increased and has never been lessened.
Avery, as well as Eugene Scroggie, one of my pilots from Des Moines, Iowa, was missing. I had seen one Spad fall but could not tell which of these pilots was in it. But in spite of this uncertainty I felt so confident that both pilots were not dead but merely prisoners that I put off writing to their parents for weeks. At the cessation of hostilities both of these boys were turned back to us by Germany. Scroggie had been shot through the foot but was able to come back to his squadron. Poor Avery had received a disfiguring wound in the face which had been neglected by the German surgeons. But he was immediately put under the best of our medical care after he was released from Germany.
CHAPTER XXXI
“Seeing the War9
It was not until the morning of October 5 that I learned that the Hanover machine which Reed Chambers and I had shot down on October 2, was still lying under guard of our doughboys but a mile or so north of Montfaucon. It seemed to be in good condition and the officers there had telephoned to us to send out and bring it in to our hangars. I might say in passing that it is extremely rare to find an enemy machine within our lines that has not been cut to pieces for souvenirs by the thousand and one passers-by before it has been on the ground a single hour. It is marvelous how quickly a crowd gathers at the site of a crashed machine. Motor drivers leave their trucks on the road and dash across the fields to examine the wreck and to see if they cannot find a suitable souvenir straight from Germany to carry away with them. From every direction soldiers and French peasants come running to the scene. By the time the pilot is safely landed and makes his way to the site there is little of the enemy machine remaining.
Up to this time the American Air Force had never captured one of these two-seater Hanover machines. We were all of us anxious to fly different types of German airplanes, to compare them with our own, to examine what new devices they employed, to test their engines and to see toward what improvements their designers were tending. So as soon as we heard that our victim of the second of October had landed without crashing and was being cared for near Montfaucon we lost no time in getting into an automobile and making our way to the front lines.
It was raining the morning we set off and no flying was likely to be possible until after midday at best. We drove west and north until we struck the eastern edge of the famous Argonne Forest at Varennes, and there we began to get graphic pictures of the results of the gigantic artillery duel that had been going on for the last fortnight between the American forces and the Germans. The roads from Varennes to Montfaucon were almost entirely remade. Along both sides of the road for as far as the eye could reach the shell holes covered
the landscape as thickly as in almost any part of No Man's Land. The soil was the familiar yellow clay. Since the rainfall the country through which we were passing resembled a desolate fever-stricken swamp.
Trees were sheared of their branches and even the trunks of large trees themselves were cut jaggedly in two by the enemy's shells. Occasionally the ugly base of a dud shell could be seen protruding six or eight inches from the tree's trunk. The nose had buried itself squarely in the tree, but for some reason the shell had failed to explode.
And along the whole way strings of motor trucks were passing and repassing, some laden with ammunition, food, medical, and other supplies hurrying to the front lines, dodging as they splashed through the slimy mud, the slower going processions of heavy guns. Long lines of “empties” were coming against this stream, many of them not empty it is true, but filled with the wounded who were being carried back to a field hospital for amputations or other surgical operations.
Occasionally we would find ourselves blocked as the whole procession came to a halt. Somewhere up the line a big twelve-inch gun had slithered around across the road and had completely blocked all traffic. On several occasions we waited half an hour before the road was cleared and the procession again proceeded.
I do not know whether other observers have been impressed with the appearance of our American doughboys in the same way I have; but to me there seemed to be an extraordinary cheerfulness about the demeanor of these boys, whether they were coming in or going out of action. They were always smiling. Long lines of khaki-clad Americans marching two abreast, often preceded by several officers, likewise marching on foot through the mud—all were whistling, singing, smiling as they hiked along at route step. They made amusing comments as their roving eyes struck anything comic or unusual in the scenes around them. They invariably were a happy and cheerful lot. Column after column we passed going in. Column after column we met coming out.
Finally we left the main road and struck a slightly less congested but far more disreputable road, which led us up to the crest of the hill on which stood Montfaucon. Guns of the Americans were sounding behind us now, and ahead we heard the enemy guns steadfastly replying. The town itself was nevertheless occupied by some of our troops, and a YMCA hut had been opened within the ruins of a little shop on Main Street at about the center of the winding settlement. Here we stopped and left our car at the side of the street. A long queue of doughboys stood in line waiting to get to the rude shop window where chocolate and cigarettes were being sold as fast as the two YMCA officers could pass them out. We entered the side door and warmed our muddy boots before a small open fire burning in the center of the floor of what had once been the kitchen. Here we ate a lunch of biscuits and chocolate while we questioned the men as to the exact location of the airplane we had brought down.
A mile or so nearer the enemy trenches to the north of the town the machine was lying quite undamaged, we were informed. We again took our car and made our way slowly through the narrow and desolate streets. On both sides, the stone and mortar buildings had been leveled almost flat. The streets had been completely filled with the debris of bricks, beams, and rubble, but enough space had been cleared through the center to permit one vehicle to pass at a time. As we reached the edge of the town we saw one substantial building on the very topmost point of the hill which, though badly battered, still stood the most conspicuous and most pretentious object in Montfaucon. We instantly recognized it from our numerous observations from the air. It was the residence of the Crown Prince through those early campaigns against Verdun of 1915-16. More recently it had been occupied by the general commanding the German armies which had been opposing the American drive against the Argonne. And now it was in our hands!
Leaving the car we walked up to make an inspection of this celebrated headquarters. It stood upon a ledge of rock which hung over the hillside from its very peak. Around its base was a huge buttress of reinforced concrete from six to eight feet in thickness. From within one caught a wonderful view of the whole surrounding country. The Meuse valley could be followed to a point well below Verdun and the whole of the Argonne patch of woods lay under the eye from this lofty tower.
The German Hanover machine we found just beyond the town. It was indeed in remarkably good condition. It had glided down under the control of the pilot and had made a fairly good landing, considering the rough nature of the ground. The nose had gone over at the last moment and the machine had struck its propeller on the ground, breaking it. The tail stood erect in air, resting against the upper half of a German telegraph pole. A few ribs in the wings were broken; but these could easily be repaired. Our mechanics with their truck and trailer had already arrived at the spot and were ready to take down the wings and load our prize onto their conveyance.
A newly dug grave a few yards away indicated the last resting place of the observer that my bullets had killed in air. The pilot had been sent back to one of our hospitals for treatment. A bullet had pierced his face, shattering his jaw.
While the mechanics were taking the Hanover apart for loading, we proceeded on to one of our observation posts facing the German lines, where we got a close-up view of a regular war. It was a spectacle never to be forgotten!
Through the periscopes I saw the German trenches just opposite me, behind which our shells were dropping with a marvelous accuracy. They were passing over my head with a continuous whine and the noise and jarring “crump” of their explosions so near our post made it necessary to shout our conversation into one another's ears. Enemy shells were passing overhead contrariwise—mostly directed at our artillerymen far in our rear.
Our shells were creeping back nearer and nearer to the open ditches in which the German troops were crouching. I watched the gradual approach of this deadly storm in complete fascination. Some gigantic hand seemed to be tearing up the earth in huge handfuls, opening ugly yellow holes from which sprang a whirling mass of dirt, sticks and dust. And nearer and nearer to the line of trenches this devastating annihilation was coming. To know that human beings were lying there without means of escape—waiting there while the pitiless hailstorm of shrapnel drew slowly closer to their hiding places—seemed such a diabolical method of torture that I wondered why men in the trenches did not go utterly mad with terror.
Suddenly I noticed that our gunners had drawn back their range to the exact line of the trenches. A first shell fell directly into the trench in front of me, tearing it open and gutting it completely for a space of thirty feet. The next instant a Boche soldier sprang out of the trench alongside this point and flinging down his rifle proceeded to run for all he was worth back to a safer zone in the rear trenches. Hardly had he gone ten yards when a high explosive shell lit in front of him. Before I saw the burst of the shell I saw him stop with his arms flung up over his head. Next instant he was simply swept away in dust and disappeared, as the explosion took effect. Not a vestige of him remained when the dust had settled and the smoke had cleared away.
At five o'clock the men had our Hanover loaded on their trailer and we were ready to depart for home. Passing down the Mont-faucon hill by another road, we came upon a row of concrete dugouts built into the side of the hill by the Germans, but now occupied by American troops. Doubtless the Huns had expected this occupation by their enemies and had waited for a few days to make certain that the little shelters would be well filled with our troops before springing their surprise. Just as we approached this group of buildings the first German shell fell full into the middle of theml The Huns had gotten the exact range the first shot!
Lieutenant Chambers and I were cut off from our road and for a few minutes we had the panic of our lives. A motor truck a short way ahead of us, which was standing still waiting for this storm to pass, got a direct hit and was blown into fragments. Reed and I waited for no more, but made a bolt for the nearest shelter we could find.
Flat on our faces at the bottom of a nearby trench we listened to the shells bursting about our ears. While not
wishing any ill luck to any other poor chaps, we did most fervently hope that the Huns had not miscalculated their range by two hundred yards in our direction. A quick glance over the top of our parapet showed that the concrete buildings were already a mass of dust. Just then one shell landed not fifteen feet in front of my nose and I threw up my feet and struck the water in the bottom of my ditch as hard as possible with my face.
As suddenly as it had started the bombardment ceased. Frugal souls, these Boches! Not a shell too few, not one too many, is their very efficient motto. But we did not trust to this motto for several more minutes; and when we did cautiously emerge from our hole, we spent several more minutes washing the clay from our uniforms.
One more extraordinary spectacle Reed Chambers and I witnessed on that memorable day. Not two miles farther on we espied a formation of nine Fokkers pass overhead, proceeding at a very low level in the direction of our rear. The sky was still cloudy and threatening but no rain was falling. We stopped the car, to avoid being mistaken for a general and thus attracting Fokker bullets. Both of us jumped out and ran to an open space where we could see in what direction the Hun pilots were flying. As we looked up through the trees we saw over our heads two darting Spads coming down straight at the tail of the Hun procession from a high altitude. Although we could not distinguish whether they were American or French, we knew even at that distance that the two pursuing machines were Spads.
It was probably the most exciting moment Reed or I had ever experienced. We both shouted for joy to see the clever stalking of such a superior force by the two brave Spads. Moreover, this was the first air battle that either of us had ever seen from the ground and it afforded us a panorama of the whole that is impossible to get from the center of a fight.
Fighting the Flying Circus Page 29