by Jon E. Lewis
While getting my engine right, I saw Barlow finish off a V-strutter in great style, and the Albatros went down in a very fast spin, and crashed near Wervicq. We afterwards flew back to the aerodrome, and everyone seemed pleased with life except myself, for I was still having trouble with my gear and guns.
On the 19th of September I went up by myself to look for two-seaters. I climbed to 18,000 feet and flew north from Lens. The wind was very strong westerly, and there were a few clouds about lower down. I was flying over the Bois de Biez and was looking at a Hun two-seater who was east of me and had not seen me, when I looked down and saw a D.F.W. passing underneath me not 400 feet below. I closed my throttle and went down after him, but he saw me at the last moment and then turned off east. I fired a good burst at him at 200 yards range, and then the pilot pushed his nose down with such a jerk that a lot of loose material resembling small black bones, probably photographic plates, fell out in a shower. I fought this artist down to 9,000 feet, over Quesnoy, and then left him without a decision, and returned to the lines, climbing.
About half an hour later I saw a Hun cross our lines just south of Armentières at about 14,000 feet, and, as he had not seen me, I let him get well west of me before attacking him. Very soon I followed and got within range of him over Estaires. He had now seen me, but I managed to secure my two-seater firing position and fired a good burst at him with my Vickers, for the Lewis had previously gone out of action. The D.F.W.’s engine now stopped, and he went down in a spiral. I followed, shooting as opportunity offered, and he was quite hard to hit, as he was spiralling. The enemy gunner had got in a short burst at me, but now he was not to be seen, so I conjectured that I had wounded him.
Now, all the time he was spiralling the wind was blowing him near the German lines, for it was a very strong westerly wind, and we got down to 3,000 feet before I could make any definite impression on him. I fired a final burst, and then he went into a steep dive and crashed about a mile behind the German lines near Radinghem, which is south of Quesnoy.
Whilst firing at this Hun I had once passed a few feet above him, and on looking down saw the enemy gunner reclining in leisurely way on the floor of his cockpit, taking not the slightest interest in the proceedings at all.
Owing to the very strong westerly wind that was blowing, although the Hun was miles over our lines when I first shot him, owing to the wind he had fallen in the German lines. However, I was very pleased that I had got a Hun, for it was quite a long time since I had destroyed anything. I returned to my aerodrome and joyfully made out my combat report.
On the next day Maxwell and Sloley each shot down a German.
On the 21st I left the ground about midday with Barlow, as two-seater activity was reported over the Salient. On our way to the lines we had a race, as before we went up Barlow asserted that his machine was as fast as mine. We tried it, and I was faster. We arrived at the line and at once saw a two-seater coming towards us from south-east of Houthem. I attacked him from the east and Barlow from the west. The Hun went down damaged, and we last saw him gliding down very low over Gheluwe, apparently in trouble.
We now saw three Huns above us, so we climbed up to their level, and found two two-seaters and an Albatros with two bays to each wing, instead of the usual one. This machine was known as the double V-strutter, and was supposed to be flown by Baron von Richthofen. We skirmished for a while, and then the Hun went off, and seeing no more activity we went back to our aerodrome and landed.
On the evening of the 23rd I led my patrol from the aerodrome and crossed the lines at Bixschoote at 8,000 feet as there was a very thick wall of clouds up at 9,000 feet. As soon as we crossed over Hunland I noted abnormal enemy activity, and indeed there seemed to be a great many machines of both sides about. This was because every machine that was up was between 9,000 feet and the ground instead of as usual from 20,000 feet downwards.
We flew south from Houthoulst Forest, and although there were many Huns about they were all well over. Archie was at his best this evening, for he had us all silhouetted against a leaden sky, and we were flying mostly at 7,000 feet. When over Gheluvelt, I saw a two-seater coming north near Houthem. I dived, followed by my patrol, and opened fire from above and behind the D.F.W., whose occupants had not seen me, having been engrossed in artillery registration. I fired a good burst from both guns, a stream of water came from the D.F.W.’s centre-section, and then the machine went down in a vertical dive and crashed to nothing, north-east of Houthem.
We went north, climbing at about 6,000 feet. A heavy layer of grey clouds hung at 9,000 feet, and although the visibility was poor for observation, the atmosphere was fairly clear in a horizontal direction. Away to the east one could see clusters of little black specks, all moving swiftly, first in one direction and then another. Farther north we could see formations of our own machines, Camels, Pups, S.E.’s, Spads and Bristols, and lower down in the haze our artillery R.E.8’s.
We were just on the point of engaging six Albatros Scouts away to our right, when we saw ahead of us, just above Poelcappelle, an S.E. half spinning down closely pursued by a silvery blue German triplane at very close range. The S.E. certainly looked very unhappy, so we changed our minds about attacking the six V-strutters, and went to the rescue of the unfortunate S.E.
The Hun triplane was practically underneath our formation now, and so down we dived at a colossal speed. I went to the right, Rhys-Davids to the left, and we got behind the triplane together. The German pilot saw us and turned in a most disconcertingly quick manner, not a climbing nor Immelmann turn, but a sort of flat half spin. By now the German triplane was in the middle of our formation, and its handling was wonderful to behold. The pilot seemed to be firing at all of us simultaneously, and although I got behind him a second time, I could hardly stay there for a second. His movements were so quick and uncertain that none of us could hold him in sight at all for any decisive time.
I now got a good opportunity as he was coming towards me nose on, and slightly underneath, and had apparently not seen me. I dropped my nose, got him well in my sight, and pressed both triggers. As soon as I fired up came his nose at me, and I heard clack-clack-clack-clack, as his bullets passed close to me and through my wings. I distinctly noticed the red-yellow flashes from his parallel Spandau guns. As he flashed by me I caught a glimpse of a black head in the triplane with no hat on at all.
By this time a red-nosed Albatros Scout had arrived, and was apparently doing its best to guard the triplane’s tail, and it was well handled too. The formation of six Albatros Scouts which we were going to attack at first stayed above us, and were prevented from diving on us by the arrival of a formation of Spads, whose leader apparently appreciated our position, and kept the six Albatroses otherwise engaged.
The triplane was still circling round in the midst of six S.E.’s, who were all firing at it as opportunity offered, and at one time I noted the triplane in the apex of a cone of tracer bullets from at least five machines simultaneously, and each machine had two guns. By now the fighting was very low, and the red-nosed Albatros had gone down and out, but the triplane still remained. I had temporarily lost sight of the triplane whilst changing a drum of my Lewis gun, and when I next saw him he was very low, still being engaged by an S.E. marked I, the pilot being Rhys-Davids. I noticed that the triplane’s movements were very erratic, and then I saw him go into a fairly steep dive and so I continued to watch, and then saw the triplane hit the ground and disappear into a thousand fragments, for it seemed to me that it literally went to powder.
Strange to say, I was the only pilot who witnessed the triplane crash, for even Rhys-Davids, who finally shot it down, did not see its end.
It was now quite late, so we flew home to the aerodrome, and as long as I live I shall never forget my admiration for that German pilot, who single-handed fought seven of us for ten minutes, and also put some bullets through all of our machines. His flying was wonderful, his courage magnificent, and in my opinion he is the bravest
German airman whom it has been my privilege to see fight.
We arrived back at the mess, and at dinner the main topic was the wonderful fight. We all conjectured that the enemy pilot must be one of the enemy’s best, and we debated as to whether it was Richthofen or Wolff or Voss. The tri-plane fell in our lines, and the next morning we had a wire from the Wing saying that the dead pilot was found wearing the Boelcke collar and his name was Werner Voss. He had the “Ordre Pour le Mérite.”
Rhys-Davids came in for a shower of congratulations, and no one deserved them better, but as the boy himself said to me, “Oh, if I could only have brought him down alive,” and his remark was in agreement with my own thoughts.
The next evening Barlow and Rhys-Davids each crashed a two-seater near Houthoulst Forest.
During the period from the end of July to the time of which I write, there was colossal fighting on the ground, for we had pushed the Huns back from their very strongly-held positions on the high ground east of Ypres.
An account of the ground and the state it was in at this time baffles description. Imagine yourself standing on the roof of a farm-house, and inside the yard a stretch of soft clay mud that has been trodden by hundreds of cattle, and the whole ground marked by thousands of little imprints. That was the look of the earth up in the Ypres Salient at the end of September.
On September the 25th, Barlow did the hat-trick. He went up from the aerodrome to chase a two-seater who was over St. Omer, but having lost him wandered to the Salient in search of prey. When he crossed the lines west of Houthoulst he saw a patrol of four Hun scouts coming towards him slightly below, so down went his nose and, after firing, the first Hun went down in a steep spiral, so Barlow fired at the next Hun nose on, who promptly fell to pieces in the air. The remaining two now tootled off east, so Barlow engaged the nearest one and shot him down in flames, whilst the first Hun, who went down in a spiral, was seen to crash by Bowman, who was with his patrol in the vicinity. We all congratulated Barlow, who received that evening a congratulation from General Trenchard. Everyone was very pleased with Barlow’s effort, for he got all three in as many minutes.
Nothing happened of interest that I am able to recall until the 27th, when I brought down my first German machine in our lines. I left the ground soon after lunch, and very soon saw a Hun two-seater flying round over Houthoulst Forest, apparently ranging. Whilst waiting for a favourable opportunity I saw a Spad attack this Hun, and I saw the Hun twisting and swerving about with the French Spad in pursuit, and then suddenly the Spad appeared to be hit, and went down out of control. The Hun went off east a little and then came back, apparently very pleased at having shot the Spad down.
He now came to within reasonable distance of where I was waiting, and after him I went. When I got to my two-seater position, the Hun was going due east, and I fired a good burst from both guns until I had to turn sharply to the right to avoid colliding with the Hun. As I turned I saw the Hun gunner at a range of twenty yards with his gun central to the rear waiting to see which way I would turn, for he had seen me overtaking him too fast, and knew that I should have to turn, and as I did turn I saw him turn his gun and fire just four shots, each “cack, cack, cack, cack,” two bullets of which I distinctly felt hit my machine. I half rolled, and got clear of him, and glanced round to see where he was.
When I did see him he was in flames going down in a vertical dive, after which he went past the vertical, and then on to his back, so that he was now falling towards our lines, into which he fell near St. Julien, although when I had shot him he was flying east.
When the machine went beyond the vertical and on to its back, the enemy gunner either jumped or fell out, and I saw him following the machine down, twirling round and round, all arms and legs, truly a ghastly sight. A queer thing happened, the enemy gunner fell into his own lines, and the machine and the pilot in our lines.
I flew back to my aerodrome very pleased, for it is the wish of most pilots to bring Germans down in our lines, so as to get souvenirs from the machine.
The next morning, September 28th, I led my patrol over the lines at 11,000 feet over Boessinghe, and before crossing the lines I saw a patrol of Albatroses going south over the Houthoulst Forest. I signalled to my patrol, who understood what I wanted, and down went our noses, and although I thought I was going down fairly slowly, my comrades afterwards said they were recording 180 m.p.h. to keep up with me. I picked out the Albatros who was on the east of this formation and, opening fire at 200 yards, released my triggers about 50 yards short of the Albatros, whose left wings at once fell off, and then the whole machine fell to pieces at about 9,000 feet. The enemy pilot also fell out and went down much quicker than the machine.
I then flew on the leader, who was still in front of me, and having apparently seen me shoot his comrade he was very wide awake. Before I got to close range he had turned round, and we now started to do the usual circling, each trying to get behind the other: Meanwhile, all my comrades were also busily engaged with their partners.
My opponent and I continued to circle round from 8,000 feet down to 4,000 feet, when, as the German passed directly below me in the opposite direction, I did a steep Immelmann turn to get on his tail, but in doing so I lost a good deal of height and now I found the German above me. I continued to circle, but at last the German got behind me and commenced to shoot.
We were now 2,000 feet over the Forest of Houthoulst, and things for me did not look very cheerful, for I had been out-manœuvred by the German pilot, and was now over a mile behind his lines. I continued to manœuvre to prevent the Hun from shooting at an easy target, and when we were down to about 1,000 feet I dived with engine on almost to the ground, intending to contour-chase back at a few feet when the silly old Hun turned off east and flew away just at a time when things were looking rather black for me.
I heaved a sigh of relief as I recrossed the lines, and then I went up to my rendezvous, to reform my patrol, but could not find them. So, after climbing up to 10,000 feet, I flew towards Menin, and found Barlow leading them miles east of the lines, with dozens of Huns west of them. I flew towards them and fired two recall signals, and then they rejoined me, but there was nothing more that happened of interest to relate.
This is peculiar. While the Hun who had out-manœuvred me was engaging me, at about 2,000 feet, I happened to see one wing of the Hun whom I had shot to pieces floating down like a leaf quite near me, three minutes later.
Our patrol time being over we flew back to our aerodrome and had breakfast, and Maybery, who was also having breakfast when we trooped in, remarked that I was becoming expert at turning Huns out of their aeroplanes. We chatted over breakfast and found that Rhys-Davids and Barlow had each got a Hun out of the first formation whom we attacked, so out of the five only two went home.
The Hun who out-manœuvred me was very good indeed, but I never have understood why he left me at a time when he could have most likely shot me down.
After breakfast I played Maybery for the ping-pong championship of No. 56 Squadron, and after a long tussle Maybery won. I believe there was keener competition in the Squadron to be ping-pong champion than to be the star turn Hun-strafer. Maxwell and Maybery were our ping-pong experts, and put up a wonderful game every time.
On the evening patrol Bowman and Hoidge each shot an Albatros to pieces in the air. They were over the lines some way, and above the clouds when up through the gap came two wily Huns, possibly to report on the weather. The next instant they departed in pieces, and no doubt reported that it was raining lead.
At dinner on the 29th there was some argument as to which flight should do the first patrol in the morning, as our Hun total was 198, and we only wanted two to bring our total up to 200 in five and a half months which the Squadron had spent in France. This, of course, beat easily the record of Captain von Richthofen’s 11th Jagdstäffel of 200 Allied machines in seven months, but we must not forget that the enemy stäffel had twelve pilots against eighteen in each of our squa
drons.
It was my flight’s turn to do the first patrol, but everyone in the Squadron wanted to do it, so as to shoot down the 2ooth Hun. However, after much arguing my flight did the early patrol. We were cursed by bad luck, for although we spent two hours miles over Hunland we did not see a single Hun, as the ground was mostly obscured by mist. The evening patrol went out, and Maybery got the 199th and Maxwell got the 200th.
As soon as they returned and made out their combat reports it was nearly dark, and so all the Squadron assembled outside the sheds armed with all the Very light pistols in the station, and all the Squadron’s stock of Very lights, and on the word from the Major up went forty red, white and green lights simultaneously, and the whole countryside was lit up by the brilliance for a big distance around.
After we had used up all our lights we adjourned to the mess, where we had a topping dinner to the strains of our wonderful orchestra. After dinner there was much speech-making and some ragging in the ante-room, and then bed.
There was always keen competition between the flights in getting the most Huns, and when I joined the Squadron things were more or less equal, as the leading flight, which was then “A” Flight, were two ahead of the others. By now, however, each flight was well on to the seventies, and the C.O. was going to make it worth while for the first flight who totalled 100 Huns.
During this period we had a series of very clear nights, and as soon as it got dark over came the Huns every evening at 9 p.m. to bomb Eisberg, a large ore foundry near Aire. This place was only a few miles from our aerodrome, and after dinner was half over we were always disturbed every evening by the “woof, woof of our Archies, and then the “crump, crump” of the falling Hun bombs. We used to stay looking at the shell-bursts above Aire for some time until it became a nightly occurrence, and then we took it for granted.
A night bombing squadron of ours was stationed near Aire, and they went bombing nearly every evening. It sounded rather funny to hear the old F.E.’s overhead droning their way towards the lines loaded with bombs and making that peculiar noise like a church organ, which the note made by the F.E.’s sounds so like.