Chapter V · THE MARCH OFFENSIVE (1918)
Reading edition
Although this chapter treats of the events of March 1918 and after, the following letters, which were written some months earlier, and are all by Molesworth, are reprinted below because they give an accurate picture at first hand of the feelings and emotions of a scout pilot. It must be remembered that these, as well as the preceding letters by the same hand, were all written in the Field, and that they have not been altered or touched up in any way.
The author, who is a regular soldier, has now returned to his regiment, the Royal Munster Fusiliers, but all who knew him in 60 hope that the future expansion of the Air Force will draw him back before long to the service in which he fought so well.
“60 Squadron R.F.C., “B.E.F., France. “June 1917.
“There is no doubt that scout pilots have the most exciting experiences while flying over Hunland, and it sometimes happens that these experiences may be their last. Always they are face to face with death in one form or another, always the thread suspending the ‘sword of Damocles’ may break and they may be hurled into eternity. However, we do not think of these sort of things in the air, but instead, we are filled with the spirit of confidence in our machines, and the ever-present thought that the best way to defend is to attack.
“There is the feeling of joy about it all which is sometimes mixed with loneliness. You are flying between a huge expanse of earth or sea below, merging into the vast spaces of the heavens above. The continuous drone of the engine in front of you and the whistling of the wind through the wires all add to this sense of loneliness, while the bracing air, and the knowledge that you have some of the finest machines and companions in the patrol, make you feel that flying is absolute perfection.
“Sometimes, however, you have a rude awakening, either in the form of a ‘wop’ from Archie, or the ‘rat-tat-tat-tat’ of a watchful enemy’s machine gun, or again a sickening check in the rhythmic beat of your engine.
“This last experience happened to me a few days ago when I was leading a patrol of five machines about three miles over Hunland, at 12,000 feet. No Huns seemed to be about. Either Archie had forgotten our existence, or there was too much ground mist for him to see us. It was a perfect day up top, with a few light clouds floating about. Away to the north-east we could just distinguish the town of Douai, while far below us the intricate system of the Hindenburg Line, with its Drocourt-Quéant Switch, stretched like a great ‘T’ over the shell-marked country.
“We were cruising along quietly, doing about 1,050 revolutions, when suddenly there was a shattering noise in front of me, and I saw my cowling break away in bits. Parts of it went through the planes, luckily doing no vital damage. Of course the engine stopped dead, and so I had to put her nose down for home. It was quite impossible to reach any of our aerodromes, so I made towards Bapaume, keeping my eyes open for a good landing ground all the time. The needle on my altitude dial began to drop—11,000, 10,000, 9,000—with corresponding wind-up on my part, until we were about 2,000 feet from the ground. I knew it meant a crash if I didn’t make a good landing, as the engine was absolutely hors de combat. Suddenly I caught sight of a Bessoneau hangar,43 and near it an F.E. Bird perched on the ground. I did a side-slip,44 and landed into wind, putting the machine down with rather a bump; however, there was nothing seriously damaged. Luckily the wind was blowing from the north, otherwise I don’t think I could ever have got across the lines.
“It turned out that the place where I had landed was an advanced F.E.8 landing ground.
“After going over my engine, I found that a tappet rod had broken and stripped the cowling. I telephoned over to the aerodrome and told them to bring out a spare engine and cowl. They soon arrived, and had the machine ready for me by the afternoon, so I pushed off home and arrived safely back soon after.”
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“60 Squadron R.F.C., “B.E.F., France. “June 1917.
“The heat is simply terrific, and the only ways of keeping cool are flying or sitting under the trees in the orchard. We spend most of the day, when not in the air, in multi-coloured pyjamas, some lads even going so far as to fly in them.
“Another awfully good way of keeping cool is to dig a hole about a foot deep and 3 feet long and cover it with a ground-sheet, pegged down at the corners, so as to make a bath. You lie in this with a book and a cooling drink by your side, and if you are lucky enough to escape the bombardment of mud, stones, and various other missiles which are thrown at you by the more energetic and lively spirits in the camp, you can really enjoy yourself. These baths have been such a success that we decided to dig a small bathing-pool about 20 feet square by 3 feet deep. When we got this going the whole population of the nearest village had to come and watch us. This was rather disconcerting, as we used to bathe tout à fait nude. Most of the chaps managed to rig up something in the way of a bathing-dress by buying various articles of clothing in the neighbouring village—I was forced to content myself with a type of female undergarment, which seemed to cause great amusement amongst the ack-emmas.45
“The village maidens were highly delighted, and thought it quite the thing, now that we were decently clad, to watch us at our aquatic sports.
“We three flight commanders have decided to take over a Nissen hut and knock out the partition so as to make it into one room; of course, some wags had to start painting things on the outside. They began by printing on the window in large black letters, ‘Saloon Bar’; and ended by naming the hut the ‘Hôtel du Commerce,’ as most of the squadron seemed to collect there, including Kate and Black Boy (the special pet dogs of the squadron), who made it their abode.
“I don’t think I told you in my last letter that one of my pilots nearly finished me off. I was leading a patrol, when, without any warning, he dived about four yards in front of me. We would have collided if I hadn’t managed to yank my machine over on her back. He successfully put the wind up me, I can tell you, and I gave it to him pretty hot when we got down.”
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“60 Squadron R.F.C., “B.E.F., France. “June 1917.
“I hope it will be ‘dud’ to-morrow, as I want to supervise the painting of my grids. We have all got the craze of having them coloured. Mine are going to have red, white, and blue wheels. Our crack flight commander46 has had a spinner made and painted blue, which he says puts the wind up the Huns. I should think they must be getting to know him well now, as he has crashed twenty-five of them, two of which he got in flames yesterday. He always lets us know when he has got one by firing a red Very light over the aerodrome before landing.
“Talking about colours, you ought to see the Huns. They are just like butterflies, with bright red bodies, spotted wings, and black and white squares on their tails, or else a wonderful mauve colour with green and brown patches.
“It was our day off yesterday, so the Major47 asked me to go for a ride with him. We borrowed horses from a cavalry depot near-by, and set out in his car for the rendezvous where we were to pick them up. We did not intend to go far, but lost our way in a wood. The Major is a keen horseman and, consequently, led me over all sorts of obstacles, such as fallen trees, etc. Not having ridden for three years, I found it rather a job to stick on; however, I got used to it. We went up and down vertical banks, and eventually had to get the nags over a 3-foot jump, which we managed to do with a bit of coaxing. Soon after we arrived at the beautiful old château of Lucheux, where we were to meet the car. This château was used by Marlborough during the Flanders Wars. It is now a Red Cross hospital. We had a talk to the sisters, and wangled some topping roses out of them for the mess. The car was waiting for us, so we got into it and drove home.
“When we arrived back, we found the mess decorated with branches of trees, which made it look like a greenhouse. This was to commemorate the Major’s M.C., which he has just been awarded for bringing down Huns. We had a tremendous ‘bust’ in the evening in which the Major joined. Speeches were made wishing him the best of luck, and then we retired to the ante-room and had a good old rag.”
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“60 Squadron R.F.C., “B.E.F., France. “July 1917.
“Rotten luck!
“Everything is black to-day. The Major48 has been wounded in the arm; one of my best pilots49 is going off to another squadron as a flight commander, and I missed an absolute ‘sitter’ this morning on our side of the line. However, every cloud has a silver lining. This time it is in the shape of an M.C. for one of our flight commanders who thoroughly deserves it. He hasn’t managed to get a big bag yet, but there is lots of the ‘good stuff’ in him, in both senses of the word.
“We are going to have a great ‘bust’ to-night to commemorate it, and to cheer things up a bit. The show on which the Major was hit was a pretty hot mix-up. We were in the middle of our tennis tournament when word came through that a large formation of Huns was on the line. It was ‘A’ Flight’s turn for a job, so they pushed off, accompanied by the Major. They got into a big ‘dog-fight,’ and a Hun, who wasn’t in the show at all, took a pot shot at long range and hit the Major in the arm, breaking up his switch at the same time. However, he managed to get back to the aerodrome all right, and went off to hospital soon after.
“We got into another big show on the 11th, and scrapped hard for about twenty minutes over the Hindenburg Line, without any luck. At last one of the Huns, with more guts than the rest, came over and began to attack one of our grids. I nipped in behind him without being seen and gave him a dose of lead. I must have hit his guns or something, as he had no ginger left, and simply flew west across the lines, intending to land on our side. Of course, my stupid old gun had to stop, and I discovered, to my annoyance, that there was no ammunition left. Seeing that I didn’t fire, the Hun guessed that something was up and turned back. I felt absolutely wild to see him calmly sneak off into a cloud on his way home.
“On another occasion, when three of us were attacking a formation of six Huns, one of us had a most extraordinary escape. We had our noses down, going full out to try and catch the blighters, when suddenly the Hun directly under us did a sharp turn. The chap on my right yanked his grid over after him. He pulled her over with such a jerk that one of his bottom planes came off and fluttered down to the ground in two bits. I couldn’t see what happened to him after that, as we were getting to close quarters with the Huns. We tried to scrap them, but hadn’t any luck, as they wouldn’t put up a fight.
“When we arrived home, I reported that one of my patrol50 had ‘gone west,’ as I had seen him break up in the air. Hardly had I finished when, to my amazement, he appeared outside the window. I could not believe my eyes and thought it was his ghost, but he turned out to be flesh and blood, and so we went to the mess and had a drink on the strength of it.
“He told me that he had managed to fly his kite back with great difficulty. Luckily the top planes had held. Of course, when he landed, the machine turned over and crashed, but he crawled out unhurt.
“We three flight commanders went to see the Major in hospital yesterday. He seemed in the best of spirits, and had been trying to ‘pump’ a Hun observer, who was in his ward, by asking him whether he liked doing artillery work on our part of the front, but the old Boche wouldn’t give him an answer.
“We all hope to have the Major back with us soon, as his arm is much better. We miss him ‘some,’ as he often comes with us on our patrols.
“Charlie Chaplin isn’t in it now with us! We were cinematographed the other day. Some of us stood in a row and tried to look pleasant and unconcerned, but this was rather difficult, as everyone else was making rude remarks about us. We then bundled into our new grids, which we have just got, and started off on a stunt formation, nearly running down the old cinema man to put the wind up him. After we had done a circuit, my radiator began to boil, and I was forced to come down. Thank heavens! it was a good landing, as the old man was still at it turning the handle. My part of the show was to be known as ‘Pilot landing for more ammunition after fierce fight.’”
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“60 Squadron R.F.C., “B.E.F., France. “August 1917.
“The new grids51 are a great success, and we have been hard at work training and doing line patrols.
“Three of us, led by our famous ‘Hun-strafer,’52 used them over the lines for the first time on the 5th. As a rule we only fight in flights, but on certain occasions we volunteer for a ‘circus,’ that is a mixed formation generally composed of the best pilots in the squadron.
“Our numbers were not overwhelming this time, but we know that the Huns had got pukka wind-up by the way they disappeared when we arrived on the line, so we felt quite confident in taking on twice as many as ourselves. Of course we were all out for trouble, as we wanted to show what the new machines could do. As soon as our leader spotted a formation of Huns, he was after them like a flash. I think there were seven of them, but we were all much too excited to count. Suddenly they saw us coming, and tried desperately to escape, but our leader got into his favourite position, and the rear Hun hadn’t a ghost of a chance. The next instant he was a flaming mass.
“We simply had it all over the Boche for speed and, as we had the height, they could not possibly get away. I picked my man out as he was coming towards me, and dived straight at him, opening fire with both guns at close range. He suffered the same fate as his companion.
“A burning machine is a glorious but terrible sight to see—a tiny red stream of flame trickles from the petrol tank, then long tongues of blazing petrol lick the sides of the fuselage, and, finally, a sheet of white fire envelops the whole machine, and it glides steeply towards the ground in a zigzag course, leaving a long trail of black smoke behind it, until it eventually breaks up. There is no doubt that your first Hun in flames gives you a wonderful feeling of satisfaction. I can well imagine what the big-game hunter must think when he sees the dead lion in front of him. Somehow, you do not realise that you are sending a man to an awful doom, but rather your thoughts are all turned on the hateful machine which you are destroying, so fascinating to look at and yet so deadly in its attack.”
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“60 Squadron R.F.C., “B.E.F., France. “August 1917.
“Sorry I haven’t written for some time, but we have been kept awfully busy as the weather has been so fine. I have been trying hard to get another Hun, and only succeeded the day before yesterday, when we had another great scrap.
“Five of us met eight Huns and attacked them the other side of the line. I missed my man in the first dive, but turned on another and must have hit the pilot, as he spun straight into the ground. One of my patrol also destroyed an Albatros by shooting him up so that he fell to bits in the air. The remaining six Huns put up quite a good fight, and nearly got one of us by doing in his lateral control. However, he managed to land all right, as these machines are fairly stable.
“On scanning my kite, I discovered that it had not escaped scot-free, as a large piece of the tail plane had been shot away.
“There was tremendous excitement in the squadron yesterday, as our ‘stunt merchant’53 has been awarded the V.C. for that aerodrome show that I told you about. We celebrated it last night by one of the finest ‘busts’ I have ever had. There were speeches and lots of good ‘bubbly,’ consequently everyone was in the best of spirits.
“After dinner we had a torchlight procession to the various squadrons stationed on the aerodrome. This was led by our Very light experts. Luckily for us, the night was very dull and cloudy, or else I expect old man Boche would have had a hand in it too. We charged into one mess and proceeded to throw everyone and everything we came across out of the window. We then went over to the other squadron. The wretched lads were all in bed, but we soon had them out, and bombarded their mess with Very lights, the great stunt being to shoot one in through one window and out at the other. I can’t imagine why the blessed place didn’t go up in flames. After annoying these people for a bit, we retired to our own mess, where we danced and sang till the early hours of the morning. I have still got a piece of plaid cloth about 6 inches square, which was the only thing left of a perfectly good pair of ‘trouse’ that belonged to one of our Scotch compatriots.
“This morning the C.O. sent for me to go to the orderly room. He told me that my name had come through for H.E.,54 and congratulated me on having been awarded the M.C.
“Later I went round to the sheds to say goodbye to the men, and finally ended up at the mess to have a farewell drink with all my old friends.
“I can hardly realise that the time has come for me to go back to Blighty. I shall be awfully bucked to see you again in a few days, old chap, and yet I can’t help feeling sad at leaving this dear old place—full of memories, sometimes tragic, sometimes comic. It is very hard to part with these comrades of mine—‘Knights of the Air,’ who live from day to day facing eternity with a smile, and laying down their lives, if need be, with such heroism, for the cause of freedom.”
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To return to the squadron which we left at Marie Capelle. On March 8, 1918, orders arrived to move up to Bailleul—a good deal nearer the line—where they remained for over a fortnight. This aerodrome was shelled every day that they were there, and on the last two nights was heavily bombed. On March 27 they were rushed down to Bellevue, near Doullens, to cope with the offensive which, as few will have forgotten, began on the 21st. This move brought the squadron back into the 13th Wing, in which it served, except for the winter of 1917–18, during the whole of its career on the Western Front. After three days at Bellevue another move was ordered to Fienvilliers.
On March 30, in the course of one patrol, Hammersley, the leader, destroyed two Hun scouts, putting one on to the roof of a house in Hem, where it burst into flames; while Copeland, Hegarty, Duncan, and Griffiths all shot down hostile machines, the destruction of which was officially confirmed. Bartlett also shot down one out of control. Both Copeland and Duncan were now piling up good scores.
On April 12 there was yet another move, this time to Boffles, where they stayed until September. For some time past they had been in tents, ready to move at a moment’s notice, and by now all the household goods which a squadron accumulated during the period of stationary warfare had disappeared: the bronze figures and silver basins, brought back as mementoes (on payment) after celebrations in Amiens and elsewhere; the original of Fleming Williams’ picture of a Nieuport scout; the cut-glass reproductions of two of his father’s valuable decanters, presented to the squadron by Lord Dalmeny on his departure for Egypt with General Allenby; the German signboards, shell-cases, and other trophies; all had been left behind or were lost long before the March retreat and the subsequent victorious advance were over. This was a pity, but could not be helped.
The losses of the Air Force during this retreat were very heavy indeed. Usually we used to calculate that the Germans lost twice as many machines as the British, according to the reports issued by our Headquarters. This thought was a comforting one. Under the head of hostile machines destroyed are not included, for the purpose of this calculation, those shown as driven down out of control. It should be remembered that Headquarters required very clear confirmation before officially recognising the destruction of an enemy machine, and that many Huns must have been destroyed which were not counted. If one set fire to a Boche machine in the air there was no difficulty, as the whole sky saw it and confirmation was readily forthcoming; but where this was not done, it was not at all easy to watch the victim glide down from fifteen or sixteen thousand feet, and to mark the spot at which he crashed. It takes a long time to reach the ground from nearly three miles up, and there were always plenty of watchful enemies in the sky waiting to swoop on to the overkeen pilot who forgot everything but his presumably vanquished foe. Once a pilot took his eyes off a machine, it was by no means always easy to pick it up again. The best type was always careful not to claim a doubtful Hun, and, though there were plenty who would like to have done so, the other officers of the flight generally knew pretty well when a doubtful claim was put in, and soon gave the offender a hint that such conduct did the squadron no good. It may, therefore, fairly be assumed that we had destroyed the full number of machines claimed. The German method of calculation was somewhat different, as they counted a two-seater machine as two “victories,” which made their star pilots appear to be more successful than ours.
Throughout the war, on the Western Front, the policy of the R.F.C., as directed by General Sir Hugh Trenchard, was that our fighters should engage the enemy over his territory and never allow him to cross our lines. These orders were never executed with complete success, as it is not possible to erect and maintain an aerial barrage, so to speak, which can completely prevent a resolute pilot from penetrating it if he really means to do so, nor can it be said that our patrols kept, in every case, always on the other side of the line. Broadly speaking, however, we fought over alien territory, the Germans over their own. The effect of this was that many a British machine was forced to land, disabled by gunfire or through engine failure, and the occupants, even though unwounded, were lost to their own side till the end of the war. The German pilot, on the other hand, whose engine was put out of action in a fight might land safely, get another machine, and be fighting again the same day.
Another circumstance which, in fairness to the Air Force, should always be borne in mind when the conditions of fighting in the air are under discussion, is that on the Western Front the wind entered very much into all questions of aerial strategy or tactics. The prevailing wind was that west wind which Conrad thus describes in a brilliant passage, and which, though it deals with the sea, is equally true of the air on the Western Front:
“The narrow seas around these isles, where British admirals keep watch and ward upon the marches of the Atlantic Ocean, are subject to the turbulent sway of the west wind.
“Call it north-west or south-west, it is all one—a different phase of the same character, a changed expression of the same face. In the orientation of the winds that rule the seas, the north and south directions are of no importance. The north and the south winds are but small princes in the dynasties that make peace and war upon the sea. In the polity of the winds, as among the tribes of the earth, the real struggle lies between east and west. The end of the day is the time to gaze at the kingly face of the westerly weather, who is the arbiter of ships’ destinies.
“Benignant and splendid, or splendid and sinister, the western sky reflects the hidden purpose of the royal wind.
“Clothed in a mantle of dazzling gold or draped in rags of black cloud like a beggar, the might of the westerly wind sits enthroned upon the western horizon, with the whole North Atlantic as a foot-stool for his feet and the first twinkling stars making a diadem for his brow.”
It was this powerful sovereign, this pitiless potentate who, five days out of seven, fought with our enemies against us, and it is to be hoped that he is properly humiliated by the result of the war. How many curses have been levelled at his careless head by pilots who, with trailing wires, with labouring, failing engines, and with tattered planes have tried, and often tried in vain, to reach that brown, smoky strip of battered terrain which marked the lines and safety, after a bitter fight? How often has a patrol, on a day with the wind at fifty to sixty miles an hour, at 10,000 feet fought batch after batch of Huns when on the Mons-Maubeuge or some other “long reconnaissance,” only to find that, though every enemy may have been shot down in flames, though no black-crossed machines remained to smirch the sky, inexorable Zephyrus had swept them during the fight so far towards the Rhine that lack of petrol must force them to land on hostile ground? Who has not felt, when turning homewards on a stormy day, that the machine could make no progress at all against the wind, but seemed for minutes that were like hours to stand still over some town or village? Actually headway was as a rule being made, but the change in ground speed from flying down-wind to struggling against it produced this very powerful illusion, and pilots have often thrown their guns, ammunition, and even field-glasses overboard with the frantic hope of lightening the machine and thus increasing her speed.
No! Zephyrus, who should have been a Teuton god, and who beyond question wears the Iron Cross, was no friend to the Air Force. We should perhaps have poured out libations to his eastern brothers—Eurus and Aquilus—or at very least have recommended them for the immediate award of the Distinguished Flying Cross in recognition of their invaluable services throughout the war.
The struggle wore on through May, and during the middle of this month the fighting in the air was terrific.
One hundred and thirty E.A. (enemy aircraft) were brought down by the Air Force in France between the 13th and 19th of the month. Belgrave and Scholte were, perhaps, the most successful, but I. M. Davies, A. W. Saunders, Hegarty, V. S. Griffith, W. A. Duncan, were also very prominent. During one patrol, led by Belgrave on June 12, in which he shot down a two-seater, R. G. Lewis, whose engine presumably had failed, went down and landed, breaking his under-carriage. H. A. Gordon, a Canadian whose first trip over the lines this was, landed beside him and got out of his own machine. At this point some soldiers appeared and opened fire. Gordon ran back to his S.E., calling to Lewis to get in with him, but the latter, apparently mistaking the troops for friends, walked towards them. Gordon then took off and circled round, meaning to fire, but, seeing Lewis in the midst of them, refrained, and returned home with his machine very badly shot about. He was killed two months later.
An S.E.5 has carried two before now, but it is an unpleasant experience for the passenger, who has to sit with his legs on each side of the pilot’s shoulders and to hold on to the top gun-mounting.
By this time, Bishop was back in France commanding No. 85 Squadron and was doing wonders. Much of his success was due now, as always, to his extremely accurate shooting, the importance of which in aerial fighting it is almost impossible to exaggerate.
W. H. Saunders did a very good show on July 2, fighting continuously for forty-five minutes, destroying two Pfalz scouts and engaging five other hostile machines.
At the beginning of July, Barry Moore was promoted to command No. 1 Aeroplane Supply Depot at Marquise, and J. B. McCudden, V.C., D.S.O., M.C., was appointed to succeed him in the command of the squadron. While flying down to take over from Moore, he got his machine into a spin near the ground, crashed, and was killed. Though he never actually joined 60, and though this history is concerned only to describe the exploits of that squadron, a paragraph must, nevertheless, be devoted to McCudden’s achievements. He joined the R.F.C. as an air mechanic before the war, fought as an N.C.O. pilot with 29 Squadron during 1916–17, was then given a commission and was posted to 56 Squadron, where he specialised in two-seaters, that variety of two-seater which the Germans would send over very high at 20,000 feet or more on clear days to photograph our back areas, and which were not easy to bring down. The difficulty was that they were first seen, as a rule, at a great height, and our fighting machines had to climb up to them, which would take fifteen minutes at least. During this interval which necessarily elapsed before the attacking machines could get their height, the Rumpler or L.V.G., which would be flying level, could usually outdistance the pursuers; if, however, the British machine contrived, by flying the inside of the circle, to keep between the Hun and the lines, the latter, if he was as cunning as they usually were, would calmly continue his photography while his adversary was climbing until the latter was about 1,500 feet below him, and, when his pursuer was getting close enough to be dangerous, would put his nose down slightly, open up his engine and disappear into Hunland, leaving a streak of blue smoke, but nothing more tangible, behind him.
McCudden, however, with great resolution and infinite patience, studied the habits of these folk and shot down dozens of them. In addition, he was a brilliant and successful patrol leader and one whom the Air Force could ill spare. After his death, C. M. Crowe, M.C., who also had a fine record both in 56 Squadron and, earlier in the war, with other units, was given the command. After a few weeks, Crowe had a serious motor accident and was “struck off” the strength, to be posted later to 85 Squadron. He was succeeded by A. C. Clarke, an old Etonian, who remained in charge till the end of the war.
On August 1, 60, together with 3, 56, and 11 Squadrons, carried out an extremely successful raid on Epinoy Aerodrome. Sixteen machines were believed to have been destroyed as a result of this operation and two large fires were started, the smoke of which ascended to a height of over 10,000 feet. 60 and 11 did the “upper guard,” escorting 3 and 56, who went down and actually shot up the aerodrome, whilst the two former squadrons kept off hostile machines who might have attacked the raiders from above.
Raids of this kind were most successful, but had only lately become possible on account of the much larger number of squadrons which were now available. Up to this time, the number of machines had been only just sufficient to get through the ordinary routine work, i.e. low flying on battle days, offensive patrols for the indirect protection of the artillery machine, by the destruction of the enemy scouts who would have interfered with them, and escorts to bombing raids and photographic reconnaissances. These last two duties the improved types of two-seater fighters now carried out without escorts—the De Havilland 4s, 9s, and Bristol fighters being quite capable of operating without protection by scouts.
During August, R. K. Whitney (who had had a great month in July), Doyle, G. M. Duncan, Buckley, and A. W. Saunders (who was now a flight commander), were all fighting well. One patrol led by the last-named on August 9 accounted for four enemy aircraft.
Lieut. A. Beck now rejoined the squadron: he had been with us in June 1917, but was sent home on the representation of his parents, who complained that he was only seventeen. Returning a year later, he speedily showed that his youth was no disqualification. He remained with the squadron till the end, was promoted flight commander, and did extraordinarily good work.
On August 8 we assumed the offensive east of Amiens. 60 did a great deal of low flying and low bombing, as well as the usual “scrapping” up above. The Fokker biplane D.7 first appeared in numbers at this time. This was an original type of machine without any external wiring but with a very thick wing section, which was braced internally. Its performance was very good, alike as regards speed, climb, and power to manœuvre. Their pilots were usually provided with parachutes, which quite often failed to open. From all along the line reports now came in showing that the use of the parachute was becoming fairly general among German pilots.
In October, while our advance was proceeding, squadrons of the Air Force dropped some thousands of boxes of rations and ammunition for Belgian troops, whose supplies had been held up owing to the speed of the advance. 60, however, took no part in this.
The map opposite is reproduced by permission of Field-Marshal Earl Haig, and is published, I believe, for the first time. It shows the situation on September 25, 1918, and makes it clear that the enemy feared the Amiens sector more than any other part of their line.
H. C. M. Orpen, I. W. Rayner, S. V. Mason, M. D. Sinclair, O. P. Johnson, G. M. Duncan, and McEntegart were, perhaps, the most prominent and successful pilots during the British advance, which was a time of continuous and sustained effort on the part of every officer, N.C.O., and man in the whole squadron. The strain of sending at least two full-strength squadron patrols daily over the line, while moving continually, severely taxed the endurance of all ranks. They left Boffles for Baisieux on September 17, Baisieux for Beugnatre on October 14, and finally moved from the latter station to Quievy, an old German aerodrome, on October 31.
Situation on Sept. 25th, 1918.
On this date, the 25th Sept., General Pershing was in direct command of the American Armies. Early in October the command of the 3rd American Army was entrusted to Lt Gen. Hunter Liggett and command of the 2nd American Army to Major Gen. R. L. Bullard.
By October the Air Force mechanical transport had begun to wear out, nor is this surprising when the work it had done is remembered; the men were always working hard to keep the lorries and light tenders on the road. Moreover, the new aerodromes were always pitted with shell-holes, which had to be filled up, and scarcely was this task completed before orders would arrive to move again. In spite of these difficulties, the supplies of rations, ammunition, etc., were maintained with wonderful regularity by the H.Q. staffs.
The German Flying Corps continued to fight hard and well up to the very last day of the war, and, though their armies on the ground were retreating fast, no signs of demoralisation in the air were observed.
During these last days, throughout September and October, a great deal of work was done with 148—an American Camel squadron—most of whose pilots had been trained in England. This unit was also in the 13th Wing, and the two squadrons moved forward together to the various aerodromes mentioned above. They did several good shows together, notably between September 14 and 17, during the attack on Havrincourt Wood, when 60 twice a day did the “upper guard,” while 148 flew low, bombing troops and attacking low-flying Fokkers. A considerable amount of damage was done during the progress of these operations. For example, on September 26 one patrol of each squadron, working in the same manner, gave a good exhibition of combined work: 60’s patrol, led by Rayner, drove down a flight of Fokkers into the jaws of 148, who tackled them with such effect that three were “crashed” and one driven down out of control. Again, on the next day, during the Bourlon Wood attack, 148, protected as before by 60, crashed two enemy two-seaters, the destruction of which was observed and confirmed by the latter unit.
During the whole of the advance towards Cambrai and beyond, the two squadrons did at least one “show” a day together until October 30, when the Americans left Beugnatre, near Bapaume, to go south to join their own army near Nancy, a very long and tiresome journey. On the day before leaving, their last patrol with us “crashed” either four or five Huns.
Their pilots were many of them trained at London Colney, in Hertfordshire, and Lieuts. Springs (who accounted for nine enemy machines), L. K. Callaghan (whose score when they left for Nancy was eight), and J. O. Creech (who had got six Huns), were all good advertisements for the methods adopted at that training station.
Other pilots conspicuous in this squadron were two of their flight commanders (T. Clay and F. E. Kindley) and also Lieut. C. T. McLean, all of whom will no doubt remember a dinner in Amiens, on October 18, in which 201 Squadron also joined with 60 in celebrating the turn of the tide in the Allied fortunes, a change which 148 and 17 American (this latter squadron was also in the 13th Wing) had certainly done their share to bring about.
There was great regret on the part of all their British comrades in arms when these two American units went away.
One of the pilots of 148, who had been taken prisoner, told a remarkable story on his return just after the Armistice. This pilot, who had served with 56 Squadron, also in the 13th Wing, some months earlier, was shot down and, after having landed more or less safely in “Hunland,” was taken before a German intelligence officer and asked his name and squadron. Having given his name and rank only, his examiner said to him, “But you were in 56—I dined with you in December last,” and followed this up by asking the astonished prisoner if he did not remember a French Breguet (two-seater) landing at 56’s aerodrome one day with an officer pilot and a mechanic on board. The American did remember, and recollected, too, that the pilot announced that he was coming up from the south to join a French squadron north of our 2nd Army near Dixmude, but that his engine was running badly and he had landed to make some adjustments. No one in 56 at this time knew very much about the French Flying Corps, but everyone knew that their machines had often passed over the intervening British armies in this manner, particularly during the summer of 1917, prior to the Passchendale battles, and again in April 1918, when Foch’s strategical schemes involved the introduction into the middle of our 2nd Army area of a French division, which defended Kemmel Hill after the German break-through on the Lys. The story, therefore, appeared to be quite a natural one, and no one suspected for an instant that anything was wrong. The “repairs” to the 200 h.p. Renault engine, a type with which none of our mechanics were very familiar, took longer than was expected, and the “Frenchman” dined and stayed the night with the squadron, making himself most agreeable but refusing to drink much. Not only did he stay one night, but, the weather next day proving unfavourable, he remained a second, and on the third day flew off, it is believed, to another British aerodrome. There was no question of the truth of the story because the hero of it showed, when talking to his prisoner, a knowledge of the officers in 56, their appearance and nicknames, together with the details of the camp and aerodrome, which could only have been obtained at first-hand. Moreover, the American pilot remembered the visit quite well, and even recognised his interrogator. The German also told him that he had played the same game with the French Flying Corps, pretending, on a captured British machine, to be an English pilot making his way down to our Independent Air Force, which, under General Trenchard, was stationed opposite Metz, a long way from the nearest British unit.
It was easier for the Germans to do this kind of thing than it would have been for the Allies, owing to the duality of language on our side of the line; but, nevertheless, it must be reckoned a very fine performance. Presumably, he left the German aerodrome before dawn and flew about on our side of the line until it was light enough to land, but, even so, he was lucky not to have been attacked on his return by German machines and anti-aircraft guns when flying an aeroplane with Allied markings, as it must have been impossible to warn the German aviators that one particular Breguet was not to be molested, mainly because of the impossibility of distinguishing one machine from another of the same type in the air, but also because to circulate general instructions of this kind would almost certainly have given the whole plan away to some of the Allied agents who, on the whole, were much more efficient than the German spies.
After the Armistice, when the question of demobilisation began to be considered in the Air Force and particulars of the terms of each officer’s engagement were scrutinised, it was surprising to find how many Americans were serving in English scout squadrons. There seemed to be at least three or four American citizens in each single-seater squadron in France, out of a total in such a squadron of twenty-five officers. Moreover, the majority of these wore at least one medal for gallantry, the reason being, no doubt, that these young men were the very flower of the American fighting stock, who felt unable to wait until their country came into the war, but represented themselves to be Canadian citizens in order to join in the contest. Had the war lasted a little longer, most of them would, no doubt, have transferred to their own squadrons, as some few had already done, but at the end of 1918 their own air effort had not yet developed sufficiently to absorb them all.
To return, however, to 60. The squadron’s last “confirmed Hun” of the war was secured on November 1 by Capt. A. Beck, who had lately destroyed, when flying low, a number of enemy artillery observation machines (two-seaters).
The arrival at Quievy, halfway between Cambrai and Le Cateau, where the squadron remained until after the signing of the Armistice, was most interesting. Here remained some of the German semi-permanent hangars, the machine-gun emplacements on the roofs of the houses surrounding the aerodrome, and here, too, were people who for four and a half long years had lived with the pilots and observers of the German Flying Corps. The questions asked by our officers—usually in extremely moderate French—were endless. “How many jobs a day did they do?” “Were their casualties heavy?” “Were the pilots usually officers or N.C.O.s?” “How many machines did they have in a flight?” are only a few examples. The answers in most cases were disappointing, as the Boche seemed to have taken good care to keep all civilians off his aerodromes.
The plight of the inhabitants of the occupied territory was wretched; the retreating enemy had driven off every single head of livestock, taking even the poultry away over the Belgian border, and the British forces had to feed them for many weeks until the French lorry services began to work and until the railways were restored.
Delay-action mines were left everywhere in this part of the world, though there were not, perhaps, as many booby traps as were found after the Boche retreat of March 1917 to the Hindenburg or Wotan Line. The bridge at Caudry station, the railhead from which the squadron drew rations, went up on November 1, killing and wounding twenty or thirty men.
The uncultivated state of the land was very noticeable in this district; for though some poor root and winter cabbage crops showed here and there, grown by the inhabitants under German direction, most of the fields did not appear to have been tilled at all, though this particular tract had been a long way behind the line until August 1918.
The last few days’ fighting were marked by no unusual incidents so far as 60 itself was concerned, though it was thrilling to be forming part of the army which was retaking Valenciennes, Le Quesnoy, Maubeuge, and other towns immediately in front of us. Thrilling, too, to see the long dingy columns, already in Belgium, marching east at last.
On Armistice night, Clarke hurriedly organised a dinner, to which such old members as were in the neighbourhood were bidden. It was a good evening, ending with the invasion of the officers’ mess by the N.C.O.s and men, who drank each other’s healths—not that there was overmuch alcohol available—and sang over and over again those very ordinary music-hall songs which our people always seem to employ as a medium for expression in moments of emotional stress. Officers and men bellowed together “The good ship Yacki Hicki Doola” and similar classics.
60 was always remarkable for the cordial relations between the officers and men, due, perhaps, to the fact that an Air Force scout squadron during the war was, in Lord Hugh Cecil’s words, “a natural aristocracy,” in that the officers flew and fought twice daily while the men remained on the ground in comparative security.